You've always suspected that your moods are a bit more erratic than most people’s. You've often joked about being bipolar, since there’s a history of it in the family, but lately you're actually afraid that it could be true. As opposed to having a few bad days a month or being elated over something that is at least partially deserving of excitement, your mood swings have started to occur throughout the day...every day. It’s like sitting on a roller coaster, blindfolded, never knowing if you’re about to be thrown for a loop or go plummeting down a steep hill. It’s terrifying and yet there’s still an edge of excitement, a twisted expectation of the thrill you know you’re going to get sooner or later.
At a low point during the day you often catch yourself thinking, “In a few minutes, in an hour, after lunch...something is going to change.” And it isn’t a pep talk, it’s simply a fact. It could be something as simple as a coworker walking by and saying “I like your hair today” that pulls you out of the nosedive toward the ground and rockets you back up. The worst thing isn’t traveling the track from high to low and back again, it’s waiting on the highs like a junkie for a fix.
You're terrible at taking medication; you've admitted it before. Taking a pill every day is just something you've never been able to do. There are anti-depressants, birth control, and antibiotics lined up in your cabinet...none of them empty. Part of the reason they’re still there is that you're an extremely forgetful person, and the other part, for some of them anyway, is defiance and fear. “I don’t need you", you think. "I’m afraid you’ll change the things about me that I like. I’m afraid you’ll take away my highs.”
So what do you do when you’re afraid and defiant, confused and wondering why the hell you can’t get off this goddamned emotional roller coaster?
You look up a phone number, take a deep breath and force your hand to stop shaking so you can dial. When a woman answers and asks you to hold, leaving you listening to crap elevator music, you force yourself not to hang up.
“I need to make an appointment”, you say when she comes back on the line. You give her your name and your phone number.
“What’s the reason for the appointment”, she asks mechanically.
You were hoping they wouldn’t ask that question. She wants a one or two word answer; she’s a receptionist not a therapist.
“I...how am I supposed to answer that”, you say, clearing your throat because it feels like you’ve swallowed something thick and distasteful. You give a half laugh, as if to apologize for being vague.
“I’m sorry”, she says without feeling. “Depression, family issues, work problems, marital problems. I need to write something down for the therapist to go on, to be sure that this is where you need to be and choose who you’d fit with best.”
You’re amused by her answer. A receptionist gets to choose where you belong and who you belong with, based on a few random words. You briefly consider telling her marital issues. “My husband has sex with farm animals”, you could say. But you refrain.
“Oh. I guess you can put down depression or family issues.”
It’s true, and it’s not. But there wasn’t an option for “possibly bipolar paired with a salad of irrational fear that happy pills with take away your awesomeness, a side of your dad is a douche bag, and just a dab of you fall for men that can’t love you”. You definitely would have chosen that one.
“Alright, I’m going to match you with...” She names a therapist and gives you a few details about her, tells you where to find the online forms to bring to the appointment, and schedules you for this coming Monday at 1pm.
“Have a blessed day”, she says.
You hate it when people say that.
After you hang up the phone, you feel good. It’s done; you’ve finally made the appointment you’ve been saying you were going to make for the better part of a year.
You go to the website she named. There’s a picture of your therapist – she’s wearing pearls and a matronly looking dress. Her hair is cut into a fluffy bob, but her face reminds you of Diane Lane. You wonder what you’re going to wear – something that says “I may be crazy, but I’m extremely chic”.
You don’t know what’s coming up in the next hour, you can’t tell if it’s a sharp curve, a double loop, or a straight away. But there’s just the tiniest bit of light showing around the edge of your blindfold. And it isn’t a slippery high or low, it’s tangible. It’s progress, something you can focus on.
And maybe, just maybe, this matronly Diane Lane will help you get off of this goddamn roller coaster completely. Because you’re pretty sure that when your blindfold shifted, you caught a glimpse of a corndog stand.
Showing posts with label yeah I'm crazy. Show all posts
Showing posts with label yeah I'm crazy. Show all posts
Friday, January 21, 2011
Friday, September 17, 2010
Which one keeps fucking it up?
You ask questions you already know the answers to. It’s like a drug, this need.
You know when you plunge in the needle that its going to hurt you in the end, but you can’t stop. The rush is in the asking, in the moment before you get your answer, because you think that maybe…just maybe the answer will surprise you. But it doesn’t. That moment was the high – the answer your inevitable crash. You watch the puncture mark bleed and you immediately begin thinking about the next question – the one that will give you the answer you’re killing yourself for. Because you’re a junkie.
I’ll tell you a secret – I spent a lot of time building this unfeeling person. Every tear, every taunt, every disappointment went into the making of her skin, so that it would be strong enough to withstand more. Insult and indignity shaped the bones of her feet and the planes of her face, to help her smile as she walked away. Her brain filled with distractions and responsibilities, her mouth filled with lies.
But I made a mistake.
See, I thought I could cut out the weaker version of myself – make a better one. But it doesn’t work that way. I created my own worst enemy. Someone that knows the secrets I keep from the rest of the world, that taunts me with her sarcasm and flippancy.
Here we sit in limbo, staring at each other over this bleeding arm, and I don’t know who is who anymore – I don’t know which one is crying and which one is smiling with derision and disgust.
Who’s hand pushes the plunger?
You know when you plunge in the needle that its going to hurt you in the end, but you can’t stop. The rush is in the asking, in the moment before you get your answer, because you think that maybe…just maybe the answer will surprise you. But it doesn’t. That moment was the high – the answer your inevitable crash. You watch the puncture mark bleed and you immediately begin thinking about the next question – the one that will give you the answer you’re killing yourself for. Because you’re a junkie.
**********
I’ll tell you a secret – I spent a lot of time building this unfeeling person. Every tear, every taunt, every disappointment went into the making of her skin, so that it would be strong enough to withstand more. Insult and indignity shaped the bones of her feet and the planes of her face, to help her smile as she walked away. Her brain filled with distractions and responsibilities, her mouth filled with lies.
But I made a mistake.
See, I thought I could cut out the weaker version of myself – make a better one. But it doesn’t work that way. I created my own worst enemy. Someone that knows the secrets I keep from the rest of the world, that taunts me with her sarcasm and flippancy.
Here we sit in limbo, staring at each other over this bleeding arm, and I don’t know who is who anymore – I don’t know which one is crying and which one is smiling with derision and disgust.
Who’s hand pushes the plunger?
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
Even my psychotic half is an attention seeker
I stopped taking my medication.
It seems like a simple statement, but to some it’s the equivalent to “there’s a bomb on this plane” or “the rubber just broke”.
I’m terrible about taking medicine anyway. I rarely finish antibiotics and birth control pills are out of the question (not that I’ve needed them recently). I have a cabinet full of half empty pill bottles from one time or another, one sickness or another, one dark place or another. I should throw them away, but instead I line them up like mutilated sentries and shut them away in the dark with a satisfied click, too helpless to do their job.
I’m not ignorant. I know it’s not healthy to stop taking a prescription before it’s finished. The majority of the time, when it’s for a sickness, it’s because I’m absentminded or lazy. The rest of the time is more difficult to explain.
When I was kid they gave me Ritalin. I couldn’t sit still in class, had trouble paying attention, and I could be a bit high strung. The Ritalin made me settle down, sure, but it didn’t help me pay attention. I was simply bored, but back in those days it was easier to drug um’ up than ask questions. No one asked themselves why I could sit still from dawn to dusk and read a book the size of my head, but had trouble in the classroom.
I had to go to the office every afternoon for my pill and one of the ladies would follow me to the water fountain in the hall to make sure I took it. I eventually learned to let it fall from my mouth and into the little slots of the fountain as I leaned over to take a drink, shielding it with my body. When the doctor eventually decided it was ok for me to come off Ritalin, that I was (halleluiah!) cured, I smiled to myself and thought, “Idiots”.
I suppose it’s safe to say that I’m defiant, in part, for the feeling of smugness it creates. Though I may have been right not to take the Ritalin then, it doesn’t mean that I’m right now. I’m well aware of that.
But once I start feeling better, once the pills get me over the first hurdle or two, I stop. I say to myself, “You’re fine now. Good job.” And I go on about my business. I add another sentry to the shelf and turn my back – satisfied that their task is done, I’ve stripped them of their ammunition and it’s all up to me from that point forward. I can handle it. I've won.
Life goes on.
Then I’m riding in the backseat of a car on a Sunday afternoon. I’ve just finished a book and I close it with a sigh of satisfaction. But mere moments later I’m restless. We pull over for gas and as the driver gets out to pump, I stare out my window at the busy street. That’s when I see her. She’s wearing a knee length flowered dress and a scuffed, ragged looking pair of Keds. A green and white stripped sock stretches halfway up her left calf, the other is bare. Her hair is cropped close to her skull and her shoulders are hunched around her bent head, as if expecting a blow to fall any minute.
As she passes a few feet from my window I notice her battered black suitcase. Gripping the handle in a dirty fist, she trudges by. In a high pocket on the outward facing side, a grimy brown teddy bear rides shotgun. I stare at his slumped form, rolling along behind his slumped mistress, until they disappear from view.
I feel my face tighten and my eyes begin the tell-tale swim and burn. I hold my breath and lean my head against the back of the seat. “I must be getting my period”, I think. But even as the words form in my brain, I know they aren’t true.
I’m willing to bet that nothing about that woman or her ratty bear would have bothered me had I not stopped taking my meds. They weren't the cause, just the trigger. I probably would have laughed at her one striped sock and her stupid bear and forgotten all about them later. As it is, it’s been weeks and here I am recounting it to you in vivid detail.
Then, just last week, I was on my way home from work. I’d gotten off early and I was in a great mood - singing along with the radio, enjoying the sunshine through the open roof and the wind in my hair. But 15 minutes or so into the hour commute, as if in answer to a brisk snap of summoning fingers, it all went south. I can name no trigger, no real reason for my abrupt change in mood. Suddenly everything was just wrong.
Every unhappy thought or trivial problem I’d had over the past week went ricocheting around my head, gathering strength with each pass and manifesting into a giant ball of “What the Fuck”. I fought back tears and felt my face grow hot. I tried to make sense of it all, to reason with myself. Again, “Must be getting my period” and “Stop it, stop it right now”. Neither helped. By the time I was five minutes from home I’d managed to work myself up so much that I was having trouble breathing.
And all over what? - An argument with a friend, the distance of another. A sudden feeling of loneliness because I’m the last single person in my circle, attending another wedding that weekend. Pressure to be this, do that, feel something, feel nothing, smile, put on the cocky Alyson show. So tired, so tired.
When I arrived home I immediately went to bed and hugged my pillow, just laying there with my eyes closed and breathing slowly, willing myself to calm down. And after a few minutes, I did. I got up, changed my clothes, and walked down to the lake to join the pre rehearsal dinner party that was already in full swing. I was back up again, inwardly rolling my eyes at my dramatics. “Ugh. You are such a fucking girl.”
And that’s where I’m at now. At this moment I feel relatively normal and objective. I have things to look forward to in the coming weeks, things that I’m excited about. But who knows? Tomorrow someone might not call or I might see another homeless person with a battered suitcase and I’ll think it’s the end of the world. Or that my abrupt change in mood has something to do with my period.
Right now I know better. I know I shouldn’t have added that last sentry to the shelf so soon...maybe ever. And when it gets to be too much, I’ll get another and then another. Until one day the door won’t close on them anymore. They’ll band together, form a misfit army to bring me down, and I’ll be found out. Then everyone will know I’m crazy.
But I’ll wait until then. Because haven’t you heard?
Vicious cycles are my specialty.
It seems like a simple statement, but to some it’s the equivalent to “there’s a bomb on this plane” or “the rubber just broke”.
I’m terrible about taking medicine anyway. I rarely finish antibiotics and birth control pills are out of the question (not that I’ve needed them recently). I have a cabinet full of half empty pill bottles from one time or another, one sickness or another, one dark place or another. I should throw them away, but instead I line them up like mutilated sentries and shut them away in the dark with a satisfied click, too helpless to do their job.
I’m not ignorant. I know it’s not healthy to stop taking a prescription before it’s finished. The majority of the time, when it’s for a sickness, it’s because I’m absentminded or lazy. The rest of the time is more difficult to explain.
When I was kid they gave me Ritalin. I couldn’t sit still in class, had trouble paying attention, and I could be a bit high strung. The Ritalin made me settle down, sure, but it didn’t help me pay attention. I was simply bored, but back in those days it was easier to drug um’ up than ask questions. No one asked themselves why I could sit still from dawn to dusk and read a book the size of my head, but had trouble in the classroom.
I had to go to the office every afternoon for my pill and one of the ladies would follow me to the water fountain in the hall to make sure I took it. I eventually learned to let it fall from my mouth and into the little slots of the fountain as I leaned over to take a drink, shielding it with my body. When the doctor eventually decided it was ok for me to come off Ritalin, that I was (halleluiah!) cured, I smiled to myself and thought, “Idiots”.
I suppose it’s safe to say that I’m defiant, in part, for the feeling of smugness it creates. Though I may have been right not to take the Ritalin then, it doesn’t mean that I’m right now. I’m well aware of that.
But once I start feeling better, once the pills get me over the first hurdle or two, I stop. I say to myself, “You’re fine now. Good job.” And I go on about my business. I add another sentry to the shelf and turn my back – satisfied that their task is done, I’ve stripped them of their ammunition and it’s all up to me from that point forward. I can handle it. I've won.
Life goes on.
Then I’m riding in the backseat of a car on a Sunday afternoon. I’ve just finished a book and I close it with a sigh of satisfaction. But mere moments later I’m restless. We pull over for gas and as the driver gets out to pump, I stare out my window at the busy street. That’s when I see her. She’s wearing a knee length flowered dress and a scuffed, ragged looking pair of Keds. A green and white stripped sock stretches halfway up her left calf, the other is bare. Her hair is cropped close to her skull and her shoulders are hunched around her bent head, as if expecting a blow to fall any minute.
As she passes a few feet from my window I notice her battered black suitcase. Gripping the handle in a dirty fist, she trudges by. In a high pocket on the outward facing side, a grimy brown teddy bear rides shotgun. I stare at his slumped form, rolling along behind his slumped mistress, until they disappear from view.
I feel my face tighten and my eyes begin the tell-tale swim and burn. I hold my breath and lean my head against the back of the seat. “I must be getting my period”, I think. But even as the words form in my brain, I know they aren’t true.
I’m willing to bet that nothing about that woman or her ratty bear would have bothered me had I not stopped taking my meds. They weren't the cause, just the trigger. I probably would have laughed at her one striped sock and her stupid bear and forgotten all about them later. As it is, it’s been weeks and here I am recounting it to you in vivid detail.
Then, just last week, I was on my way home from work. I’d gotten off early and I was in a great mood - singing along with the radio, enjoying the sunshine through the open roof and the wind in my hair. But 15 minutes or so into the hour commute, as if in answer to a brisk snap of summoning fingers, it all went south. I can name no trigger, no real reason for my abrupt change in mood. Suddenly everything was just wrong.
Every unhappy thought or trivial problem I’d had over the past week went ricocheting around my head, gathering strength with each pass and manifesting into a giant ball of “What the Fuck”. I fought back tears and felt my face grow hot. I tried to make sense of it all, to reason with myself. Again, “Must be getting my period” and “Stop it, stop it right now”. Neither helped. By the time I was five minutes from home I’d managed to work myself up so much that I was having trouble breathing.
And all over what? - An argument with a friend, the distance of another. A sudden feeling of loneliness because I’m the last single person in my circle, attending another wedding that weekend. Pressure to be this, do that, feel something, feel nothing, smile, put on the cocky Alyson show. So tired, so tired.
When I arrived home I immediately went to bed and hugged my pillow, just laying there with my eyes closed and breathing slowly, willing myself to calm down. And after a few minutes, I did. I got up, changed my clothes, and walked down to the lake to join the pre rehearsal dinner party that was already in full swing. I was back up again, inwardly rolling my eyes at my dramatics. “Ugh. You are such a fucking girl.”
And that’s where I’m at now. At this moment I feel relatively normal and objective. I have things to look forward to in the coming weeks, things that I’m excited about. But who knows? Tomorrow someone might not call or I might see another homeless person with a battered suitcase and I’ll think it’s the end of the world. Or that my abrupt change in mood has something to do with my period.
Right now I know better. I know I shouldn’t have added that last sentry to the shelf so soon...maybe ever. And when it gets to be too much, I’ll get another and then another. Until one day the door won’t close on them anymore. They’ll band together, form a misfit army to bring me down, and I’ll be found out. Then everyone will know I’m crazy.
But I’ll wait until then. Because haven’t you heard?
Vicious cycles are my specialty.
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
Kidnapping conspiracy or Vicodin haze?
Monday after work I met a friend for dinner at a swanky restaurant.
Well, she said we were meeting for dinner. In actuality we met for an appetizer and a drink. I was hugely disappointed as I’ve been drinking those diet drinks that taste like watered down chocolate and despair, and dinner at that restaurant has never failed to make me experience religion, however briefly. I stayed about an hour and headed home, sullen and hungry.
The last thirty minutes of the journey is a maze of back roads. With woods on either side it’s pitch black and not uncommon for deer or other small woodland creatures to wander out and cause a problem. Even though I know that, I don’t pay as much attention as I should. And I may or may not flatten said small woodland creatures in hopes of obliterating rabies. Fuck you PETA!
I was almost home, one road over from our gravel drive. I was singing Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer in an exaggerated country accent and moving my head like a puppet on Crank Yankers, when I had to slam on breaks.
There was a man standing in the middle of the road. He was wearing blue pajama pants and carrying a blue duffle bag. He had a beard and was puffing on a cigarette. I glared and muttered to myself as I maneuvered my car around him. He grinned at me.
When I walked in the door I was cranky. My back had been bothering me all day, my swanky meal turned to an appetizer, and some weirdo tried to make me a hit and run suspect.
“What’s the matter with you”, my mom asked.
I told her about my shitty day and when I mentioned the man she said, “The neighbors saw him too!” Then she called them and they went back to look for him, just to make sure there wasn’t any funny business going on, and he was no where to be found.
“I told your Papa about it. We think it’s probably Howard.”
“Howard? What the hell would Howard be doing around here”, I asked.
“Last I heard he was homeless and on drugs, looking for a place to stay, so he might have come around to check things out.”
My cousin Howard is a bit of an odd duck. He’s in his late 30’s, I think, and has a history of mental illness. That’s not saying all that much since most of my family is riddled with manic depression and bipolar disorder, but whatever, at least I’m sane. Right? Riiiiight.
He used to have a truck that he called “The Hump Me 2”. He spelled it out on the bumper with big, sticky letters that he later peeled off and put on his closet door. When he moved out we rented the place to a woman and her two young daughters. One of the girls had his old room and had to stare at the Hump Me 2 letters, which he’d tried to peel off, but it left a legible residue that refused to budge. That’s also the room he once shot himself in, but we didn’t tell them that. (Well, I did...but not until they were older and we started getting drunk together.)
Anyway, so I wasn’t too terribly worried about the man after hearing it might just be drug addled, homeless cousin Howard. And judge not lest I slap you in the face, people, because there’s no way in hell I’m taking in a mental druggie when I’ve got a four year old.
I forgot about it and went about my business. And my business turned out to be throwing my back completely out. It went from irritating pain to “FUCK I can’t move from this stooped position and if anyone touches me I’ll...whimper in pain”.
I thought I was going to die. I had to go lie down so I could moan in the privacy of my room because Ray complained he couldn’t hear the T.V. Whatever. Who really wants to watch a bunch of Mormon kids sing A cappella pop songs?
So I went to bed and watched Smallville on DVD. (Don’t judge me; fake teenage super heroes are the bee’s knees.)
But after a while I started to get nervous. Everyone else had gone to bed and there I was, stretched out helpless on the bed, with pull down blinds that are half an inch too short on each side so anyone could look in if they wanted. Not to mention that every now and then the dogs in the area would sound off, causing me to look toward the windows and bite my bottom lip.
I started to think:
What if it wasn’t Howard? What if it was an ex con escaped from a local jail? What if he was sleeping in my unlocked car or peeking through my blinds? What if he stole my cigarettes I left in the console?
If my back hadn’t hurt so badly I would have gotten up and retrieved them from the car and locked it. But after briefly chatting with a friend (who today told me he would like to be called “Krull the warrior king”, and I just this second realized that’s a quote from a chick flick called How to Lose a Guy in 10 days, and I plan on teasing him mercilessly) I finally fell asleep.
The next morning was hell. I was very late for work because I couldn’t move well and I had a ton of reports to get done before the department Christmas party. When I walked slowly and stiffly into the office with my pillow and heating pad clutched under my arm, the women stormed me, offering sympathy.
During the course of the day my mom called me four or five times. She had the day off and was doing her Christmas shopping with The Grandmother (which is probably why I got a fucking Snuggie) and wanted my opinion on this or that. By the time her last call came through, I’d had enough.
“WHAT NOW”, I shouted when I picked up the phone.
“Papa called the police to report that man being in the area.”
“That’s great”, I said sarcastically.
“And he found out that other people have reported him being in the area for the past week or so.”
“Ok...”
“And the outside motion lights have been cut. They think he’s been sneaking into the office and sleeping there at night.”
“Oh shit.”
She continued talking, but I was in another world.
It really wasn’t Howard! Someone was going to kill me in the dark when I got out of my car! I was never going to have sex again! That thought was enough to make me burst into tears.
I began compiling a list in my head off all the men that could possibly want to do away with me:
1. My cousin’s husband:
He hated me from the moment we met for calling him a meat head. Which, by the way, is entirely accurate and the nicest thing I could ever bring myself to call him. He wasn’t above sneaking around on his wife. Who’s to say he wasn’t sneaking around the neighborhood in pajama pants, plotting his revenge?
I quickly discarded that idea. After all, the guy can’t even spell revenge, let alone plan it. Not to mention he doesn’t have a stupid beard.
2. Mr. Fisher Price:
I’ve been avoiding him on and off for years. He’s been pining after me, waiting and watching. Who’s to say he hasn’t finally snapped and taken to wandering about, ready to pistol whip me into submission? What if he’s been spying on me this whole time through those stupid gapped blinds and jacking off with tweezers underneath my window? ‘Cause trust me on this, that thing won’t even cross his palm. There’s no way in hell he’s beating that Vienna sausage without some kind of help. I’d imagine giving him head would be the equivalent of sucking on a ring pop...without the pleasant flavor.
But no, it’s likely not him either. He’s a fireman (not THE fireman, of course) and they aren’t allowed to have beards. And he also once told me he (shudder) doesn’t wear pajama pants...or anything else of the sort.
3. My mom’s ex boyfriend SpongeBob:
The guy is probably one of the creepiest fuckers I’ve ever met. His eyes are really close together; he’s got jet black hair that looks like a duck’s ass, and body wise he looks like a potato with those growths they get when you leave them in the bag too long. (Sprouts?) And let’s not forget the SpongeBob tattoo on his leg! Seriously?
He asked a mutual friend if I was single. ME. The daughter of his ex girlfriend. Every time I think about it I throw up a little in my mouth. That line from Silence of the Lambs plays in my head every time I see him or hear his name: “It puts the lotion on it’s skin or else it gets the hose again.”
But it couldn’t be him...the build was entirely different. This guy was taller and definitely not old potato-esque.
4. Lunch box boy:
Let’s assume he isn’t gay and definitely wants a crack at my ass cheeks. He could be irritated enough from the phone and coffee incident and the lunch box insult to follow me home. He’s...
Too tall. Damn it! I probably would have liked that one. “It’s ok if you hate me. There IS such a thing as hate sex, you know. Sure, I’ll shut up. Hey, what’s in the box?”
5. It could be the guy I slapped in the face because his performance left much to be desired....6. Or the one that was barely legal (Yeah, don’t mention that to anyone) who wanted to move to Texas and have babies...7. Or the hairy one that I threw that pity fuck at that never got over my vaginal awesomeness.
There are just so many options.
So last night I went home and took some Vicodin. For my back, you know. And when I went to bed I was thinking about it (my possible murderous stalker being “it”) and I decided I was going to sleep with my metal baseball bat for protection.
Because lets be honest here: My back was killing me and my karate skills are over a decade old. I can still probably do the leg sweeper move, when I’m not bent over in agony. The metal baseball bat was necessary since people who shall remain nameless don’t think I can be trusted with a firearm. Something to do with PMS.
So I fell asleep hugging the bastard. The bat, not the actual bastard.
When I woke up this morning I felt a lot better. No one had heard or seen anything the night before and according to our neighbor, Larry the goose recently attacked a visitor and would probably give my stalker the ole’ one two if he got too close.
Now it’s just a waiting game. Will I survive to deface the internet another day? Will I be arrested for striking an innocent man with my metal bat? Or will I be kidnapped, lotioned, and put in a hole?
Stay tuned.
Well, she said we were meeting for dinner. In actuality we met for an appetizer and a drink. I was hugely disappointed as I’ve been drinking those diet drinks that taste like watered down chocolate and despair, and dinner at that restaurant has never failed to make me experience religion, however briefly. I stayed about an hour and headed home, sullen and hungry.
The last thirty minutes of the journey is a maze of back roads. With woods on either side it’s pitch black and not uncommon for deer or other small woodland creatures to wander out and cause a problem. Even though I know that, I don’t pay as much attention as I should. And I may or may not flatten said small woodland creatures in hopes of obliterating rabies. Fuck you PETA!
I was almost home, one road over from our gravel drive. I was singing Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer in an exaggerated country accent and moving my head like a puppet on Crank Yankers, when I had to slam on breaks.
There was a man standing in the middle of the road. He was wearing blue pajama pants and carrying a blue duffle bag. He had a beard and was puffing on a cigarette. I glared and muttered to myself as I maneuvered my car around him. He grinned at me.
When I walked in the door I was cranky. My back had been bothering me all day, my swanky meal turned to an appetizer, and some weirdo tried to make me a hit and run suspect.
“What’s the matter with you”, my mom asked.
I told her about my shitty day and when I mentioned the man she said, “The neighbors saw him too!” Then she called them and they went back to look for him, just to make sure there wasn’t any funny business going on, and he was no where to be found.
“I told your Papa about it. We think it’s probably Howard.”
“Howard? What the hell would Howard be doing around here”, I asked.
“Last I heard he was homeless and on drugs, looking for a place to stay, so he might have come around to check things out.”
My cousin Howard is a bit of an odd duck. He’s in his late 30’s, I think, and has a history of mental illness. That’s not saying all that much since most of my family is riddled with manic depression and bipolar disorder, but whatever, at least I’m sane. Right? Riiiiight.
He used to have a truck that he called “The Hump Me 2”. He spelled it out on the bumper with big, sticky letters that he later peeled off and put on his closet door. When he moved out we rented the place to a woman and her two young daughters. One of the girls had his old room and had to stare at the Hump Me 2 letters, which he’d tried to peel off, but it left a legible residue that refused to budge. That’s also the room he once shot himself in, but we didn’t tell them that. (Well, I did...but not until they were older and we started getting drunk together.)
Anyway, so I wasn’t too terribly worried about the man after hearing it might just be drug addled, homeless cousin Howard. And judge not lest I slap you in the face, people, because there’s no way in hell I’m taking in a mental druggie when I’ve got a four year old.
I forgot about it and went about my business. And my business turned out to be throwing my back completely out. It went from irritating pain to “FUCK I can’t move from this stooped position and if anyone touches me I’ll...whimper in pain”.
I thought I was going to die. I had to go lie down so I could moan in the privacy of my room because Ray complained he couldn’t hear the T.V. Whatever. Who really wants to watch a bunch of Mormon kids sing A cappella pop songs?
So I went to bed and watched Smallville on DVD. (Don’t judge me; fake teenage super heroes are the bee’s knees.)
But after a while I started to get nervous. Everyone else had gone to bed and there I was, stretched out helpless on the bed, with pull down blinds that are half an inch too short on each side so anyone could look in if they wanted. Not to mention that every now and then the dogs in the area would sound off, causing me to look toward the windows and bite my bottom lip.
I started to think:
What if it wasn’t Howard? What if it was an ex con escaped from a local jail? What if he was sleeping in my unlocked car or peeking through my blinds? What if he stole my cigarettes I left in the console?
If my back hadn’t hurt so badly I would have gotten up and retrieved them from the car and locked it. But after briefly chatting with a friend (who today told me he would like to be called “Krull the warrior king”, and I just this second realized that’s a quote from a chick flick called How to Lose a Guy in 10 days, and I plan on teasing him mercilessly) I finally fell asleep.
The next morning was hell. I was very late for work because I couldn’t move well and I had a ton of reports to get done before the department Christmas party. When I walked slowly and stiffly into the office with my pillow and heating pad clutched under my arm, the women stormed me, offering sympathy.
During the course of the day my mom called me four or five times. She had the day off and was doing her Christmas shopping with The Grandmother (which is probably why I got a fucking Snuggie) and wanted my opinion on this or that. By the time her last call came through, I’d had enough.
“WHAT NOW”, I shouted when I picked up the phone.
“Papa called the police to report that man being in the area.”
“That’s great”, I said sarcastically.
“And he found out that other people have reported him being in the area for the past week or so.”
“Ok...”
“And the outside motion lights have been cut. They think he’s been sneaking into the office and sleeping there at night.”
“Oh shit.”
She continued talking, but I was in another world.
It really wasn’t Howard! Someone was going to kill me in the dark when I got out of my car! I was never going to have sex again! That thought was enough to make me burst into tears.
I began compiling a list in my head off all the men that could possibly want to do away with me:
1. My cousin’s husband:
He hated me from the moment we met for calling him a meat head. Which, by the way, is entirely accurate and the nicest thing I could ever bring myself to call him. He wasn’t above sneaking around on his wife. Who’s to say he wasn’t sneaking around the neighborhood in pajama pants, plotting his revenge?
I quickly discarded that idea. After all, the guy can’t even spell revenge, let alone plan it. Not to mention he doesn’t have a stupid beard.
2. Mr. Fisher Price:
I’ve been avoiding him on and off for years. He’s been pining after me, waiting and watching. Who’s to say he hasn’t finally snapped and taken to wandering about, ready to pistol whip me into submission? What if he’s been spying on me this whole time through those stupid gapped blinds and jacking off with tweezers underneath my window? ‘Cause trust me on this, that thing won’t even cross his palm. There’s no way in hell he’s beating that Vienna sausage without some kind of help. I’d imagine giving him head would be the equivalent of sucking on a ring pop...without the pleasant flavor.
But no, it’s likely not him either. He’s a fireman (not THE fireman, of course) and they aren’t allowed to have beards. And he also once told me he (shudder) doesn’t wear pajama pants...or anything else of the sort.
3. My mom’s ex boyfriend SpongeBob:
The guy is probably one of the creepiest fuckers I’ve ever met. His eyes are really close together; he’s got jet black hair that looks like a duck’s ass, and body wise he looks like a potato with those growths they get when you leave them in the bag too long. (Sprouts?) And let’s not forget the SpongeBob tattoo on his leg! Seriously?
He asked a mutual friend if I was single. ME. The daughter of his ex girlfriend. Every time I think about it I throw up a little in my mouth. That line from Silence of the Lambs plays in my head every time I see him or hear his name: “It puts the lotion on it’s skin or else it gets the hose again.”
But it couldn’t be him...the build was entirely different. This guy was taller and definitely not old potato-esque.
4. Lunch box boy:
Let’s assume he isn’t gay and definitely wants a crack at my ass cheeks. He could be irritated enough from the phone and coffee incident and the lunch box insult to follow me home. He’s...
Too tall. Damn it! I probably would have liked that one. “It’s ok if you hate me. There IS such a thing as hate sex, you know. Sure, I’ll shut up. Hey, what’s in the box?”
5. It could be the guy I slapped in the face because his performance left much to be desired....6. Or the one that was barely legal (Yeah, don’t mention that to anyone) who wanted to move to Texas and have babies...7. Or the hairy one that I threw that pity fuck at that never got over my vaginal awesomeness.
There are just so many options.
So last night I went home and took some Vicodin. For my back, you know. And when I went to bed I was thinking about it (my possible murderous stalker being “it”) and I decided I was going to sleep with my metal baseball bat for protection.
Because lets be honest here: My back was killing me and my karate skills are over a decade old. I can still probably do the leg sweeper move, when I’m not bent over in agony. The metal baseball bat was necessary since people who shall remain nameless don’t think I can be trusted with a firearm. Something to do with PMS.
So I fell asleep hugging the bastard. The bat, not the actual bastard.
When I woke up this morning I felt a lot better. No one had heard or seen anything the night before and according to our neighbor, Larry the goose recently attacked a visitor and would probably give my stalker the ole’ one two if he got too close.
Now it’s just a waiting game. Will I survive to deface the internet another day? Will I be arrested for striking an innocent man with my metal bat? Or will I be kidnapped, lotioned, and put in a hole?
Stay tuned.
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