Inverse Candlelight

The Oprah Story

Did I ever tell you about the time I was on Oprah? Well I was. Sort of. There was an episode closely following the Columbine massacre regarding teen bullying and I wrote an email. This was about a year after the advent of the email, so I had to actually mail a picture of me to Opie, in the MAIL. With a STAMP. And this was the picture.

Now, this, in and of itself, was unfair. I didn't look like this when I was being mentally and emotionally tortured in grammar and high school. Think of me more like this:

AMG, those glasses. No wonder everyone hated me.

Anyway, the Columbine massacre happened. And I was horrified. For one, because of the senseless violence. For another, because I related to those boys who became monsters that day. I know what it's like to be mocked. To be tormented. To wish you were dead, if only to make the pain stop. So I wrote to Oprah. Cause who is going to get your story across more than OPRAH? No one, that's who.

So I wrote a letter. And Opie's producers called me and asked if I could send a picture and read the letter over the air. You'd think someone who was classically trained in theatre for most of her life would have done a better job, but I was seriously awful. I was way too nervous.

Remember, this is 1999. No internet, no YouTube, no nothing other than a VHS tape I have that is in some box somewhere in my apartment, if not in my parents' garage. But it's somewhere, I promise. And I spilled my heart.

I didn't know, back then, that I was bipolar. That there was seriously something wrong with me, in the brain department. I just thought I was a bad person. I always have thought I am a bad person. That's why bad things happen. It's my fault. Cause I'm a bad person.

Wow, that's a little narcissistic, is it not?

But that's my disease. That's why I take fistfuls of meds every day. To try to not punish myself. I know it sounds insane. I'm fully aware. And that's why I called Opie.

The show is lost to history, but today, I wrote again. There was a story, a few months ago, about a 7 year old girl who suffers every day with schizophrenia. You know, it's funny, (not really) how when you have a mental illness like myself, you can think "at least it's not schizophrenia." That's sick. These people are people I know, that live with more torment than anyone, ANYONE should ever deal with. And Oprah's story about this beautiful little girl? Shattered me.

And then I went on the message boards.

"the parents are to blame"
"the parents are obviously to blame, probably drugs"
"It's a demon"
"It's a lack of faith in god"
"She's a selfish child"
"She's a spoiled child"
"She's just a bad child"

It went on and on. And I got angry. SO angry. So I've started to write to ol' Opie. Not in a hysterical, repetitious way, but a way in which maybe I'll be heard again, the way I was in 1999. I'm trying, I'm yelling and screaming from the very tops of the trees. For all those who cannot.

Listen to me, Oprah. Come on. Listen.

Coffee Conspiracy

Okay, so I was sooooo giving ass-vice to a fellow writer in a rut the other day. I was all 'Blah! Writing is easy, you just start doing it and a topic will come to you, yay! Also? Unicorns and glitter!!!"

Well I'm paying the price for being so cavalier. I'm totally blocked. I feel like I've acquired writing ADD, as in I start writing and I get distracted by the teevee, or one of the cats, or I suddenly want to make popcorn or something.

Oooh. Popcorn. Be right back.

ANYWAY. Yes, I have been easily distracted as of late. There are only so many stories I can tell about falling down, people making fun of me for falling down, injuries I have sustained whilst falling down...It gets a little repetitious. So! WHAT TO TALK ABOUT???

*crickets*

It's only November 29th, and I am already sick to freaking death of any and all commercialization of Christmas. BUT! Oh!!! I KNOW WHAT TO WRITE ABOUT!!!!!

Okay, remember that old commercial for Folgers coffee. When "Peter" comes home for Christmas? You remember. Okay, fine, here it is. 

NOW. I have so many questions! Where, exactly, has Peter been? Was he at college, even though the actor is clearly in his early 30s? Was he in white-collar prison, perhaps from a cocaine bust at his office? I mean, it WAS 1985. Was he on a Peace Corps trip to Africa?

Wait. A Peace Corps trip to Africa? Whereever would I get that idea? I mean, that's stretching it a little bit, even for a festive holiday commercial, right? WRONG, MY FRIENDS, because here in 2009 we have a new! Updated! Peter's home! And guess where he's been??? That's RIGHT, a Peace Corps trip to Africa!

*sidenote* I can't find the new commercial online, but I HAVE found MANY people online who do not find making fun of the Folgers commercial funny. So, um, I'll tread lightly on the new spot. The Peace Corps is a magnificent organization, coming home is touching, blah de blee, have some coffee. End sidenote*

What about Peter?!?!? That commercial ran forEVER in the 80s and 90s! Find the damn actor and have it be about HIS ungrateful children coming home for Christmas with a big bag of laundry and a girlfriend with a chest tattoo! That would be AWESOME for those of us who hate the holidays. Or better yet, let's show Peter and his life partner Chad living the holidays UP in a tropical locale while his family dilutes their Folgers with Jack Daniels and everyone pretends to like each other over a turkey dinner! I like that idea. 

Get Folgers on the blower! And somebody find Peter!!!!

edited to add: ZOMG, someone DID!

My Friend Anissa

My friend Anissa has the most magnificent rack you'll ever see. Her boobs are LEGENDARY. When I met her in person for the first time at BlogHer, I was transfixed by her bodacious tatas. I just wanted to snuggle them.

But that's Anissa. You just want to snuggle her. She's got the most amazing, infectious laugh, and the girl is ALWAYS smiling. Always. When Snarky Amber and I were basically squatting at BlogHer, with no tickets and nowhere to go, Anissa adopted us. She just waved off the "no ticket" thing with her cigarette and posed for pics with us. She assured us with her mere presence that she was fabulous and we, by proxy were fabulous. That's Anissa.

Anissa is supposed to be procrastinating on packing for a cruise. Her sweet little girl just got the "no cancer clear all" exam and her family is supposed to be getting ready to hit the seas and instead she's in a hospital bed. She had a stroke this afternoon and she's in ICU. This was NOT PART OF THE PLAN.

No, Anissa is supposed to be on Twitter, and Aiming Low, and Free Anissa, complaining about packing and making us all laugh. She is NOT supposed to be in ICU. Y'all? She is going to be SO PISSED.

Anissa is going to be ripshit that she missed her cruise. She's going to adorably scowl, and rant about it all over the internets. And we are going to laugh and laugh, because that's what Anissa does. She makes us laugh. 

So she has to get better. And she will. Because Anissa is funny as hell, and has fantastic tits, but most of all, she is one strong mama. She's gonna kick this stroke's ass. She has to. 

Help For Anissa if you're in the Atlanta area

Hope For Anissa at Aiming Low

PS: Y'all know I'm not religious, but if that's your bag? Pray for my friend. I've already had a very stern talk with whoever or whatever is up there to take care of my girl. Get in on the action. We're circling the wagons here. Good thoughts, mojo, juju, whatever. Thanks. 

PPS: And when Anissa DOES get better? Don't tell her I was crying like a little baby about all this, please? Cause she'll whip my sorry behind for that crap.

  I boob you so much, boob! I mean - I love you so much, dude!

Words In Trees

So Captain Awesome and I were walking in the woods today, because he lives in Brooklyn, and things like deer fascinate him - the first time we went for a ramble in the woods, a deer strolled by and he was like "Whoa! A deer!" and I was like "yep, a deer," because in my part of the beautiful and perfect Garden State, deer are EVERYWHERE, especially in front of your CAR WATCH OUT, and when you get your driver's license in the beautiful and perfect Garden State, it's not really valid until you hit a deer - and I was looking at the trees, many of which had old carvings of initials, declarations of love, heavy metal band names and most interestingly, dates, and I noticed that there was not a single one that had a date later than 1989.

This was interesting to me. Remember when kids (let me get my walker) like, went OUTSIDE? Wherein a ramble in the woods was some kind of nudge nudge wink wink kind of situation where strategically placed benches were perfect for innocent high school things like necking? Necking! Making out! Carving your names in trees, sneaking Pabst Blue Ribbon and smoking pot with your friends! Outside in the woods! THAT was an adventure! Now Captain Awesome and I were not participating in any of those activities, but man, it got me to thinking.

People don't talk anymore. They text, they leave messages on Facebook. They don't even (really) use instant messenger anymore. Too long! Too drawn out and time consuming! Hell, we don't even use real words anymore, kthxbai! In fact, are you even still reading this post right now? It's been over two paragraphs! And forget about the phone. NOW. I am as guilty of this as anyone else. I haaaaaaaaate the phone. Hate it. The only reason I'm glad there are phones anymore is so I don't have to go somewhere in person. I'm as solitary as anyone else. But I wish kids still carved their initials in trees to show their innocent, oh my god, true love forever, "we were here," "AC/DC rox" like they used to.

Captain Awesome leaves for boot camp in a couple of weeks. And I'm going to write to him. On real paper, with a real pen. Because we still can do that, even though they don't even teach cursive writing in school anymore, I REMEMBER IT, and I'm going to do that. Because he's my friend, and he's going away for a time, and you can keep a letter a hell of a lot longer than a stupid freaking text.

Rebuilding: An Open Letter

To Anyone, Anywhere, Who is Rebuilding Their Life:

You are awesome. No, no, don't roll your eyes. You are AWESOME. No one is going to ever know what you are going through, how huge getting up in the morning sometimes is. They just don't get it. And that's wicked unfair, and might make you want to cry all day, or scream and rage, and you know what? That's okay too. DO it. Cry your eyes out. Punch a pillow and pretend it's someone else. Hell, punch a pillow and pretend it's you. Do what you need to do.

Don't hurt yourself. You've already been through so much. You're rebuilding, and that doesn't take a day, it doesn't take ANY kind of time frame. It is what it is, and it'll take as long as it needs to. That's okay! Whether it's a divorce, a breakup, an addiction, a mental illness, a death...These are enormous things, and anyone who says "get over it" or "snap out of it" doesn't get it. They just don't get it.

A broken heart. That can come in many forms, yes? Yes. You're better than that. You're going to pull through, cause that's what you deserve. No one is going to be harder on you than you are on yourself. People can wax poetic about how you have to hurry up and heal, come on, pull yourself up by your bootstraps, he's not worth it, she's not worth it, the person who died or had to leave wouldn't want you to feel this way, all of it. All the rah rah bullshit cheerleading. They mean well. They do, even if it makes you feel worse. They don't know. They just don't get it.

A broken heart will heal. YOU will heal. It might take longer than you want, longer than seems possible, but you WILL HEAL. And man, if someone is holding you back from that? Ditch them. Do it. They're not worth it, they're an emotional vampire, sucking the will to live out of you. Get rid of them.

Oh god, it's hard. It's so hard. But you CAN do it. You will. And it will take as long as it needs to. Don't blame yourself. "But it's my fault!" Maybe you did do something. Maybe you didn't. But it's your heart we're talking about. And you owe it to yourself to take care of yourself.

Take care of yourself. Eat that pint of ice cream. Stay in bed for a week if you have to. Do what you need to do, just don't give up. Don't hurt yourself. Rebuild. Live. Those people who love you will be there. And those people who don't? Who hurt you, who made you cry and rage and scream to the sky "Why, why, WHY???" They're going to still exist in your heart. But you're going to rebuild. You are. Because you? Are worth it. Your happiness is worth it. Your health is worth it. Your life is worth it.

My heart is broken today. And it will be tomorrow. And words and actions and inactions will stay. They'll stay in my broken heart. But I got up today. I stood up, I washed the tear streaks off my face, and I'll carry on. Broken, but not forever. Down, but I'll get up. So will you. Yes, you will. Yes, I will.

Hold on. Just hold on.

She's Alive!

O HAI everyone! Thanks for all the well wishes regarding my bad patch, my inability to write about certain things, and of course, my diseased neck, which is NOT better, but due to the begging of friends and neighbors, I am not going to talk about anymore. Also? I've learned that Benadryl has the lovely side effect of causing one to not CARE that she has a fatal neck disease. Yay Benadryl!

So let's talk, internet. About other things. Hmm...Well. I've learned a valuable lesson in the last week, in regards to standing up for myself. You see, I don't stand up for myself. I am more of a groveling, apologizing FREAKSHOW who is convinced EVERYTHING is my fault, I'm a bad person, I suck, etc. And this past week I had several opportunities to beg and grovel and cry over things that were clearly not my fault, oh my GOD woman, not everything is about you, and I did something pretty new and exciting.

I confronted the situation.

I KNOW! Craziness, right? I never do that! I just sit and stew and beat myself up and get hives. It's just the dance I do. But I was honest. I asked about the things that were driving me straight to the lunatic asylum with self-loathing, and, you're never going to believe this...I GOT ANSWERS. Were they the answers I wanted to hear? Not necessarily. Was there still crying? Absolutely. But there wasn't the unending dread that comes with not knowing. And that was such a relief, so much more than I thought was possible. So...Yay for confronting situations! Of course I still said "sorry" about a million times, but we're taking baby steps here, people.

So what else happened this week? OH. So the cats needed vaccinations, and boy oh boy did THAT go as well as you would imagine. So I recruited my mom to help me lug all fourteen tons of feline to the Petco clinic (so cheap! So good!!!) and we got the miserable bastards vaccinated. Of course, I was hiding my shame THE SHAME OF LEPROSY under a scarf, but of COURSE I had to be standing in back of a guy who had an adorable dog and wasn't too bad looking himself, I must say, and I was stupidly talking (shocker) and lugging seventeen tons of cats (they got fatter during the car ride) and I had the shame of leprosy and it was all very attractive, and then I saw a wedding ring on his finger and suddenly I didn't care anymore and went back to itching and talking to the cats instead of people.

Petco is one of the few places you can croon to morbidly obese cats "Who's Mama's little angel baby???" and no one looks at you funny. Dandy place, that Petco.

PS to this story: So everyone is doing that 25 Things About Me thing on Facebook, to which I say haha, I did 100 THINGS, BITCHES! but anyway, one of my friends said he hated cat-written blogs. To which I say...TOUGH TATAS, BUSTER! My cats have things to SAY! And that is mostly "feed the food hole now, woman."

Ahem. So that's that. How was YOUR week?

How Intense Is "Too Intense?"

Okay, here's something I can talk about, that sort of relates to what I CAN'T talk about. Y'all? Do you know what I get told all the time, like, ALL the time?

"Miss Banshee? You are SO intense. Like, you're a really, really intense, intimidating person. People are intimidated by you. You can be a scary, angry girl."

Excuse me for a moment...

MAAAAAAAHAHAAHHAAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!!

Dudes, that is the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard in my ENTIRE LIFE. I am the OPPOSITE of intimidating. I am scared of EVERYTHING. All things hurt my feelings, or make me feel like everyone hates me. I cry ALL THE TIME. Right now? Right now at this very SECOND? I'm so torn up inside by things that I very well could be making up in my own head that aren't actually happening at ALL, that I have HIVES. Hives. On my neck and face and chest. From stress that I made MY OWN SELF. 

Boo! How scary am I? (And incredibly attractive, yes? No.) 

Here's the thing. I AM intense. I have very intense emotions, and I usually keep them completely bottled up, so maybe I get crazy eyes sometimes and flare up like a broken gas stove. That's something one of my shrinks said once, that the gauge on my emotions is broken, and sometimes I just WHOOSH up and set your eyebrows on fire. Not that I've ever set my eyebrows on fire, or anyone else's. People, I just TALK about throwing lit matches at people who annoy me! I never DO it! Yet.

See? Too intense. But that's just me. The worst thing anyone ever said to me as I was grousing about not having a significant other in my life was that I was too intense and not a "normal girl."

A Normal Girl.

Well, FUCK NO, I'm not a normal girl! What the hell IS a normal girl, anyway? I am who I am, I do what I do, I feel what I feel. And some of it ain't pretty. But I'll tell you this much for free. My "intensity" makes me the most loyal, forgiving, loving, caring person I can possibly be. I love FIERCELY.  I would bleed out for the people I love without a second thought. I would run into a burning building to save a kitten. I would jump into a lake to rescue a kid. I'll never tell anyone your secrets. I'll hold you when you cry. I'll make you laugh. I'll hold your hand. I'll be the best person I can be, despite my myriad flaws. I'll try as hard as I can to be a good person.

I am not a scary girl. I'm just me. 

Help Me, Monkey

This is my monkey. Monkey? I need some help. Only you can help me, my dear monkey pal.

You see, monkey, I'm having a little problem writing today. Do you know how many blog posts I've written today, monkey? Three. This is number four. And all of them so far have sucked. I'm in a mood, monkey, and I don't know what to do about it.

You're right, monkey. I should give myself a break. I've had a lot of stuff going on lately, and it's too personal to put on the blog, I get it. But I just start writing and all this BLAAAAAAAAAAAH comes out and I can't put it to print, because other people are involved, you know? What am I supposed to do?

I see. So I should just keep writing and see what happens? I don't know, monkey. My heart hurts a lot these days. And I can't go into details about any of it, it just seems wrong. Like I would need releases from people in order to talk about any of it, and well, let's face it, some of them don't even know they're involved in my emotions. THAT would be awkward.

I understand where you're coming from, monkey. I'm in a bad/sad/cranky mood. I'll live through it, like I always do, and I'll soldier on. Do you think the internet people will understand?

You're right, monkey. They always do, that's why they're such rockstars. What would I do without you, my monkey friend? Glad we had this talk. I'll be okay. Just...keep breathing. Everything will sort itself out, one way or another.

You're the best, monkey! Thanks for listening, really. I mean it.

A Tale of a Little Banshee

I do not hesitate to tell everyone that I was a perfect angel child. I never did anything wrong, I was a cherubic gossamer-haired pixie girl who was absolutely flawless in every way. I mean, LOOK at this child!

Then, of course, when I was three, my parents had another child, and I changed. No, I didn't become a hellfire-breathing demon child, it was worse.

I became WEIRD.

I was a weird kid. Hell, I'm a weird adult. (Keep the choruses of "WE KNOW" to a dull roar, thanks.) But as a young dorky kid who never quite learned how to run or jump or play ANY sports or do much of anything except read books and sit in the woods for hours at a time imagining things, I rapidly became COMPLETELY incapable of relating to my peers. They were so...normal! Like on the TV! I knew about normal, I watched The Brady Bunch and Gimme A Break and Little House on the Godforsaken Prairie. I knew I was different. Not GOOD different, just "well, isn't this a blowtorch up the ass" kind of different. So I did what seemed logical at the time.

I stayed by myself.

I figured this was the perfect plan! I couldn't relate to other kids, and when I was around them, all I could think was "Man, I can't WAIT to get out of this situation and read a book or watch The Dukes of Hazzard, WHEN can I go home???

Side note: I read a lot of blogs that are written by moms who are driven MAD by the concept of playdates and events and sports and keeping their kids on a full schedule. This would have driven me directly to the second-grade equivalent of Bedlam if it had been inflicted on me as a child. I couldn't deal with "Get outside and STAY OUTSIDE until the streetlights come on, no really, the door is locked, drink from the hose," which was a standard summer day at my house. I can't IMAGINE if my poor parents would have had to drag me to EVENTS with other CHILDREN. It would have been apocolyptic.

ANYWAY, I stayed by myself as much as I could manage, and was weird, weird, weird as hell. But at least I wasn't NOTICED as being weird, until, of course, school started up again and I was the kid with the glasses and the hair trying to hide the fact that she still sucks her thumb with a passionate fervor (self-soothing technique!) as she hides a chapter book in her desk and tries to imagine she's in Walnut Grove or Green Gables or SOMETHING, ANYTHING other than 5th grade. People...notice this kind of kid. And then, well, it was all over. Teachers even tried to get other kids to interact with me, and dudes? I RAN AWAY from them. I KNEW I was weird! Couldn't they just leave me and my weirdness ALONE? That's all I ever wanted.

I could ramble FOREVER about how weird I was (am) and all the weird stuff I did (do) but I'll leave you with a question: Did anyone else, I mean, HYPOTHETICALLY, act out "Days of Our Lives" with their Barbies? Just me then? Fantastic.

You think you've got it rough now, kid. Wait till 7th Grade...

The Story of the Tattoo

For my birthday many years ago, I got a tattoo. It was, as many first tattoos are, a "tramp stamp" on my lower back. This has never bothered me, because I still love the design, and plan on someday incorporating it into my other tattoo (Sorry, mom!). But it is the story of my second tattoo that I am going to tell today.

Back when I actually made money, I saved and scrimped for more ink, like you do, because once you've gone under the needle, whoa boy, do you jones for more tats. I had promised myself, as I did with my first tattoo, that I would hold onto the design for one year before deciding if I would get it tattooed or not.

Sidebar: For anyone thinking of getting a first tattoo, this is a very good plan to abide by. That way you'll never look back on something etched forever into your skin and say "Well, it seemed like a good idea at the time." Sage advice. Am oracle. Listen to Banshee, she is good, she is wise.

Anyway, I was looking for a design, and woo boy, did it ever smack me right in the face. I've been a huge fan of Brian Froud's art for most of my life (he did the art direction for "Labyrinth" and "The Dark Crystal," which are two of my favorite movies) so it seemed only natural that I would get something of his as a permanent part of my body. Again, choices with no regrets. Put it on a Post-It.

But I didn't really think too much about it, until I bought Froud's new book and saw this:

"She throws her spell of introspective darkness, and you sink deeper into the shadows of despondency.  Her enchantment may last for just a few hours...or for many years.  Yet the hue of her wings reminds us that there is always hope in the midst of hopelessness."

It was perfect. "The hue of her wings reminds us that there is always hope in the midst of hopelessness." That's damn right. The fact that it was incredibly beautiful didn't hurt either. Much like the painting, I had found MY tattoo.

I researched on the internet to find a tattoo artist that had Froud tats in his or her portfolio, and found someone in Pennsylvania who SPECIALIZED in Froud tattoos. I lived right by Pennsylvania! This was fate, friends. I visited the studio with the book, talked at length with the artist, and scheduled my first appointment.

Oh yes. FIRST appointment. The entire process took 13 hours over three appointments. It was also VERY expensive. BUT! I only had to pay for two sessions, because one of them was at a tattoo convention (very very cool) where I was the demonstration model for the studio's booth. Still, way expensive. I don't regret a penny of it.

Because that's the thing with tattoos, or should be. Pieces should MEAN something, should represent times in one's life that were incredibly powerful and meaningful. I was in the throes of a mental illness I didn't understand, I was drinking heavily, I DIDN'T see the hue of my wings. So I made them real.

My tattoo is part of me. I think it always has been.