Tuesday, August 08, 2006
Cure for the Blues
My brother, a blunt, and America's Funniest Home Videos. . .
I was in quite the funk today. I'm not going to lie, PMS played no small part in that. Stress, lack of sleep and worry rounded out the experience making me a miserable mess. I think the last time I cried this much was shortly after I was dumped.
It began with the job search. My resume has been posted all over the world wide web. Every job that I'm even remotely qualified for has been sent a copy as well. It's frustrating and it's depressing.
One of my closest friends is bipolar. She was having quite the downswing today, which I felt through sharp jabs sent via work email. She lashes out, hurting the ones closest to her from time to time. She specializes in verbal beatdowns that cut to the quick. Precision strikes directedat the core of your insecurity. Most every friend she's had eventually got sick of it and dipped. Not me. I can't figure out if I'm loyal or a masochist. Either way, her barbs opened up the floodgates, and I became a babbling mess.
I sobbed and wrote some miserable, whiny garbage, expounding on the suckage of life and my lack of ability to deal. I wrote emails and IMs. This only served to prove that everyone hates me and I'm all alone in this cruel world.
Finally, I'd had enough of my shit, and I called my brother. He'd sort me out with his special brand of lovingly brutal honesty.
I sucked up my tears, wiped my face with a dishtowel and called him up. Controlling my voice like a pro, I asked what he was up to.
"Watching some show on motorcycles. . . I just got home. What's up?"
"Can I come over there?"
"What, yea, are you ok?" I hear the concern creeping in his voice. I don't want him worrying about me, and now I feel bad for calling. And the dam broke again.
"No, I don't want to be here, and I'm not OK and I need to talk to you." I'm sobbing now, and he can't make out what I'm saying. He asks if he can call me back.
I wash my face, and berate myself for being so stupid and crying like a kitten died. I didn't feel like I could pull it together. I thought I'd finally reached my breaking point, and my poor brother would have to check me in the nuthouse.
By the time he knocked at the door, I'd worked myself into a frenzy, convinced I was unloved and unloveable.
I opened the door and he gave me that look. His patented half smirk, corner of the eye stare. It's a mix of concern and bemusement. He knows I'm upset, but it seems he also knows it's probably something I've blown out of proportion.
He goes to the kitchen to get a drink and says, "What's this about Katherine?"
"She emailed me this stuff about how much I suck and I'm a terrible friend and she's done so much but I wouldn't do it for her. . ."
He cut me off mid babble. "Hasn't she said wild ass shit like this before to you?"
"Well, yea. . ."
"It's 'cause she's bipolar, right. She just flips out sometimes?"
"Yea. . ."
"So why are you so upset about it?"
". . ."
You wouldn't guess from exchanges like this that he's 6 years my junior. He's always been wiser and more insightful than he had any right to be. In my 16 year old angst days, when suicide was an intriguing option, my 10 year old brother talked me down. He pointed out the my folly. What would it solve? It would make things so much worse for him. He clued me in to the fact that shit gets better, it has to, doesn't it? He confided that sometimes he thought the same things. I told him I wouldn't be able to deal if he killed himself. "Well, how do you think I'd feel if you did?" I was struck dumb.
He thinks around corners.
He's an artist. He sees in color palettes and abstract compositions. He understands the world in images and tiny details. He notices the little things that make the difference between pictures and works of art.
I can't imagine what it must be like to see so much. What happens in his brain that he can take this three dimensional landscape and translate it onto paper with a pencil and eraser? How can he intuitively know how to place this shape next to that in a way that your brain understands how he feels?
Settled in with his drink, he hands me a blunt and asks what's really going on.
More tears and babble. I'm a failure, why do I suck so bad at life? Of course, saying it outloud I realize how silly I am. I also realize that I should have called him sooner. He knows, he understands. He shakes his head at my assertion that he's got his own crap and doesn't need to worry about mine. There's that look again.
He never responds to my attempts to insult myself. He doesn't tell me I'm wrong, because he knows I know. He ignores the surface and gets to the heart of the matter.
"What do you really want to do?"
"I want to write." It seems such a silly thing to want to do. So trite. I want to be a writer. I feel foolish.
"So write."
"Well, I do, but. . ."
"But what? Why aren't you taking writing courses in school?"
"I like Anthropology. Honestly, I want to write the best ethnography ever. I want my ethnography on the best sellers lists. I want people who aren't anthropologists to love it. I want people to read it and decide they want to be anthropologists."
And he didn't laugh. He gave me his perspective.
He knows he's good at what he does. He wants to be the best. He knows he's going to be the best. He knows he's going to make a mark. He's able to take criticism of his work, and uses it to get better. He has no problem saying something he created is dope.
How did he get this confidence? How did I not? I have trouble linking people to my blog, even though I've been told I'm a good writer. I don't think I could ever tell someone, "this piece is dope! You should read it!"
Talking to him, I can almost see myself doing it.
We discuss ways of incorporating his artistic eye with my love of Anthropology. He reminds me to take a photography course. We talk about creating websites and beautiful books.
America's Funniest Home Videos comes on, and we laugh hysterically. All that's left of my pity party are swollen eyes and embarrassment, newfound determination and a focus! It always works out in the end.
I was in quite the funk today. I'm not going to lie, PMS played no small part in that. Stress, lack of sleep and worry rounded out the experience making me a miserable mess. I think the last time I cried this much was shortly after I was dumped.
It began with the job search. My resume has been posted all over the world wide web. Every job that I'm even remotely qualified for has been sent a copy as well. It's frustrating and it's depressing.
One of my closest friends is bipolar. She was having quite the downswing today, which I felt through sharp jabs sent via work email. She lashes out, hurting the ones closest to her from time to time. She specializes in verbal beatdowns that cut to the quick. Precision strikes directedat the core of your insecurity. Most every friend she's had eventually got sick of it and dipped. Not me. I can't figure out if I'm loyal or a masochist. Either way, her barbs opened up the floodgates, and I became a babbling mess.
I sobbed and wrote some miserable, whiny garbage, expounding on the suckage of life and my lack of ability to deal. I wrote emails and IMs. This only served to prove that everyone hates me and I'm all alone in this cruel world.
Finally, I'd had enough of my shit, and I called my brother. He'd sort me out with his special brand of lovingly brutal honesty.
I sucked up my tears, wiped my face with a dishtowel and called him up. Controlling my voice like a pro, I asked what he was up to.
"Watching some show on motorcycles. . . I just got home. What's up?"
"Can I come over there?"
"What, yea, are you ok?" I hear the concern creeping in his voice. I don't want him worrying about me, and now I feel bad for calling. And the dam broke again.
"No, I don't want to be here, and I'm not OK and I need to talk to you." I'm sobbing now, and he can't make out what I'm saying. He asks if he can call me back.
I wash my face, and berate myself for being so stupid and crying like a kitten died. I didn't feel like I could pull it together. I thought I'd finally reached my breaking point, and my poor brother would have to check me in the nuthouse.
By the time he knocked at the door, I'd worked myself into a frenzy, convinced I was unloved and unloveable.
I opened the door and he gave me that look. His patented half smirk, corner of the eye stare. It's a mix of concern and bemusement. He knows I'm upset, but it seems he also knows it's probably something I've blown out of proportion.
He goes to the kitchen to get a drink and says, "What's this about Katherine?"
"She emailed me this stuff about how much I suck and I'm a terrible friend and she's done so much but I wouldn't do it for her. . ."
He cut me off mid babble. "Hasn't she said wild ass shit like this before to you?"
"Well, yea. . ."
"It's 'cause she's bipolar, right. She just flips out sometimes?"
"Yea. . ."
"So why are you so upset about it?"
". . ."
You wouldn't guess from exchanges like this that he's 6 years my junior. He's always been wiser and more insightful than he had any right to be. In my 16 year old angst days, when suicide was an intriguing option, my 10 year old brother talked me down. He pointed out the my folly. What would it solve? It would make things so much worse for him. He clued me in to the fact that shit gets better, it has to, doesn't it? He confided that sometimes he thought the same things. I told him I wouldn't be able to deal if he killed himself. "Well, how do you think I'd feel if you did?" I was struck dumb.
He thinks around corners.
He's an artist. He sees in color palettes and abstract compositions. He understands the world in images and tiny details. He notices the little things that make the difference between pictures and works of art.
I can't imagine what it must be like to see so much. What happens in his brain that he can take this three dimensional landscape and translate it onto paper with a pencil and eraser? How can he intuitively know how to place this shape next to that in a way that your brain understands how he feels?
Settled in with his drink, he hands me a blunt and asks what's really going on.
More tears and babble. I'm a failure, why do I suck so bad at life? Of course, saying it outloud I realize how silly I am. I also realize that I should have called him sooner. He knows, he understands. He shakes his head at my assertion that he's got his own crap and doesn't need to worry about mine. There's that look again.
He never responds to my attempts to insult myself. He doesn't tell me I'm wrong, because he knows I know. He ignores the surface and gets to the heart of the matter.
"What do you really want to do?"
"I want to write." It seems such a silly thing to want to do. So trite. I want to be a writer. I feel foolish.
"So write."
"Well, I do, but. . ."
"But what? Why aren't you taking writing courses in school?"
"I like Anthropology. Honestly, I want to write the best ethnography ever. I want my ethnography on the best sellers lists. I want people who aren't anthropologists to love it. I want people to read it and decide they want to be anthropologists."
And he didn't laugh. He gave me his perspective.
He knows he's good at what he does. He wants to be the best. He knows he's going to be the best. He knows he's going to make a mark. He's able to take criticism of his work, and uses it to get better. He has no problem saying something he created is dope.
How did he get this confidence? How did I not? I have trouble linking people to my blog, even though I've been told I'm a good writer. I don't think I could ever tell someone, "this piece is dope! You should read it!"
Talking to him, I can almost see myself doing it.
We discuss ways of incorporating his artistic eye with my love of Anthropology. He reminds me to take a photography course. We talk about creating websites and beautiful books.
America's Funniest Home Videos comes on, and we laugh hysterically. All that's left of my pity party are swollen eyes and embarrassment, newfound determination and a focus! It always works out in the end.
// posted by jess @ 1:06 AM 
