The First Twenty-Four Hours

He said he needed to go to another meeting. I try so damn hard to be optimistic regardless of my conditioned state of skepticism. I say to myself, "yeah, sure he goes more than half an hour early. Doesn't he? Hmmm, when was the last time he did that. I can't recall." The hour and a half went by and then another 15 minutes. That familiar feeling of being a slave to the need for control kicked me in the stomach. I called. Twice. "I'll be there in five minutes." I restrained the racing thoughts that questioned his honesty. Fifteen more minutes went by. I picked up the phone two more times until I allowed the phone to send the call. No answer. Again, I send the call. No answer. Again. No answer. This is the process of confirmation we go through. I call over and over until I'm satisfied that he will not answer until he runs out of money.
I am crushed, but I do not cry anymore. There is really no relief, in fact, it weakens my fortitude. I cry when I think that I need to cry - especially if it has been a while.
It is after midnight. I just wrote a blog entry to simply fill in the day, but it was 5 minutes too late to get in for November 15. My home is cold and I simply do not want to wash my face and take my meds before I lay down. I don't really want to sleep.
I am standing in the cramped bathroom staring at my face while I grab the Lamictal out of the cabinet. My eyes are glossy and red. My face has bright blemishes on my right cheek. My hair is a mess. I hear the key slip into the lock. I stand perfectly still and hold my breath. I want so badly to scream and curse; to threaten and belittle; to manipulate and destroy. I turn to see his small face with pupils nearly covering every bit of green in his eyes. My first words comment on the obviousness of his state of inebriation. Then, the next usual question. "How much did you spend." He only had $40, so it shortened his evening.
His odor surrounds him - cheap liquor and sweat. I try to ignore him - to act as though it is really not a big deal. It is though. It is always a big deal. Then I feel pity. I have lived this before and I have seen this need for destruction. If only he could see the person I see in him. How sharp, charming, and deeply considerate he is. How, when people meet him, they instantly know he has a soft heart and a whip for a mind.
I sit with him for hours. I fall into the need for passive aggressive relief. He faces it stoically - feeling he deserves much more than I throw at him. A few minutes later I feel guilty ... it is much like scolding a child after they admit defeat and give a genuine apology. It is needless and simply an inappropriate way to displace anger.
I will not sleep. I peak out the blinds and watch him smoke cigarettes on our front porch. His breath and exhalations of smoke create a cloud in front of his face. The symbolism is frightening.
I turn to see the green light illuminating the side of the bed; it is after 2 a.m. I drift to sleep, but wake periodically to feel his back next to mine. Good. He is still here.
I cannot wake up. Instead, I throw on my college sweatshirt, jeans, tennis shoes, and a worn Adidas ball cap. Not exactly business casual. I am exhausted and want everyone to know it. I dressed this way on purpose - let them know that I am in pain. I snap at my boss and I can see the frustration wash over her face. My uncle spies at me from across the room - he knows something is terribly wrong.
She asks what is wrong. "He fell off the wagon again." She replies in almost an angry tone, commenting shortly then muzzling herself and turning her focus back to the paperwork in front of her.
They both leave for a regional meeting. I call my mom and cry. Cry for the exhaustion and cry for the numbness I feel in my veins. Ironic, I know. My co-worker closes the door for me.
I feel so relieved and begin an upbeat conversation with the other girl. It is the day before my 24th birthday. I go home and shower, trying to begin the day over. There is dinner and then gifts. Now, it is 24 hours later. He lays beside me, his head in a book and I cringe over the thought of the next 24 hours.

If I Had an English Accent

If I could develop a Madonna-esque American/English accent I would exclaim such things as: "Brilliant!" or "That is Absurd!" or "I'll stay for tea, but only for a short time." Then, even saying things such as: "please ask the blonde stripper to bring me change for that $50" would seem very classy. I would feel like a lady, even when I asked the woman in the public restroom to "please be a dear and pass me approximately 8 sheets of toilet paper." Yes, if I had an English accent I would be a lady, if only in spoken word.

One Day at a Time

Pulling into the last parking spot in the second row of grocery getters, I notice the klank of wine bottles in the woman's grocery cart as she passes us. I know he hears them. He notices everything. I steer us towards the far entrance so that the liquor department is as far away as possible. As we walk in, we're blasted with the smell of $5 coffee from the Starbucks. I know his thirst for even small drugs, such as caffeine, is overwhelming. As we stroll through the produce, I imagine how I would deal if we faced someone he needed to make amends with ... would I walk away and allow him to work this step or would I stand there in the awkward moment? I qualify myself as a true codependent as I answer my own dilemma: I would stay so that I could make sure he made his amends and so that I would know exactly what happened. I play this role so well.
We both notice the Stolich vodka sale display in the soda aisle, so I make some random comment in hopes of distracting both of us. I'm quickly reminded of the display as we pick up the gallon of orange juice ... I've never even seen him drink screwdrivers before, but the thought is still there. Though I hate that he smokes, I buy him a carton of cigarettes simply because I would rather he smoke than relapse again ... and I can't trust him with any amount of money to buy a carton on his own. By the time we're walking out the doors, I'm considering all the places I could hide my debit card when we returned home. At last night's meeting one woman reminded me that, "they act crazy and we feel crazy." Apparently, Hy Vee exacerbates this insane feeling.

This is Going to Sting A Bit.

"Yeah, he told me how you guys are close." My face began to warm, I strained to calm my vocal cords and attempted to reply in a stoic manner, "Oh, you mean he told you he kind of took me in after I found my dad murdered." After the words fell out of the air I felt a surge of blood to my head, so I turned and walked back to my desk without looking at either one of them in the face. I wonder how long this guy has known - and now, who else knows. It has taken me five years to learn how to interact with another person for more than a few days without infecting them with the details of that tragic event. It became part of my identity for so long - the girl that found her father shot to death. The pity was always bitter sweet. Sweet in that I didn't have to hide this looming storm cloud that follows me around. Bitter in that now I would have to deal with being "that poor girl."
We all quickly delved back into surface conversation and I felt my body calm. This is a familiar cycle, but it never seems to lose that initial sting. I have learned how to disconnect enough to deliver the words without seeming phased. The truth remains that ever since that 10 second exchange of words at 2:00 my day has not been the same.

Dear Diary

As I read other blogs it becomes apparent to me that being somewhat undefined in my purpose for writing is perfectly acceptable. I had a blog earlier this year, but it turned into a log of bipolar waves and random insanity (so maybe the spans of sanity were random). Once again, I am finding it increasingly difficult to keep from spewing my inner-most ramblings. Okay, it's one thing to read the humor of some one's kid puking on their mother-in-law or their quirky boss' obsession with making shadow figures on the copy machine, but it is creepy to look back on an entry discussing the need for self-destruction. I became so disgusted with myself that I had to delete the damn thing. However, as the blog posting month begins I am finding that the visceral words of living spew until they're trapped with the backspace button. Fussy mentioned that a few people have already dropped out of NaBloPoMo. I missed a day last week but I decided not to explain my absence and simply continue on with my goal. However, my disassociation from my topics has produced a bland and unsatisfying week of writing.
So, I am torn. Do I continue the excruciating process of developing daily topics or just let things roll? I don't want this to turn into a personal journal again. What's more, is that I have found that my humor makes some people uncomfortable - things that are funny to me are simply unnerving to some people.
So, things may change or maybe I'll be hit with a surge of creativity ... 23 more days to go.

Rockin' in the Free World

Oh the midterm elections! Am I the only one genuinely excited about voting tomorrow? I mean, I am freaking ecstatic! My mother and I giggled like school girls over the phone tonight - our delight at the chance for change in the nation and our state. Missouri has been one of those "key" states, so I am stoked that I can contribute a vote that will possibly stimulate a shift in our world. Now, instead of blogging and writing tireless emails I can actually do something active to change my world. Wow, I am such a nerd.

Pugauchsand a.k.a Roxy

This is my little one.

I know it's already a link...

This is just fascinating to me ... go read some secrets.

Her fingers tapped across the white key board

I'm sooo looking forward to Will Ferrell's new movie "Stranger Than Fiction." Seriously, am I the only one narrating their day to themself? My autobiography is being written in my head every single day. For example, take my thoughts from the other day:

I sat in traffic, the rain drops glowing from the red reflection of brake lights ahead of me, and remembered how we ran through Manhattan on that cold night in March. We came from Broadway, fresh with live music reverberating through our ears. No one would suspect that we were a couple of kids running away from the reality of our misguided lives. I was only 18 and he a 22 year old parolee. Little did we know, we had six weeks and another American coast to endure. This was the happiest time of my life. Today I sit in a car that isn't paid for, wearing a button down shirt that shows my ninies evertime I move an arm, listening to NPR and examining my daily paper cut. Fuck. I'm only 23.

...then motion begins and I'm running with the herd - my monologue far behind me. Okay, so it's always unrefined and grossly exaggerated and some parts minimized, but hey, maybe one day it will be worth a million. Maybe.