fuck you, universe.

What I wanted to write about today was my final day in San Francisco.

Except, when I woke up this morning and went to my car to go to work, I found that it had been broken into. So, you know, I'm not really feeling like writing about my trip.

A friend of mine stayed at my place last night, and like an idiot, I didn't have him bring his stuff in from my car. So, a fucking asshole decided to take advantage of that and break into my car and steal my friend's shit.

His "shit" being his laptop.

You know what, Universe? I've really had it.  Fuck. You. And fuck all the shitty people out there who are assholes.

Because I really don't like filing police reports at 8:30 a.m. And I especially don't like you. 

So just Stop. Fucking. With. Me. 

And just let me have a normal quite life that isn't filled with disappointments, betrayal, broken hearts, ex-boyfriends who still make me cry every single day, dogs who fling themselves off roofs, and other bullshit.  You know, like THEFT. And especially when it's all wrapped up in a week.

Just leave me the fuck alone.

Oh, and by the way: that guy who ran the red light by the Mellon Arena this morning and almost crashed into me? Yeah. FUCK THAT TOO.

slowest. internet. connection. ever.

I'm staying at a ridiculously expensive and swanky hotel here in San Francisco.

But their internet?

IT. SUCKS.

I swear it's dial-up.

Oh, and they make you pay for it by the day.

STUPID.

Thus, no photos to show you, because it's already taken me 15 minutes just to get this far.

Rest assured, I'm having a wonderful time.  But I'm going to have to call down to the front desk and let them know I want my money back.

Maybe it'll speed up by tomorrow and I can post photos of all the amazing stuff I've done.  Until then, I'm sending smooches.

***UPDATE: I just made a call to the front desk. Turns out I needed to select the wired internet option, as it's much faster than their wireless {which is still very odd to me, considering the four-star rating of this hotel}. Looks like I'll now be able to post. Woot!****

pieces.

i once gave you all of me

opened myself up

let all of the tender and vulnerable parts

     fall

        right

            out

and into your hands

where i trusted that you'd hold them

like a newborn

freshly introduced to the world

i was the woman who gave

and spilled out

and shared

and trusted

and wanted so much to have my parts

available to you

but you took those parts

wrapped your fingers around them in the form of a fist

and squeezed

until there was no breath left

and the parts of me gasped

trying desperately to get the air they needed

so that they wouldn't die

i should have learned after you

but i didn't

i continued to give

to whoever would hold the parts of me you left behind

even though those parts were withered

and struggling for breath

and needing resuscitated

and just like you

they took me in their hands

and squeezed the life out of me

until all that was left

was the memory of who i used to be 

{portrait of me, painted by my dear friend sonja}

the assassin.

you awoke, distant despite being inches away

my right thigh radiating heat

while your left deflected it

there was no good morning
how did you sleep?  

the distance between us only magnified

when the sun was the only thing that greeted me that morning

by twilight, the sky dimmed and so did our story
our story that we thought had been inscribed on just a few pages
our story that had a twist and turn of events 
that continued to be the pen on page, writing more

but even the city lights shining and glowing and radiating out to us
while we stood atop that mountain
couldn't make the darkness go away
from the crater of black i knew we were carrying

that night, the table lamp next to the bed shone on the truth
whether i wanted to see it or not.
and so i turned it off, literal darkness now meeting the figurative. 

are you uncomfortable with me here? you asked
no i lied and held back the tears that were starting to heave from my chest
thank god you couldn't see me or you would have called my bluff

by morning, before alarms and stirrings and yawns and stretches,
you were ready to go
bags packed and waiting by the door
shoes on
teeth brushed

words hadn't been spoken since the lie i told in the dark
and still no words came
but i pulled you to me, and you responded, and i felt you squeeze
but i know better now what that actually meant 

do you really want to be an assassin? i'd asked the night before
yes, you said, without hesitation. it has the best working conditions.

and that's when the gulf grew so wide that i was certain i'd drown,
if i haven't already

i never really knew you
and even though there was no payment
no retribution
no formal request

you killed me anyway.

again.

on being alone. {part two}

{You can read part one here.}

When I got home from work yesterday, my apartment was dark and dreary. I blame it not only on the absolutely abysmal weather we've been having here in Pittsburgh {hello, rain and cold temps for DAYS, people...DAYS}, but also on account of the fact that my surroundings are sorta mirroring what's going on internally with me. I just wish the sun would shine for a few days in a row. My spirits really do lift when that bright ball of goodness makes an appearance.

But with the way the weather's been acting, I wouldn't doubt that The Rapture is on its way this Saturday.

I've decided, though, that for the next few days, I'm going to carry on as I have been, and try to get used to being alone. Or at least the feeling of being alone.

You see, I know I'm not actually alone. I have friends, albeit geographically removed from my general city limits, but there's always the phone and text messaging. {I'm the only person left on the planet who doesn't do Facebook, nor will I ever.} I have family--my parents are thirty minutes north and my brother is forty minutes southwest. But when you suffer from depression and you've just experienced a break-up, you feel like a prisoner in your own soul. You feel totally alone, isolated, and trapped. I know, I know. I probably sound like I'm being totally melodramatic. But ask anyone who suffers from depression. They'll confirm there's no exaggeration in the description. And the real crux of the situation is that when you're depressed, even though you feel alone, you don't want to connect to anyone. You don't want to go out, be with people, talk on the phone, etc. At least I don't. It's a shitty Catch-22.

I'm at this place in my life where I'm feeling really left out. Granted, that feeling is mostly a result of choices I've made. I'm 33. I am not married. I am not engaged. I am not in a relationship. I am not pregnant. I do not have children. I do not own real estate. I do not have a career. Hell, I don't even have the Internet at home. {Do you know why? Because I don't make a living wage. Even with a Master's Degree.} But the majority of people I know who are around my age do have these things. They are involved in those stages of life. And I'm happy for them. I really am! But I'm not involved in any of those stages. Because the man I thought I was going to marry broke my trust so deeply that there's no going back. And I'm terrified of having children, partly because I can't fathom bringing them into a world like the one we're living in now, but also because I just don't feel that maternal urge whatsoever. I look at babies and I feel nothing. N-o-t-h-i-n-g. I've also never been a career girl. I have too many different skills and talents to pinpoint me into one type of career path. And I also feel like the word "career" is a four-letter word, because it makes me think of power, money, bureaucracy, workaholics, and a host of other things that make me Very Uncomfortable.

Thus, I feel left out. Alone. Because I'm not a part of that life, that culture. The culture of marriage, the culture of motherhood/parenting, the culture of career. I can't really relate to those people in my life who are a part of those cultures, and it makes my heart sad. I sort of feel lost, which I never thought I'd feel because I always enjoyed the different things going on in my life: modeling, acting, volunteering, living in my tiny apartment, my job at the University, and my {previous} relationship with the Ross-a-tron, doing my own thing. But now, things have changed. And I understand change is good and important, but it's kind of thrown me for a loop. Like I wasn't ready for it. Like I wasn't looking, and it just hit me smack dab in my noggin. 

Our American culture doesn't really cater to those of us who aren't a part of the marriagebabiescareer culture.  It's not that I don't think marriage and family are important--they are. I just don't feel drawn to them. Partly due to fear, partly due to a true lack. What's a girl to do?

Hmmm...maybe the circus is taking applications.

{photo from this amazing site}

kick me while i'm down.

Awesome. Just kick me while I'm down, why don't you?

Today, it's official. 

I hate people.

dear depression: i hate you.

It's happening again. And I hate it. 

Depression.

I've struggled with it before, and I hate it.

It makes me feel worthless...like there's something so wrong with me that I can't even smile. Granted, I've smiled a few times in the last several days, but my heart doesn't feel smiley. There's a difference. Perhaps you know what I mean. I feel blank. And I feel like what's behind the blankness is just bleakness.

I feel lonely as hell lately. I think that's one of the reasons I'm so depressed. I was talking about this with my new friend Jill {who is a gem, by the way} earlier today at lunch. So many of my closest friends--mostly from graduate school--have moved on, to engagements, to marriages, to pregnancies, to babies, to new cities, to new states, to new careers.

And I have not.

And that's okay--because I have made the choices I've made because they felt right at the time that I made them.  But still. The loneliness is unbearable at times. Never feeling close to anyone. Never feeling connected. In fact, many days I wonder if I'm supposed to be married, if I'm actually called to that life. I don't feel called to be a mother--I've never felt called to that. But some days I pray that changes, just so I don't feel so left out, so weird, so something-is-wrong-with-me.

Logically, I KNOW there is nothing wrong with me. Everyone's life is different. We're all called to different things. I accept that. No, wait. Scratch that. I understand that. But I don't like it.

So, anyway. Depression. Yeah, I don't even want to get out of bed. I don't want to do stuff. Don't want to go out. I just want to curl up in a ball, under my covers, and disappear. I'm going to have to do something about this. I'm going to have to go and talk to someone. And I will. I just hate this. I hate the weight of it. I hate the loneliness. I hate the tiredness. I hate the aches that are settling into every bone and joint and crevice of my body. 

And the lack of sun--oh, Pittsburgh, you are KILLING ME--isn't helping.

I just want to feel closeness. To someone. Real trust, real connection, real closeness. And I just don't have that in my life right now. With anyone.

vapor.

When I was staring at the ceiling this morning at 5:03 a.m., I wanted to scream. But I was too tired. And the sleepies in my eyes were heavy, just like my eyelids. So, instead, I screamed last night, as I leaned against my desk. I cried and sobbed and cursed and clenched my fists.  Do you know that I questioned my worth last night? Because of your words? Because of your impersonal words typed up on a piece of letterhead paper, heavy with ink that was more dagger than liquid?

I questioned. my. worth.

Your initial silence was hard enough to bear. Waiting for some acknowledgment that I existed.  And yet, it never came.  I have given myself to you for 14 years. In more ways than one. I have been dedicated and steadfast and honorable. And yet, you treated me like nothing. Like the emptiness of emptiness.

Well I am not empty. I am full of so many good things. Things you will never get to see or feel or hear or learn from. That's right. Learn from. I could have taught you so much. In fact, that day we met, I did teach you something--something you didn't expect to learn. I solved a problem for you. Before we even had a commitment to each other. I solved a problem for you, because I care. Because I am honorable and good and am thinking of someone other than myself.

But you are not.

Your words. On that letterhead. The ink. Heavy like daggers.

Do you know that I burned your words? I skimmed them, they punctured me, and then I burned them. I took the match, struck it against the box, put the fire to your words and watched them burn into nothingness. Because that's what they're worth. Nothing.

But I am worth something.

{If I could escape through that window above, I would.}

it's my blog and i'll shout if i want to.

I find myself fidgeting a lot lately. Like I’m unsettled. I’ve definitely got a lot on my mind, that’s for sure. But the fidgeting. It’s driving me nuts. Tonight, after I got home from work and ate some dinner, I literally paced around my apartment. Touched this. Moved that. Shifted this. Re-arranged that. There are all these things I need to do, but my mind can’t focus enough, let alone my body, to do any of them.

I pulled into my parking spot around five o’clock tonight, and when I got out of my car and started walking towards my door, I was all That’s it. Time for a change. I don’t have to live like this anymore. And I literally made my footsteps a bit heavier. More purposeful. More take-that-i-ful. And then by the time I got inside, I was all Tomorrow, though.

I hate change, but yet I’ve found myself really having an urge for it lately. Part of me thinks it was the wedding I was at a week and a half ago in the beautiful Lake Geneva area of Wisconsin. Those few days away, they jolted me alive a bit. Different scenery, different people, different experiences. Here, it’s not any of that. But I love it here. I do! Oh, how I do! But I need to shift my perspective now and then, I’m realizing. And maybe, if I do, the fidgeting will stop. Or at least subside.

My goodness, I am so burned out.

I feel heavy. Yes, that’s it. Heavy. Like I’m carrying the world on my tiny shoulders. My shoulders that can barely hold my head up some days. Worries. Burdens. Bits of frustration. Scribbles of resentment. The little girl in me that wants to screw up her face and pout, “It’s not fair!”

The heaviness is prompting these recent blog posts. I find that pounding out the heaviness by way of the keys makes me feel not less heavy, but more validated in my heaviness. A strange comfort. It’s my way of shouting, in a world where I don’t ever really shout. Yes, these posts are my shouts. I hope they don’t scare you away.

So, like many bloggers, I’ll just continue to shout it out until I feel like whispering again. Here, in my little corner of the internet. The shouting will pass, it will. But for right now, it needs to get out. I’ll just work through it. Here. Where the pounding doesn’t hurt anyone and the shouting isn’t necessarily deafening.

But healing? Yes.

Healing.

with love from Pittsburgh,
Laura

awesome. but not. at all.

I've having an awesome time these days.

Let's review.

1. I've had a migraine since yesterday afternoon. Despite my efforts to combat this thing with Excedrin Migraine, which usually works, it just does not want to go away. Thus, I'm nauseous, in pain, sensitive to light and sound, etc. But, I'm still typing a blog post. I need to get my priorities straight, apparently. I'm also grumpy. Like, a lot.

2. At work today, my computer got infected with an internet virus. Have you ever had that happen? No? Well, let me break it down for you: your computer basically looks you in the face and screams IHATEYOUSOMUCHANDWILLMAKEYOURLIFEALIVINGHELL! All of my files--every. single. one.--are infected. I can't open any internet browsers. I have loads of pop-ups that just keeping, well, popping up and telling me such-and-such-a-file is infected. Even the computer tech people at my work couldn't troubleshoot it over the phone. I now have no working computer. The tech people actually have to come to my office, sit at my computer, and try to fix it. And who knows when that will be. So, until then, I'm stuck. I can't do my job. Awesome.

3. I'm convinced I have a brain tumor. No, really. I am. I've been forgetful beyond explanation lately, I can't concentrate, I've been putting things away in the wrong places, I've been misplacing things, and, finally, see #1.

4. My face has broken out in huge, painful zits. And I have a photo shoot on Sunday. Awesome.

5. I accidentally left my debit card in the ATM machine late on Saturday night. I called my bank on Sunday, they checked the machine and confirmed my card was there, and then I told them I'd be by to pick it up. I showed up less than 48 hours later to get it, and their response? "Oh, we destroyed it. We do that if it hasn't been claimed within 24 hours."

WTH???

Their way of fixing the problem? "We'll mail you out a new one. You'll have it in 7-10 business days."

I'm leaving for Wisconsin in a week. For a wedding. For which I need money. In order to pay my hotel bill. And I don't want to write a check.

Awesome.

6. I was going to continue, but re-reading all five of those is enough. Let's stop at five. I'm going to take a nap.

with love from Pittsburgh,
Laura

ouch. ugh. blech.

The Ross-a-tron always rolls his eyes at me whenever I say I think I'm dying. Which is a lot of eye-rolling, to be honest. Like, I can't believe they haven't just rolled on out of his head by now. And I'm not saying this to be mean, to make the Ross-a-tron out to look like some heartless creep. He's actually very tender and understanding. I'm the one who's lost her marbles.

I'm convinced I currently have: fibromyalgia; various types of cancer, including (but not limited to) breast, skin, and colon; a brain tumor; cataracts; blocked arteries (hello, I love dairy), and a currently undiscovered rarity that is only acquired by women between the ages of 30-35 who have been south of the Mason-Dixon Line during the third Wednesday of June 2009 when it was rainy and they'd previously had cantaloupe with their breakfasts. No, I haven't been south of the Mason-Dixon Line recently, but that doesn't mean anything.

I am constantly in pain. I'm not making this up. Seriously. Pain. All the time. Every single day. My lower back, my wrists, the joint in my left thumb, and that soft spot between your shoulder and your collar bone. My shins, my arches, my hips. Sometimes it's a dull ache, other times it's a quick, shooting pain that lasts for only a second. Even my boobs hurt. Not PMS-like, but twinges that feel like electrical charges. Granted, my oncologist said that was normal after an excisional biopsy, but can't a girl catch a break?

And don't even get me started on my intestines. Let's just put it this way: the ladies' room and I are intimately involved on an hourly--yes, hourly--basis. I hate eating. If there was a pill I could take or an IV that could just hook into me once or twice a day, that'd be awesome.

So, basically, I'm convinced my body is revolting against me for, well, something. It hates me. And right now, I'm not too fond of it, either. I'm going to the doctor on the 17th of this month because I'm at the point of desperation. I'm ready to hear the hard truth. I'm ready to do whatever I have to (gasp! exercise?!) to get my body right. And I'll get bloodwork done. I'll change my diet if I have to. (Well, I'll still be a vegetarian, but I'll work harder at it.) If I have to stop wearing heels because they're throwing my bones and joints out of whack, well, then....aw, crap. Something has to give. I'm 32. I shouldn't feel like I'm 92.

And I don't want to hear anyone say, "Oh, sweetie, it just gets worse as you get older." I'm not making this up. I'm not imagining this pain. None of my other thirty-something friends feel this way. (Well, except for this one...) Something is wrong. And I have to fix it.

Even if it means staying above the Mason-Dixon Line. Or wearing--omg--flats.

with love from Pittsburgh,
Laura

{photo from here, and loving it}

i.l.s. (irritable laura syndrome).

I'm grumpy. That's right. I said it. I'm grumpy, and I'm irritable, and I'm Just Plain Fussy. I don't know what the deal is, but I do know that I don't like it. At. All.

I've noticed it over the past couple of weeks: losing my patience with people, rolling my eyeballs and mumbling rather-not-so-nice things under my breath, getting irate at other drivers (Hello, Mr. Toyota from West Virginia this morning. I'm looking at you.). Stuff that usually never bothers me is making me simply nuts. And it's not PMS because, well, I'm currently at the MS portion of that acronym. (Sorry to any dudes reading this.)

I feel like I just want to lay on my bed and flail my arms and legs about while simultaneously yelling the word chipmunk at the top of my lungs. (Try it. Seriously. It's a great stress reliever.) And I want to eat cookies. All the time. Just chomp those bitches to you-know-where.

ChompchompchompCrushcrushcrush.

I'm irritated with my co-workers. One in particular who I shall henceforth refer to as The Warlock, even though she's not a dude. That's how bad it is. I stumbled onto a website that says "their [warlocks] focus is on delivering excruciating pain and drawing out the suffering of their victims." Yup. That pretty much sums up my co-worker. She, The Warlock, huffs and puffs around, slams doors, orders people around like she's The Ruler of the Universe, never says please or thank you, gets utterly exasperated over the tiniest things, and expects everyone to read her mind and meet her every wish, the nanosecond she has it. And when something doesn't go her way Just Exactly, she will flip her shit on you because, well, you just happen to be standing there. Such was my fate this past Friday. I literally thought her beady eyes were going to pop out of their sockets and roll all over the office floor. (But then she would've just barked at me to clean them up.)

I want to punch The Warlock. Like, really. A lot. And that is so not like me. I am not a violent or aggressive or abrasive person. Heck, I rarely even get angry. (Ask the Ross-a-tron. He'll tell you. "Yeah, when she's mad, she stops what she's doing and says, 'Seriously?' And that's it. That's what happens when Laura gets mad.") But I'm seeing red these days. Mostly because of The Warlock, but also because of just other people in general.

People be gettin' on my nerves, yo. Pretty soon, I'm gonna be wantin' to punch kittens and baby hedgehogs. And that's just not cool.

Or maybe it's just gas.

with love from Pittsburgh,
Laura

(photo {which perfectly resembles my state of mind} from here)

survivor's guilt.

I think it's safe to say I'm not alone in this feeling. I'm sitting here, in my cozy and warm apartment (that's registering a delightful 70 degrees), nibbling on crackers (that I chose from a wide selection of goodies in my pantry), sipping fresh water (that's cold, no less), and typing on a computer that is the size of a spiral-bound notebook (which I can easily take from room to room). I wore new shoes today to work, and new jeans, and I bought a $7 lunch from a conveniently-located sandwich shop just a short walk from my office. I ate said lunch at the comfort of my desk located in the building where I have a cushy job that pays me a living wage and doesn't require me to sacrifice my integrity or wear a hairnet.

And people in Haiti are dying. By the minute. From lack of food, from lack of water, from injuries, from contamination. From not being found.

And I'm here, in the U.S., with my two university degrees, my fashionable clothes, my stocked refrigerator, my heated home, and my warm bed.

And I feel completely and absolutely guilty. Like I shouldn't have made dinner for myself tonight. Like I shouldn't have bought those new shoes. Like I should put away my diplomas from my fancy university. Like I should do more with less, give more without reservation, not have what I have been given and earned.

Because it just isn't fair.

I could get into a big philosophical, cultural, political, and economic blah-dee-blah about it all, try to sort out why I'm living in the most developed and wealthy nation on the planet, while others--our sisters and brothers in Haiti, for example--are not. Why was I chosen to live the life I've been given? Why did God give me this existence?

I've wrestled with this question long before the disaster that struck this week in Haiti, but now this question is truly haunting me. I felt awful driving to work in my heated car today, scolded myself for catching a glimpse of myself in the rearview mirror and noticing oh! how lovely my skin looks today thanks to my new moisturizer!, didn't want to eat my $7 lunch because I felt like I didn't deserve it and couldn't give thanks to God for it enough.

I pray. Oh, how I pray! And I'm really trying not to dwell on the whys and the hows of my life right now. I'm trusting that God put me here because there is work He wants me to do in this place, with the resources I've been given, work that only I can do because of the gifts He's given me. Just like there is a kind of work that only you can do because of the gifts you've been given.

But right now it's hard, because my heart hurts. The guilt is there. I'll just pray to keep pushing past it. To do the work God has put me here to do.

with love from Pittsburgh,

Laura

(photo from here)