Take it or...take it?

Ever feel like you deserve more? I know, I know, does a bear sh*t in the woods, Nichole? I get it. But in all seriousness, and maybe I should've had this thought much earlier in the game, but I am painfully immature (as my friends have reminded me) and so...you see why it took this long.

Now, back to the bit about deserving more. I'm not talking necessarily about more "stuff" in the material sense of the word. Although, hell, who wouldn't want an iPhone (yes, I still have a flip phone that has been dropped in 3 water features and that I have to scroll through each letter button to send a f*cking text). Or a pair of SmartWool socks with owls on them? Or even a full tank of gas (or fuel oil)? These seem like simple requests but I assure you, they are not easy to obtain and really, life can and does go on without them. But I'm not even talking about this stuff (I REALLY want the socks, though, to anyone who's looking for a great gift idea for their crazy journalist friend).

And, frankly, I do deserve to be paid more. I will shame myself or my employer by setting up that number; just think new teacher pay but without any bennies. But again, this is tolerable, it is the way of the world, I do love my job and frankly, right now, I feel pretty goddamn lucky to have a job that guarantees basic food on the table and shelter from the cold.

So, blah, blah, I am thankful, I get it, but I can't help feeling like I deserve more. I guess I need to figure out what this "more" is, but I have a vague sense that it refers to my tendency to give up my rare moments of freedom (read: being ALONE in my apartment, sipping ALONE at a cup of coffee, sharing or not sharing my bed with whoever I want, not sharing my one-ounce sliver of specialty cheese, not being rushed in the shower, just doing MY dishes that I dirtied...).

Essentially, I feel like I'm doing something wrong when I need to say, "Nope, sorry, not today. I'm too into myself today."

Sounds awful, doesn't it? But that's how I feel. Obviously, I can't say this to my own children. They'd think I was kidding anyway, but there are days when I don't want to have to give a f*ck about anyone else's feelings but my own. There are days, truly, when I just don't care. Or rather, I don't want to care. I am waiting for the big moment when I wake up one morning and languish in bed because I WANT to be there. Because there is no one on this earth I'd rather be with but myself in that moment. Reading, or just daydreaming...

It is a foreign world out there in that land of "me." I am envious of its inhabitants.

Sad Enrichment

I try not to make too much eye contact in the waiting room of the therapist's office. It's a small town, people you know are bound to walk in. It's awkward, even though it shouldn't be. Twice I've emerged from the depths of the building with red-rimmed eyes, and wouldn't you know, there's always a familiar face to smile at me through snotty tissues and mountains of regret.

So, yeah, my strategy is to duck and cover.

Or to pretend to be so engrossed with the Al-Anon and La Leche League fliers pasted to the bulletin board that I cannot see or feel the anguish around me.

I got sick of looking at the announcement so my eyes shifted to the posters on the wall. One above the doorway caught my eye. In bright cheery orange letters the sign read "People with mental illnesses enrich our lives." Above the lettering were the names of famous people in history who apparently had mental illness but who, apparently, have enriched our lives.

More than half of those listed were writers. I nearly choked on my own spit. For starters, there was Ernest Hemingway, who continued to subdue and submerge his homosexual tendencies into his writing, where many of his main characters couldn't get it up and hated women and drank whiskey in profusion. And let's not forget Ernest's untimely end which involved massive amounts of booze, a double barrel shotgun and a very adept big toe.

And if Ernest hasn't enriched your life enough (he's certainly contributed to my depression and need to prove my masculinity), how about Sylvia Plath? Great poetry, tortured, mysterious. Oh and by the way, she shoved her head into the f*cking oven so as to asphyxiate herself. Now that's what I call enrichment. I feel so much better now.

Of course, Lincoln was on the list, as was Tolstoy, O'Neill, Keats, Williams, Dickens, you name it, they were there.

Gulp. And so, what am I, a writer, poet, journalist, dry drunk, mother supposed to glean from this list of brilliant people who've met a horrible end? Not just people, but MY kind of people; the weirdos and freaks who pursued risk as a lifestyle, who locked themselves up for years, who exposed their broken terrible hearts to the world in prose?

Is my only comfort that after I stick my head in the oven or drink a gallon of hemlock that my work will have enriched some dipsh*t college student's life for 5 minutes because he liked my chapter about the old man?

God, I hope not.

I remember not long ago, that there were certain quotes that I tried to live by, or at least utilize in conversation. They were famous quotes about honor and integrity, said by famous honorable people, like Lincoln and Ghandi. Really meaty stuff that could change the world...

I'm not so into those quotes anymore. I still hold the sayers in high esteem and I still believe strongly in the values they tried to teach, but, frankly, I feel a little too ordinary and cynical to be slinging this kind of ideal eloquence around. For starters, I use the f-word too much (still working on it) and I still laugh at really loud farts and utterly indecent picto/audio texts which I receive mostly from my brothers and my father. I'm still one of the boys in this regard. My brother's wife has blocked his number because she wants nothing to do with these messages.

I laugh uncontrollably and forward them to my friends.

So, you see, I am lacking in that idealism that I had all those years ago. Could it be a sign of depression? Or age? Or just the big work boot of reality that has finally met up with my once unscathed forehead?

I have a friend, I'll call her Red, and she has many more years of wisdom on me, meaning she could be my mother with some years to spare. Yet, when I see her and we chat, I feel like somehow, despite my comparative youth, we are equals in many ways. I am lulled into thinking that my jaded edgy personality trumps her nearly 70 years of surviving and raising children and falling in and out of love and burying children and illness.

But she always surprises me, in the end. Always. I think I was trying to find words to describe to her my utter desolation and my confusion about love and my insecurity as a writer and a mother and how I felt injured by the world. She, in turn, told me that she had a morning where she opened her eyes and just wanted to die. Literally.

"But," said Red, "I just keep reminding myself what my friend Don always says to me."

"Oh yeah, what's that?" I say, hoping that this is the answer to my sadness and chaos.

"He always says, 'Red, you gotta remember, life is a shit sandwich. It's just a shit sandwich.'"

"Wow," I said, feeling the life drain out of my shoulders. "He's absolutely right."

And it's full of idiots like me and Red who will keep eating, hoping against all hope, that the menu will change.

And if it doesn't, there's always something to write about.

No reply

It is ten o'clock on election night. I covered the polls in South County, I talked to people, I made phone calls, I wished the underdog good luck, my kids and I waved frantically to the projected winner from all windows of our car...

I've done my part, I think.

As I send in the last of the results, mostly numbers, who voted, who didn't, my email shows a message from Barack Obama.

His media advisor wants me to make some more calls to key states. "You have until midnight" the email blast says.

I am totally exhausted to the point of being cynical. I'd like to send a mass email blast of my own to the White House and everyone in it who has premo health insurance, nice suits, a housekeeper and a vehicle in working condition.

I've been working hard for you guys. Getting people to the polls, trying to look on the bright side, knowing I have to do my part, knowing that this economic wreck was a nice little inheritance from the Bush administration and the nation's overall greed (mostly credit cards and living beyond our means).

Here's what I ask in return, your humble servant who works three jobs and raises two kids.

I ask for some space to breathe in.

I ask for health insurance that I can rely on when my children are sick or when I am sick, 'cause it does happen once in awhile and it sucks.

I ask for the words coming out of your mouths not to be dripping with lies to keep the starving wolf at bay.
I ask for decent schools where intolerance is intolerable, always.

I ask for YOU to stay up until midnight making frantic calls on my behalf to those who might listen.

I ask for an end to this godless, useless, senseless war so that my children will know a time of peace, as they have yet to do.

I'm sure there's more, but, above all, I ask for you to employ integrity as your mantra.

I feel like a once-loyal dog who has lost the love of her master and now wanders the streets hoping merely to survive one more day out there, in the land of great uncertainty and even greater doubt.

I ask, as you promised, for that hope that I caught a glimmer of not so long ago.

Thank you. You have until midnight...or so.