Stuck-o

“Your tears will never touch the floor again.” 

We had just finished exchanging massages when I rolled over, bra still unhooked, and began crying.

I was distant, staring somewhere beyond my stucco ceiling, and his body language was engaged. He puzzled into me as best he could and wiped every tear before they could touch the floor. Just as promised.

In that moment, I wanted to tell him what I saw penetrating through the stucco ceiling. But it’s a void I’m not sure I can find the words to fill.

Instead, I told him I hated the way he loved me. I hate that he cleaned up an entire Friday night party while I was at work on Saturday. I hate that he tackled the mountainous mess with me before the party — that he did it with kisses and rap music dancing and, “No babe, I’ll take out the trash.”

I hate it because I feel so unworthy. Not unworthy of love, certainly, but unable to return the dedication. That level is absolutely not where I am. I appreciate, dear GOD I appreciate a sweet man, and I’ll hug him genuinely, with the deepest sincerity. And I’ll love laughing with him before catching a glimpse of the stucco ceiling.

I see innate loneliness up there. I cling to it, like a baby blanket. It’s a comfort that I know and a comfort that I know I will one day have to let go.

That solitude… I don’t know what it is. Man, I crave it. I absolutely yearn for detached, for the moment, for waking up and knowing the day is mine, and I can do whatever I want without consulting another.

Without being able to express why or what’s beyond the ceiling, I’ve told him that much. I’ve told him to stop all that he does for me. Stop putting in so much when I am admittedly not willing to do the same. Full disclosure doesn’t fully prevail over the guilt, though.

I indeed stare teary-eyed into the stucco ceiling and ponder how I could deny or take for granted such commitment. I don’t want to say it’s because I’m afraid, because love fear is so cliche. But then, struggling to not be cliche is a cliche, as well.

I wrote the above last week, before this weekend-o-hell. I pushed him away sufficiently enough to see him talking to other girls at the club on Friday. Damn Victoria and always seeing someone you know.

I felt jealousy, pure and simple. But despite some free Patron shots, I had the maturity NOT to prove to myself I could snatch his heart back. Instead, I cried discretely at a corner table, my tears falling four feet to the ground.

He finally approached, apologized for doing exactly what I told him to do and whispered his devotion in my ear. All I could say was, “I just don’t want this.” A few minutes later, he frustratingly lied, saying he wished he’d never met me and hopes to never see me again. And I didn’t want any of it. The stupid drama, the jealousy, the guilt, the feelings, the insincere but hurtful words, the damn crying in the club. I don’t want it. Instead, I wanted nothing more than to dance to “Ms. New Booty” with my girls and use awful pick-up lines on boys.

Courtesy of Jennifer: “I just wanted to tell you you’re the second most attractive person I’ve seen tonight.”

“Say what?”

(point to myself)

It worked. You know, until the whole sloppy, “I just don’t want this,” sobs.

It’s not the right time, I suppose. Hello cliche, I’ve missed you. Nowhere in my foreseeable future do I anticipate letting anyone in on what I see in the stucco ceiling. While I can’t put a finger on why, it’s satisfying enough to argue that I just don’t want it. I just don’t.

I have this need for loneliness that, once appreciatively grasped, is somehow more powerful and addictive than any warm fingers on my wet cheeks.

If I please, I can stop the tears from reaching the floor just as well.

Real Shit

I’m halfway up the ominous high-dive ladder at the California city pool, ready to dive into the deep end. 

I’ve been climbing it for days.

I want to reach the top and fall and get it over with.

If I were a celebrity, I’d check into a clinic for “exhaustion” or “dehydration.”

But I’m just a journalist.

A criticized journalist.

“Yet another fine piece of reporting by Kayla Bell,” sarcastically said the anonymous online commenter, willing to publicly slam my name without the balls to provide his/hers.

Haters are the least of my worries, though they seem to make the high-dive ladder longer.

They add more anxiety and a more tormenting fall.

The real shit I’m dealing with is real shit.

Things I’ll never blog about, so don’t consider this a teaser.

Things I’ll never let ooze onto a happy face, so don’t think I’m okay.

I wonder if other people have secrets and feel terrifyingly alone.

Part of me hopes they do, so I feel less alone.

Part of me hopes they don’t, so they don’t have to feel this way.

Off the deep end is where I want to be already.

Intruder

I feel like a rubber band when I breathe. The thick, chalky kind, with a resistance perfect for popping younger siblings.

I gentle myself on top of a mangled comforter, inhale, exhale, expand, contract, inhale, exhale, faster, faster.

Wait.

I watch my heart pump red out of my skin. My chest becomes a bloody Jackson Pollock. An artist’s pain, if you’re looking on the bright side.

I’m not.

Wait.

Wait.

There it is. The release.

The rubber band broken, I am flung about the apartment. Bouncing from the mirror to the fridge, outside for air. Not really worrying if my neighbors will later inquire about the sobs they heard pouring from my balcony.

My worry well has reached its limit.

I rush around with blurred eyes because I’m not quite sure what will stop the tears. Clear my view. Perhaps stubbing my toe in the frenzy will really give me something to cry about. Snap me back into the physical world most people live in.

Anxiety. It’s a bitch.

As a now weekly, uninvited guest, I’ve been inclined to examine how exactly anxiety manages to kick down the deadbolts in my life. My positive-thinking, my support system, my acknowledgment that “girl, you ain’t got shit to trip on, fo real.”

But anxiety is a demon far too conniving for my measly attempts at being a strong woman (who apparently talks to herself like she’s not from rural Missouri).

Looking back, I think I’ve always been a little high-strung. I was always the girl who bawled after getting a “Needs Improvement” under the penmanship category on her second grade report card. The next quarter I received the “Most Improved Penmanship” award and later became a journalist, if only to have a job that would never require me to prove my handwriting abilities again.

I’ve always worried about the little things, always been convinced I’d be seated on that one airplane that dove into the sea.

And truly, I don’t know how to foil anxiety’s determination to drop by and wreak a little havoc every now and then. After all these years, I don’t know how to request a protective order. Only how to endure the abuse.

I don’t know how to say, “fuck off.”

Only, “(sigh) see you next week.”

American Failure

Woe. is. me.

It’s one of those blogs. Shameless bitching with a side of a bitch slap if you ever utter the phrase, “It could be worse.”

Yes, I have all my limbs, both boobs and both eyes, ten toes and ten fingers, only one of which I really need to use today.

Fuck today.

Today I woke up at 5 a.m. to cover the Victoria Idol winner at the American Idol auditions. This was after getting off work at 8 last night and arriving in Austin at 11:30. Add in chats with Dana Sweet and a sexy man, and I got about three hours of sleep.

No biggie, today was going to be a fun assignment. And it was. Crazy Austinites, stellar video shots, and I even somehow got security to let me in the building before I was escorted out by a cranky producer.

I was content just waiting outside to hear from the local winner, whom I had contacted over 5 times this week, twice before 6 a.m today. He said he would call when he was done inside so we could do an interview. He did not.

Interview–that he did. With our competitive TV station. Call me, he did not. Respond to texts, he did not.

At this point, I have to say, it’s not in any way his responsibility to talk to ME. He owes nothing to me or the newspaper. This is MY job. I empathize with his situation, seeing as he had more on his plate today than MY story.

But it was the verbal agreement of a call. It was that he knew I drove to Austin JUST for this story. And he knew I was outside waiting as early as 6 a.m.

You can imagine. A backpack stuffed with a laptop, video camera, two digital cameras and enough cords to wrap the damn arena twice. Plus a tripod. Plus, dude, Texas summer sun.

Despite having to squat over porta potties, I made the most of it–chatting with random awesome people and discussing Mizzou football with one father in particular. At 12:30, I finally found out my source was indeed not inside. He was on his way to Atlanta.

Again, HIS bag-o-stuff. His prerogative. He apologized and I’m sure never meant to cause me the inconvenience.

But nothing changes the fact that I was fucked. Nothing changes the fact that I couldn’t drink enough water in a week to make up for all of the sweat and tears I’ve released today.

“It’s just frustrating,” was all I could cry to my editor. Frustrating that I tried so hard but still failed. Frustrating that at the end of the day, I didn’t get the story for the newspaper that HAS to run, no matter the excuses. It’s so damn frustrating to have to tell my editors I didn’t get the job done.

It’s frustrating that I got lost a dozen times (GPS be damned), frustrating that I forgot to do and bring various things throughout the day, frustrating that I also had to write a correction on a story I did a few days ago.

On top of all that, I had to make two trips to Best Buy because I didn’t have the right ($40) cords to upload video in that entire backpack of nonsense. At least the Geek Squad will have some good stories to tell their friends about that girl who LOST HER SHIT in the store today.

‘Twas a 13-hour day of frenzies, frustration and failure.

‘Twas fucked, indeed.

Misplaced

My feelings are misplaced, but this is easier.

To know that when my world falls, he isn’t willing to drop his.

To free up his hands so that I fit.

As small as he tries to make me, you’d think I could squeeze into at least one palm.

d

One palm. To catch and hold the most basic of my emotions.

Pride aside.

If I can’t be needy now, when can I?

d

It’s easier to know he’s not there.

Than to think about what I really lost.

“That’s the way life goes,” he says.

Always diminishing my feelings because they’re not unique.

Only offering a fingertip.

d

To point. To show me where I’m unjustified.

Not that I need to be reminded.

I’m weak. Here. and here. and here.

d

I’m stronger, though.

Because I made it through grandpa alone.

While he played basketball, saying he’d hold me later.

Because sweat’s more fun than tears.

He’s better at holding a ball than anything worthwhile.

d

I’d rather be weak.

Sink into arms not strong from the gym, but from the sadness they’ve held.

Let me fucking grieve, you fucking asshole.

d

I hate because I hurt.

Because he’s not my childhood. He didn’t cook my meals and wrap my presents.

Didn’t pronounce “pizza” with two “s’s” and “sink” with a “z.”

Things I’ll never forget.

Including how his fists were closed.

d

My feelings are misplaced, but then, he’d be the first to tell me that.

Because I know him.

And I guess I should have known.

Girl of My Dreams

Nobody likes to listen to somebody else yak about their dreams, no matter how bizzare or prophetic or freaky or dirty they are. Well, the dirty ones can be intriguing. But zip your pants back up, cause that’s not what I have for you here.

Instead, I’m going to ramble off one of those dreams you don’t care about, but one that very seriously freaked me out. One that I can’t stop pondering. One of those dreams out of which you awake still crying, yet so relieved it wasn’t reality. But one that’s still so vivid and believable, it does permeate reality. It illuminates. It has a purpose.

.

Every so often, I dream it’s hours before my wedding, and I suddenly realize I don’t want to marry the man. I weigh the pros and cons in my head, worried about the money already spent on the wedding and all of our families who traveled to see us get hitched. The man I’m set to marry never has a face, and I never decide whether or not to go through with it. The dream is never resolved and just keeps popping up in my dreamworld.

.

Last night was different. The man in my dream had a face. You know who. (If you don’t know who, refer to the last 72 blogs). As usual, I realized I didn’t want to marry him. The vows freaked me out. I didn’t want to be insincere, but this time, I decided to go through with it. My family was there. They had paid for it. And he and I could work it out. I remember feeling beautiful. I remember the dress, and how it was backless all the way down to my ass. It made my ass look good. I was excited for him to see my ass. My dad was excited to walk me down the aisle. He said I was beautiful. He was crying.

.

But the groom had yet to show, and I knew he wasn’t coming to marry me. I couldn’t believe I had been so stupid to think he actually would. My heart pounding, I called him a dozen times before he answered. “You’re not coming, are you?” “Nah,” he said. And instead of yelling at him, instead of telling him how he made me feel, I told him I’d cover for him. And this is where the dream goes from sad to heartbreaking–I told him I’d cover for him so that we could still be together. I’d say he was running late and that instead of waiting, I had just decided to just postpone the wedding.

.

I didn’t want to be the girl who went back to the man who stood her up at the altar. My family would never let me forgive him, my friends would think I was crazy. So I lied for him. For me. So we could be together after. I told my mom to tell the guests to leave while I sat on the floor, my wedding dress sprawled around me, and cried. I remember hating the dress. I remember wanting to text him, but withholding. I remember wanting to text, “I’m so embarrassed,” and even in my dream stupor, reminded myself that “embarrassed” had two “r’s” and two “s’s.” But I didn’t want to bug him with a text. I didn’t want to be needy.

.

The dream has had me depressed all day. For as implausible as the dream may sound (no dress could make my ass look good), it’s based in so much reality, so many insecurities. Only I know it’s not that implausible. It’s scary to think that I could ever be weak enough to cover for a man who leaves me stranded on my wedding day.

.

I give too much. I’m vulnerable and easy to take advantage of because sometimes not even my pride means more to me than he does. I’m all in. All for the taking. And my ‘give’ is bottomless. It doesn’t require much ‘get’ to keep it running. I don’t demand much because I love his happiness. And I siphon his happiness until my ‘give’ isn’t enough to sustain us both. That’s not love. That’s not ride or die. That’s stupid.

.

This isn’t unique to ‘The Relationship.’ I think I’m like this in most relationships. The least stubborn, most likely to sacrifice. In moderation, this could be an admirable trait, but in excess, it’s just pathetic. It’s easy for even the most appreciative person to take all of the give for granted, to not give back if it’s not required. It’s how I used to treat my mother and her unconditional, unrelenting giving. And I need a backbone now like I needed a stiff spanking then.

.

But I don’t want to be the needy girl. I don’t want to appear demanding and nagging. I’d rather deal with those feelings secretly, even under a white gown and a lie, than let on that I need. I’d rather be a fool. But I don’t think I’m fooling anyone. Not even myself. I need and I give and I deserve.

.

I want to be the girl of my dreams, not the girl of a man’s dreams. And certainly not the girl in that dream.

On Lives Lost and Getting It

Life seems to get more fragile with age.

I guess it makes sense. As you grow older, you experience more loss. At the same time, you grow more attached to life and the people in it. Time is cruel like that.

At 14, I didn’t get 9/11. I didn’t cry. I didn’t hurt for my “fellow citizens,” as the victims felt no more my “fellows” than characters in the latest disaster film. I felt fear—a fear of flying that still ignorantly ignites anytime someone with a burka heads to an airplane bathroom. I also felt excitement, seeing as school that day was all but forgotten in lieu of watching CNN. But empathy? Somehow, appallingly, I felt little.

At 18, I didn’t get Katrina. I can barely even remember it, save Kanye’s outburst about George Bush. I never bore the urgency, the burden to help the afflicted. The poor, now even poorer, never kept me from warm, deep sleep. The devastation seemed foreign, unlikely in America, and I honestly trusted my government to fix it. But me? I felt little and helped even less.

At 22, Haiti is breaking my heart. I’ve had to restrain myself, a chronic newsreader, from refreshing any news sites. The pictures, the stories, the videos are too appalling to even digest. Searching for family members among mounds of dead bodies? How? It doesn’t seem fathomable. The fear of the children. The helplessness of the mothers and fathers. An entire country center, already impoverished and unlucky, destroyed. It’s incomprehensible. I don’t get Haiti either.

But this time I feel it.

I’m not sure if life becomes more valuable with age. Maybe empathy matures with maturity. Perhaps journalism has taught me to better relate to stories, or maybe I’m just at a softer, less selfish time in my life. Whatever it is, I feel it. My heart genuinely hurts for Haiti.

To whatever deity, to whatever force or energy or Big Man out there, if you happen to read my blog, please repair and protect them.

Crazy for Feeling

I’d give up my boobs and everything girly if it meant not having to deal with feelings. THAT proves just how much I hate feelings—I have great boobs.

After a few hours of drunken sleep, I woke up this morning at 7:30 on the dot and promptly began bawling. This time I actually had good reason, thanks to someone who surprisingly managed to nab the award usually reserved for my ex: “Biggest Dick Move of the Month.”

A few tears, and I should have rolled over and passed out again. But I continued on, sobbing about the state of the male species and wishing ill will towards Tiger Woods well into the morning. Through out the day I would go on to cry about various things: graduating college, my toothache, Sarah McLaughlin, the fact that my puppy will one day die, Afghanistan.

I ended up crying because I hate that I cry so much.

It’s not that I feel sorry for myself. Well, except when I do. But when I’m in the middle of an emotional freak-out, I try my hardest to think rational thoughts and repeat rational things to myself. Things like, he was ugly anyway. Or Obama’s still better than Bush. Or WHAT THE FUCK KAYLA, YOUR LIFE IS SO SIMPLE.

It doesn’t work, needless to say. I know I’ve had an easy go at life and that I should be thankful I even have a pillow to blow snot into. I get it. I’ve been lucky, which is why I need to leave the room when Sarah McLaughlin comes on TV surrounded by puppy dog eyes. I can’t handle much. My pain threshold ends at hypothetically starved dogs.

No, mother, I’m not depressed either. I think I just get very sensitive; but most of the time I’m able to laugh at my weakness along with everyone else while we cheers to the fact that Kayla is crazy.

Five minutes later, I’ll see someone helping an old woman out with her groceries, or I’ll accidentally listen to Bob Carlisle’s “Butterfly Kisses”…

And, well, I’d rather give up my boobs than have to deal with the feelings that follow. Trust me boys, you’d be happier with that decision, too.

Dark Want

Sometimes it gets so dark, I shove my face into the carpet. I lay spread eagle on my stomach and sink into the fibers. I imagine becoming a rug. Never moving again. Never having to feel again.

Sometimes it gets really dark. I push my palm into my chest, hoping to tame my heart. That’s where I feel the crazy. In my chest. It’s out of control. I just want to calm it. Pushing harder. And nothing.

I don’t know how to alleviate any of it. So I squirm. I gasp. I rock back and forth in the fetal position. I look at myself in the mirror and hate.

I hate that I’m weak. That I have bouts of crazy. I hate the darkness. And that I can’t get out of it.

He kissed my shoulder blade, and I cried. I hadn’t been the small spoon in so long. His huge shoulders enveloped me, and I felt like a girl. I felt like a girl who was wanted by a boy. A boy whose freckles I hated because they weren’t familiar. Tears dripped off my nose, and I wondered if he could feel the darkness too.

I want so badly for different lips to be on my skin. I want different fingers to tuck the hair behind my ears. I want the tiny freckle below his bellybutton. I want him to want me.

I want a man to squeeze me tighter into his body because he never wants to lose me. Because an inch of space feels like a canyon. I want it from my man, not other men.

And so it’s dark, all of this want. That he’s all I ever want. That he’s really not anything I want at all. The other men who have what I want. The other men I don’t want. I want to stay in college forever. I want to start my career. I want to be in a big city. I want to be near my family. It’s all a contradiction.

And it’s dark.

The Perfect Storm

I only like storms when it’s daylight. When the lighting doesn’t barge through my blinds, briefly exposing bits of my existence. When every faint roll of thunder just seems like a natural soundtrack to my life. When nobody’s holding me in bed, but the raindrops could hold every inch of me. And that’s OK.

Storms at night are much different. With every surge of light, I expect scariness. An unexplained shadow, a silhouette in my window. The soft thunder makes me think someone is picking at my front door. And my senses emphasize my loneliness. I have no man’s arm to act as a buffer between me and the storm. Or whatever monsters the storm brings.

I’m surprised by how purple the light is every few seconds. And the terrifying blackness it leaves behind. I’m surprised at how the thunder can be so intense, car alarms ring, lamps shake. But mostly I’m surprised by the seconds of stillness that haunt me in between light and sound.

I lay with my back to the window, cuddled in a ball around my stuffed Krum. Through my eyelids, I see purple, and I cringe up tighter. I hold my breath, stopping life until the boom comes, and I can go on. The wait is what is most excruciating. Will this thunder be mellow? Or crack my home’s foundation?

I see flashes of a breakdown. I see things for which I haven’t cried, but that energy will need to be released. Sometime. And I cringe waiting. Knowing what’s ahead, dreading, wishing it would come and pass.

So in the meantime I cuddle into a ball and compose a pretty soundtrack. I sing instead of drown in the raindrops.

I wait out the storm.