In the past

The last time someone screamed in my face and raised his hand to me, it was nine years ago—almost nine years ago exactly, and thinking about it still knocks the wind out of me.

When I moved to Chicago, I started working part-time at a cafe to meet people and make friends. I loved it. It was a Northwestern hangout, so most of the customers and workers were college students, but one night an older guy came in for coffee. I could tell he was probably about my age.

He was wearing a Dublin tee-shirt, and I asked him about it. Turned out he had studied there during college, too, so we talked about our Ireland experiences.

I remember that night so clearly. I wasn't a coffee drinker because I couldn't handle the caffeine, but for some reason I was hopped up on it that night. I was having fun and flirting with all the customers. The other worker wandered over and wondered who I was talking to, and I made a joke about Ireland or cute boys or something. I only worked once or twice a week, so I was excited to go back, hoping to see this guy again. It was a few weeks until I did, but he seemed to recognize me, and we sat and talked. Kevin was an aspiring writer, like me. We had a lot to talk about. A few meetings later, he gave me his phone number, but I didn't call him because I had a boyfriend.

I later found out he had gone to the cafe every day after our meeting in hopes of seeing me again. Not because he thought I was cute (though of course he did) but because whatever I had teased him about had angered him to distraction. He prepared a cut down for me, and went back to the cafe to use it on me. As days passed without seeing me, his anger lessened, and then I was so friendly and interesting when we spoke for the second time, he decided to save it.

(I didn't know that until deep into our relationship. I wonder if it would have made a difference if I had known earlier.)

For we did start dating. He was intelligent and witty, could debate about anything. I was skittish, though, not wanting to commit to anyone after the recent breakup with somebody I had loved. We slept together for the first time on Halloween afternoon of 1998, and lying in bed afterwards, I said, "You know we're not exclusive, right?" That evening I went to a party, made out with a much older man, and started dating him as well.

If I had to articulate it, I'd have said I didn't particularly like Kevin that much, if at all, and used my last breakup as an excuse to end things right before Christmas. There was just something about him that was dark and ugly and hurtful, and I could feel it. I didn't like him and I didn't like myself when I was around him. The breakup lasted a few weeks, though. I was lonely and needed a friend. There was also something about him that drew me near, something that made me overlook the darkness.

We got back together and got serious immediately. I got drunk at a blues club and said, "I love you."

"I know," he said.

Then came the day things changed for good. He lent me his car so I could drive him to one of his friends' houses for a party. On the way down we discussed my friend Heather. Heather had told me she wasn't that comfortable around him, that there was something about him that made her uneasy. Kevin wanted to hang out with her, he said, independently of me. He said he wanted to get to know her as a friend, not as my friend. I refused to give him her phone number and skirted the issue, for I didn't really want to tell him that Heather didn't like him.

He started yelling and pressing the issue. Said that I was insecure if I thought he was interested in her. I was surprised he brought that up. Jealousy wasn't in my nature.

I'd never argued with a boyfriend before. I'd never had one so angry at me before. I was terrified. I dropped him off, went back home, and sobbed for the rest of the evening. I decided to break up with him. I practiced what I was going to say, and picked him up again after the game was over. He grabbed me and hugged me tight, so tight I couldn't get my words out. I didn't know what to do, so I rode home with him and he spent the night.

Looking back, I could say that was the moment when I knew I gave up and gave him permission to be abusive, but what did I know then? I just didn't know what to do. (Would you believe I was volunteering for a battered women's shelter then? If I had let myself make the connection, I still probably would have thought, "but my situation is not nearly as bad as the women I'm talking to in crisis . . .")

He hated all my friends. Particularly a girl that I worshipped and adored. She was an amazing, unique individual, and I didn't understand how he could hate her. He also believed I was having sex with all my guy friends, and would yell at me about it until I'd say, "Fine. That's what you believe? Go ahead. I don't care," because saying, "No, of course I didn't sleep with them, don't be ridiculous," was like talking to a wall.

The last time I socialized with any of my male friends was a party I threw with my roommates in the spring. After I finished talking to one of them, I went to sit next to Kevin, and he grabbed me hard and said, "Tell me you love me. Say it." He had a smirk on his face like he had won something. He tried to start a fight with them when they left, and then we screamed at each other all night. We stopped going out, because I couldn't deal with being in public with him. Not because we'd argue around other people, but because I felt terrified going to a bar or club with him, like being seen in public as a couple would make it more real, and I'd have to give in to the feelings of doom and suffocation that I'd been pushing away to the back of my brain and do something about it.

We'd argue all the time. He was so good at it. I've never met anyone who could hit me so hard using only words. I don't remember if our arguments would end up with me against the wall, him in my face, or if the words just make me remember it like that. They got under my skin and tore at my flesh. I had no recourse but to batter my arms against him to push him away and leave the argument. I remember at that time some discussions with some online friends about hitting. One woman in particular I remember stating unequivocally that it was absolutely never acceptable to hit anyone, even hitting back in defense. I thought, "You lucky bitch. You have no idea what it's like. How words can hurt worse until the only way you can escape is by lashing out with your fists." But of course I couldn't say it. Of course I didn't want to make it real by telling other people.

I'd try to avoid sex with him and lay in bed feeling a huge weight pressing down on me until I couldn't breathe. I couldn't envision the future past the next day, because I'd think about ways to kill myself to get out of being with him. Yet . . . and yet? I thought I couldn't survive without him. I didn't have many friends anymore, for those connections had been tenuous at best, and he had made me sever them. One day the next fall (about 6 months after we'd started dating), I was watching a movie with Heather, and started sobbing. I couldn't lie anymore. I told her I had to break up with him.

A few days later, I told him. I said, "Kevin, I'm not happy in this relationship. I want to break up."

He said: "No. We're not breaking up."

I responded, "But I'm not in love with you."

"No. You haven't even given me a chance. We've never talked about this before. We're not throwing this away."

I said, "But I'm not attracted to you anymore. I don't even want to have sex with you."

Yet somehow he battered me down with his words. He was so good at talking. In the end, I didn't even question the idea that breaking up should be a mutual step. I didn't know I had the right to put a stop to it, by the time he was done talking. I agreed to try.

It lasted a week. I couldn't try. I knew I needed to be away from him. The next breakup was slightly better. But he lived with my roommates and I, so getting out was tricky. The night we broke up for good, he said, "it's going to be so hard to sleep in my own bed. . . ." (we still had our own bedrooms in the apartment) and I thought, "I need to hurt him as little as possible," so I could slip out as easily as possible, and let him continue to share my bed. Then it became a habit until I moved out a month later. I was never tempted to stay with him. Oddly, we really did seem to get along better as friends, and I started enjoying the time we spent together again.

Until one night when he said, "Tell me the truth. Are you still attracted to me? Have you at all considered having sex again?"

He wanted the truth? I told it, and it felt good.

No. No, not for one single second.

He leapt out of bed. "Liar!" and then he left.

A few minutes later, he came back, and poured a pitcher filled with ice water and cubes on me under the covers. I started screaming and jumped on him. He threw me off, and dragged me into the living room. I was hitting at him, half angry for the water, and half just trying to get him away from me. He backhanded me across the face, and I shut down, went numb. He grabbed me to hug me, and I couldn't move. I couldn't even tell him to get away from me, to never ever touch me again. I let him herd me back to bed, where he put new dry sheets on the bed, tucked me in, and curled around my stiff, uncomprehending body. Before we drifted off to sleep, he started laughing. "I'm sorry, but that was thoroughly enjoyable, that water."

I moved out, and we stayed in touch a little bit, mostly because I was scared of what his reaction would be if I cut things off entirely. In the end, he gave me a reason to, and I stopped answering the phone. After a very, very long while he stopped calling. After, I unlisted my phone numbers, and kept my name off apartment buzzers. I breathed a sigh of relief when I got promoted at work and got a new extension number he wouldn't know. We never spoke again.

I've seen him three times since. The first, two years later, he was walking in my new neighborhood, the second place I moved after leaving him. I kept my head down--luckily, I was wearing a hat--and was terrified that he had moved into my neighborhood. I had a panic attack every time I saw a turquoise Ford Focus driving past me on the street. It became instinct to scan the backs for the particular bumper sticker I remembered.

Nine years later, I doubt he's still in Chicago, or even has the same old car, but I still lose my breath at turquoise Ford Focuses.

The second, a year or two after the first incident, I was volunteering for a concert at my guitar school. I was sitting near the sound booth, keeping track of the set list. I was hidden in back. I saw a guy up front. He shook his hair out, raised his arms to tuck his hair behind his ears, and my stomach dropped. It was a specific gesture I will remember as Kevin's forever. It is branded on my brain. I spent the rest of the concert reminding myself to breathe, and ran out the back door afterwards.

The third and last time, I was on a date. This was perhaps four or five years after we broke up. The date was going horribly already and near the end of it, I got up to go to the bathroom and walked past the bar. Kevin was sitting there, waiting for a table with a woman. I don't know if he saw me. I went back to my date and started crying. We left. How do you explain to a second-date why you start crying after returning from the bathroom?

I don't think much about him anymore. I made pretty specific choices to date guys a whole world of different from him. I don't flinch at anger anymore and bow my head. But it's surprising how quickly I can remember it all like it was yesterday.

I want a friend

Tomorrow, there's a chance I may see a woman I want to be my new best friend. I've only seen her twice, and talked to her once. She just seems like someone I would be friends with. I talked to her November-ish at the last Task Force against Domestic Violence monthly meeting that we both attend. And there's another meeting tomorrow.

It takes a lot for me to just strike up a conversation with a stranger (if I already have something invested in the conversation, like, say, I think the person is cool and want to get to know them), but I knew she worked at the rape crisis center, and I had an issue to talk about with one of their employees. So I figured it would be a good start. Of course, I forgot to ask her name, or introduce myself, so I am a bonehead.

I hate being in the vulnerable position of thinking someone is cool, and wanting to be their friend. Or even worse, really wanting and needing friends. It's always easier to strike up friendships when you don't actually need them.

So anyway, I've been giving quite a bit of thought to possibly seeing her tomorrow, and how to not-at-all awkwardly say, "hey, I'm new to the city; you seem cool; want to get a drink sometime?" I hate how much thought I'm giving it. It makes me feel a little sick inside. It's enough to make me say, "Alright, already! I don't need a new friend badly enough to feel so gross about how much I'm thinking and planning what I'm going to say."

Except that I do need friends. I think lack of friends is the last thing that's keeping me from being really happy here.

I hate making new friends. I'm so bad at it. It's like having to ask out a new guy, except that it's more stressful. I never had a problem asking guys out. With girls, if I think they are cool, it suddenly becomes vitally important that they think I'm cool in return, (but I never actually believe people value me like that) so I psyche myself out of exploring potentially wonderful new friendships.

I hate this about myself. I don't understand how I could have self-confidence about everything in my life but my personality. I feel like it's something I could talk about for years in therapy (and I have before), yet not change about myself.

My kind of party

I wasn't looking forward to the party we went to last night. There are always a lot of people I don't know at parties like this, incurably hip people who annoy the hell out of me. The reason we go, though, is that these parties are thrown by one of Tim's childhood friends, J, another impossibly hip person who is also a Really Good Person, and his girlfriend K.

Tim thinks I go overboard when we have friends for dinner. I spend a long time mulling over the menu, and come up with much deliciousness, including fabulous desserts we'd never make just for ourselves. Sometimes I think that our guests can be slightly uncomfortable at the amount of effort I put into things, not realizing how happy I am planning and making sumptous meals.

But this is nothing compared to J and K. They go so very far overboard that it is ridiculously fun to see what they come up with. In an "oh my god, I get to eat this food?" way, and also in a "oh no, they didn't!"

Last night there was a grill going all night, churning out charred vegetables, marinated tofu, pork skewers, flank steak, many different sausages. Out of nowhere, a skate wing appeared, just because it was on sale, and J wanted to try it.

In the dining room, there was an immense table filled with fresh watermelon and pineapple, rice, corn salsa, shish kabobs. In the living room was the bar area. All the liquor you could hope for, and a huge soup tureen filled with sangria made with blood-orange soda, among other things. In the freezer, homemade sangria baby popsicles.

Planted in the middle of the kitchen was K, standing over a deep fryer. Knowing of its presence, we brought hush puppy batter. But the dough sat next to the fryer for a few hours, while K first shaved sweet potatoes into the boiling oil, then sweet potato fries, and finally, yellow tomatoes dipped in a beer batter she whipped up on the spot.

Finally it was time for the hush puppies, and I spent about half an hour watching over them, and listening to people rave. By that time, it was late, and the drunken suggestions about what to fry next were pouring in. J got out a vacuum-sealed can of Pillsbury croissant dough. He and Tim fashioned them into circles, and golden doughnuts soon rose to the top of the boiling oil. Sprinkled with powdered sugar, I swear I have never in my life had a better donut!

Meanwhile, K was still in the kitchen, chopping rubarb stalks and warming strawberries in a pot with fresh ginger. She poured the strawberry mix over the rubarb and put it in the oven to make a crumble.

We couldn't stay for it. I was getting tired.

K's friends are used to her staying in the kitchen, and will drift by through the night to chat. It was the kind of party I've always wanted to host. To be in my kitchen all night, making deliciousness for friends who have come to visit. Yes, that's my kind of party.

I have friends

I have friends now. It's strange and wonderful. I've never had friends like this.

I know them both from work. Sally, I recruited to play on my tennis team. We were partners last night and lost mightily, but had so much fun.

Fran and I have sipped wine together at an art museum First Friday event. Last weekend, I took her to my bead store, then we drove around town to various craft stores looking for sheet metal. Later, we went to Sonic, drank limeades, and sat in the car talking for a long time.

This weekend, I'm having them over for chili and pumpkin pie, a Halloween movie party just for us. Today we're carving a pumpkin together for work's Fall Festival carving contest.

They just popped into my office with a limeade for me. So when I said it's also strange having friends, it's because I'm not used to such thoughtful people. A limeade is not much, but remembering I like plain lime and not cherry lime is a thoughtful gesture to me.

So cool and wonderful.

Alone for the summer

I feel some guilt admitting this, but I don't really miss Tim. He's been gone nearly a month. I was dreading this summer so much, remembering how miserable I was the first two times we did the distance.

I've been so busy, really, I don't even have my own time, so it's something of a relief to have the house to myself. I come home late from the show, and zone out for a little while before going to bed. I don't have to plan and make meals because I don't really eat them regularly anymore. As much as I love living with him, I like being in the apartment by myself again. It reminds me of the four blissful years I was able to live alone. Additionally, the cats are so very needy with him gone--particularly Olivia--so I get cuddles all night long from one kitty or another.

I don't know what it will be like once the play is over. It's what's occupying most of my time outside of work. Finally I'll have some evenings to just lay on the couch and stare at the ceiling, doing nothing and loving it.

Even though I have no free time whatsoever, I'm also doing more socializing than I used to. The friends I made in school are now friends I don't feel like I have to qualify by saying "school friends." And when there are things to do, invitations to accept, it always feels like such a luxury to be able to turn them down to settle in at home. (Very different than when settling in at home is the only option.)

The only problem is that when I'm running at full throttle, every now and then, I feel this twinge, an empty ache inside. I've identified it as barely hanging on--that when the frenetic pace of life slows, I'll have nothing tangible to hold onto, because then it will occur to me that I am by myself, and the person I usually curl up to and get my peace from is away.

School and stuff

I haven't been contributing much to class lately. My classmate S and I were discussing the general lack of good conversation and insight overall in our program, and so I resolved to speak up. I didn't say anything ground-breaking, but I think I raised a few good points yesterday. Once, I was asking for clarity on something the professor said, but instead of just asking what she meant, I explained why I was confused from a historical perspective, and asked how that meshed with her statement. (Yes, very deep. ha!) I don't think she understood where I was coming from, but I didn't feel like pursuing it, so I just nodded at her answer and said, "fine."

Afterwards everyone gathered with their project groups, and S and J (in my group) both said, "I knew that look!" Evidently they could tell by my response and my face that I was unsatisfied by the professor's response but was trying to politely hide that.

It warmed me to the cockles of my heart that they knew me well enough to pick up on that. I have friends!

In addition, there is another classmate in our group who is super cool but suffering the aftereffects of being friends with a superbitch last semester. Now that the bitch is gone, the rest of the class has embraced her. I made an effort to strike up a conversation with her several times during the day, and once she did with me, complimenting my hair.

It's like How to Make Friends 101. It's really pretty funny to recognize exactly what's going on, but it's also awesome to see someone making an effort for me.

I had forgotten that last semester I slipped into a little depression, and I feel it happening again. There's just SO MUCH insecurity that blankets me in mostly all I do involving school. The internship has ceased to be the joy of my existence and has become something highly stressful. I'm in the midst of finding a new placement for next year, and as I talk myself up, writing in cover letters that I excel at working from trauma-informed perspective, I wonder still why anyone would give me a hard-core therapy internship. How could I possibly be a therapist? I am abjectly terrified of it, yet I couldn't bear to try anything else next year. I must get a therapy placement.

I dreamed about him again

The boy I was madly in love with from age eight to thirteen.

The one who was my lab partner in eighth grade.

Who went to the same church my family joined.

The boy who was killed in a car accident just shy of his 21st birthday.

I dream about him occasionally. Infrequently. In my dreams, we are much closer than we were in life, though one of my last encounters with him was when he and his friends crashed a party at my house, and we did a drunken duet of "Dust in the Wind," so I'm glad in the end, we were friends.

In my dreams, we're always good friends or lovers. It pleases me greatly to have such positive dreams, because in my experience, the times I want or need good dreams are usually the times I end up in a nightmare.

But anyway, in the beginning, we interacted in a very snippy way (the whole "if a boy teases you, it means he likes you" thing), but I think I made a conscious switch to dream about a contemporary interaction, to act the way I would around a boyfriend right now. Weird. --to make a conscious choice in dreaming, because I've never been able to do that. (At most, I can sometimes wake myself up out of a nightmare if I don't want it to continue.)

So it was just a little, lovely dream. It's a really wonderful way to remember him.

Church

At the conference last week, one of the breakfast keynote speakers was a Chicago police officer, ordained minister, and survivor. She was a very powerful speaker. The topic was Faith and Domestic Violence, I think. She opened with prayer, and said stuff like, "We as Christians need to . . ." and I closed her out. I thought, "How dare you assume we're all Christians?" I knew at least one woman besides myself in the room was definitely not one: the Indian woman who was yesterday's keynote speaker.* Her comments were punctuated with murmured "amens" through out the room; I was so uncomfortable. Then she recited a bible verse (maybe? I don't know. Maybe a poem.) and I realized I was singing it in my head. It was a song that I remembered from church camp.

* (I don't think I'm Christian anymore. And yet, somehow it feels blasphemous to say that outloud.)

And then I wondered: why am I struggling so hard against this? When I looked past my initial reactions of indignation and uncomfortableness, I remembered the comfort of religion. I remembered how church camp changed my life.

So we went to church on Sunday. It was one Tim had been to once or twice with a classmate. It was relatively new, held in the movie theatre. There was a worship band (usually made up of a drummer, bassist, guitarist, and a few singers), and the minister had a cordless mic so he could roam the floor. It opened with the band leading some songs. The music was typical electrified acoustic contemporary Christian, but no songs I knew in the past. But there was something to it.

My throat closed up, and I couldn't sing. I wanted to run, to leave the theatre and wait for Tim in the car. I thought I was having a panic attack. A few tears leaked out.

And I still don't know exactly why I was so scared. I think it relates to camp, and my memories. If you opened me up, I'd have a big frozen spot inside that holds together everything about camp.

* * *

It was the place where, in high school, I spent three summers talking about God and faith, and making amazing friends. Then in college, three summers counseling. I loved counseling even more. I got to spend six weeks there, instead of just one; and it was a magical place. When I left, and went back to my regular life, it was hard to see God everywhere, and live a spiritual life. There, it was just the way of life, and we all existed in a perfect bubble of nature, lazy days, friends, and the constant presence of God.

The first year, I counseled for myself. Since I loved being a camper, being a counselor was the logical next step. I made incredible bonds with my co-counselors. I thought these were friends I'd have for the rest of my life. The next two years, I did it for the kids. I remembered what an affect my own counselors had on me, and I couldn't believe kids came back the next year looking for me, excited to have me as their counselor because they loved me the year before.

The last year I was there, it was all about the kids. My coworkers were all assholes. (Strange, that would happen at a Christian camp.) Senior high week, my co-counselor slept outside on our porch with whichever campers wanted to. One night, I awoke to hearing them all whispering. My co-counselor took the lead in telling sexist and rascist jokes. I couldn't believe it. I should have gotten up, asked him to take a walk with me, and said, "look, this is incredibly inappropriate, and it makes me sad and uncomfortable." But I was shy, and just laid there crying all night. In the morning, I went to the director and begged her to let me quit and told her why. She didn't, or rather, she asked me to stick it out for another week (I was leaving early anyway--this was the summer I studied in Ireland). Because she was a good friend and a good boss, I did. It was hellish.

Because of that summer (and there's more; I'm not telling the whole story), whenever I'd think back on camp, it was with a bad taste in my mouth. All my dreams about it ended up as nightmares. (That is not a metaphor. I'd jerk away in the middle of the night, my heart pounding, or tears bathing my face.) It seemed like my entire six-year experience there was ruined because of that last summer. My feelings run deep, and are incredibly conflicted.

So that's probably why I wanted to run away and cry on Sunday.

We decided this movie theatre congregation wasn't the church for us, when we got home and Tim wanted to talk about it, and all I wanted to do was run the vacuum as loud as it could go, and not think. I couldn't even tell him what my feelings were because I couldn't articulate them. I just had this huge weight on my chest. But as we got to cleaning (the only way I was able to carry on a conversation), we realized that more than anything, we wanted to set Sunday aside as a special day. I felt happier cleaning and talking with him than I did listening to the minister talk about women's special blessings (in honor of Mom's Day).

So this is going to be our Sunday: awaken and have a good breakfast. Once a month, go to church. The next Sunday, conduct our own "church." The following, house cleaning. The next, our own church, and so on. I'm pleased with it.

Because I don't talk enough about the weather

I went walking outside last night, and the weather reminded me so much of what I grew up with in Kansas. I can't believe I'm finding it down here; I love it.

There was something powerful about the melancholic dark dampness of Kansas springs. In Chicago, it was grey for months, and then suddenly in the summer, hot as hell. In Kansas, and Alabama, the springtime sun dips behind a cloud, and the sky turns into rumbling dark moments of thunder and rain. It reminds me of high school. As much as I think, in theory, that high school was something to be endured, survived, and forgotten, there were times of incredible brilliance, too. My favorite memories are enclosed in a rainy day.

Prom. Junior, senior year? It doesn't matter anymore. They both took place during a spring storm. Suddenly school hierarchy melted away, and everyone was best friends. I attended both with my girl friends, no dates, and there was something fun and carefree about it, rather than depressing because of the lack of boy attention. I got to dance with someone I'd never admit to having a crush on. The (junior) prom I engineered ended up a masterful success. At an after-party, the class asshole taught me how to use a lasso, and we were friends for a brief moment. (That could have, of course, presaged our random drunken one-night-stands in college, but who knew at the time?) The after-after-party, the first party I ever attended that had beer (I was sheltered!), and an NC-17 movie. We ran barefoot in our princess dresses through the puddles to our cars, and we all drove home at dawn, still raining, to sleep for the whole weekend.

In Chicago, the grey-ness of winter drags at the soul, and it seems interminable to even hope that the sun is just in hiding. The grey days here have power behind them. A hint of menace, and thunder, and an exciting promise. Spring, rebirth? Seems like such a fucking cliche. But still.

Joy

Last night I dreamed that I went back to my old job in Chicago, and all my friends were so excited to see me. Gradually that turned into people from high school being excited to see me. There was a lot of swooping and hugging in the weightless way dreams have.

It was noteworthy to say that lots of the boys wanted to make out with me, but the thing I remember best is all the joy in the dream. I was so excited to see everyone, and they were excited to see me! I miss that pure joy of seeing friends I love and miss.

Tim and I went out for sushi and a good talk last night, and it was a lovely night. There's a joy in having good bonding time with him, a reaffirmation of why we love, and why we work so well together, but it's completely different.

I miss the friend joy. I just miss having friends.

How much do I love my family?

I love my family. I knew that before, but I realized it full-force after returning from Alabama.

I'm not just talking about my sister, mother, and father. There is my grandmother, 5.5 uncles (only one who lives all that far away; and the half includes a new-ish, not-yet-married-into-the-family one), 5 aunts (again, only one who lives all that far away), and 10.5 (again, one new-ish, not-yet-married-into-the-family one--who I can't wait to meet!) cousins. (And I suppose it would only be fair to also include a mother-in-law, sister-in-law, nephew; oh yeah, and my father-in-law and his wife.)

I know not everyone is lucky enough to be so close to their extended family. During the lesser holidays, like Easter, when my parents aren't in Chicago, I spend it with my relatives and feel enveloped by warmth and love. It is truly spectacular. If I seriously consider it, I'd say family parties are among the most fun I can have in a large (and I mean large) group of people. There's just such a level of comfort among people who have known and loved me for 31.5 years.

And yet, one of the things I treasure the most is how that hasn't remained static for my entire life. I'm able to be friends with my aunts and uncles now, and my cousins, after not knowing them much since I didn't grow up in Chicago like most of them did, well, they've turned into really awesome adults.

Next weekend, we are going out for a Family Dinner. Deciding on the right restaurant took about thirty e-mails, which is what happens when you have twenty opinionated Polish-Czechs trying to come to a consensus. In the past year, we've started gathering, every three, four months or so, outside of the regular family parties for holidays and birthdays, to try new restaurants and drink a lot of beer (in fact, the restaurant was chosen primarily for its BYOB-ness, since, holy crap, the Bartas can put away the zimny piwo). It's fantastic. I love so much that we're getting together . . . because we want to. You know you have something special when you want to spend time with your family outside of the requisite holidays.

I guess the next opportunity for a party will be my graduation. I have made a lot of great friends throughout the whole grad school process, and I want to commemorate it somehow with them. However, all I can think about is: what a great family party that will be!

Glorious sadness

Just a small town girl, livin in a lonely world
She took the midnight train goin anywhere
Just a city boy, born and raised in south detroit
He took the midnight train goin anywhere

When I was in college, I had what I thought was a great idea for a short story. I think it was about an abused woman. My boyfriend at the time started yelling at me, "Why can't you write anything happy??" He didn't understand when I said that sadness was more compelling.

I've always been drawn to it. I have that luxury, I suppose, given that I have had a overwhelmingly normal, functional life filled with much happiness. There's a hyperreality to sadness, an idea of, "this is it; this is what it means to really feel."

That must explain why I am obsessed with 80s music. It's desperate and sad, melodies that plaster themselves across a heart and chest that is barely keeping it together. One note away from falling apart. Listening to it summons the feelings, the physicality of it in an instant.

When I was in junior high, I got invited to a slumber party at D's house. I don't know why. Perhaps her mother suggested it. We certainly weren't friends. She was sweet and kind, and popular for those reasons, but she also continually sported a leather jacket from her much older boyfriend (she started dating high school boys when we was in the 5th grade, yet as far as I knew, never suffered any vicious talk behind her back about it). To note that these jackets, the succession of them, were probably Members-Only jackets really puts a damper on how thoroughly bad ass they seemed. For she didn't date the cross country team, the basketball team; she dated the guys who took welding for the express purpose of pouring their creative energies into making water pipes and got caught smoking behind the gym instead of participating in P.E. class. Guys she somehow tamed into watching their language and politely extinguishing their butts when she came around.

This was the girl who invited me to a slumber party. This was the girl about whose parties I'd heard whispered rumors. To say I was rattled and mystified at my invitation is an understatement. I wondered if it was a joke or if she had somehow lost a bet and I was the butt of it.

It was unlike any sleepover I'd ever been to. We got to order pizza, and drink Mountain Dew in her room, making prank calls on her private phone line. Her bedroom walls were plastered with posters of Warrant, Stryker, and Motley Crue. We watched videos on MTV (a channel I had only heard about). D talked knowledgeably about the themes in her favorite song, "Janie's Got a Gun," using words I had never even heard before, and she sighed over Nikki Sixx and Janie Lane.

Then her boyfriend drove past. He and his friends picked us up, and we cruised Main for a while. It was something I knew older kids to do; never imagined I would do it, too. The high school boys blared their hair metal and tolerated us waving our arms out of the windows in the air stream and shrieking.

It was almost too much for my system. Wired on caffeine and newness, the whole evening had a dreamlike quality. It became imperative to cross my arms in front of my chest, holding myself together in an attempt to keep my chest from breaking open and merging with the night. I didn't know how to stop it, how to put on the brakes and regain control out of the heady dizziness that the night became. I didn't want to. I didn't want it to ever end. It was wildly beautiful, desperate, and sad. I couldn't have articulated it then, but I sensed something beyond my experience, beyond my maturity, about the gorgeous tragedy of boys looking for excitement in a dead-end small town, of beautiful, ripening girls, children really, anxiously expanding the boundaries of experience.

Getting to know you

When I was a freshman in college, I was hanging out a lot with a guy named Tony who got a new roommate halfway through the first semester, Gene. Tony spent a lot of time away from the room, because he didn't know the guy--thought he was weird. One night I went over there when both of them were home, and instead of going out, I had both of them settle in, and I gave Gene the third degree. For the next few hours, he talked about himself and answered every question I could think to ask. (It was fairly easy; I quickly discovered Gene really liked to talk about himself.) By the end of the evening, Tony knew Gene inside and out, and Gene was my new best friend.

College was conducive to getting to know people. Everyone seemed eager to throw everything they were at everyone they met, "this is me, this is me!". I remember hours and hours of bad poetry (most of it mine), shared in cramped dorm rooms. For a long time, that's how I began relationships (what did I know? Then I was a novice.)--by reading all my tortured poetry, and listening to theirs. Once an entire (albeit shortlived) relationship revolved around sharing Jim Morrison lyrics.

I felt I'd miss out on friendship and relationship opportunities if I didn't spill everything. Or that there couldn't be any secrets; someone couldn't really get to know me unless they knew everything.

The older I get, the less comfortable I am with that. Who I really am is a protective layer, and I feel too exposed to share it all too soon. Thus, I am somewhat taken aback by people who share (what I think is) too much, who become friends too quickly. Sometimes I find people with whom I am immediately comfortable. I talk and talk, and while I should take that as a sign that I've met a compatible soul, later, I'm still a little embarrassed, to realize how much I've revealed.

I'm drawn to the quieter, more reticent people. (It's a trap I fell into all too easily when dating, believing it was the shy boys who held the real mystery. My friend Bob said, "maybe they're just boring," but I always believed I was the one to whom they'd open up.) It does seem more exciting, finding things out slowly, and infinitely more satisfying. It's getting to gradually form an entire picture bit by bit in your mind yourself, rather than being presented at once with the entire thing.

But sometimes it makes for surprises. I have a friend from school whom I adore. It's taken a while to get to know her, but now we are fairly close. The only thing about her that I can't reconcile is that she hates cats and dogs. The idea I have in my head of her, the one that's been constructed by slowly getting to know her (and other friends agree) is that she most definitely would be a cat lover. It baffles me that my assessment was wrong. But I suppose that's the interesting part of it, too, reconfiguring who I believe she is.

Stress

Maybe stress is so embedded in my life now that I fail to notice it affecting me. But Tim does, which led to a big meltdown and discussion last night. From what I was saying, he mentioned that a lot of the feelings I have towards school right now are ones I've told him I struggled with in the past, in school. It's horrifying to realize that, at thirty, I'm still working on the same insecurity issues I had at thirteen, sixteen, eighteen . . . Humiliating, too, for I thought I had grown up and become stronger.

The one social place I feel safe and comfortable in right now is the theatre, doing Gorey. Tim thinks it's because a lot of people escape to the arts to get external validation for their insecurity, but I don't want to be reduced to a simple (and slightly insulting) explanation. I think it's because I know the role through and through. It's not new to me, and I feel comfortable and confident that I can successfully do it. (That everyone likes me and appreciates me there is almost secondary to feeling confident about it.)

But as I say that, I realize that the shelter is also a safe haven for me, too. I know what I'm doing, and I can tell that I'm good at it. (This will be the sixth year that I've worked there.)

Which makes me fully realize how off balance I have been for the past three months. Thrust into so many new situations, which, no matter how much I think I enjoy them, still make me feel inexperienced, insecure, and just generally bad at what I do, since I don't swoop in and become immediately successful.

Not just job-wise, but also making friends.

It feels like almost everyone in my class is outgoing and gregarious. (Perhaps that's the typical nature of social worker, and I'm just an oddity.) And they naturally gravitate towards each other. I feel that my quiet nature works against me, and I'm losing the opportunity to make good friends.

That's not true, of course. I know a few classmates who value me quite a bit. But the stupid insecurity in me still thinks that's not enough. I guess I think that I am a pretty cool person, who does have a lot of interesting things to say, if given the chance. And that strikes me as confidence. Right?

Back to school

I went to campus today, to get my student ID and pick up the transit pass. I also went to the student union for the book store, and bought an incredibly expensive used book, thus completing my textbook collection for first semester.

I felt old. I haven't been on a campus in years, and walking past eighteen-year-old new freshmen made me feel like I was from another planet.

I walked past one of the dorm on the way to the union, and I tried to remember how I felt at this time, many years ago, when I was getting ready to start college. It was pretty painful to even think about. I'm glad it's something that I've moved past and won't have to repeat. But it's on my mind because of starting school again.

I'm terrified, yet can't wait to start. I'm scared I'll turn shy again and won't be able to make friends with my classmates, but I'm excited to have new friends, and to delve into something that I'm passionately interested in. I have no idea what to expect.

Photos

Last night I put on some good music and dug through my photo pile. As much as I love having a digital camera, I am so grateful for the old cameras that spawned loads of pictures of my past. I learned a lot, too--mostly that most of my hairstyles were serious missteps, and I need someone to sit me down and firmly tell me exactly what haircut I am best suited for.

I also used to be a lot more photogenic. I have millions of pictures of me leaning into a friend, us beaming widely and authentically--and beautifully. I don't remember having more self-confidence when I was younger (in college and after). But I do see so much happiness in the pictures, which is a universal beautifier. And friends. I see lots of friends. That's got to be what's missing now.

Another reason for looking through pictures: A friend asked about summer camps, and I thought of mine, Googled it, and found a web page for it. There were enough pictures that I could tell how much it had changed--and hardly recognized it. I made my way to the staff list for the upcoming summer, and saw a name I knew under Art Director. It took the wind out of me. If my memory does not fail me, she was my favorite camper 4th- and 5th-grade week my second year of counseling. That would have made her, what, nine or ten? And now she's the art director at the camp that, when I was there, could barely sustain crafts hour once a week for the littler kids.

I feel so old.

So I looked through my camp photos, and found a few pictures of her and me. I think I'm going to get copies made then send her a note with the pictures this summer at camp. I feel a bit tentative about it, as I always do contacting people with whom I'm long out of touch, but I remember what it was like at camp. I hope they still do post-lunch mail call, make a big fuss out of people who receive a lot of letters, and sign them up for an act in the weekly talent show. I would have loved to get a letter from an old counselor sharing memories with me, remembering me. I don't know, though, if I had been a camper at ten, if I would have remembered my counselor ten years later. I do know how influential counselors are, and I do still remember the ones I had the years I attended in high school. It could be like always remembering your first-grade teacher.

God I feel old.

Music at home

Last night Fran invited me to an event one of her classmates was putting on. She didn't know many details, so I didn't know what to expect. It was a musical review (revue?) that had been picked up by Broadway recently, a play written by a local singer-songwriter based on Lee Smith's Fair and Tender Ladies.

We walked into her classmate Joe's tall, Colonial home, into a big living room stripped bare of furniture, filled with people watching a man on bass and a woman on guitar, singing. They did a few songs, then other people picked up instruments and moved into what I think was the dining room, filled with amps and microphones. A tiny boy dressed in a flaming cowboy shirt, snakeskin boots, and a black ten-gallon that fell to his nose swaggered out, carrying a guitar that covered most of his body. He was 7, and a Hank Williams impersonator. It was really the most precious thing I've ever seen. His singing was, well, you know, he's seven. But I was blown away by how his teeny fingers hopped from chord to chord with ease--he didn't even have to look! (Sometimes I have to look.)

The crowd was mostly grandparents and middle-aged folks when we arrived, but as the night went on, a younger crowd started showing up, and it was clear by the time we left that an afterparty was brewing in the backyard. Joe's friends seemed like the type I would enjoy. He seemed to be about my age, very personable and good looking, goateed, with a poplin fedora, thick silver ring on his pinky, and trendy pointy black shoes like I'm always trying to interest Tim in.

Fran and I mostly stuck to watching the music, and talking to Joe whenever his rounds would place him in our vicinity. He introduced us to his friends once, and they seemed really cool, but we weren't feeling that social. It was fun for me just to get to hang out with her. The music was easy to sit back and listen to. I haven't been able to hang out and listen to live country or folk in a long time.

Towards the end of the evening, Joe played a few songs. One of them, "Valentine," stuck in my head like a burr in cotton. I knew it front to back, but couldn't remember from where. I asked, and he said, "Old 97s." Of course. I started talking about music, and as soon as the words "alt-country" left my mouth, I could feel the light go on inside me, and I knew if things were different, in my old life, that would have been the moment when the evening changed, and lengthened, the water in my hand would have become a beer, then another, and the crowd would thin, then disappear, and eventually, I'd tiptoe out the next morning in the bright sunlight with a phone number in the back pocket of my jeans.

Musicans get me every time.

In a much more wholesome way, the night reminded me of being a kid and going to the Music Emporium for concerts. It was a dusty music store that would open its storage space in the back on weekends for shows. It started out small, a potluck dinner, people sitting on boxes or bringing their own lawn chairs. The kids would run around in the front where the instruments were, and try to count all the frog trinkets and figurines (plus the lazy cat named Frog who slept in plush guitar cases) that the owners collected. I once spent a concert sketching the guitar player bent over playing. I remember the folds of his workshirt and the smooth, reckless curve of the instrument were my favorite parts to draw. My parents pushed me up afterwards to present him with the picture. I was probably eight or ten.

The evening made me think of how I want my home to be someday, filled with laughing people with a beer in one hand and an instrument in the other. I want to host evenings like this, in our spacious home somewhere--preferrably in the middle of the country with a wide porch and a living room big enough for dancing. I want to draw creative people to me with temptations of my cooking, and Tim's love of playing music.

It was a really wonderful evening.

Winter solstice

I've always wanted to celebrate the solstice. The last time I did was in high school, when Hannah had a solstice party. I think we probably had dinner, then sat around talking all night. Though that's probably how our group of friends passed many of evenings together, this was different because we didn't usually hang out at Hannah's, and celebrating the solstice was special--almost deviant in the area we grew up--which probably led to its allure.

Though I've never actually took the time to become knowledgeable about ancient pagan rituals, I've always been drawn to them. Being able to celebrate the solstice--well, what does that even mean?

Tonight we had a few friends over, and we grilled and ate by candlelight. I don't know if Tim thought there was a bunch of frozen meat we needed to eat, or if he wanted to cook by fire--for he mentioned a tradition that on the solstice, you extinguish all the fire by the end of the night. (And I'm too lazy to Google for that information.)

I do a lot of apologizing for our apartment. The carpet is dirty and stained, and we never seem to have control over the clutter.

But in candlelight, it's perfect. And as Tim and his castmates left to do another run of "Christmas Carol," I blew out the candles and was left alone with only the weak light from our tiny Christmas tree.

It was peaceful. Quiet. Calm. Mindful.

It seemed like the perfect way to celebrate the solstice. And lo, another tradition is born.

Smashed

This weekend, I couldn't put down Smashed: Story of a Drunken Girlhood. I was enthralled. It was first a love letter to alcohol, then a cautionary tale. (All in all--a memoir.)

I must admit, her first words about alcohol put me in the mind to have one more drink than usual. I remembered the softening, the expansion, the glow of alcohol hitting my brain. The way I throw my head back and laugh deeply, instead of quiet smiling. I thought about how gathering over beers is a good way to end the week, or to bond with new friends.

And then I went out Sunday, to a tavern, to drink two Blue Moons and meet Tim's cast. I wish I could achieve the same relaxed state without alcohol, but I'm not going to lie about it: I also just love Blue Moon, so I'd probably drink it even if it weren't fermented. The next day, I was in agony. Obviously I don't drink frequently enough if two beers--two!--are going to slay me, and mightily. My head ached all day, despite fountain coke, a greasy lunch, and many ibuprophens. (Not to mention that my allergies--to dust! Not alcohol!--are heightened by drinking, so I couldn't breathe in addition to the hangover.)

It made me reflect on a different part of Smashed, where she talks about binging five to six nights a week. I just can't imagine. I've never even been able to get through hair of the dog, for the thought of more alcohol after a night of excess makes me swear off it for days. The craving leaves me--my own refractory period for the next drink. It's worse as I get older, of course; I remember partying to oblivion in college, and feeling no worse for the wear the next day.

I suppose I'm lucky that the joy of excess does not continue to be lure enough to make up for the recovery time. But I can understand the author's love. The way she described her painful shyness and insecurity in high school, that could have been me. I think the things stopping me from going down her path were a healthy (un?) love of maintaining control and a strong group of friends who did not drink. (I would also include parents who would have allowed me a drink with dinner, but it seemed like the author's parents were as permissable, but it didn't make a difference one way or the other.)

Contacting old friends

"Thinking about music, I dug out an old tape, dusted off my Walkman, and started listening to the mix tape that changed my life. Well, the person who did."

I wrote that in August, and periodically I think about it again, because the mix tape was just that good.

So while I consider recreating that worn-out tape on a CD, I also consider contacting that friend again. It's been nearly five years since we've last seen each other.

Since reconnecting powerfully and positively with old friends from high school, I am in more the mood to contact her, but I still have reservations.

In the past, it would have been insecurity. Particularly with this girl, whom I adored to a fawnish and embarrassing degree, and I would have wondered why she would want to hear from me. But now I think, "if she really did like me back then, surely she would enjoy me now." I mean, I am so much more a fully formed person and am WAY more interesting.

But now, the thing that gives me pause is the length to which I'd have to go to be in touch. I no longer have her e-mail address. After Googling her, I discovered what is probably her married name on a language translation Web site. I'd have to e-mail the owner of the page and ask her to pass along my contact information to my old friend. What I don't know now is if such an effort would be met with excitement or trepidation.

I would be really excited if an old friend tracked me down online, because it would be quite a task. Out of seven pages of Googled results, and every single one of them me, there is nothing personal there. And most of them point to my old job, on whose Web site at least my work e-mail was published. If someone unsavory sifted through all that and was able to contact me, I'd probably freak out. On the other hand, e-mail? So easy to just delete and ignore.

It's been so long, I wonder if it's worth bothering. But if she's still in Chicago, I'd love to see her again when I move back.