Today in “I Resent this”
Had a bad run. The second in as many weeks. I resent the fact that quitting smoking led me to put on 30 pounds that I’m having a hell of a time taking off. Every new person I meet I want to be like “I don’t really look like this, I promise.”
I resent the fact that I grew up with such a warped sense of self that all I see when I look in the mirror are my fat arms and my second chin (I’d see more but I haven’t owned a full length in 2 years). I hate that at this time two years ago I was running 20 miles a week and was on my weight to being the lightest I’d been since high school. Granted some of that ended up being the fact that I spent all of August 2011 throwing up every day because I have Celiac Disease. No matter, I looked great.
I resent the fact that I managed to make it 48 hours without rehashing my job interview and declaring it a failure when it probably wasn’t on some level.
I didn’t think I could do it. The journey back normalcy from rock bottom was long and winding and, probably better compared to a bumpy plane ride than to anything in a vehicle. There were hours, weeks, days where I thought I’d never do it again.
But there was a power at work that I had no control over. The power of people who care about me, who never lost faith when I yelled, cried, went silent, gave up. A great friend and one of the most important people in my life said to me today three words: never in doubt.
He followed up with this “Lizzy, I’m going to tell you what I tell everyone I believe in: now be great.”
The Love of my Life
So I’ve been sitting here, erasing lede after lede after lede after lede for about two hours. Lucille has been diligently at my side, in and out of consciousness the entire time. I looked over at her for a second while she was in …
“Lucille, you’re the only reason I know what love is, or know how to love anymore.”
Then she slow-blinked at me.
It’s hard to describe Patriots’ Day in Boston. We are the only state in the nation to celebrate the holiday which honors the very epicenter of the American Revolution. The Boston Marathon is a staple of this holiday, and pretty much everyone in the state comes out to cheer and celebrate and honor our history while celebrating the unbelievable athletes of the present.
I attended the Marathon with my family every single year. I got on the news once for blowing a way out of tune trumpet on the sidewalk in Wellesley. My memories of going are of screaming and cheering and trying to give hugs to the runners who go by.
Today, someone ruined that day, by setting off explosions when the runners who trained and trained to earn a spot in the race and don’t run 6 minute miles but run 10 or 11 were going to realize their dream of crossing that finish line in downtown Boston. Today they were deprived of that. But if I know runners (and I think I do) this won’t deter them, and I’d be willing to bet most of them go for it again next year.
Evil will always exist. But based on the outpouring of concern from friends and people I don’t even know, good is so much more prevalent. We should embrace the spirit of those runners who run those 11 minute miles. Determined. Passionate. Like my Massholes always are, occasionally to a fault. We don’t do anything halfway, we can’t. So grieve, Boston. But the bad won’t win. It never does. Because there is so much more good in the world. Shown today by the outpouring of concern not only to me, but to all of the runners and first responders. Embrace the good. Keep an eye out for the bad. But love always wins. Always.
I felt it. For the first time in my God at least two years, with my last go-round the romance hand grenade being questionable, I felt it again.
Dark hair and eyes. Intimidatingly smart. Basically the only three items on my checklist.
I don’t know how to flirt anymore. Maybe it’s that I’ve spent the last year kind of shut indoors, avoiding the world, and more importantly avoiding communicating with people who I didn’t trust with my life. The last two weeks though I’ve been good. I’ve gone out twice. I’ll probably go out again if opportunity arises. That’s how we met.
Flirting used to come to me like breathing. I got myself in so much trouble SO OFTEN because I’d inadvertently lead guys on when I was just being friendly or helpful. But a smile, a jab, a twirl of the hair and some giggling always did the trick. I still know how to do all these things, but they don’t flow as naturally as they once did, and I’m not all that confident in myself. Which does no one any good.
But that spark. I don’t know how to see if he feels it too. I don’t know how much to try and talk to him. I’m almost 32-fucking years old and I’m a shadow of the femme fatale I was in my 20s. Anyway, if anyone has any tips on how to figure out if a boy maybe not likes you but would entertain the idea, let me know. :)
A year later …
There are the scars. The physical, the ones that have faded gradually with time. There’s a tiny line through one of my freckles on my left arm. I remember that one.
The emotional and mental ones, well, no one can see those. And I’m the only person who knows where they are, and where they came from.
I used to mindlessly trust and welcome anyone I met into my world without a second thought. The world was a wonderful place, full of hope and happiness. That part of me was snuffed out last spring.
I’m no longer open, outwardly friendly. Nobody gets my trust right off. I’m quieter, more skeptical, comfortable slinking back and watching than participating. I don’t start conversations with strangers. You never know what their motives are.
Sleeping is the only time I feel good.
My decisions are not your buttons. You know exactly what I’m talking about, and I know you are reading this.
To Mindy McCready…
I’m sorry that things ended for you the way that they did. But believe me, I know how it feels where you’e convinced the world has turned it’s back on you. When the voices in your head yell, yell so loud that you can’t hear anything but “end it. end it. end it.” I’ve been there. I have never had any intention to kill myself ,but take a butcher knife to my non-fatal side of my arm I have. I escaped that trip to the hospital Then, there were the late night tweets where I was just lost, and I was really sure that between my job, the environmental i worked in that I didn’t want to deal with the condescension the attitude, the feeling that i was lesser than anyone else. The loss of a best friend. I was exhausted. Trapped in a bad relationship and a job that just wasn’t for me. None of this compares to what you went through, Miss McCready. You were going to bars with your mom as a young child. I was made fun of for my not yet fat body as a teenager. I was used by a lot of guys. You were used by a lot of guys. I never turned to drugs or alcohol, but I did turn to anger.
My two best friends hog-tied me into help and I went. I learned why I feel how I do. I’ve learned how to manage the feelings when they get bad. But most of all, I have bipolar disorder. More manic than anything else. If Mindy had gotten the help she needed, Celebrity Rehab was not it. A support system and a trained group of doctors may have given her another shot at life. I’m devastated your life ended like this. Nobody’s life should, but I pray and hope that wherever you are now, you have found the kind of piece that you never found on earth, Minday. Godspeed.