Lather

Dear A--,

I'm sorry.

I'm sorry you felt there was no other way, that life would never get better than the daily hell you went through for the last five years.

I'm sorry you were a suicide.

I'm sorry you were sent off to an unnecessary, unwinable war on a pure lie and that it left your body scarred and your mind in tatters.

I'm sorry that your psychic wounds were so crippling. I know that those were even more painful than the loss of your legs.

I'm sorry that the only way you could get the chaotic, terrifying cacophony out of your head was to turn to the bottle and the silver spoon.

I'm so sorry that after a while, even drugs and alcohol couldn't silence your inner screams and caused you to lose what you felt were the only things you could live for--your wife, your children, your family, your job, and your home.

I'm sorry my most vivid memory of you now is not of you as you were--handsome, confident, funny, kind, intelligent, the brother I never had--but of you as the gaunt, sallow corpse in the coffin at the funeral home that the priest who christened you said those compassionate, comforting words over.

I'm sorry that your father has aged at least fifty years overnight and no longer has that gentle, compassionate kindness in his eyes--the same benevolence I always saw in your eyes--any more.

I'm sorry--so very sorry--that you were in so much emotional turmoil and pain.

I'm sorry that you felt that no one would or could comprehend how truly wounded you were.

I'm sorry I never told you of my own personal struggles with mental illness and substance abuse. Perhaps if I had, maybe you would've felt that you had someone who you could've turned to who would've truly understood how much psychic pain you were in.

I'm so very sorry that my shame and my pride hid from you someone you could've seen as an ally, someone who had been to the abyss and back and is doing much better now. I wish I could've shown you that there is a good side to life on the other side of the darkness, that recovery is possible.

I'm so very sorry that you were so blinded by your own pain that you couldn't see how much pain you would put all of the rest of us in by taking your own life.

But, my dear one, know that I still love you so very much and that I'm not judging you or your actions. I've been there, multiple times. I can't even say with any certainty that I won't someday be there again.

I'm not angry with you. I am so deeply hurt by your actions, but I do understand. Life got to be too much for you. God--if there is one--gave you more than you could handle and you understandably broke.

I remember the last time I saw you alive:  December 15, 2012. I remember driving in a snowstorm all night to meet you outside of the seedy flop house you were staying at in one of the scariest neighborhoods in Detroit. I remember how I had packed a backpack full of granola bars, trail mix, homemade peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, gatorade, and a blanket because I wanted you to have something to eat and something to help you fight off the bitter chill of a Michigan winter.

When we finally met up, I remember how truly glad you seemed to be to see me. You hugged me so tightly and with such warmth of feeling and wiped a tear from the corner of your eye. I remember taking out a sandwich and forcing you to eat the whole thing--crusts and all--in front of me because you were so scarily skeletal from malnutrition. I even gave you my last five dollars, even though I knew you would just shoot it into your veins, because I wanted you to know that I still cared, that not everyone in the family had written you off.

We talked and laughed for almost an hour about all sorts of things, the same way we used to as kids. I remember wishing you a Merry Christmas as we were saying our goodbyes. You held me so tightly again, and it astonished me that someone so rail thin could still be so strong.

You didn't see it, but once I turned the corner as I made my way back to where my car was parked, I fell to my knees and wept violently because I knew I'd never see you alive again.

I just hope that you did have a Merry Christmas that year because I wanted to do so much more for you and give you so much more than just some broke-ass college student staples and pocket change, but I couldn't.

I hope you felt loved and cared for that Christmas because you were and still are so much.

I'm so sorry that I couldn't save you from yourself.

I'm so sorry that you didn't feel you could've turned to me when I would've moved heaven and earth for you had I just known one iota about the depths of your despair.

So just know, my Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle buddy, my partner in crime, my hero, my friend, that I still love you and always will.

If you want my forgiveness, I will more than give it to you, even though I don't feel that you did anything wrong. If you want it, it's yours.

I hope with all of my being that you have found the peace you needed in life now that you've crossed over into death.

I hope that one day I'll see you again.

See you on the other side, Slimer.

Love Always,

Cousin Meelee

The glass is half full

So, yesterday was the big day.

Yes, the big day of my friend's charity fundraiser.

And I showed up with my game face on. (See above.)

Surprisingly, it went fairly well, in spite of the doom and gloom I was anticipating.

Unfortunately, I didn't sell many items. The event was ill attended due to the fact that it was just a rainy crappy day. (The event had always been scheduled to be indoors, but the torrential downpour that went on for the majority of the day was unpleasant to get out in.)

However, despite the fact that I didn't rake in the cash, I came away with two things that are way more important than money:  knowledge and confidence.

Since it was such a slow day for all of the vendors at the event, we all started chatting with one another. When the other vendors found out that this was my first event of any sort, they were amazingly nice. They all pretty much spent the whole day teaching me lessons about how to improve your sales at similar events. They also gave me some great contact information for networking purposes. I even have a lead on another, bigger event in my area that I'm going to try to get involved with.

I also came away with a huge confidence boost at the end of the day. Where I was afraid that my stuff would get some sort of horrible, disdainful reaction from the patrons and other vendors at the event, I was pleasantly amazed at the amount of positive feedback I received from everyone. Not one person who came to my table said anything negative about my jewelry. In fact, they all said things like "wow," "beautiful," "amazing," "so talented," "lovely," and "gorgeous." I even had several people take my information in order to contact me for custom work. That made me feel great.

People like my stuff.

People like my stuff!

It's so thrilling as a creative person to have just one other person admire what you've created and validate your spending your time and energy making/doing whatever it is that you do, but when a lot of people like your objects d'art, it's exciting. I swore to myself that I wouldn't make another piece of jewelry for a really long time after this event because I was feeling burned out, but no more. Now I want to create more and better.

Validation by the world of what it is that I do. It's strangely beautiful.  

Not my smoothest move

So, I ran into the gas station yesterday before work.

I had gone in merely to buy a pop because I spend the vast majority of my work shifts in constant prattle with customers and my mouth gets really dry. 

I had not gone into the gas station to confront Mr. Clerk about his lack of calling, etc. 

And guess who is behind the register when I check out.

I hadn't intended on talking to Mr. Clerk any more than necessary to complete the purchase of my pop, but he cut straight to the chase.

He told me he hadn't called because he's moving out of the area. It was even done in a sort of apologetic way, even though I never spoke about or implied that I wanted some sort of apology or explanation for his behavior. 

Though it was disappointing news to hear on my end, it was the most decent goddamned thing any man who is not related to me has ever done for me. 

All those times I got "ghosted" in the past, that was all I wanted:  just a simple explanation. Some final lines in the final act of the saga. A cue to know it was time to roll the credits. A swan song.

I don't even care if what Mr. Clerk told me was a complete and total lie. It was a beautiful, benevolent lie (if it was one) because it was done with the intention of sparing me the pain caused by uncertainty and ambivalence.

And now I feel like a complete fucking bitch. I deliberately gave him my number/contact information as a way to force his hand in one direction or another, to either get him to an awkward place in which he would force himself to ignore me or get some sort of additional contact with him. (I really, in all honesty, had no idea what I would've done had he called me because I was so sure he wouldn't call that I never bothered to plot out a Plan B.) In an earlier post on this page, I flippantly dared him not to call. 

And now I know that were circumstances different in his life, he would've called because he's a decent human being who doesn't jerk people around. Or I can at least pretend that if he just blew me a bunch of smoke about why he hasn't called. 

I can believe for at least one fleeting moment that maybe, just maybe, there are some people out there who are honest and don't play games and think of others before themselves and consider that maybe it's wrong to be deliberately hurtful to another person. 

It's a beautiful belief, whether or not it's based in any sort of reality. And I'm ashamed that I was so selfish and callous in the face of it.

So, Mr. Clerk, if you're reading this, just know that I'm sorry. I was wrong. I was a bitch. You're a good guy, and you'll make some fortunate girl very happy some day. 

And I'm sorry that it was my own jaded stupidity that kept me blind to that fact. You deserve better:  go out there and get it.

All the best,

Thursday    

Panic! at the Craft Store

Glitter is the herpes of crafts. --Demetri Martin

So what's been keeping me so busy lately?

One word:  Crafting.

Or at least something like it.

I have a good friend who is a local zumba instructor, and she is having a charity zumbathon to help raise funds and collect food items for one of the largest local food pantries. She saw the jewelry stuff I'd basically been doing for shits and giggles on my Facebook page and was so impressed that she asked me to sell my jewelry at said charity zumbathon.

Since she is such a good friend, and as I was feeling very flattered that she actually thinks I have some sort of talent in this department, I accepted.

But now I'm really starting to regret my "yes" answer to her "will you please" question.

See, the zumbathon is May 30. Not too far away. It's a little late to back out now.

And I am suffering from some serious self-doubt. Like I feel like a total fraud/phony/talentless asshat right about now. I don't feel like people will take me seriously as a professional in terms of my jewelry.

Basically, my initial flattered excitement has been replaced by absolute abject panic and terror. I've actually been in tears a few times about this issue lately. Never when anyone is around, but the tears and sobs were still there.

This is basically the most professional and adult and serious thing I have done in my whole entire 31 years on this planet, and I'm absolutely terrified that I'm going to seriously fuck it up.

And I'm actually going to end this post now because I'm starting to become overwhelmed with emotion and panic and terror and dread again to the point where writing about it is not helping.

Please God, don't let me fuck this up.

A new low?

So it's been a while since I last posted. Been busy and in a funk all at the same time. But now that I've got a moment and I'm no longer feeling apathetic, I'll write.

There's a gas station I stop at almost every day that I work for my essential intake of caffeine, nicotine, and gasoline for my truck. There's a guy clerk there who likes to flirt with me. I'll admit I enjoy the attention somewhat, so I often flirt back.

But no more.

See, I'm a "cut to the chase" kind of girl. I don't like pussyfooting around when it comes to matters of the heart. So I decided to end the perpetual moony-eyed nonsense that was going on between me and the clerk and slipped him my number.

I seriously doubt he'll call. That is always my luck. 

And now, my total lack of good fortune in the romance department isn't phasing me. 

Seriously. It's not.

I could honestly not care if he doesn't call. Or if he does. It would be nice if he called, but if not, no big deal. I'm 31 fucking years old and I ain't got time to worry about ambivalent bullshit energy from menfolk.

If he doesn't call, it's his loss. I'm a pretty decent person, and I have lots of friends and family who love and care about me, so I'm good in the social relationships department.  

But it's not just my total lack of any feeling, positive or negative, on this subject that has shocked me. It's my audacious attitude behind the reason I gave Mr. Clerk my number. 

You see, given all of my past experiences with this maneuver, especially since it always results in a big goose egg, I'm basically daring him to call me. 

That's right. I'm so convinced that he's not going to call that it's almost like I said,  "Go ahead! I don't think you've got spleen enough to even attempt to call me! I double dog dare you to call me!" when I handed him that little slip of paper with my name and number on it. 

So, yeah. I think I've struck a new low in my dating life:  Malicious number giving. 

And it doesn't bother me a bit. 

Ball's in your court, clerky boy.