Oh hai, I forgot a haz a blogg.

One of the most frustrating things about this situation with BBC is my complete and utter inability to articulate the sum of my feelings about it, even to myself. It's as if things are so psychologically and interpersonally tanged that it's impossible to line up a coherent string of statements about it. Then this emotional grab-bag is subsumed by the bigger issues of depression and anxiety fluttering about, and the resulting quagmire is beyond the graceful bounds of metaphor. But here I am, hoping that I can bring some appreciable sense to the whole mess, for myself and maybe the 3 of you who might still be around. I have been avoiding this because of the aforementioned verbal stifle, which I will now attempt to dismantle to any possible degree.

But before I get to that, some catching up. I went to Ithaca for a week, and it was the absolute, beyond-a-doubt best week of my life. I had completely transcendent days of undiluted relaxation and fun and at the same time a million little revolutions in my way of thinking about myself, my relationships, the world. I came home feeling better than I have ever felt in my entire life.

And then fell quite swiftly into a month long depression. I have been a total mess, not sleeping, not eating right, not working, not talking. Just smoking and drinking and crying and listening to records, which sounds on the surface like a potentially fun summer but it has been a serious bummer.

Then I found out that BBC might never come back. My worst fear realized, oh, my. He has this opportunity for funding his film and film festival entries...if he moves to Indianapolis. And this move is contingent on a whole other series of life events working out for his friend, so the whole thing is something akin to building a house of cards in a house of mirrors. A very delicate and dizzying operation.

I won't know for another week whether he's ever coming back. And if he does come back, he's going to be staying with me for a couple months while he works his way back into gainful employment for awhile. So it's very feast or famine, in terms of possibilities, which is really confusing for a girl.

Since I'm struggling for apt prose to capture my feelings on the subject, and I'm terrible at verse, I guess I'll start with every Virgo's favorite tool of the anal-retentive trade - The List.

Things I Am Obsessively Worrying About.
1. BBC won't come back to Austin.
2. If he does come back, he won't want to be in a relationship with me.
3. If he will be in a relationship with me, he won't be emotionally present enough for me and it will be unendingly frustrating.
4. If he will be present enough, he still won't ever love me.
5. Even if he will love me, he'll leave again soon and I'll be even more worse off, emotionally speaking.

So yeah, it's a fortune-telling, pointless, but neverending spiral of worries. An infinite loop of what-ifs. Which really boil down to an issue of control, circumstantial and emotional. I have no say in whether or not he comes back and/or stays. And I am completely vulnerable and at the mercy of his reciprocation when it comes to the emotional stuff.

I don't think I've ever wanted something as much as I do him, especially not such a risky thing. I tend to corral my desires into places assuredly attainable. But a heart is a hard thing to win, most especially this particular boy's heart.

So, perhaps, I am perversely obsessing over something I have no control over in a futile attempt to manage it. Which would certainly be nothing new to me, and yet I'm disappointed in myself. I thought I had unlearned that tendency, at least to a manageable degree, and here it is, cropping up in such a concentrated and crippling manner. And then that gets depressing on a whole other level, as it means my "feelings" aren't mine at all, but rather some kind of self-defense mechanism, some reaction formation against some infantile omnipotence gone psychologically awry.

Or something.

I have spent two hours watching The Simple Life Goes to Camp. I'm sorry, but I really like Nicole Richie. Weight issues and DUIs aside, you gotta admit she's pretty fucking awesome. Her dryly inappropriate comments are right up my alley. I wish we could down some vodka tonics and a Thorazine or two and have a shit-talking fest. I can't stop watching. She straight up just made a facial reference. That's fantastic.

This morning HTB and I went to an awesome wedding, which is kind of an oxymoron in our book. But our fabulous feminist friends had a great, socially aware, champagne-fueled little fete in a purty little hillside villa. If I ever go into some kind of mentally deranged coma and decide to get married, I'm totally doing it that way.

I'm having a week of hermitage. Other than that lovely little wedding departure, I've pretty much spent the whole week hiding out in my room, napping, reading, and listening to records. Which is nice, but some day I've really got to face the world. That day will probably not be today, since I'm in sweats and knee deep in E! Entertainment.

Ah! But this morning, one of my deepest and dearest wishes totally came true. That's right, bebes - I seriously got a real, live, bonefied missed connection from one of my former students! Aw. It was so great. I can now die and fulfilled woman, y'all.

Michael Cera seriously makes me sweat. He was in town for a Superbad sneak prev a few months back, and BBC totally didn't tell me in time for me to go stalk him out! I'm still sad about that. But these new episodes of Clark and Michael almost make it all better.

purrs and pastimes

Not that you noticed necessarily, but I'm so sorry for being MIA recently. I just needed to Get Off The Internet for awhile. And now that I'm back, I don't even really remember how to craft a proper post. Thus, the ol' laundry list.

1. I have not slept through the night in months. Seriously, I'm like, a cholicy baby and it's driving me insaaaane. I've tried everything to curb the problem - vigorous exercise, no naps, no computer in my room, reading instead of staring at the ceiling, better sheets, kitten snuggles, etc. And I still wake up every other hour. I might have to kill myself if this doesn't stop soon. Now I know why babies are so grumpy all the time.

2. I'm going to Ithaca in three weeks to visit the BBC! I'm excited/anxious/nervous and counting down the days.

3. Barbara Walters just said that 50% of gay peeps are left-handed. Haaay! Me and my left hand totally concur.

4. I had a dream last night, in my two hours of continuous sleep, that I was having sex with my high school boyfriend and he THREW UP ON ME. No wonder I can't sleep.

5. I've started riding my bike again, streaming through the streetlight streets on my big green beach cruiser. I forgot how awesome it is to careen down a sloping Texas hill into a tribe of fireflies. Also, riding around totally increases my Missed Connections probability by 32%. Bonus!

6. I've been listening to Patti Smith's Horses on my record player every single night, preferably through the window while I sit on my porch swing drinking iced tea and smoking a clandestine, guilt-ridden cigarette. I love summer.

7. HTB's cat is enjoying our snuggle right now so much that there are three different lines of drool forming around his mouth. Nerd!

8. The depression is getting much better, except for the dicey hours of 4:00 - 7:00 pm. Every late afternoon I vaguely contemplate jumping off the Congress Street bridge, and then I make it through to dinnertime and life is all better.

Coming soon to Television for (Neurotic) Women

Why Did I Say That?!?!: The Heather Sinclair Story.

please don't take my sunshine away

I think I've turned a corner. The Prozac increase, or the summer breeze, or something enigmatic just clicked and I woke up one day a few mornings ago feeling like, "Yes, Ok. I'm back on track." Suddenly I had it back, the energy, the drive, the wherewithal to take care of myself properly.

I feel like at this point in my life, I have all the tools, all the support, all the know-how to live right. But there's this initial hump i have to crawl over, this depression hump. And Prozac, it seems, is the thing that gives me enough baseline happy to commence with the self-care. Blah, blah, therapy talk, blah. But yeah, I feel much better.

Still miss that bebe bear, though. Still do.

swallow

I survived a weekend visit from my mother, but not without some emotional bumps and bruises. We've always had a very close but conflicted relationship, as a queer, liberal, headstrong daughter and a Christian, conservative, headstrong mother who really love each other are wont to do. Things are especially difficult now because our dynamic is even more confused because of my eating disorder.

Ever since I can remember, one of the easiest spaces of bonding for us was food and self-loathing. We binged together, we bemoaned together. Eating a carton of ice cream and then pinching an inch in unison has always been a comforting routine. We were both less alone in that place of mutual disgust.

I've always had a problem with disordered eating. Through high school and college, I was a little overweight. I was taught, like a lot of people, to eat my feelings, to stuff down disappointment and stress and fear and loneliness with food. By grad school, I was around 200 pounds. In the wake of a particularly painful break-up, I started running to deal with the trauma. I lost about 20 pounds, and then I went on South Beach and lost 30 more.

That's when things got weird. I became fixated, running miles and miles a day and fearing carbohydrates with an unholy intensity. I ran through rain, I rain through snow, I ran through a pretty serious running injury. I ate nothing but eggs, tuna fish, and vegtables. After awhile, the emotional stress and the physiological strain of such a rigorous exercise regime and restricted diet took its toll and I began binging. Late nights with cereal, bread, ice cream, chips, cookies. Anything I denied myself during the day, I feasted on in the night. I ate until my jaw hurt and my belly distended and my temples ached. I would go to sleep crying with fear for the uncontrollable demon that was taking over me and I would wake up with determination to purge it all through even more exercise, even less eating. Which, of course, made the urge to binge even worse. This cycle tortured me all through the last summer and fall until I crashed for good.

Last fall, I knew I had to change something or give up on life entirely. I was at an all-time low, physically and mentally wrecked from this all-consuming disorder. There wasn't any room in my head for anything else but obsession over food. I couldn't feel anything else, I couldn't do anything else, I became reclusive and depressed. And no one knew what was going on, so I felt completely and utterly alone. With the encouragement of HTB, I managed to seek out some professional help and things began to turn around. I told HTB and a couple other close friends what was going on, and it felt less shameful, less hopeless. I saw the beauty in life again. It's an ongoing struggle, but now I know there's more to living than hating yourself.

But I've never told my mom. It's too scary for some reason. She continues to be a major trigger for me when it comes to binging. She starts in on all the self-hate talk and I feel shamed if I don't join in. She wants to eat into a near coma as we always have and I feel guilty if I don't dig in. I know I could tell her, and maybe that would change things, but maybe it would make it worse to let her in to that place. I feel like I have to protect it from her critical words and her evaluating eyes. She's a big believer in bootstraps, and I guess I'm scared she would make me feel like I'm making it all up. I need to believe that this is real in order to keep dealing with it, and I worry she would make it unreal to me.

So she compares our waist sizes and wails about her weight gain and eats until she's miserable and I just try not to engage in it. But after a couple days, it takes its toll and I find myself falling into old habits.

She's gone home now and I'm trying to find the place of balance again, but damn, things are pretty hard right now.

Romeo Had Juliette

Well, that's that. And you know, the end couldn't have gone better, so I'm actually ok.

Sunday night I made a solemn resolution to myself as I lay awake torturing myself thinking of all the girls he will sleep with this summer. I would not make this goodbye a melodramatic affair. Because he knows I'm sad, he knows I'll miss him, so there's no need to get all teary-eyed and dramatic about things. It would only have made him feel really guilty and conflicted and relieved to be away from me. I didn't want things to go down like that.

So I told myself I would just pretend he was going away for the holiday weekend and that he'd be back next week, and I would believe this until I pulled away from the airport, at which point I would tell myself the truth and let the sobs come as they may. For once in my tear-soaked life, this plan actually worked. I've got to remember to lie to myself more often.

We went to diner breakfast in the rain then I took him home to pack. We met back up for dinner and Tetris at Rounder's, then we went back to his now-empty room and drank a bottle of wine and took silly pictures and listened to The Velvet Underground. We laughed and we hugged and we expressed how glad we are to have met each other and then we had crazy awesome sex, complete with multiple orgasms, multiple positions, and some dirty, dirty talking. It was kind of a perfect storm of sexy, really.

Then we fell asleep in a big tangle, only to wake up a couple hours later to the sound of rain coming down hard on the roof. A great, bittersweet sound. We kissed in a flash of lightening and fell back asleep.

This morning, I took him to the airport and we kissed goodbye on the curb. I should say, we kissed and kissed and KISSED goodbye on the curb. And still, no tears. I smiled a big smile and hugged a big hug and kissed a big kiss.

Then I pulled away, breathed a deepy, raggedy breath, and broke into tears at long, sweet last.

I came home, put on Leonard Cohen and curled up next to Weetzie. Almost immediately, I fell into the sweet, blank embrace of a dreamless sleep. Woke up to a bottle of champagne and a stack of cheer-up books and notes from HTB and our friend Perfect Lady. Felt like the luckiest girl in the world, lovelorn or not. Knew things were going to be ok. Smiled out of one corner of my mouth.