my confession

Went to Fr. P, and, no, I'm not going to tell you what I confessed. Those of you who know me know my sins well enough, I wear everything on my sleeve, and my sins are obvious for all to see: my pettiness, my smallness, my fears, my hate, my lust, my anger.

Same old, same old, every week.

And every week, Fr. P., who asked me to come to him specifically, and every week, doesn't get angry or frustrated with little me committing my little (grave) sins, but has something to say that I never hear anywhere else in the world.

This week, he asked me to reflect where I'm totally dependent on God, and to thank God for those things. He said he's thankful to God for his health, that he can run our little parish.

I interrupted Father, and told him, "If I may, I know where I'm totally dependent on God, and I'm just so resentful."

I didn't tell him how much I hate God for creating me and putting me here to suffer, day after day, every day, just going on, and why? to fall again? ... that was already confessed earlier this year. Why beat a dead horse? Zombies need to eat something, after all.

God, do I ever hate God ... for making me.

But Father said most American don't even realize they are dependent on God at all, and I don't quite remember why, but you know us American, so proud, so self-reliant, so 'if it ain't made here ...', so might-makes-right and my country, right or wrong. Father didn't say that, but my little voice supplied all that in a heartbeat for me to smirk over in the dark confessional box.

And he continued and said that I realize I'm dependent on God is a gift from God, and I should be thankful to Him for that, and can I do that, and thank God for the gifts I've been given?

Damn, Fr. P. is good, isn't he?

Yes, I told him that, too.

And I said I would do that.

Then I get this PM from a friend who says that a short PM from me is fine, because if I waited to share myself fully, I never would.

i got this PM this morning, read it, then went to work, then I came home, those words burning coals in my mouth the whole day.

I put my heart into every word I write, and every word I don't, and then I share myself, and I get burned with long angry enumerated lists of why this or that and in that same God damn PM I'm told to lighten the fvck up, shouted at the whole time. You ask me what to do with your friend who's just like me, and I tell you what to do and what not to do and the consequences of those (in)actions, from first hand experience, and I know you read the PM because you do exactly what I tell you not to do, choosing to hurt me holding back with your spiteful words. I ask you to say hello to a friend I help you get back together with, and your friend says, 'you can't trust people online, and test her: does she only have white socks?' as if I'm some what? evil cvnt that wants to hurt you because I'm online, and I didn't break up with you, and I didn't destroy your stuff, but you trust your 'friend' more than me, because I gave you my heart, but she's your friend who hurt you whispering this poison in your ear, so it's okay to pass that on to me to deal with? And I read all this anger at me, and I read that I don't share myself, when ... okay, I've got to tell you, I've opened my heart to you. My own family doesn't know me like every one I've PMed with and written my stories for. Do I share my stories with my family? No. FVCK NO! You know me better than my own family. AND you also know me as my family knows me, too.

Look, I've never been hurt as much as I've been this more than a year now with you. And I've been still putting my heart on the line. Why? Just: why?

But Fr. P. tells me to see where I'm dependent on God and thank Him for these gifts.

And looking at this PM this morning, and every week — if not nearly every day — I get from you with your callous self-absorption and cutting words, and I wonder ... what should I be thankful for again?

You ready for some more hurt? The only thing that didn't stop me from doing something to myself (something that you would call 'really stupid' because what, again, am I living for? You can't answer the latter but I'm stupid for stopping it all. Yeah. Thank you) was a sweet little PM from Saga who in the midst of her flu that her has her puking her guts out and on bed rest PMed me to say, hey, and say really nice things about us cooking something together, and she leaves a poem attributed to Sappho on her profile that ...

My conceit: read the obit pages. When I die, I won't be able to PM you with my regrets that I won't be able to complete my stories. Really hard to do that from beyond the grave.

And I'm sure as hell not telling you before hand. You might try to stop me. The Devil demands his due. And there's no gold coin in my mouth to pay the ferryman.

But I don't even have my conceit. If 'I don't share myself' is how you see me, and you are my cherished, closest, dearest friends, how does the rest of the world see me? So I can't even ask you to scan the obits, 'cause what'll they say about me? What'll be carved in my stone? "Didn't fully share self."

So just scan the police reports. This is what you'll find: "Body found in apartment after complaints from neighbors of odor. Young woman. White. No known next of kin. No known occupation."

And that's all they, or you, or anybody will be able to say about me.

You know what I wuz gonna do? Yeah, you know.

I've blocked people for much less than these cold, cruel, callous, CARELESS words stabbing me, now, right through the chest. It's fvcking hard to breathe right now. So what I wuz gonna do was block you all. Turn off the PM. Delete my email account. Close out fb.

Why? Because who fvcking cares about a wee irish lass who doesn't extend herself to share herself, and why put myself through all this pain of writing a PM when you turn around and slap me in the face with your sweet little knife blade of a 'joke' that you have the gall to *smile* about as you deliver it?

Do you know how to find out what someone really means? What somebody really believes? They make a joke about it.

God, I am hurting so much right now.

You know what I don't want. I don't want an apology. You are as you are. And I read in your PMs, over and over and over and over again that this is an accurate description of how you see me. And I don't want 'oh, it's okay, and you're great,' sympathy PMs from you. Telling you straight (heh: 'straight') that'll hurt much worse. And you know what I don't want, I don't want you to see this as anybody other than yourself. Try that on. Read your fvcking PMs to me AFTER I've already written entry after entry begging you to look in the mirror and read these words to yourself before you send them to me. And what I don't want? I don't want you to show up at my God damn funeral and tell my mom and bb how my words touched you and what a shame for a girl to have died so young, and what I don't want? for you to be all nice-nice to me for ONE FVCKING PM and then you slipping right back into your vicious berating brow-beating sh!t you hurl at me that you call a PM.

You know what I do want?

You know, I can't even answer that question. I am so deep in the sh!t I can't see that it can get any better than this. So I may as well eat sh!t and die. Gonna anyway. Gonna anyway.

And I told you this. Over and over and over again. You read Rosalie and Me? Yeah, I can tell you have because you've fvcking reviewed it! (get the fvcking hint?) I count one person who read it, and he left the review on another story in another chapter. You know what he wrote? "I thought I was fvcked up, but you take the cake!"

That's honesty. He knew the score, then decided to stomp me, because there's no better feeling that kicking somebody's who down or kicking somebody else when you're down. As I've been the recipient or received the brunt from you, over and over and over again.

So now I have to decide. Do I check back in? Last time I did that, I was out of it for six months — no phone, no computer, no nothing but me lying on a bed so doped up on valium and other stuff that all I can do is wet myself in bed and "get better" — but that doesn't mean it'll only be six months this time. Last time they made a mistake: they let me out. "Fool me once, shame on you, fool me twice, shame on me." Those "health" "care" "providers" are not ones to be shamed, nor fooled, ... well, not twice, anyway.

Or instead of checking back in, do I check out? I mean, seriously. This is what I have to live for? Your easy insults and careless, carefree heartlessness? And me, as I write, crying and crying and crying, to get your reviews that you get it. But now that you've gotten it, what do you do with it?

You know what 'it' is? 'It' is me. I'm an 'it.'

I'm an 'it.' A thing.

And you get it. What are you going to do with it? And you know, Rosalie will miss Ren when she dies.

But I can't say that for me. I mean, 'it.'

what am I grateful for? what am i totally dependent on God for?

You know, I think I have to go back to confession, to confess I can't even think of a single thing I'm grateful for.

Ingratitude. That's the worst sin of all. God gives everything, and what am I grateful for? Nothing.

I can't find one single thing I'm grateful for. I'm grateful for nothing. I am nothing. And I don't share myself. Even though I've actually cried so hard I've bled tears in what I've written to you and for you, but that's not good enough for you.

I'm not good enough. Shama-lama ding-dong.

You just so have to put me in my place.

And my place is nowhere.

I do have a question. What are you grateful for? Maybe I can be grateful for you being grateful for something. I have another question. How do you show your gratitude?

p.s. day what-fvcking-ever without drinking — four if anybody's counting.

P.fvcking.s.: there's no such thing as a 'mean drunk.' I know. I'm Irish and Italian. A drunk is the happiest person in the world, when he's drinking. He only gets mean when you take away the bottle. But when he has the bottle, he's happy and smiling, and lightheaded, giddy and doesn't feel nor know nor remember a thing, and has no regrets. He has just the sweet, strong taste of peat or potatoes or corn or grapes.

'He.' I don't even rate a gender of value.

And I'm not drinking why? Alan Watts: "But I'm only happy when I'm drunk." ALAN FVCKING WATTS. And Seymour killed himself, because why? Nobody knows, but he told his psychiatrist that the most valuable thing in the world is a dead cat, and nearly got committed for it. By his fvcking wife.

Banana fish. (And don't you dare say, "Huh?" You have fvcking google, don't you? Fvcking read it).

... and today a little two year old blonde-haired, blue-eyed girl pranced around her much older than me mom, and "I don't share myself" was a bitter, bitter taste in my mouth that I almost cried for her, for them, for her happiness and hope, and what if she's actually Rosalie Lillian Hale? What if she's actually me? Wouldn't it be a blessing from God if a comet came down from Heaven right now and crushed her in her happiness? How would've I asked her mom not to have her child turn out like me? A glorified check-out girl, delivering happiness one cup of coffee at a time?

Swedish Chef(ess?)

Babysitting the nieces, as bb and his wife are out on a "date."

When I came over this morning, I looked up into the crisp, clear blue sky and saw a transparent half-moon. You know the one? The one where it's so stark, yet so diaphanous, so floating up there as if it weighed less than a feather, as if it didn't belong in the sky, yet there it is.

My nieces love to read, so after I cooked them "eggie" and "corn beef hashi" and peeled and cored them apples, I can write this entry as I look at them so transported into their own private worlds.

So then, well, they'll be hungry in a while (children seem to do that: to become hungry again, even after you've fed them), so I've done the dishes from breakfast, and I've prepared what I call "Swedish Chicken," and I've read the recipe somewhere before but I can't for the life of me find it anymore on the web so here it is:

1. package of boneless, skinless chicken breast slices
2. 2 cans of cream of mushroom soup
3. A splash of milk
4. 1 can of french-cut green beans
5. whatever veggies are in the fridge (but don't over do it, I used half a bowl of peas and some pre-sliced mushrooms ... carrots should be okay, I guess)
6. 3 slices of (muenster) cheese

Preheat oven to 350°F. Drain the green beans and in a baking pan mix them with the cans of cream of mushroom soup and the splash of milk. Add in the extra veggies. I carefully laid out the cut mushrooms, but whatever, you know? Layer the chicken on top of that base, then half the cheese slices and lay them on top of the chicken.

Cook until done. I put the timer on an hour, then I'll peek in on that, cover it with tin foil, and then add another half hour on top of that, just to be sure.

It's very important that as you're doing this, you sing: "Urba-shure, dee-dup-dee-dur, lalala-lure, durp-dee-dur, urb-bee-dur-dur-bee-dur-dur bork! bork! bork!" gleefully cavorting about the kitchen and (pretending) to throw about cooking utensils pel-mel.

The result of this is the nieces put aside their precious books and demand to know what I'm cooking for lunch, which I willfully don't tell them. I took great delight in their impetuous need to know and the twenty questions we played (where the rules changed, like, seven times during the game). They still don't know that I'm cooking "Swedish Chicken" for them for lunch, but they still are going to love it when I serve it, all hot and piping from the oven.

All this doesn't mean I'm going all domestic and submissive-femmy, does it?

p.s. Day two alcohol-free

Day Zero

... *sigh*

Okay, I'll start over. Day zero starts today or tomorrow.

Yes, I was offered drink. Yes, I drank. Billion excuses and reasons and in the end I made a choice. And I have to live with that, breaking my word to myself and I promised Saga, too.

Off to the next party for the rest of the night.

Please don't write saying it's okay, when it's not ... actually, I'm not beating myself up too much, I think.

Well, the cranberry bread was a big hit.

I love you all. I hope you had a great Thanksgiving and day.

Happy Thanksgiving!

In the United States today we will be eating entirely too much turkey, mashed potatoes and pumpkin pie. This'll also be my 25th day dry. So I'll be with family, and I'll have reason to be happy ... and thankful.

kisses, 'phfina

p.s. I think I shall bake and bring cranberry bread to the big get together.

"Happy Holidays!"

It's the most wonderful time of the year!

... or so I'm told. Yeah, another `phfina entry, and this time about "Happy"ness, so you know what that means, right? When I write about "Happy"ness you get a story like Happy Ending (yes, massrié, I will get back to writing that story, I do think about it (and Sappho's Muse) quite a bit).

So, "Happy Holidays."

That's what we say at sbux. We "respect" your views, all your views, at the same time.

That's another way to say we're avoiding litigation, but I'm sure you can read screeds about this, or weigh in with your own views, which, by policy, I "respect."

So I won't talk about that, but I will talk about my holidays, and my "happiness" for them, respectively.

Do you know the saddest two days of the year for me? Christmas and my birthday.

Do you know why? Because I go to parties were there are bright happy people and I give and receive presents, which I am required to be happy to give and to receive.

Do you still wonder why they are the saddest days in the world for me?

Let me break it down for you.

Me, being among people, and being of good cheer? Okay, when my family gets together, what do we do, us Italians?

By definition, an Italian party is one where people are entirely too loud, too drunk, and where there's some requirement that a fist-fight has to break out between two random uncles and, now, cousins of mine, and so my uncles shout at to grow up and to behave (ostensibly like them (?))

And these are people I love more than anybody in the world. I mean, I love them so hard my heart breaks.

So you'll catch me creeping upstairs to read a book, these days it's House of Leaves.

Yeah.

Or maybe I'm checking PMs or ffn, ... at my (late) Grandmother's house? Have they invented wireless yet? Of course not! They don't even have the house wired yet.

And, well, if I go to some ... friend's birthday party and be with all her swanky friends, and there's little (dirt poor) me with all these rich, perfect people talking about the companies they are starting, and oh, Violet, what do you do?

And me, telling them what color apron I wear at sbux? Very impressive.

So you'll find me in the corner, nodding politely, trying not to say anything embarrassingly out of place, wondering when I can get the hell out and hide somewhere with a good book ...

And then it comes to unwrapping the presents, and that the money-shot time, isn't it? Because that's the time I discover how much this person who loves me so much to give me a gift has no idea at all about me, what I like and what I don't, and now I have to pretend to be so happy to be receiving this gift of whatever it is and I don't even know what it is and what I'm going to do with it, and I have to be happy for this person so their heart doesn't break. Or when I give somebody a gift, and I get to see that same look in their eyes as they try to be happy and pleased at something I was so excited to give them and how little I know of this person, this friend, this sister, this brother, this mother, this father, who I'm supposed to know at least something about and how terribly I failed at even that!

And, "Happy Holidays"? That makes it so much worse, because the saddest, bleakest time of the year, when every thing's cold and dark, and I'm supposed to be full of Christmas (there, I said it: "Christmas" ... sue me) Cheer, and this year I'm gonna try to go dry, and when an Uncle comes up to me and offers that Château neuf du pape or his Black Label Johnny Walker (please! Cheap Blended Scotch? As if!) and if I refuse it this year like I saw bb do last year and he's still not talking to him, and what if I accept it out of politeness so my Uncle, who never talks to me anyway (you know, I'm the fucking dyke ... that he doesn't actually know that I am, but if he did?) won't give me a death glare every time he sees me (all of twice a year) and ...

And don't talk to me about New Year's and Auld Lang Syne when who do I grab ahold of and hug at midnight when a ball drops on a stick and why? And no, thanks, it's nice of you to invite me to your New Year's Eve party where I know whom again and I'm supposed to be happy with all the people you know so well, when all I want to do is run and hide and puke when one of them comes up to greet me and ask my name and 'Oh, what do you do?'

So, yeah: "Happy" "Holidays" to you. But you wonder why that's all I can offer? That is to wish that for you? Happiness on the "Holidays"?

Me? Hm. What do you wish for, `phfina?

Well, actually ... I do wish for your happiness, with all my might. When you are happy — God! — I'm so, so happy for you, even if your happiness is to cry in sorrow over some loss you've just shared with me, even if your happiness is to get that girl of your dreams that you had no idea was the girl of your dreams until last week, and you found that out because of a conversation you've had with me? GOD! I'm so, so happy for you: that you are happy.

And, you know? When I'm happy, I'm happy. And I am a little Irish girl — even though I have know idea what that is, as I have absolutely no roots, being an all-American girl that I am — I'm so, so sad when I'm happy, and so, so happy in my sadness. And sometimes, I'm just happy, just bursting with it.

When? Hm, I think, again, it's with you and for you. I'm so, so happy that I've created something of beauty, and I found this out, because you saw something that I wrote or that I did that you found beautiful, and I'm like shocked-surprised, and then ... grateful.

I think ... thinking about it — for I am, after all, a "thoughtful person" (*rolls eyes*) — that is a gift I love giving and receiving: admiration, appreciation ... gratitude.

So, let me do something, these "Happy Holidays," that's admirable and worthy of appreciation and gratitude. And ... well, I'll ask you do to do the same.

And how can you do that? Do sometime admirable, appreciable, grateful?

Be you. Keep being you: beautiful, lovable you.

You know you are beautiful in my eyes? And lovable? You are, you know.

Now, happy? Well, you have to choose that, and *sigh* yes, I know: I do, too.

And, hm, that's a huge, huge gift. When I see a genuine smile on somebody's face, I smile in return, and my insides warm with happiness, too.

So ... yes ... "Happy Holidays!" to you. That is my wish for you now, and for the rest of this year.

At Mass Today

Today was Christ the King, and the Gospel was Jesus on the Cross being reviled by the crowds and the one bad thief, and the one good thief rebukes the bad thief and begs Jesus to remember him.

Not that I was paying attention.

Because I have eagle eyes — not vampire eyes, bb has those, can you believe it? He has maroon eyes; a regular Hannibal Lecter bb is (read the book to get the reference) — and those eyes miss nothing, not in myself and not from anybody else around me, and particularly not from you when you're talking with me. You can't lie to me, for I'll see it in your eyes, and I do call you on that.

Yes, I don't have any friends, and I scare people ... and for good reason. But that's for another post.

Well, this time my eyes saw this girl across the church, about my age, maybe younger, and when the choir started up in the κύριε she started giggling to herself.

Our choir, well, ... they are laughable. I mean, I'm no Dame Janet Baker, but I get compliments ... particularly from Church Ladies of a certain age, who have a predilection for patting me on the head as they compliment me. *sigh* (grrrr!) But when I was in the choir, the famous opera singer-director told me "Violet," — and yes, I lie about my name even it church, and isn't that terrible? But some people in church go to sbux, and it would not do at all for them to call out "Melissa!" at sbux and I would get looks from my partners, you know? — So she said, "Violet, you have a good voice" — yeah, thanks — "but you want to hold the note, don't introduce vibrato unnecessarily." And I held my tongue — I'm not a famous opera singer — and held the note ... I didn't last long in choir.

But I'm like thinking angry dagger thoughts toward this teen, like: respect the liturgy! And what is this little teenager doing mocking the Mass, and ...

And I was about to continue my diatribe in my head, when, all of the sudden, she bent down and picked up a little boy, maybe a year old or so, and held him, and she was suddenly not so much a teen younger than me, perhaps, because now she was Happy Mommy! and he was suddenly Happy Baby! And this Cro-Magnon of a guy next to her that I did not see at all until just then, looking so much like the men in my family, you know? All Daniel Auteuil; all, you know? that guy who starred and directed in Ma femme est une actrice (that costarred his wife as his wife!) (whom I'm all ... well: whew!) You know? So big, weepy-eyed dark Gallic guys that girls swoon over for some reason, because if you put a sword or spear in one hand and a shield in another and got 299 other guys just like him, he could take on an army of ten-thousand Persians. You know? 300? That kind of guy: totally unnoticeable in his quietude until you do notice him: big, powerful, intelligent, dark-hairy an' a' that.

No, I'm not looking for a guy, okay?

Well, anyway, for the rest of the Mass, I could help but look at them: Happy Family. And think to myself, what? A multitudinous jumble of thoughts. How God loves them more, even though she laughed at the (feeble) efforts of the choir, and that she has a baby boy, and do I want a boy? Ugh! And don't normal mommies want a boy and normal daddies want girls and why am I not normal? And what if I did have a boy? And the priest told us to pray for priests but not from just anywhere but from our own families, and what if he went into the priesthood and would he try to save me from my sinful ways, so would I have to be celibate twenty years from now, and what if I didn't want that, and what if I went straight, you know, and had a big Gallic-Cro-Magnon guy of a husband, wearing a white striped sweater just like I was wearing, and oh! look! we're matching, isn't that cute? just like that family across the church from me and would I love him, but what if it didn't end up with a 'traditional family,' and then would my own son disown me, or would even the church accept him because he has two mothers and I don't know if that would be a barrier of entry into the priesthood but I think it would be, wouldn't it?

And okay, then the choir starts up again, two geriatric guys warbling their notes with this hyper-modern interpretation of some Latin liturgical whatever that just sounds so God-awful! and not 'awful' as in 'full of awe' but 'awful' as in 'offal.' And I'm wondering, you know: why! and should I like transfer to the Coptic Catholic Church down the road and ...

And that's me. Just too smart and too critical for her own good. And I wish, in a way, that I could be, you know, normal, you know? But then that? Me? Normal? I'd like survive for two seconds ... if that! and then I'd just go all `phfina on you as soon as I caught you in your lying/self-denigrating talk or as soon as I saw something beautiful, sad, heart-wrenching or so damn hot! and I just had to write that or I would burst.

And here I am ... bursting, with beauty, and sadness, and heart-wrenchingedness, and in-heatedness and ...

And Jesus said last week that He can't abide luke-warm, that He'd rather have us hot or cold, but since we are luke-warm, He spits us out of His mouth. And I'm like, wondering ... do the luke-warm pine to be hot or cold? As I pine to be luke-warm? I mean, I'm as cold as ice and I'm on fire all at the same time, all cold fury and all ... you know: heat! ... no, not hot heat; that's too cool, no: heat like Sunshine: I'm like that person in that French Art film who asked for matches from the (anti-)hero, and then poured gasoline over him(her)self, drawing a crowd around him(her) to watch him(her) burn, taping my mouth shut so you won't hear my screams, won't hear my suffering.

I wonder. Should I tape my mouth shut so you won't hear my silly screams and unnecessary suffering? Should I cut my hands off at my wrists, so I won't trouble you with my useless advice and my writing that touches a few lives but so what?

But so what? Do you know what life is? Life is every day. Life is this:

I get up. I crawl out of bed from a fitful, restless, tortured sleep (oh, the drama! `phfina!), I go to work, I plaster on that smile, that's genuine for most of the people struggling through their pointless day at their pointless desk at their pointless jobs, then I come home, exhausted, and I stare and stare and stare at nothing after I grill some salmon and maybe, maybe not, get food poisoning, then I go to bed after not writing a word and not answering a PM, but hitting the refresh button on my email like twenty times, and then in bed, I pray my prayer ("God, please, tonight.") And then I wake up, and do it all over again, because God didn't answer my prayer with a 'yes' today, ... again.

And send me words of comfort. Go ahead. Tell me how worthwhile life is worth living.

What did you do today? What did you do yesterday? What did you do the day before? What will you be doing tomorrow?

... and you're trying to comfort me?

And God gave a girl a fussy little baby boy today who was laughing at the choir today in Mass.

Christ the King was on the Cross, and He said to the Good Thief, "This day you will be with me in Paradise."

The Good Thief was probably in his early twenties, wasn't he? A Zealot — just like me — a suicide bomber, a freedom fighter, throwing himself, single-handedly against the Evil Empire ... and failing, being crucified for his crime.

How do I get that job? I'm so jealous.

... and that was what happened in Mass today.

Yeah, I have to go to confession ... again. The priest and I are on a first-name basis, don't you know ... in the confessional!

You know, every day, I have to generate a reason for getting out of bed, and, every day, I get out of bed, reason or no. And why? Just because. Just because.

Sometimes, it's so hard not to see myself and my life through the judgmental lens, and not to think what an utter failure I am.

Excuse me, I have to go answer some PMs, and, yeah, write that next chapter of Bloodbuzz.

Oh, p.s.: 21st day dry. Blackjack!

I know a girl just like me ...

What is it now? Sixteen days? Yes, sixteen days dry.

And yesterday it hit me, hard. I was like, 'Fvck it, I deserve a drink!'

And I did. I did deserve a drink. I mean, like, really. Like really, like: you deserve that next breath of air. That's how much I deserved that drink.

Did I drink, though? No. I can feel any way I want, and then I choose to honor my word, or to cop out. Yesterday I chose to honor my word.

This is just so fvcking hard. ... or easy. Just so easy not to drink. I'll just have a glass of water, that's all, what can be easier than choosing that and not the 15-year $60-a-bottle Glenlivet single-malt Scotch?

Fvck.

... And, as of this second, I am still dry.

Back to writing that next chapter of Bloodbuzz.

(Sad joke: and people wonder at my ability to empathize so well with the Vampire's thirst. 'You write like you are a vampire, 'phfina. Like you know their thirst!' they say enviously. 'Oh, really?' I ask all wide-eyed innocence. But enviously? Here, have my moccasins, and, yes, you can keep yours, thanks.)

p.s. You know I write so much better when I'm drinking. Or any other thought that pops into my head, or any other excuse that sounds reasonable. And I know how weak I am. I know how often I fail, ... 'often' heh: 'often' meaning 'every time'? Yes ... and that little voice is saying to me right now: 'Such a good little girl, trying to be so strong. So sweet! So cute! So sad. ... so, how long are you going to last this time? Why fight what you are?'

... and, as of this second, I am still dry.

I have a ... fan club?

Okay, is this shameless self-promotion?

I have a `phfan club on `phfacebook. Yes, you need `phfacebook account to access it. Yes, the CIA run `phfacebook. Sorry, what can I say?

But I'm like ... (okay, you paranoids, I don't know whether or not the CIA runs `phfacebook, and I don't care: I have enough problems on my own to worry about the CIA's ... I'll leave that worry to Helen DeWitt)

*AHEM* As I WAS SAYING!

But I'm like ... I have a `phfan club?

(okay, there's no such letter as 'f' ... it's 'ph,' which the one letter φ)

And I'm promoting it? ... like okay, now I'm just starting to get what it feels like to be published and `phfamous. Like bb, who's published, but not `phfamous — he's not allowed, 'cause he works for the CIA (or not, and he's so gonna kill me for even hinting that (not really kill me, okay, you paranoids)).

*AHEM* AGAIN!

So, yeah, all embarrassed and shy and incredulous, 'cause little me? a `phfan club?

So that. Yeah. I have a `phfan club. And you can join it and pose questions and get snarly panthery answers: like you: 'is it easier to write from Bella's perspective or Rosalie's?' ... stuff like that. Or: 'I know this girl just like you and ...'

Actually, I'm not so good with that last one.

I did that!

So I had the flu, then I was blue, and now ...

this.

So a writer mentioned she got into writing because of me, then she mentioned she knows of a writer that got into writing because of me.

("because of me" means I kicked their @sses so hard and for so long that they figured there was less pain involved in just writing and publishing their stuff than having to deal with my 'stuff').

And now they are as thick as thieves, bosom buddies, co-conspirators and fan-girls, for goodness sake!

I mean ... really!

And, I realize, that if I didn't exist, that if I hadn't stepped out and had opened my heart, fully aware and afraid that it would be stomped on, that these two authOresses would have never have met, and this beautiful friendship would have never materialized.

I did that.

AND they tell me, "oh, that saving peoples' lives with my writing thing? You were ... well, ... right." So, not only have I heard from people how my writing has given them a reason to go on, but they have, too. And if I didn't beg, demand, cajole them to write, and shown them, with my own example how it is to read writing from the heart, would that have happened?

Not in this way that it has.

I did that.

And last night, in group, there was a doctor participating, and, my! was he ever furious to be in group: "I'm a leader in my field! I'm a millionaire! I don't need to be here! Why are people trying to fix me! I'm happy! I'm successful!"

What he was, was scaring people. So big, bad Mark, the group leader, took me aside and told me, "You sit with him, and you share, and if he starts to speak violence, let me or another supervisor know."

So I sat with him, Dr. W. and I listened to him, and I told him I heard him, by acknowledging what he said.

And it was like ...

It was like, that's all this angry man needed: somebody to hear him, somebody to say, 'yeah, you did this and you did that,' and not try to say 'but are you happy?' or try to fix him. His wife, his only friend in the world had died, perhaps a long time ago, and he just needed somebody to listen to him and not get all weirded out.

And later that night, Dr. W. was laughing and smiling with his colleagues who had brought him along, and I had told Mark, 'he just needed somebody to listen to him,' and Mark nodded that he heard me, and told me, 'If he has any questions about group, you answer them. I don't want any other assistants helping him.' So I said 'okay,' and made sure the water jugs were full and everything else that a volunteer does ... and made sure Dr. W. was happy.

He approached another assistant, and I was right there: "Everything okay, Dr. W?" I asked in a cheery business-like voice. And he just wanted to make sure his paperwork was in order, so I sat with him and the other assistant (Anya was her name? A cute burnished golden haired Iranian who was 'weirded out by his energy' she told me later, so relieved I was there), and his question was looked into and answered and the group night finished.

Afterwards, at clean up, Mark had a post-group meeting, and three times during that meeting he said that the Dr. had some serious issues until I came along and then everything was settled and taken care of.

And ...

And WOW! okay? I was like, why do people turn to me? I'm not like a supervisor or manager or leader! I'm just little me, little cheery me with what? What makes these great people rely on me and depend on me to get stuff done and 'work miracles' and ... you know! All that stuff!

I was so, so high coming out of that meeting! I was high as a kite, and I was whooping like a banshee and doing little wow-o-wow! victory dances to my car. We had a potentially group-stopping 'problem,' I listened to the man, and he calmed down, and settled down, and ...

And I did that!

And I had phoned in earlier to the supervisor saying I had a cold, but I was capable, should I come, and she said, 'come on in!' What if I hadn't come, and poor Anya was there to deal with his 'weird energy' ... he might've gone ballistic! I mean, really! He was shouting and pontificating at me at first, until he got that I was listening and I cared what he did. But I was there, and the evening was uneventful, and ...

Well, that. It's really, really, really hard for me to see that I make a difference or that people care, and some of you are like, 'um, didn't I just tell you that, like, twenty times?'

And yes, you have, and what exactly is that different that I made in your life. 'You make a difference' means nothing in my hearing, you know. But 'I wrote this story, inspired by you, and a girl said it saved her life.' Or, 'your mirror time entry got me to see myself as beautiful, and now I'm helping girls in institutions see themselves as beautiful now, too.'

That makes a difference.

Mark, when the night started, said, "There is nowhere else you need to be right now than here. Being here guarantees your place in Heaven.: And I had to stop myself from crying. And I didn't even know what he meant or how that could be. But I was there. And Dr. W. was there, and he needed me to be there for him, so that he knows that somebody listens and cares.

And Mark was right. Don't know about the heaven part, but at that moment being with Dr. W., and when Mark thanked me in front of all the volunteers ...

I was happy, and vibrating with excitement, and at peace, because I knew I made a difference in somebody's life, and that difference touched all the volunteers at group and one man who needed a friend for a few minutes.

Yes, I was in heaven. I was in heaven.

I did that.

Now, ...

... and you who know me know what comes now:

You go do that, too.

I love you.

House of Leaves

The Doctor is Out

Yes, flu's gone, to be replaced by a full-on head-cold. But it looks like the cold is losing out to the Great 'phfina.

So now all I have to conquer is this bleakness and depression that I have for what reason? No reason, so why is it so hard to see? Well, no reason, really, and lots of reasons. I am a sensitive person, so when you say things to me, well, ...

I take everything said me me to heart. And if you say, 'why are you riding me so hard?' because none of your 'friendies' do that, and I try to point out something in love ...? Well, it hurts. It stings, and this little honeybee, well, I'm a weird little one: I have feelings, too. And when I write, oh, I don't know six thousand words, and then five thousand words to answer your question: 'Oh, I've met a girl just like you, and oh, what do I do?' And then you go and read those words and do exactly what I said leads to my ruin not to my salvation because you're a 'thoughtful' person and you're 'scared.' Well, guess what?

The guess what is I'm done. Not with you, because I love you, even as you're done with me, I will always ALWAYS love you and wait for you to come back, and reach out, even as I know I'll get hurt again.

No, I'm done giving free advice that you won't listen to anyway. It hurt me to write those words, and what did they accomplish?

Now "I'm" abandoned by you. All my efforts to guide you to save me have run up against the wall of you telling yourself you're not up to saving me, because it involves risk, and, yes, it involves you extending you beyond yourself.

So that phase of my life is over for now. 'phfina, the doctor, is gone fishing.

Now I have to work on myself and in working on myself, I have to be with people who ... love me, you know? Who see me for what I am and what I'm not, and still love me. And still are cheering for me. You want to ask my advice and ignore it? You want to test me and tease me about my drinking or my fucked up life? Fine, do that. You will, anyway. I just now have to be with people who are open to me as I am, and I have to be that person, too: open to myself, and open to the people around me just as they are. And love them.

Okay?

So, now my entry.

House of Leaves

No, I haven't read it yet. Thinking about it. Which means: I will read it, or I won't.

But this was too good to pass up (and isn't it so for us trapped in our own worlds that our house's inside is so much bigger than that of the rest of the world?), so I'll lift the quote directly (emphasis mine):

According to Wallace, "fiction’s about what it is to be a fucking human being," and he expressed a desire to write "morally passionate, passionately moral fiction" that could help readers "become less alone inside." In his 2005 commencement speech at Kenyon College, he describes the human condition of daily crises and chronic disillusionment and rejects solipsism, invoking compassion, mindfulness, and existentialism:

The really important kind of freedom involves attention, and awareness, and discipline, and effort, and being able truly to care about other people and to sacrifice for them, over and over, in myriad petty little unsexy ways, every day.... The only thing that's capital-T True is that you get to decide how you're going to try to see it. You get to consciously decide what has meaning and what doesn't.... The trick is keeping the truth up-front in daily consciousness.

I came across Wallace after reading a review of House of Leaves on Amazon saying the footnotes in the book are like Wallace's footnote-y style of writing.

And I'm like: scared ... a little bit ... or, okay, a lot. I mean I've been accused of writing like bb, but that makes sense. I mean, I don't but I do, but he's family: we have the same literary background with the towering influence of our father and mothers and aunties and uncles.

So what if I read House of Leaves and find myself there? Am I just a shadow? A walking shadow? Do I think like I think and write like I write because I'm in the generation that does? Are we, me, bb, Wallace, Danielewski, Gaiman, Pulahnuik, Salinger, DeWitt trapped in this style of writing, ... in this style of living, because we are the grandchildren of Husserl and Heidigger, and Sartre's and Wittgenstein's protégées?

I don't know.

I do know that I read myself in these writings and these books, and I'm scared.

Are we fated to live the lives we live, and our free choice is only maya that only draws us further and faster into our sealed doom?

This is my thought for today. And I don't know if I'll read House of Leaves ... reading Last Samurai and Fight Club was so hard, but so true. What will I find if I read House of Leaves?

I think I'm afraid I'll find myself. And I'm afraid when I find her ... she'll kill me.

I feel pretty

HA!

So, like, I have this flu, and so, I'll spare you the details, but every single muscle aches, and I'm experiencing hot flashes early in life, I guess, except when I'm shaking so hard with the chills that if I don't stop myself I'll shake myself right off the bed. I'm conscious of every breath I take, and in fact, I rather hate having to take the next breath because it hurts, and so me, sitting up (very gingerly) at this keyboard?

FUGEDABOUTIT!

(um, actually, I don't remember any of my relatives actually every saying that)

And those are the pleasantries. I am SO NOT describing my full-on sprints to the bathroom.

And it's almost noon and I've just now gotten up from bed and I looked at myself in my half mirror and see this ... I don't know ... not-quite-making it survivor: sunken eyes, gaping mouth, hunched shoulders, matted hair, sweat shirt and sweat pants.

Headliner: WASHINGTON D.C. PARALYZED BY FLU AS ANGRY CUSTOMERS DEMAND THEIR LATTES FROM EMPTIED SBUXEN!

It's like everybody is sick and I am SO NOT going into work today. Sorry.

Actually, don't worry, there are people there; you can get your coffees, okay? and why the ... (nice word?) ... am I nerving about this when it hurts just to sit up and type?

So I look like a mess, I am a mess, and I feel worse.

But so what? I have the flu, so I'll get better, or I'll die (a very real option even still today, and have you read historical fiction?), so next week, it won't matter. So why should it matter today?

It doesn't. I've resolved to rest, to start sipping water again today (VERY TENTATIVELY), and ... write this entry.

And then I get a PM from Saga, that says she's going out for the weekend, and what she hopes for me?

I hope and pray that you are more then well; I hope you are happy, bouncy and giggly and so flirty that your customers blushes and fidgets in their chairs. And the pretty girls bites their lips and steal glances at you when they think you're not looking, and asks for a refill, and another, and another… And knowing how very loved you are makes you straighten your back and hold your head high, so everyone will know: this girl is loved. This girl is growing.

And, so, yes, obviously, Saga has never been to an sbux, so like she and I are totally incompatible. Oops! Getting into my next entry! Sorry! But isn't that sweet? I resolve to be beautiful in the face of all the evidence to the contrary of how I feel and what my mirror reflects, and the world, this one time, plays along with my resolve.

Excuse me, tears are welling up, and that hurts, too, so I'm going back to bed.

kisses for you (don't worry, they're air-kisses through the sanitized medium of the internet)
'phfina

p.s. Sixth day dry: clean and sober. I do feel somber, but not very clean. Maybe a shower will do me good?

Party Girl

I know a girl, a girl called Party
Party Girl!
I know she wants more than a party
Party Girl!
And she won't tell me her name.
Oh, no! Not me!

U2: Trash, Trampoline and the Party Girl

— 'phfina commentary: U2 released this song long before I was born, so I have to wonder ... did the song birth me?

I don't know if you know this about me but I 'prefer' to go out with girls (*rolls eyes*), and I still prefer that, and still do that, even though Saga and I are 'an item' ... whatever that means to everybody.

And I was called on that, and my knee-jerk reaction response, was 'that's none of your goddamn business who I go out with and who I don't! That's between me and Saga!'

But, maybe it is your goddamn business. Maybe it is ... so I'll let you decide — because that's what you do: you're always deciding about me and judging me, because you do that to everybody, so I've just joined the club of 'everybody' ... for the first time in my life — so I'll let you decide about me, the party girl.

Here's the girls I've gone out with in very recent times.

Yup, I'm quite the slut. More on that later.

Girl #1: Melanie

Well, of course you know about Melanie, right?

Wanna know what happened when I got to her apartment?

Sure you do.

So I'll tell you.

Nothing.

That's what happened.

Because it went down like this.

I got to her place, and God! ...

Okay, why do I fall for rich, classy women?

Well, she poured herself some white wine, and then offered me a glass.

And I froze.

And then she gave me a puzzled look, and asked if I was okay. And a voice said yes, and that made her more guarded, and the voice said I had to go, that I had to return some videos or something, and I wasn't exactly running to the door, maybe, and ...

And her voice stopped me. "Melissa!" she called out, and she said before she was doing this ... that is, saving Africa, she was a crisis counselor for women suffering from the sectarian violence, you know: rape and murder of their families, and she's seen trauma, and was I experiencing trauma and did I need to talk and it was okay to talk with her if I needed to talk.

And the voice said "No, I'm fine" and I don't know how I got into my car and my keys into the ignition and I don't know how I got on the highway and I don't know how I found my parking space.

All I know was that I was screaming into my pillow, muffling my voice, so the neighbors wouldn't hear and so the police wouldn't come again.

And then the alarm woke me, and I had to go to work, you see, and I was so grateful I didn't tell Melanie which "D.C. area" sbux I work at.

You know: in case she looks for me. Like Brenda did.

Can't have THAT happening where I work.

And that was that. I haven't been 'out' to Tabu's since.

Girl #2: Lisa

So I went to Lisa's birthday party. You know: Lisa? The überExecutive Lawyer who has to fly to Paris every week? Well, I couldn't find her party because it was in Ballston — you know, the rich side of town — so Lisa left her party at this swanky restaurant and walked me to a parking space and walked me, 5 blocks, back to her party where her birthday cake and all her friends were patiently waiting for her because of little lost me.

Her friends.

They were all older people. I mean older. And I was like, ooh! I've met another girl who likes older people, too! and I liked Lisa more, you know? I felt mmm! friends! toward her. But then I found out which birthday this was for Lisa.

I thought she was in her late twenties, you know? or maybe early thirties, but that was pushing it.

Lisa just turned 42.

And I looked at this Irish imp in front of me, Lisa of the blue eyes and the brunette hair, and didn't see crow's feet and didn't see resignation or cynicism. I just saw a happy girl on her happy birthday.

And I couldn't reconcile the number 42 with the girl I saw in front of me.

And.

And I am so, so glad I was still wearing my dress from church, and not back in my blue jeans, because every single one of her 'older' friends — who were older than her, yes, but probably more her contemporaries than me — were dressed with style in perfectly tailored clothes that were so subtle and elegant, but not at all flashy, that the word money just screamed off them as they breathed and drank their whatever and took tiny forkfuls of their whatever.

And they talked about their startups taking on facebook and they smiled politely at each other and at me.

And now you know something about me, right? I mean, you know it already.

sbux barista. Can I pay my rent? In my little tiny high-rise apartment?

No. I can't afford to live in the cheap side of town. So Dad writes me a check every month so I don't get evicted and so I can eat.

And there I was, little me, and yes, they were all taller than me, at their party, and the party went on and on and on, way past my bed time, and I ordered a Glenlivet Scotch and drank that, and still felt out of place

...

Yeah, I'm a hypocrite, too. I freeze at Melanie when she offers me a drink, but here I am drinking expensive single-malt Scotch.

You know, ...

God!

So, my dad is like ... really, really rich.

But you would never know it, 'cause he's a dashing, rugged man in his flannel shirtsleeves grabbing firewood from the side of the road so he can have a lower heat bill, you know? And splitting the wood himself, and saving the bath water to flush the toilet so he pays less on the water bill.

So he's like that to everybody, you know? Very ... depression-era cautious about everything, especially spending money.

But then ... well ...

So you know my grandmother died from something like alcohol-related death. I don't know myself: it's hush-hush. But that's on my mother's side. Well, my dad?

He likes to drink.

You know, socially, but every social occasion and interaction has some kind of drink associated with it, and he's at bar fixing you a drink or fixing himself one.

And then, when he ... when he was driving me and my mom somewhere, 'cause he's like that with his exes — wives and girlfriends and children — generous, he opened up a can of beer and offered it to my mom, and she said no, thank you, and offered it to me, and I choked out a no, thank you, so he drank it as he was driving us along, then threw the empty can into a full bag of other empty beer cans.

Recycling, you know: saving the planet and all that.

And, well, he's also a discerning drinker, finding excellent wines and rare Scotches. He let me taste a 25-year-old Macallan once, and it tasted like pure spirit and it disappeared in my mouth, that sip, and I didn't get drunk at all, but I felt nice for a long time after that. And one time he showed me the label of a 32-year-old Oban that he has in his cave, and replaced the bottle reverently.

Maybe I'll inherit that bottle. That bottle? It's $1000.

Yes, he has a cave, with bottles, lots of bottles, like that, ... and, fyi, it's pronounced: ca-ah-ah-v(uh) as Dad was sure to make sure that I understood that.

...

So, I had my shot of 12-year-old Glenlivet, that I love (I have a 15-year bottle here at home ... I save my (well, Dad's) pennies!), and people came and people left, as you know, those soirées for rich people with rich people attending do, and it was sometime after 1 am, and Lisa and I were still there, and one other person, Maria shows up at 1 am, so the party is still going strong.

And Lisa had told me, "You know, Violet, you put up this front of being funny, and you don't have to do that with me, because I've seen the real you, and I just want you to know that I love you" and she smiled, and I felt both ashamed and relieved.

I was ashamed because I'm not even aware that when I'm laughing and joking, I'm pushing people away, and I'm not even aware that I'm even doing that, I just am doing it, and here I was doing it again.

And I felt relieved, because Lisa said it was okay to be me.

And, well, that scared me a little bit, the intensity of her look. Now I know what it's like to be on the receiving end of penetrating eyes, you know? And I felt like I had nowhere to hide.

You know?

And Lisa was crying a little bit about something that Maria and she had shared, and I piped up that I could cry on cue.

And Maria looked at me critically, and said, "okay, show me."

So I did.

Maria was impressed. So was Lisa. She asked me what I was thinking.

So I told her.

So now I'll tell you.

I've never told anyone. Not my family. Not Rosalie.

Not even me.

You see, when I was in college, on the prowl, getting Julia out of my system with every girl I could lay my hands on and fuck, Julia was, really, moving on with her life, but she still sent me notes.

And one day I got a note from her. And, of course, I couldn't stop myself. I read it.

And it was an invitation for her baby shower. She was going to have a girl, and I was invited.

And bb was down in the Great Washington D.C. with his family and I now had another new niece, and ...

And ...

And I don't know what happened, but I think I did. I think I told myself why Julia left me, and it was because I couldn't provide her with a baby, a baby girl to love. We couldn't be a family. And so, you know, if I could do that, then Julia would love me again, maybe, and yes, it's stupid, her leave her husband for me because now I can give her a baby, but you tell yourself what makes sense and what doesn't when nothing makes sense.

So, there I was at the Campus Pizza, and it was ladies' night, and there was this Rugby club there and there was our girls' rugby club there, too, and when I showed up, the girls' team noticeably perked up and I already saw the looks and maneuverings as to who'd be the lucky one tonight.

I had helped about half the team discover the inner lesbian that they may or may not have known that they had.

Remember me mentioning something about me and my slutty behavior?

But I wasn't there for them tonight. Yes, I had given myself over to the panther, but I had given her an instruction when I released her on the hunt.

"Hunt for something breathing," ... as always ... "and hunt for something with a dick and lots of sperm."

And I got hammered. One dollar drinks? I got smashed.

And I almost giggled at the collective disappointment of the girls' rugby team when I took my drink, whichever drink number it was, and took myself over to the visiting rugby team from whatever military school those boys came from, and I hit on a boy with a dick and a lot of sperm.

It didn't take a lot of convincing on my part.

And the guy? He was ... perfect. Solid as a rock. I mean, he was like the personification of Emmett, except this guy was ruder and he had lighter brown hair. Don't remember his name.

Do remember that we got to my car and there wasn't much preliminaries, but I was on my back, and he was big, strong, and forceful as he desperately unzipped my jeans and he slammed into me, hard, as he kissed my mouth, hard.

And ...

And then he had to go. I mean, the white van was honking at him, and he cursed and he said he had to go and he zipped up and he said he would call, and he like rushed out and the other guys were laughing, and everybody was so drunk, and I wonder if they even made it back alive to wherever they were going.

Nelson. His name was Nelson.

And I got out of my car. I knew I couldn't drive ... in fact I could barely walk, and I stumbled back to the dorm and I was so sore, and leaking, and ...

Well, I probably looked like a mess, because my (very straight) roommate asked if I had been raped and did she need to call the crisis hotline or campus security, and it was so weird, being so sad with such a buzz on.

And a month later.

Well, I was late, and the I felt nauseous, and then ...

And then I was pregnant.

But not for long.

Because one day about a month later after I found out, I started bleeding. A lot. And I just knew. I just knew something was wrong, and I rushed to the obgyn, but what could be done, nothing, and I was told that maybe I could have taken progesterone and ...

And I know ...

No. Yes. I don't know anything. I just knew I had my baby and I loved her, and she was taken away from me.

Because I don't deserve her.

Me? Be a mother? In school, with no money to buy pizza around all those rich New England snobs (me being the worst snob among them, ... except not rich)? Me? Be a mother now, fucked up me with my fucked up life and imagine having me as your mother and oh, my God, if I were my mother I would shoot me and no court would find me liable or they would give me a medal for justifiable homicide.

God took my baby away, and it wasn't my baby anyway, it never was, and I tried to do one fucked up thing so I could be loved, and I fell in love with that baby and wanted to love her and isn't that sick, having somebody so you could love them, so God took her away from me because one day with fucked up me is worse than an eternity in hell.

So I simply told Lisa that I had a baby girl once ...

And then I was in her arms and I was crying so hard into her chest and so embarrassed that I was ruining her blouse that probably cost more than half the clothes I owned, okay, all the clothes I owned.

And I was so unaware that I was crying at her birthday party. And how self-absorbed and selfish is that?

And she held me and lovingly shushed me and told me she loves me and she rocked me and she rocked me.

And eventually I stopped crying, and the conversation moved onto other things, not embarrassedly, but easily and naturally ... gracefully.

Lisa is a gracious hostess.

And much later that night, or, technically, morning, she and Maria walked me back to my car, and I drove home.

And the next day I realized that she had said she loves me like three times that night, and I took it in friendship.

But Lisa's 42, and she doesn't have a husband, and she has friends, but I didn't see her, you know, close to any of them, and ...

And so the next time in group, I saw her, and I was, God! I was watching her with my laser eyes, but she was easy and carefree and was so pleased to see me and then group started and I went to my volunteering place as she sat in group.

And that was that.

Girl #3: Madison

So that brings us to sweet, little Madison. My boss. My 19-year-old boss who has started her own company and manages her parents and step parents, and knows everything that needs to be done, and will do it if you don't step up yourself, but is so sweet about it and who took me out to the movie Scott Pilgrim vs. the World and laughed so hard at Scott's gay roommate, and so ...

And so after group one night where she said she was so glad to have me on the team and how helpful I was (*glow*) when I wasn't being a pain in the ass for calling her when she wasn't stepping up into leadership like she should (*little glow*), I took her out to this Irish pub, O'Connell's I think it's called.

It was around midnight, and when she ordered lemonade I was like, huh?

And she smiled and said, 'The waiter probably wasn't even going to card me.'

And I was like. *Gulp* I'm robbing the cradle, taking a girl out to drink who's not allowed by law to drink yet.

So we had our (respective) drinks and fish and chips, and her eyes became saucer-like as she saw me down wheat beer and Scotch (an 18-year-old Macallan) and ... whatever else, and she asked me if she wanted me to let her drive, so I eased off.

God! She has so not seen me drinking when I'm drinking.

And we talked about group, and about life, and we got into my car ...

... And I dropped her back off at her parents.

Because her mom told her ...

... hahaha ... I am (sadly) laughing so hard as I write this ...

Her mom told her to call her if she went out anywhere else or with anyone else other than me, Violet.

So she could have ... I mean, I could have taken her that night, you know, to my apartment, and her mom, who's also in group, would have been totally fine with that, because I'm 'such a nice, sweet girl.'

And I guess that's who Violent it: nice, sweet, cheerful.

So, I was Violet that night, and dropped her off at her house, and drove home.

And you know, Violet is me. I put on a mask of this nice, sweet, cheerful girl to run away from my past, and, wow, there actually is a nice, sweet, girl, not a ... well, whatever, a panther, wearing the mask. The panther is there. God! The panther is there, and mothers, lock away your daughters, I mean: really! And while you're at it, lock away yourselves. But behind the mask is also me and me is somebody who is a panther and who is, shockingly, nice, and sweet, and generous, too, maybe. And ...

And now, here I am at my keyboard.

Here I am.

And yes, I went out on 'not-a-date' dates with those girls. You know what 'not-a-date' dates are, right? Of course you do. You weren't born yesterday.

So, you tell me. You judge me.

Running around. Quite the party girl, aren't I?

Quite the cheating slut. That's what you think of me, isn't it? Well, isn't it?

Do you see how fortunate I am to have Saga? Do you see how fortunate you are to have that possibly damaged, possibly imperfect girl you have or had or will have? And how fortunate she is to have you? How she needs you to love her? How she needs to love and be loved? How you may want that in your life, too?

And, you know what? I can say all of this is none of your business.

But guess what. I took a stand when I wrote my stories. Maybe I didn't know that when I pressed publish, but then you started writing in and saying how I saved your life with my stories? So here I am out in front, in my glass house, totally exposed.

And I can be the bad celebrity, and moon you as I give you the finger.

Or I can take on that I'm actually standing for something, if I want you to live the life I know you know you need to live, well, then I'd better walk that talk, right?

And I'm so unaware of that as I go about my life. Remember? Human being here?

And I so try to live that, not 'being an example' but 'treating the person in front of me as a person.'

Do you know how impossibly hard that is to do? Do you know how, every second, I so utterly fail in my thoughts and actions to live up to that?

I mean, like just last week, a person strides by me in black heels and an executive black pants suit, and I'm like '.. Colleen?'

And it's Colleen. The suicidal girl in a ripped tee and ripped jeans I had written off, who now, months later, is coaching, for goodness sake, and she was all like 'Violet!' and gave me a hug and had this huge smile on her face and was telling me how she's whipping the other coaches into shape by telling them about 'this girl I know who's a, like, fucking genius and who can have fun with this stuff and her life!' and she hugs me again and says how cute I look when I'm blushing like that. And then she thanks me and runs off to coach her own group.

And there I am, standing there, struck dumb, and just fully aware of how I had judged this person and how wrong-wrong-wrong, how way wrong I was.

Why did I get on this kick? Besides to point out that us Irish girls are so going to take over the world and that's a good thing?

Oh, yeah, so I can be a big 'fuck you and mind your own business' to the world like some celebrities, or I can say, hey, we're all in this together, and if I say something, I'd better mean it, and if I mean it, I'd better do it.

And not to make this burdensome. But it is. When you press, 'add chapter,' you are putting your shit up there for the world to consume, to judge, ... or to be moved and inspired by.

That's what I'm doing.

So, do judge me. And do call me out. And, if you're up for it, do love me.

I love you.

I love you, and I want the best for you. And it doesn't have to be serious nor significant.

But every time I press 'add chapter' it's because this chapter matters.

And ... and my life matters. And the matters of my life matter.

Just like for you.

It's just what you're up to with your life, and that your life matters.

p.s. I realized yesterday that I hadn't had a(n alcoholic) drink in two days then. So this is my third day that I'm ... well, sober. (What a stupid word!) Hm. Weird.

Saga and my "I'm sorry"s

Some of you may have noticed something about me over time.

I apologize. Often.

I've also downcased my name before, calling myself 'melissa,' not 'Melissa.' And I get very particular about how you spell and capitalize my pen name: it's "'phfina" spelled: '-p-h-f-i-n-a. Not '-P-h-f-i-n-a nor P-h-i-n-a nor anything else I've seen.

It's "'phfina."

We'll get to the name in a bit.

So we'll tackle the "I'm sorry" part first.

Why do I say "I'm sorry" so often sometimes?

Well, obviously, I'm not the most politic and genteel girl out there. In fact, I'm rather pleased to be a direct person ... sometimes. And my directness can get me into trouble with you, can't it? Like when I'm being direct with you about what you just said to me?

And so I apologize. But what's that? Am I sorry for what I said? Am I sorry for what I meant?

No. I said what I said and I meant what I meant. Why? I think you are much bigger than you think you are. And I refuse to listen to your smallness toward yourself, toward others or toward me.

So I'm not sorry about that.

But can't I say what I say, and mean what I mean much more compassionately? And still see you in your greatness?

Yeah. I think I can.

You have to remember, I'm just a little girl. Just little 'phfina me, and I'm human, and I make mistakes, ...

AND I still stand by you in all your greatness. AND I still refuse to listen to smallness coming from you.

BUT-but-but.

But there's a lot of smallness and meanness in me, isn't there? Scaredness and shyness and bitterness.

What's up with that?

Well, um, I've turned a new leaf?

(Do you believe me?)

... and ...

And I'm a mistake.

When everything was happy and mom and dad were together, I said something to mom once, and she said, ...

... and God! I remember this like it's happening right now ...

she said, "Well, you know you were unexpected."

And I was like, huh?

You see, a lot of you think you're old enough to be my mom. A lot of you think you are my mom. And I do relate to older people better, I've noticed.

But you're not my mom. In fact, you're probably all younger than my sisters. My mom had skinny little bean-pole me in her forties, and I was a mistake, you see, because she had had her tubes tied years before, so, you know, it was okay for mom and dad to ... you know, and there wouldn't be any consequences from that, you see.

There wouldn't be any me, you see.

And in that moment, when mom told that little girl that ... that ... you know ... that I was unexpected, everything just ...

I felt everything shift, and now there was that whole big dangerous world out there that didn't want me and there was that little nothing girl that was me that shouldn't be there, that was taking up too much space on this already overpopulated planet and ...

... and that.

It must have been years later, when I learned what 'abortion' is and that it exists, I suddenly got another concern. So here I am, in high school, and I go up to mom, struggling to make it now that dad has left, and I asked here why she didn't decide to have an abortion with me, you know?

And she just ...

Well, she doesn't like to be a, you know, MOM so she just smiled her tight-lipped smile and shrugged.

You see, that's how our family talks. And you say I don't share myself. Ha.

And my mom and I are like, really close, you know? We're like best friends, but ...

But I don't want my mom to be my best friend, I want my mom to be my mom, you know? I want my mom to be my mom, and if I was a mistake then how can I even ask that of her when my very existence is just in the way and I'm taking up space and money that could, you know, make my mom's life better or easier or something, that I'm just taking up space and air and water on the planet that has at least one too many people on it already, you know?

You know what I say when I say I'm sorry. I just see me, hurting you, failing, at life, again. And I'm sorry for living.

I'm sorry for living.

What the fuck am I doing here?

Do you know what my prayer is, every night to God? It's Sappho's prayer to Aphrodite.

"Please. Take me. Tonight."

And you know what I just realized? You know why my prayer hasn't been answered and never will be?

Because God doesn't even want me. God doesn't make any mistakes, except one. Me.

"'phfina, when God made you, He broke the mold." I've been told admiringly and sarcastically by my all-Mensa family telling queer (meaning strange to them, but also meaning queer, you know? queer as in fucking dyke) little me.

And you know why? For good reason. That's why.

And my name. Now you know why I downcase it. You know.

Because I'm sh1t.

No. That's not right. I'm not even that. My dad had horses and that was used for fertilizer and composting. I don't even rate that.

I'm nothing.

I mean: a les who can't have or keep a gf, and Dad left me when I was a kid, and I'm a nut case who wound up in the hospital, now writing fan-fiction and serving coffee off her college degree in ancient Greek Lit?

I'm not nothing. I'm less than nothing.

Right? You know all this.

And then.

And then I apologized four times in one PM to Saga before we were 'anything' and she so called me out on that. She was furious with me. Furious. And then she called me out on signing my PMs 'melissa,' and asked me why.

And then I told her.

Do you think she was happy with my answer? She chided me there, much more gently, but then she got me to start signing my PMs with 'Melissa,' even though that's (still) hard for me to do.

And then I wrote the update soon post, knowing that Saga wasn't out to her own mom, even though the post wasn't aimed at her (specifically) at all. And the 'Let me be very direct with you' PM I got from her ...

Do you know what came out of that?

What came out of that, is that, after that all blew over, she told me she loves me.

And I got that PM, and I was like.

Oh, no. Oh, God, no, not Saga. Please, why do I have to hurt another nice, smart sweet girl.

And then I sighed in defeat, and I told her I love her.

Because I do.

And do you know what came out of that?

I can now tell you I love you. And I can now tell you that, and I can now love you, too. Freely. Openly. Lovingly.

I can love you. All this withholding I've been doing, has it made me happy? Has it made you happy? No.

And when I tell you I love you, doesn't that ... well, doesn't that do something for you?

It does for me. It tells me I am something that can love, and be loved in return.

That I can give love and receive it, ... that I don't have to resist it or fight it or withdraw from it or withhold it.

That I can simply love and be loved.

Some of you don't like Saga, for whatever reason you choose, but you know how I always call you on your shit? Saga has done that to me and for me, and has done that in such a way as for me to look at myself as a better person than I see myself AND has allowed me to love, not just her, but you.

And you've helped me, too, you know? You are not Saga, but you are. When you stand for the person I can be, that affects me and that affects you. When you do something amazing, like tell a girl you love her, just tell her, or you take on taking on yourself, daring to look in the mirror and see what you did, the bad stuff and the good stuff, and take on cleaning up your messes and celebrating your successes, and you PM me to let me know about the new leaf, the new page in your book ...?

Don't you see how everything you say and everything you don't say so deeply affects me? I hear your silences so loudly, it's deafening. Just as mine are, and, heh, I'm sorry. And I hear your smallness that it drowns out anything else you are trying to say. And then your victories? You can barely write them, you are so excited, right? But I feel them through your PM as if I'm right there with you.

Because I am. I'm right here, with you.

Do you know what my "I'm sorry"s are? They are my reasons not to exist. I don't deserve existence, and apparently I'm not good enough for death.

I'm just not good enough.

Do you know what I've found by writing my silly little fan-fiction stories? I've found you.

And in finding you, I'm starting to find myself, again, for the first time in my life.

Do you know what the opposite of "I'm sorry" is? I just realized this now, too, as I write.

The opposite of "I'm sorry" is "thank you."

Thank you.