Best Friends For Never

I am taking a break from the narrative style story telling I have been doing in my blog lately, to better explain what has been weighing heaviest on my heart in the past few days.  As everyone is pretty well aware of at this point, 2011 hasn't been my greatest year.  I have accomplished a whole lot, and looking back to where I am now, versus where I was 3 years ago, it would be crazy to think it's been all bad.  I am a stronger person than I have ever been, I am making healthier, better decisions for myself on a regular basis (although I slip up from time to time, who doesn't).  I am becoming financially stable, I genuinely love my home, and my job is my proudest accomplishment to date. But this year has been the year of my father's diagnosis, the rise and fall of Chatie, my best friend's Dad passing, my Mother's cousin passing, failed marriages, fights, lots of tears.  And now - on top of all of that goodness, the best friend. Is. Gone.

I was devastated by this all day long.  I broke down in tears at my desk more than a handful of times through out the work day.  And I don't think my therapist even got her office door closed all the way behind her before I fell apart on her couch.  I have been battling a bit of depression lately.  Which, I believe, is a result of being so lonely.  I work all day with people I love, at a job that most of the time I love too. But lately (and by lately I mean the past 3 months) when I come home from work, I spend an eternity by myself.  Well, me, my cat, and Harvey Levin.  Curtis has been that person, that even when I am being depressed and mopey and don't want to see anyone in the world, I would prefer to be on my recliner.

Now, I am not going to go into the sob story of how our relationship has fallen apart.  And if anyone one knows the two of us, and our odd chemistry, it was probably only a matter of time before one of us broke away.  But the timing couldn't be any worse for me personally.  And from someone with preexisting abandonment issues, I'm a bit shaken that the loneliness I felt before now suddenly feels exponentially worse.

I can't help but lump this sadness into the recovering feelings about Charlie.  And in saying this, I am by no means referencing the romantic relationship.  But I think back to that Easter afternoon I was tucked into a back alley doorway crying harder than I can ever remember crying saying "I just lost my best friend.  I just lost my best friend."  When my dad got diagnosed this spring, there were two people I allowed myself to breakdown to.  Charlie and Curtis. And though the relationships were very different, they were my lifeline.  They were the two people I could always count on to make me laugh when I needed to laugh, and let me cry when I needed to cry.  They both, to this day, still mean the world to me.

I am not trying to snub my other friends, who have been beyond words supportive through a particularly rocky year.  But I have a tendency of keeping face even when I am being honest with people.  I can give you a power-point presentation of my life, every last gruesome painful thing and at the end of it, you will shake my hand and leave thinking I am genuinely alright.  These 2 guys were the very few that I never even bothered faking it for.  They knew everything, and then they saw me. And they made me want to show them me more and more every time we talked because I wasn't afraid to show my real feelings, to breakdown, to be ugly. 

Alas, you can only count on yourself to be there at the end of the day.  And not that I don't wish to have a friendship like that in my life again.  Or that the people I do have don't do enough.  But I am alone.  And I need to be okay with that before I can let anyone see me ugly again.  I am 24 years old, I live on nobody's paycheck but my own.  I keep a roof over my head, food in my belly, TMZ on my television.  Even after the longest work weeks, I get up, I show up, and I give 110% of myself for a job I truly find rewarding.  I think there is more to be said for that sometimes, than a great friendship or relationship.  Plus, my therapist thinks that even through my tears and sadness, that I still sparkle.

HIMYF

She stood up from reaching over and filling the cat bowl.  The same way she always did, every night after another exhausting day at work.  She kept her shoes on, and skipped across the over grown lawn to the mailbox, the same way she always did.  She grabbed the bundle of junk mail, and fingered through a few envelopes of bills that would be left unpaid well past their due dates.  A smaller envelope fell out of the mix and onto the wet grass in front of her.  The handwritten barely legible address scribbled across the front of the letter made her heart drop to the bottom of her stomach.

After they had ended, she had checked the mail frantically every day.  For days that turned into months, that turned into years.  Eventually, she stopped searching for that poor penmanship and was excited to find anything that wasn't a catalog subscribed to by her previous roommate or a final notice from which ever utility she had neglected that month.  Over time she had made peace with the fairytale love story of his parents never becoming their own.  She didn't even know that with all her heart, she was still holding onto the hope that someday that letter would arrive.

When she got back inside, she threw the stack of papers on the table, including that one small envelope, and walked into the kitchen to pour herself a glass of wine.  It felt like her mail had eyes of it's own that night, eyes that followed her around the house until she finally worked up the courage to glance back in it's direction.  God Dammit.  It took all of the strength she had left to let him go the first time.  And there he was, folded and tucked between the local 'savers' advert.

Why now?  Why after she finally felt whole again, did this appear on that damp Monday night?  Falling straight out of her fingers, and down to her feet. Staring straight up at her, like it had separated itself from the pile to make itself more known than it would have already been.  She had defended her feelings for him for so long after he had left, struggling for the words to make anyone believe that their breakup was a mistake.  That he had left something so real, and so good.  And trying so hard not to remember the hope in his voice when he told the story of the letter that was once sent from his own father to his own mother.  Maybe timing was everything.  But just because this letter showed up on this day didn't mean it was the right time, either.  Or that she could undo the months of heartache, begging for the warm happy ending she was rediscovering had never left her at all.

She took a deep sip of red wine, and let her fingernail slide under the fold.  The envelope opened with ease, and the college ruled paper neatly tucked inside took her breath away as she slipped it out.  It was one piece of paper, barely filled, with the words etched in lightly with blue pen.  The words, though faint on the page, screamed into her face.  She read left to right, over and over again for what felt like an eternity.  She stared at his signature one last time.  Then promptly folded the letter back up, tucked it back inside the envelope, and threw it back down on the coffee table with the rest of the day's mail.

She looked back down to her shoes, conveniently still on her feet. And as quickly as she had locked the door behind her on her way in, she locked it on her way out.  She got into her car.  And she drove to him.

Somethings Never Change 5.12.08

"Do you want to hold my hand?" I looked down at his hand, extended towards me on the train ride home.  In my mind, the clock was ticking.  Every minute that went by brought me one minute closer to the day that he would leave Oswego, and he'd never have any reason to come back.  It takes such a short time to get close to some people.  Some people you just meet, and for some reason know immediately upon shaking their hand that they are someone one you want to know.  And not know as in say hello to every once and a while, and occasionally share a conversation with in the lunch line, but really know.  That's how I felt about Peter. From the second I met him, I knew I needed to know him. Really know him.  And we did know each other. We really did, as much as you could know a person at 16 and 18.

We were sitting on the train back from Chicago.  We had just spent the entire day taking pictures all over the city.  We walked around all afternoon, went to the Cultural Arts Museum, and finished the day by having a picnic and a movie in Grant Park.  We sat on a blanket, eating cold pizza and watched an old Gene Kelly movie on a big screen. We laid under the stars and looked at a glowing skyline just to the left of us.  It was a perfect day.  Perfect weather, perfect location, and perfect friends.  But with Peter, being close to him and being his friend wasn't enough for me.  I always wanted it to be something more, because he was the first person I'd ever felt that strong draw to.  He was the first man I'd ever met in my life that I was so fascinated with, any minute I wasn't with him felt wasted.

"I don't want to." I turned my head away and wiped the tears from my cheek.  This was a normal thing for me at the time.  When I was 16 years old, every thing felt so intense.  Every mood was amplified so much more because I had never felt these sorts of things before that I had no idea how to process them.  Nonetheless emotionally and physically control them.  I did want to, though. I wanted to hold his hand from the moment I set eyes on his shaggy brown hair, and his Chuck Taylors.  I wanted him to hold my hand, to hold me, to want me near him.  He was with me, though. A lot of the time.  We did things together, we talked to each other, and made each other laugh.  We spent time finding things out about one another, the things we liked and didn't like. Sharing music, showing each other movies.  But he never did those things.  He didn't want to hold my hand, he didn't want to hold me, and he didn't want me near.  At least not as much as I wanted to be near.

I watched the side of the train bump and shake along the track, and scanned the car to memorize the faces of the drunken Cubs fans sitting below us on the lower deck.  I looked up at his face, and narrowed in on his smile.  It broke my heart, every time it shined at me I knew it was a smile that I could never keep, as desperately as I wanted to.  But this time there was warmth, as I looked up into his eyes I knew that day was good.  And that there is a pain from watching someone you love slip away from you, but there is an undeniable joy of having them in your life at all that will always trump the pain.

I continued to cry, quietly.  But felt better.  Well enough to lean over and put my head on his shoulder. There was never going to be another Peter in my life, and I didn't know how much longer I was going to have him around for, so I bit my tongue and continued to pretend it didn't hurt.  At least until the next time it broke me down.

That summer ended too quickly.  And I wish that I could remember every memory from that year, but I have forgotten most of it. When you lose someone, the time to follow begins to blur.  I don't remember how much we talked after he left for college, but I do remember how quickly the distance grew between the two of us.  And I remember, vaguely, that Christmas when we stared at each other from across a Steak n Shake table, desperately trying to find something to regain momentum, but we failed.  He slipped away from me just like I knew he would. 

Its been 5 and a half years now.  And I have completely stopped thinking about him on a day to day basis like you used to.  He has become nothing more than a faint memory.  And even sitting down to write this makes me laugh, to think of those things I felt and how normal those feelings have become to me.  How quickly I can brush off unrequited attraction, and my higher tolerance to neglect and disappointment.  But I can still also look back at it and smile, because he was just one of those people that I needed to be near.  That I just needed to really know.  And after last night when he showed up at my 21^st birthday party after years and years of silence, I have learned some things never change.

A Girl Named Kid

It was just about 11:00pm. My father's breathing machine was resonating through the whole upstairs.  I looked at the clock and then back to the mirror.  I was almost ready.  I grabbed my purse and slowly turned the door knob.  I stopped when I got outside the doorway.  And I listened closely to the left. Nothing.  I continued down the stairs.

The Grand Father Clock that sits in the foyer would chime any second.  I always timed my escape to it, because then you couldn't hear the front door shut behind me as I left.  I would open the car door, and quickly start the engine.  As I reached over for the seat belt, I was already putting the car in reverse and heading out of the driveway.  I left the door open, until I made it a couple houses away.  As I shut the door, I would accelerate and turn the stereo up as loud as it would go. 

This was night.  This was my time.  My time away from my peers that didn't understand me, my time away from my family that disapproved of everything I did and was.  I was going to disappear into the darkness.  I smiled into the cloud of smoke that floated in my face, and began to sing.  This is the way you wished your voice sound, handsome and smart. Oh, my tongues the only muscle on my body that works harder than my heart. On this night, these are my words, this is my anthem.

The best thing about living in a town this small is that there is inevitably some back country road to get you where you want to go.  Get you there with complete avoidance of everything you wish to avoid at 11:17pm.  I looked at my phone and back to the road.  Usually if my parent's haven't called within the first 15 minutes of me being gone, they wouldn't notice.  They had accepted quite a bit about their rebellious 16 year old daughter.  But there were things I was doing, that they would have hated had they known.  I was unwavering in my smoking habit.  I was spending all my time with 20something rock-stars, driving from concert to concert, and party to party.  But the more they told me not to do these sorts of things, the more I needed to.  I was a rockstar.

I was almost there.  I looked up at the red light in front of me, and threw on my right turn signal.  A block further and I turned the bass up, obnoxiously. I rolled down the window and I screamed as loudly as I could "I'm gonna blow up your house, mother fuckers." Then, I honked the horn a few times, and pulled in front of the driveway.  

The five guys standing in the garage looked up and smiled.  Three of them raised their middle fingers high in the air, as to say 'welcome back, friend.'  Frado flicked his cigarette in the direction of my car and yelled back "get your cute ass out here, Kid."  I put the car in park and let myself out.  I leaned against the door and lit up another cigarette as I began to walk over to them.  

They were of course and older group of guys, previously mentioned '20somethings.' But my age was never spoken around the guys, and that was the way I liked it.  It didn't matter what year I was born, it only mattered that these people seemed to understand me far better than anyone I had met my age.  They wanted to know me as badly as I wanted to know them.  I mean, I was a rockstar.  

 "Just got 2000 more fliers for the 24th, Kid." I looked down to a box, top torn open, and paper fliers spilling out the top.  A black sharpie marker was scribbled along top the box, reading "For KatieKid."  It looked like Chris' handwriting.  I looked up at Frado and smiled. 

 "And why would I want that?" I said with a giggle.

"Because you are the KatieKid and you're the best." the dryness in his delivery made this statement seem completely rehearsed.  It was.

  

I was their promotional manager.  I ran their street team, booking, and all things with their name attached to it.  But most importantly I was KatieKid.  Creator of KatieKid Promotions, street team leader extraordinaire, and future CEO of Skyline Entertainment.  

I was a rockstar.

I was 16.

Be Moderate In Everything, Including Moderation.

I was mind-blogging last night, which is when I think about blogging in detail, but don't actually get up from my couch.  I had a question repeating in my head, and applying it's self to every thought that passed through my mind.  So I dragged myself to facebook, and posted quite simply the idea that everything seems to come back to the question "how many is too many?".  The reaction from a few close friends was the obvious connection to how many drinks is too many drinks.  And though this has been one of the biggest connotations to this question for most of my 20s, I was looking at a much bigger picture.

Everything is moderation.  That's what they say.  But finding a balance with anything is really hard when you are growing up.  For quite a few years of my life, the overwhelming question was how many nights out at bars and clubs is too many nights out?  Now, as I am becoming far too complacent in my 2 bedroom ranch-style house, and my value time bag of microwave chicken nuggets, I find the question more appropriate is how many nights alone are too many nights alone.  I don't think I have ever had that divine balance of socialization and down time.  It is always one extreme or the other.  Either I am out every night, drinking too much, and coming home too late.  Or I am getting home from work at 5pm, closing the curtains and sitting in the same spot in my living room night after night for what seems like months now.

I wish I could cut myself some slack, and not constantly question every phase of my life as it happens.  But I wonder if I do too much of something, all the time.  How many hours at work is too many hours at work?  How many hours of sleeping in is too many hours of sleeping in?  How many nights of crying yourself to sleep over the same person is too many nights?  How many cigarettes are too many cigarettes?  How many weeks and days are too many to sit around feeling sorry for yourself?  And on those nights where I am tired of feeling sorry for myself, than that age old question of how many drinks is too many drinks?

One of the things my therapist and I keep touching on is my view of the world being black and white.  I am always trying to classify everything in one of two columns.  Right or wrong.  Good or bad.  Too much or too little.  I haven't yet been able to grasp the idea that we live in gray.  That it will never be as easy as saying this is the appropriate amount of anything.  So I haven't left my house in a while.  I will come out again when I feel like it.  So I haven't entirely moved on from my past relationship.  I will be done with it when I'm done with it.  So I am not really happy right now. I will be happy when I get happy again.  I don't need to constantly pressure myself to do things and feel things for the sake of definition.  I'm in gray right now.  And that has to be okay, it has to be enough.

I am not accepting defeat, or hanging up the towel on life, by any means.  But I do need to let go a bit more.  Realize that I am only one person capable of one day at a time.  It may just be gray for a while. All I know is that this many questions is too many questions.