The Poorest of the Poor

Okay, so, today has been a really freaky day, but that has nothing to do with you and everything to do with this post (which may have something to do with you and a lot to do with me).

So, you remember in my last post that I said what it is, this game called life, is to love and to be loved in return? [OMR, I want her!] Well, okay, guess what today was at Mass (yes, I know, I go to Mass)? It was the commemoration of Blessed Mother Teresa ... she's getting her own postage stamp and everything.

Well what was the number one thing she said according to everybody who gave a speech there? She said the greatest thing was to love and to be loved in return. Well, no mystery there, because that phrase is in the Bible, right?

[I'm ashamed to admit I'm not a Bible scholar like some where I could whip out the book, chapter and verse where that's said]

But, still, very unsettling, for me to write that admonishment to you, and then have it thrown right into my face.

AND THEN!

And then Mother Teresa, jr got up (she's actually a little woman from Texas who is the Mother Superior for the Daughters of Charity in the U.S.A.) and she wasn't eloquent like the Bishops and congressmen, but she was very, very direct. She said, "Let this stamp be a reminder to us to be like her, and serve the poorest of the poor..."

And I was like, fine, okay, got it.

But I didn't get it, because what she said next floored me.

She said: "And who are the poorest of the poor? They are the people who are in your own families: those who are unloved."

And I ...

And I had to go, before I made a scene.

Why, 'phfina?

You see, a friend emailed me, very concerned after my last post. Why do I have to be so angry? So hateful?

And I know why.

You see, this past weekend, you know, when I was flying high off the praise I had received? Well, then I volunteered for group, right? And it was going to be sweet, right? I'd put myself aside for the weekend, and make sure everybody else was okay, and the water pitchers were filled and all that, right? And I'd get to feel good being little-miss-do-gooder, right?

Wrong.

I passed by Bob's office ... you know Bob? The cute big teddy bear of a man? ... to apologize for not being able to help last weekend, and he was like, huh? Saying that he totally honored for me keeping him in the loop as my schedule unravelled and why was I feeling bad about this?

And then he so kindly, gently started digging. And he told me 'What's wrong?' and 'You can tell me anything and I promise not ever to tell anyone else..."

And before you know it I was right back in high school, a quivering mass, not a human being anymore, just a crying pile of ... nothing, telling him what I promised what I would never tell these people. I told him about my 6 month stay in the hospital. I told him about the sedation, the observation, the psychiatric evaluations. I told him my fear: that that I'm still waiting. I'm still waiting for them to come take me away, again, and everybody will be nice to me, and I asked Bob if he was going to pull me off of volunteering now.

You're not allowed to volunteer if you have ... issues.

He said no, but I had to take care of myself and this not eating and not sleeping wasn't working, so I damn well better start taking care of myself.

That was incident one. There were two more incidents. Shawn after a very long day accosted me and asked me when I was going to let go of all this suffering?

WTF? Do I have a big target painted on me?

And then the next day when Shawn and I were making peace, in walks Barb and she's like, 'What's up?'

Remember that crying bowl of jelly? ... Yeah.

And then Barb pulled me into her office and asked: "Are you well?"

You know: the question.

God.

So that weekend where I just wanted to help, you know? Just be of service? It was like, pick on 'phfina weekend.

And then ... well, I wrote the post, and well, you know, that sometimes ... well, I'm not going apologize for it and use my body as an excuse, because I meant every word, it's just that I can be a little shorter at times with my temper, and when somebody writes 'update soon' on her review of my one-shot?

I did tell you I don't tolerate stupid people well, didn't I?

And so when my friend asked why all the anger? Well, the answer came to me in a flash today: if there's one person in the world I don't want you to be like, well, that would be me. "Poorest of the poor"? I mean my advice to live authentically? Getting really real? That applies to me in spades. In spades. I mean, come on! How in the world do you think that I can point out these things so viciously? I see these things in myself, my pulling away from people I profess I love, my withholding myself, my hiding. I so see that and I so hate that, and I'm like, when I read your review, I'm like, again: NO! please-please-please don't be like me! Please don't close your eyes to the greatness that is you! Please!

And yes, I can have all these deep, meaningful conversations all the time, but I just have so, so far to go.

And, like, wouldn't it be great to be able to go to my sbux, so you could have these meaningful conversations? And get your ass kicked when I see you faking it? And kick my ass and get me back on track when you see me descending into my pity-party self?

But the thing is, you're missing it. I am at your sbux. Those baristas with those plastic smiles and absolutely no time for you? She's me. I mean, if you came up to me and started a 'meaningful conversation' ...

Well, here's what'd be going through my mind: I've been on my feet from zero-dark-thirty this morning and haven't been off my feet for the last six hours, AND I have a queue of 12 cups I have to get out before other people start giving me shit for bad service and you want to have a fucking meaningful conversation? Here's your goddam latte; have a meaningful conversation with that

... and "Have a great day!" with a big plastic smile on my face.

I mean, there's no shortcuts, is there? You'd still have to get to know me over months of 'hi's, because if you approached me after shift and said, 'Hey, I'd really like to get to know you and have deep meaningful conversations ..."

I'd be like dialing 911 (emergency) on my cell, holding my mace, and well, not running-running, but kinda-quick-step-running away saying, 'Sry, gotta run!' as I'm thinking 'Psycho killer, c'est-ce que ce?' and 'Whew, I'm lucky to get away from that one with my life!'

Right? Right, girls? Right? Goddam fucking right?

I mean what is rampant on ffn/facebook/wherevs for God's sake: 'Are you a perverted old man who's going to rape and kill me and bury me in your basement?'

You know what the fuck I'm talking about!

But you see, I don't have that worry online at all. You know why? Because you can't hide who you are from yourself or from anybody. AND because an old perv actually did accost me online once when I was on XBox live playing texas hold'm. Fucking flasher. You know what I did? I didn't even bother with a 'fuck off and die' snarl. I just left that lobby and blocked him. I so do not know what the problem is with girls these days. Somebody bothers me? I tell them to fuck off and die, and then I block them. Simple as that.

But ITRW, I can't block you from coming at me. And I have been ... followed by more than one girl who realized after she so totally fucked me (in the bad way) what a good catch that got away, and so what do I do?

I hide. I change States, and when that doesn't work, I change names.

Hi, my name's 'Violet,' pleased to meet you. So long as you don't start stalking me.

So I said all that to say I don't do well with people just come right at me to, you know, ... well, actually, I don't know: my imagination is rather creative, if you hadn't already noticed.

So that girl with the plastic smile and the curt greeting at your local sbux? That's me. So having me as your friend at your local sbux ...?

Bad news: you're going to have to make the same risks that you would even if she were actually me, after all. You're going to have to put yourself forward, bit by bit, and risk that it just won't work out at all. You know? That thing you have to do going into a relationship? Risking yourself? Risking maybe not liking that person you're trying to get to know? All that hard, risky, scary stuff?

So when I said in my last post: 'Be me,' you know what I really meant?

I mean: 'don't be me' and 'really: please don't be me.'

If there was any fate that I would never wish on anybody, it would be that: to be me. And so my diatribe, when I go up one side of your fakeness and stupidity and come down hard on the other side of your shyness and scaredness, do you know what I'm attacking? I'm attacking these boundaries you set up to hide your real self from the world, or that you use to create this fake reality that you can live safe and small in.

I know what that's like; I'm an expert at that, and I came across strong and harsh and angry because I so don't want what life that gives you.

And yes, there's like a zero percent chance of you being me. I mean who ends up in the hospital for an extended stay because her genius brain went rampant in her self-examination and self-criticism in fucking high school, blaming herself for everything that's gone wrong in the world and her life, for God's sake? Like her father leaving her? As if that were my fault. Like for her being born at all? You know? And when she does get into a loving relationship with her best friend, wonders: 'Well, is this her taking pity on me?' and carrying that through the whole goddam relationship so that nothing I could do was good enough in my own eyes, because I was always second-guessing myself. Who'd want to live with somebody like that?

I wouldn't. And so I didn't. So I broke up with Julia because I couldn't stand me in the relationship.

How fucked up is that?

Why am I saying all this? Does this post invalidate what I've written before?

No. I don't think so. What I'm saying is that sometimes I come across rather harshly, and sometimes that can be rather hard to swallow, or it can raise concern about me.

Am I okay?

Sometimes I am, and sometimes I'm not. Sometimes I'm doing better, and sometimes I'm not.

So, then, should you not take it personally, my diatribes?

No. I think you should take away what you take away. Challenge me if you get angry about something I've said, but just know you're angry because what I wrote struck a chord. Maybe I'm the only person in your life who is brave enough to call it like she sees it.

And why do I do that? Because you are so worth it.

You are so worth it.

Look, sometimes I can't see beyond tomorrow. Fuck, sometimes I can't see beyond this next minute, but I bother for you in your blindness because I so want you to have it, to have life, real life, and love and be loved in return.

And sometimes I can't possibly see that for me anymore. Yeah, shy little me, not even out of her twenties, not even barely into her twenties, and when I look dispassionately at myself I know it's fucking insane that I'm a hopeless case, but 'dispassionate'? All I am is passion, and one thing I am passionate for, even if it can't be me sometimes, then it's for you, always for you.

Do you know how much it means when you write and you say my piece saved your life? That you started writing because of what I've written? That you've got a new lease on life or that you finally risked saying hello and found your love from what I've written? Do you know what that means to me?

Do you know what your review means to me when you share how what I wrote really touched you?

Do I know how much my anger and my self-loathing affects you?

Yeah, I should know that, shouldn't I? So, when am I going to just get off it? as Shawn shouted at me at 2:30 am last Saturday night?

Yeah.

So easy to say, and I have done it before, too. That's the thing. I walked out of that hospital on my own two feet. I just woke up one day and decided to get off it. I can do that again. I know I can.

Just be patient with me. Kick my ass. Love me.

And one day I'll be whole.

Or I won't. Most people never get there, to being a whole, complete person, living a real life, not a fake one.

My curse? I have eyes, and they miss nothing. I'll never forgive myself ... ever ... if I sell out on myself. Or if I sell out on you.

I don't think one of the prophets ever said 'hurray!' when God anointed them. In fact, they ran for all they were worth, but they still ended up in the behemoth's belly.

I think that's it. I keep waiting to be swallowed by kind, polite, firm, professional orderlies in white smocks, pushing me on the stretcher into the maw that is the the gaping doors of a back of an ambulance again.

Each day that doesn't happen is another day I've either cheated death or evaded them and that fate, and you know what that makes me? A big, fat cheater.

These are the days when I'm by myself, thinking about myself, seeing scared little me in your thoughtless and offensive reviews.

And the days that I'm not like that? When I take myself away from myself, and I go out on a date or I'm out with a group of friends that I've made in group, or I'm playing with you, back and forth, just being happy talking about nothing and anything.

How do I sustain that? And that's another fear. What if to be real me I have to give up writing what I'm writing? That what if my writing is what drags me down, and for me to be healthy I have to stay away from it and from you? What if the cost of my health is to cut out what I love doing?

Questions. I'm living the questions now. I don't have any answers. I don't know if any answers would help, but I think I'm better now about this: that I can live in the question, and be okay with that, and be open to any answer, even a surprising one.

Life, you know? Living the questions, and being surprised by the answers that I couldn't possibly come up with, because I now realize that the answers don't come from me.

The come from you, and they come from God.

Did you know when I was a little girl I wanted to be a Nun? But that's a story for another day.