leftcoastlunacy

[leftcoastlunacy]

Broken

“I think something’s wrong with me. I think something’s glued down wrong, maybe permanently”  -Mountain Goats

Sanity isn’t always black and white. Sometimes, I dress up my depression as anxiety and brush it off all at once with a panic attack. Sometimes, I dress my anxiety up as depression and sleep for a day and a half.

Most of the time, though, I exist in the grey. Most of the time, they are siamese twins, embracing me all at once and crumbling my will to live. The truth is, I look in the mirror and don’t know who I am anymore. I feel like I’m trapped in this stranger’s body, living this life as an imprisoned witness to the way my host chooses to live. Harboring a hatred for the things I am doing and saying, for the way I perceive and am perceived, I am completely helpless to change any of it.

Have you ever held yourself hostage? That is to say, have you ever fallen victim to your own worst thoughts? So much so, that those Bad Thoughts take on their own persona, and like a fresh coat of new paint over old paint, slowly (very slowly) cover over the person you used to or want to be?

Things have been rough in the last month. Despite my own self-sabotage, I am trying desperately to grow and not crumble. But, I am cracked and breaking; A grenade, waiting to destruct. Car wrecks and betrayal wrack my sleeping hours. Anxiety and self-abuse wrack my conscious ones. 

An entire existence spent with the deep-rooted knowledge that I would never be a middle-aged adult. I wonder if anyone else ever feels that way? Just knowing you won’t live to grow old. At this rate I feel like I’m decaying and I’ve only myself to blame.

I’m not strong enough.

[leftcoastlunacy]

gentle reminder from a blob on world mental health day

[leftcoastlunacy]

Stability.

A definition is really impossible to compose. I think it’s different for everybody, and I think it changes as we change. I’ve been doing a lot of changing lately, and done a solid job of convincing myself that it’s bad changes (mostly due to all the self-loathing; the constant mantra “you are the worst person” playing on repeat in my skull, in a voice not unlike my own), but now I’m not so sure.

Getting older and “growing up” isn’t easy - I think most of us are really trying to figure our own shit out well into our forties these days. Call that a Millennial thing, or maybe its the political climate as of late, but it seems to be an epidemic. I’m now convinced that ‘adulting’ is really just the perpetual struggle to regain footing on uneven ground, which is accompanied by countless falls and lots of re-navigating to avoid further falling.

Do any of us ever really know what we’re doing?

Anyway, after my last update (which will be filled in later, as I wrote it in a notebook and don’t currently have that notebook with me), I think I’ve gotten a pretty good hang on things. I am in the process of “re-branding” myself, professionally/creatively, and have taken a lot of steps in the right direction. Giving my LinkedIn a bit of an overhaul was incredibly empowering, and I’ve rewritten parts of my resume (which I still need to fix a bit). Now, I need to update my flickr and DeviantArt accounts to function as proper portfolios. Doing work for Chris has been wonderful, albeit challenging, and working on creative type things is keeping my mind at ease. Now that I’ve got a hang on the facebook marketplace, I think I’m going to make-over my professional facebook page and start selling vector paintings/photography.

This week, I’m going to attempt to design some sort of logo for PJ’s production company, and make it a goal to start in on my flickr mess. Luckily, I’ve been surrounding myself with other creatives, more motivated than I generally am, and it’s rubbing off.

Jordan and I assigned each other ‘homework’ last time we hung out (which was awesome, by the way, that kid is definitely one of my best friends) to write Something That We’re Proud Of before our next meeting, which has encouraged me to write more. My new-found, and fast-growing friendship with Eliana has so far lent itself to a lot of writing as well (which is what we are doing right now). Combine that with PJ’s refreshed ambitions and Aimee’s perpetual resume-updating and job-hunt, and I’ve been productive more often than not lately, which is a new color for me (or at least a new layer of paint of the same, old faded and cracked color).

It feels good. Despite my impossibly dismal self-esteem and self-image, I’m pretty okay. One step at a time, though, right? Perhaps occupying myself by smothering the bad parts with various forms of art is my version of stability.

[leftcoastlunacy]

Progress?

If you told me five years ago that I’d be in Los Angeles, still working at Best Buy, dating an actor and almost using my degree, I’d never have believed you. If you followed that up with the fact that most of my closest friends, I hadn’t even met yet, I’d be beyond confused. Funny how it took moving across the country to finally bring Rachael into my life, who was much closer to my home than to my current residence. Funnier still how my social circle is largely boys-I’ve-met-on-OKCupid and a couple girls from the northeast (one of whom is current Actor Boyfriend’s most recent ex-girlfriend).

The move to SoCal has simultaneously felt like both the best decision I’ve ever made, and the worst. My lowest lows dichotomized with my most consistent stability sounds as unlikely now as it ever would have, but is no less my reality. Unlikely circumstances mark commonplace in this sun-soaked desert-town. Sadness breeding desperation has taught me a lot about myself, most of it unfavorable. How many steps must I take backward before finally moving forward? How many falls before I’m closer to who I want to be?

Everytime I’ve felt like I’m on the right path, I’ve been wrong. “A learning experience,” I keep telling myself. Bullshit; I’ve regressed (and digressed).

Lately, I’ve felt closer. I always feel most like myself when I’m creating, which I suppose I’ve been doing more of. It’s not as easy as it used to be. When I was young, I would flip through a notebook and see opportunity - blank pages that need filling. Nowadays, I see only daunting obligation. Rules and deadlines set for myself, by myself.

But, that’s not what today is about. It’s a Tuesday afternoon, and I find myself in a Starbucks outside of Los Feliz, sitting across from Eliana, a turquoise-haired companion who just recently entered my life. We met just last week, and rather than allowing myself to nurture the discomfort and jealousy in my heart, I chose instead to open it. After all, I could tell I liked her from one meeting. And we could both use some more friends. And more friends who write. So, here we are, writing.

I fall back on an old exercise from college that we used to call Method Texts. It takes some time to work up the right motivation to press pen to paper, but I allow a few sloppy prose stanzas;

“Only a tangled finger stands between being home and being gone. Attempts to skip to the good part just leaves out necessity. Static absolution clings to empty shadows - imagined and vague.

Redundancy speaks volumes, screams between ears; ribcage whispers amplified. There’s a tremble in the stillness birthing quakes in your mouth - you try to swallow. The words taste like metal.

Lies will do that.

Electricity or lack thereof pulls nerves to phantom limbs and reminds us what could have been. Back when we were still a ��we’.

Fabricate the questions to get answers to needless questions. Lose yourself in losing me.

How else could we have gotten out? If things (I) were different, more honest maybe, with less walls.

An asphalt garden grows between us on broken limbs in denial. Arrivals in stereo, an echo against towering pines.

Parallels drawn bloom paralysis. I can see all the lines, you don’t need to count them (or cross them). A plural pulse grows beneath sheets in the dark.”

[leftcoastlunacy]

survival

My father texted me today. With the text notification that I let sit on my lock screen for hours, came empty apologies and further proof that he has no idea how horrible he is. 

Usually, I ignore these things. In fact, I don’t really talk about him or the tension between us to a lot of people. But, it’s no secret that I’ve been weak lately. Maybe its the cumulative almost 80 hours I’ve spent at work or commuting to work this past week...Maybe it’s the lack of conversation that hasnt been revolving around paperwork, data and numbers...Maybe it’s the two hours of sleep per night...

Maybe it’s the blood on my fingernails, the blisters on my feet or the anxiety in my heart. I haven’t felt like myself in a long time and I’ve never learnt the remedy for such an ailment. I’m reaching for someone who isn’t there, a whole mess of them. Phantom limbs and empty words are wrapping around me and I’m only getting colder.

On average, every good moment lends itself to several bad ones. The imbalance leaves a bad taste in my mouth.

[leftcoastlunacy]

Ash-soaked sunsets

The sky blanketing Los Angeles is a brown-grey, laced with a light snowfall of ash from the brush fire in the hills. A glint of orange flames is visible from eight miles away, and the roar of helicopters reigns over the evening hours.

It’s been two days of this so far; the news stations say it’s the worst fire in Los Angeles City history.

There is a weight in the air around me, not entirely related to the ash. Lauren passed away on Wednesday, and I haven’t been able to bring myself to update here. 

In an attempt to claw my way out of the pit I’ve been in the tedious process of carefully digging, I’ve been trying to change my outlook. An old friend, Nikki, gave me a tarot reading this week and, while I don’t place a lot of stock in these sorts of things, I was surprised by how much it helped me. You’ll see what you want to see in reading the cards, which addresses how you’re seeing your own choices and circumstances. I faced things about myself that I’ve been ignoring, and realizing these things helped to instigate a shift inside of me.

It’s time to re-brand myself, mentally, socially and physically. Which I guess was part of why I set out to make this blog. I can only hope the next few months will see more positive changes toward the person I am meant to be - the person that I deserve to be, and that the world deserves from me.

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House-sitting for Zuber this past week has been a rollercoaster but I’ve enjoyed portions of the solitude. Gus is an always-welcome presence and tomorrow, when Zuber returns, I hope he finds the paintings I’ve left behind for him.

I’m heading into the last week before PI. I can only hope this week offers a lot of overtime at a low stress-cost. Time will tell.

Also, less than ten days until Pete returns home. I know the moment we embrace, I’ll feel a relief incomparable to anything else. I’ve missed him in my life so much.

[leftcoastlunacy]

Lauren

We met in the last few months of my high school career. I was born into a friendship with Nathan, who lived next-door, and after 17 years of capture the flag, skateboarding, and teasing eachother, we were more like family than anyone else I knew. So, I would be lying if I said I didn’t feel slightly threatened/jealous about a new woman in his life. Don’t get me wrong, despite our parents shipping us throughout childhood, it was never a romantic thing. Still, I liked our bond and even though adolescence saw less of us socializing together, it was still important to me that we stay in some way bonded.

And that’s where you came in. 

I think it was at one of our neighborhood Block Parties when we first met. You with your infectious smile, beautiful curly hair and endless wardrobe of purple shirts (seriously, I just went through all of our pictures and you are in purple in almost all of them), me with my purple hair and social awkwardness.

It didn’t take long for me to see exactly what Nate sees in you. For years to follow, at all the family gatherings and county fairs and block parties, you continued to surprise and amaze me. Every year I brought a new boy or group of friends home and every year you continued to ask the questions that no one else would.

Questions like “your new boyfriend is uncircumcised!? Do you have a pic? I wanna see!”or “Can I ask your trans friend about being trans? I’m really curious.” were always escaping your lips and drawing a smile to my lips far easier than most people could. You cared more about what was going on in my life and the lives of the people I surrounded myself with more than anyone else ever has. Hindsight can be a wicked thing and reminds me that I didn’t ask you enough questions in return. I guess I’ll never get to tell you I’m sorry for that.

Memorable, and lovable, you always had this way about you.

Over the years, it was obvious that you made Nathan so happy. If we didn’t all have enough reasons to love you already, that would’ve been reason enough. 

I still remember your wedding day. It was 2011, if memory serves correctly. You guys had been dating for around six years and were more in love than anyone else I’ve known. And the really beautiful thing about what I’ve witnessed between you two is how much bigger and deeper your love grew year by year. On your wedding day, at the alter, you were still the same teenagers that fell in love at Seabreeze. And today, you still are.

Skip ahead a few more years and you and Nate have a couple kids. Damn cute ones, too (and this coming from someone who doesn’t like children). I didn’t come around much anymore, too wrapped up in my own bullshit to bother with the old neighborhood and the people in it. 

I am so full of regret over that.

After I moved to Los Angeles in 2015, a lot happened. You were one of two close friends to be diagnosed (suddenly and at too young an age) with breast cancer. Yours was further than hers, and I for the last two years I’ve watched from across the country, with a heavy heart as both of you began a fight for your lives.

Her cancer was caught early. Yours? Not so much. We all thought we were out of the woods after your mastectomy, and when I returned home to visit for my birthday, the whole family seemed in good spirits. You were as bubbly and hilarious and inappropriate as ever, just with vastly less hair. It wasn’t until a little while later that we found out we weren’t out of the woods at all, but just in a slight different forrest. 

The spread was to small parts of your bones and brain. Your spirit unwavering, you continued to count all of your blessings and possible treatments instead of dwelling in the unfairness of it all, as I would have done. You’re a much stronger, and more resilient person than I’ve ever known. This last year has been full of challenges for all of you, and you’ve accepted everything with a smile on your face.

My last failed relationship pushed me to purchase a trip home this past June, that I wouldn’t have otherwise taken. If there was anything at all good to come out of that whole mess, it was the trip home. I was able to come spend an evening on the old patio, catching up with you. I got to see you with your kids, got to tell you about my struggles out west, got to hear your jokes and see your smile. No one could’ve known that would’ve been the last time I would hug you.

When I heard yesterday that you were given mere days to live, I broke in unexpected ways; felt pain in places I didn’t know could hurt. You’re only a few years older than me and have so much more to live for.

I am consumed by guilt that I took your friendship for granted, that I didn’t know you as well as I could have (and should have). You may not even realize the influence you’ve had on me and will continue to have. I am so lucky to have known you - we all are. 

You don’t deserve any of this. And you are so loved. I am so sorry.

I can only hope we will meet again one day. Until then, I’ll be holding on to the laughs from our last night together. 

[leftcoastlunacy]

The girl with the Cards

The worse I get, the less I write, and the whole point of this blog was trying to change that. So I apologize for these crudely written posts, I promise I’m better than this.

It seems no one can be bothered to be an actual friend to me anymore. Of the nine people I asked to hang out and serve as a distraction while Pete’s away, two have obliged. Of the friends back home I hoped to share more phone calls with, I’ve had one, poorly connected thirty minute call. I need to feel even minutely important to people now more than ever, but am proven time and time again that most things are more important than my presence or well-being.

I hate how vulnerable this makes me but I don’t know how to change it. I don’t really show this negativity to anyone (save for a select few, close people in my life), and remain upbeat, witty, and social in the face of family, acquaintances and most friends. I ask people to do social things. I offer to help them move or lend them money or give them things. I feel like I project someone who is fun to be around, and most anyone I socialize with has commented that I’m one of the best friends to them when it comes to loyalty and empathy.

And yet, not one of them can grab coffee or call me.

It’s a game of chance, where you can play with the best strategies and advantages and still lose based on how the dice are rolled. My carefully constructed pokerface is starting to crack a little bit and I don’t know if I possess the know-how to make a new one anymore (it’s a skill I had learned long ago).

This is my ‘woe is me’ post. Because I just got home to an empty apartment that isn’t mine, after walking several solitary blocks in a dark and unfamiliar neighborhood, when no one could be inconvenienced with the burden of a ten minute phone call. The truth is, I have bigger things to write about, but every single night feels like heart break and if I don’t let it out here, I don’t know how to acknowledge how much of a trainwreck I am.

And if I can’t acknowledge that I’m a trainwreck, well...

[leftcoastlunacy]

insignificance.

It’s a particularly bad day.

A particularly bad few days, really. I get such little human interaction these days, and yet it seems every person I talk to is tuning me out. I’ve had to repeat the information escaping through my teeth several times as if I’m not important enough to listen to until it becomes clear that the information I share is relevant to something else. After last night’s draining events, I’ve spent the entirety of today so far in isolation, my phone ringer on loud, but remaining silent from all the people who don’t notice my social absence, alternating between sleeping and weeping.

I guess I should start at the beginning.

Before I moved to SoCal, I was no stranger to emotional/mental abuse. While I would like to say that I was smarter than my manipulators, the truth is that in most cases, I wasn’t aware that my circumstances weren’t normal. Hindsight is to thank for the insight that I was being demoralized, antagonized and used by not only romantic partners, but by friends as well. It started at an early age. But I’m not here to talk about any of that.

See, I was in a pretty healthy relationship when I got out here. Matty and I had been dating for a year and a half, and he was the epitome of non-abuse. We weren’t right for each other but parted amicably. From there? Downhill is an understatement.

My dating history in Los Angeles reads like a shitty daytime drama. All of them were people-users, only wanting physical connection, or worse, only wanting to be around me on my good days, making my bad days worse. My most recent ex, Ray, was the first guy in years that literally said all the right things and did all the right things. It was like this perfect person had found me, and I hesitated because it seemed too good to be true (it took me a long time to see that it was, in fact, too good to be true).

The break-up was messy, and I’ll save those gory details for another post. The details you’ll need to know are that he’s a liar, a hypocrite, and not at all who I once thought he was.

Our romance was short-lived at just five real months long, but with an intensity that would suggest we’d known each other in past lives. It took me some time to get over him completely, which I’m not used to. I fall into (and out of) love notoriously quickly and am used to being on the other side of heartache. The following few months found me going on a record-breaking number of OKCupid dates in a surprisingly small amount of time. Most of them served simply as great company, and a great distraction, while I avoided letting them think I had any sort of feelings for them. PJ was different, though. And in time, through more rejections than I’ve ever had to dole out, I found myself out of the dark. The wounds from my previous relationship had healed, scarred over, and weren’t even noticeable as I finally found myself in love again.

Letting myself fully fall for Pete was (and still is) rocky. I was born into trust issues at a young age, somehow finding myself in not one, but several social groups that only pretended to like me to use me or humiliate me. As if that wasn’t enough, my first four boyfriends cheated on me, and many of the ones to follow hid alarming secrets. By the time I turned 25, I was a cynic. To avoid further betrayal, I only dated men who I knew beyond a doubt could never do better than me. Men who were damaged, broken, overweight, misunderstood, etc. (it feels really shitty to write that). It took me a while to finally make my way back to attractive men with only a carry-on for baggage. By now, I thought I had been a better judge of character. And in some ways, I was.

But that wasn’t enough to have been so vastly wrong about my last few ventures in love, and I find how deeply rooted my insecurities are far too often these days. I know that PJ deserves better from a partner, but he remains patient and loving through my weakness, and I can only hope he won’t tire of me before I can figure my shit out.

I digress. Where was I?

Oh, last night.

Remember when I said my wounds had scarred over? Well, as some of you may know from physical scars, that scar tissue can be sensitive and susceptible to further scarring when fucked with. Ray texted me last night. We’ve texted a handful of times in the last three months, about 50% work related and 50% friendly and concerning his roommate (and one of my best/only friends out here), Aimee. and in one night, we quadrupled any of that prior communication, and then some. 

He was worse than he’s ever been. Cycling through trying to get my sympathy, to begging for me to answer his calls, to accusing me of wanting him back, to trying to get me to agree to fuck him. It was taxing, and awful, and all my trust issues I’ve been making strides toward overcoming are back, flooding my anxious brain, lacing all thoughts with fear and panic. 

I’m trembling, constantly fixing typos throughout this entire post. I hate myself for how long this is. I hate myself for having to write it all down to be able to breathe again, existing in this insignificance. 

[leftcoastlunacy]

Countdowns.

My entire existence these last few weeks is anticipation. I am counting down the sleepless nights and stressful shifts until PI, counting down the evenings in solitude and meals eaten alone until my beloved returns, counting down the dollars in my bank account until my next rent check, and counting down the airline miles and weekends spent in LA until my next adventure.

Following a weekend trip or a stint of travel, I always struggle with a pretty noticeable low. The best metaphor I can conjure is to say it is like mountain climbing. The climb is the countdown, full of excitement and knowing the strain will come with a sizesble pay-off. The peak, bringing with it some rest and beautiful views, is the trip. Lastly, the descent (a return home) offers exhaustion, adrenaline slowly leaking out of you as you return to the ground, sore and in the shadows, already missing the peak. This is the aftermath.

If there's one stark positive that my move to LA has brought me, it's the ability and freedom to travel more often. There is so much of this world I've yet to see and the people I travel to/with are among the human race's elite, I swear. I'm not a very lucky person in a lot of ways, but if riches were measured in the quality of people I get to surround myself with, well, I'd be among the most fortunate.

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Today was mostly a waste breath and heartbeats. I feel redundant and lethargic. The changes I desire in my life far outweigh the energy I have to acquire them. On days when the clenched fists of depression weigh down on me, you see, I have so few spoons to spend.

I didn't want to write today. After a midnight-to-noon shift with numbers filling the space between my ears, it's difficult to do much more than lie around in various forms of physical and mental pain, feeling sorry for myself.

For the long list of things I needed to get done today and didn't, at least I can say I conjured a few jumbled ill-written paragraphs to dump here.

[leftcoastlunacy]

Panic.

You know how I can tell I’m stressed? My diet today has consisted of two granola bars and basically all my fingernails. I don’t require the chest pain and continuing palpitations to determine my anxiety is high, but they make sure to remind me anyway.

Work is a whirlwind, to say the least, and I’m being whipped through it aimlessly and helplessly. The need to find new employment bears down on me like a bag of bricks slung over my shoulder, but it’s easier said than done (and I’ve always been good at excuses).

The best part about my miserable professional life is that it’s serving as a great distraction from my empty personal life (it’s also filling my bank account quite persistently). You should know, or I should maybe tell you, that I’m sad and awkward. This is the politically correct, or more socially acceptable, way of saying I struggle with depression and anxiety. And in case you weren’t aware, being sad and awkward in Los Angeles doesn’t lend itself to forging many friendships. The few I have stumbled into are generally, and tragically, one-sided. The one-sidedness being that they have other friends and obligations, while I generally, don’t. 

This symptom is amplified by the absence of my companion, PJ. He’s away for work until September 12th, and the distance is testing the fragility of my sanity much moreso than the strength of our relationship (spoiler alert: we’re thriving). Being unable to feel his arms around me in the dim morning light is the most soul-crushing realization I go through these days, waking up alone on a shitty spring mattress. When he’s around, I always have someone to help me feel loved, to eat meals with, to adventure and explore with. Doing it all alone gets tiring much more quickly. 

And on these hot SoCal days, working long hours at a job I’m coming to hate, with little to no human interaction, I don’t need any more reason to be tired.

I already have panic and palpitations clouding my pillow-bound head deep into the night.

[leftcoastlunacy]

Monachopsis.

A quick peek at The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows will tell you the full definition. I’ll paraphrase: “the subtle but persistent feeling of being out of place.”

For whatever reason, this seems an appropriate introductory topic for a new blog. Being, of course, that it’s a solid theme for my permanent state of being. So much time has passed since I’ve openly blogged that I guess I’d want to open with that.

(I promise I’ll get better at this.)

I’m here because one of my best friends and I made a pact to start new blogs, and if I’m being honest, I guess today felt pretty notable. For the sake of this post, I’ll blame this morning’s celestial activity.

“There are too many of us, and we are all too far apart.” -Kurt Vonnegut

You see, despite the delays on my early morning flight back to LA from Denver, where I celebrated a wedding with long-time friends and travel companions (more on them perhaps another time), the sky does not wait for me, and the moon slides in to kiss the sun right on schedule, shielding some sunlight for a few brief moments just before noon. I miss all of this, of course, but it won’t have mattered. Most Los Angeleans couldn’t visually see much of the eclipse anyway. Sleep deprivation and home-sickness briefly steal away some sanity while I hopelessly fumble my way through acquiring a Lyft at LAX for the first time. Theres a pressure in my throat and behind my eyes that threatens to spill some tears and in these moments of weakness, I consider just sobbing in the bathroom for a while before departing home. 

“Home.” I really hate that I just referred to my insect-riddled Van Nuys apartment as “home.” Los Angeles shouldn’t feel like home. So much energy needs to be spent every day here just to breathe smog-tainted air and attempt to human connection. I am just so tired. How do people do it?

My Lyft driver, Raymond, arrives and picks up myself and two other strangers/travelers. I don’t feel like small talk for once, but we end up discussing origins anyway, and when one of the other passengers mentioned snowfall in Vancouver, I mention my upstate NY roots.

“No way! So am I!” the man behind me, Benjamin, exclaims. We quickly discover that we were born into the same small suburb, attended the same university, and even know some of the same people. 

I’ve met a few people since moving west that are from my hometown or surrounding areas, but this was the most small-world sensation I’ve ever experienced. Being similar ages, and knowing so many of the same people makes it highly likely that we’ve unknowingly occupied some of the same spaces before. We probably passed by each other in Baird Hall at UB, or stood near each other at a local Bug Jar show.

For whatever reason, I find solace in this interaction, and begin to feel slightly less alone. He is a stranger, and likely will always remain one on most levels, but our journeys have so many parallels and that’s a beautiful thing to realize.

I don’t know why it gives me hope to have encounters like this, but it does. Especially in a place like LA, where so many of the people I cross paths with are so unrelatable and out of reach, and where I reside so often in monachopsis, even a momentary connection is to be valued.

Maybe there’s still hope for me surviving all this lunacy on the left coast.