Never Forget (insert eagle with tear in eye here)

I want to always remember the intensity. I want to remember how, as we held each other, every fiber of my being was shouting “I love you.” With every look, with every kiss, every single time I touched him I tried to convey a message that I was too scared to say aloud. I mouthed it to him when our lips met, and I whispered it silently when they touched his ear. Every passing second lying there with him, it built inside of me. When our kisses were soft, I meant it. When they were strong and intense, and I held his hair in a fist behind his head, I meant it. When we fell back and rested for moments, our legs and arms intertwined into a shape a pretzel maker would be jealous of, I meant it. It was the strongest thing I’ve ever felt. Drug induced euphorias and depressions couldn’t touch it. University professors didn’t have chemistry this powerful.

 

As the world stood still, my mind raced with the possible repercussions the words would have. I marveled at my own brokenness, my inability to maintain confidence, and my hang-ups with the phrase.

 

I had said it twice before. The first time, before I knew what it meant, I knew it was expected of me. It quickly became a hollow phrase, if it didn’t start that way. “I love you” was spoken in the same manner one might use to comment on the weather to a stranger. “I love you.” “We’re out of milk.” “The cat puked on the carpet again.” It was all the same. My frustration when there was nothing to watch on TV on a lazy Sunday was expressed with more feeling than “I love you.”

 

The second time it was said, only once, it was backed up with truth and alcohol. In a parking lot near a bar, one of those where you put the money in the little envelope with your stall number written on it, during the conclusion of an a-typically warm Seattle Summer night (or perhaps an a-typically warm Seattle Summer morning,) I argued with an on again/off again. In a relationship we both called a friendship; we never spent more than an afternoon or a night together. Our conversations lasted hours and our silences lasted weeks. Months. Whatever. We were perfect when we were together, and for each other- both horribly broken. Our tragic ending was simply the result me healing faster than him. I wanted what he didn’t want to provide. I believe that he loved me back- it never made the rejection easier to swallow.

           

So my hang-ups had justifications. Most of my neuroses do. But in his arms that night, despite fears swirling through my head, it didn’t matter. As quickly as they entered my mind, they left. There was no room for them. There was only room for the overwhelming love I felt for this man. Trepidations were replaced with hopes, fears with contentment. As clichés ran rampant, love conquered, as it tends to do. Angels were singing and trumpets were blaring, bells were ringing. As I whispered it in his ear, I was afraid he wouldn’t hear it over the cacophony.

           

“I love you too” he said back to me. “I fucking love you.”

Kevin

I’ve been thinking about you a lot lately. I haven’t seen you in at least three months, and I’m thinking about you. We dated on and off for too long for me to just let go. You were the first person I thought I could fall for after him, and start to fall for you is exactly what I did. And that’s why I left. You could never fall for me, despite the compliments you laid at my feet like boughs of roses. I feel like I gave and I gave and got nothing back but words. Words that were few and far between. Words that were always what I wanted to hear, always weeks or months too late. Beautiful, funny words. Beautiful, funny words that kept me strung along for well over a year.
I told you so many times that I was ok with the lack of commitment. I told myself so many times that it would work out in the end. I told myself that we could heal each other. We are both broken, but the broken don’t know how to heal. That’s why they are broken.
I wish that I had been more important to you. I wish that I had been more important than the blow, or the other drugs you hid from me when I was around. I wish I had found you before your last relationship broke you. I wish that when you told me how amazing I was, you meant it. I wish I could have accepted what you offered to me and desired nothing more. I wish I could forget how you smelled like everything I ever wanted to smell again.

I’m dating someone else. His name is Charlie. He isn’t broken, and I don’t think he knows that I am. He calls me “his girl.” He around when I need him and when I want him. He is around. He is as different from you as I could find, in ways that I need him to be. He smells nothing like you.

He’s going to be gone for a while. Compared to others that go where he’s going, he won’t be gone that long at all. He is going to be on the other side of the world doing things he can’t tell me about and I am going to miss him. I am going to miss him and write letters to him by hand. I’m not going to miss him as much as I miss you, and I am so afraid that I’ll find myself going back to you. It’s the last thing I want. It’s what I want the most.

The End is Extremely Fucking Nigh

Mostly, it’s the sitting I hate. And the mindlessness of it all. I’m at the bottom, looking up, but honestly the bottom is so much more appealing than anything at the top. Do you know how distressing that is? Knowing that if I went up it would be worse than where I am now? Especially since where I am now is the bottom of the barrel. I am the sludge, the dregs, the peon, the insignificant little blotch that no one will remember in a year. But it’s the best place to be when no one expects much from you. You get praise for using a brain no one expects you to have. Not that there are many opportunities to use said brain, really. It’s sitting there between my ears and it’s rotting. Sometimes it bangs at my head trying to escape. Trying to find a home where it can be taken care of and not just ignored. Poor little brain. I feel so bad for her, all grey and unloved.

And then, to add injury to the insult of whatever the Hell it is that I’m doing, they take away the one reason to stay here. With no more concern than if they were batting away a gnat on their shoulder, they take away all of my incentive to give a shit. It’s gone. Lost. I don’t know where it went and I’m a little to apathetic to go looking for it.

The end is extremely fucking nigh. And when it comes, it will be sudden, and it will hurt them, like they hurt me. Because Fuck maturity. Fuck with a capital “F”. Survival is what matters most. They’ve taught me that much. They hurt my attempts at survival. And since I can’t do much to hurt theirs, I’ll at least give them a poke in their side before they forget me.

I can NOT wait to quit.

Monday Confessions #2

When I’m at work and the ladies’ room is occupied- I use the men’s.

She wears stripes on Tuesdays, black on Sundays, and never ever jeans on Monday.

I remember asking my friends once, when I was in high school, “What kind of girl do skaters date?” Because I was at the time, dating a “skater.”

I’ve found myself, in the past, molding myself to fit in better with the people I surround myself with. I can change my mannerisms, I can change the way I talk, I can change how I dress, and I can change even my interests in the interests of making others comfortable with the person they think I am.

I’ve never looked at it as attempting to “fit in.” Adapting to the people around me is as much a part of who I am as the way I am when I am alone. I have never changed my core beliefs to appease people, and I’ve never changed, permanantly or temporarily, just to please someone. I change, for the sole reason of putting others at ease.

When I got my first job in retail my Father told me about a behavior trick that might come in handy- mimicking. If someone came into my store who had some mannerism/way of talking/way of carrying themselves that was a little extreme, they would relate to me better if I mimicked this begavior in a subtle way. If someone was very energetic, I should get energetic with them. If they frequently held their arms across their chest, I should do so as well. If someone came into my store casually cursing while they talked to me, and I threw a profanity into the conversation as well, they would be able to see a little bit of themselves in me and feel more comfortable talking to me.

Of course, I am not always “on” in this manner. Some people throw me off my guard. Some people confuse me and I don’t know how to react with them. Some I can only imitate to an extent (you know who you are!). Others, such as old friends and family, I am so comfortable with that either I don’t notice myself adapting, or I simply don’t do it.

I figure that many people do this, to a certian extent. I’m not sure if I do it more or less than anyone else. But every now and again I feel like I need to stop it; that I need to stop worring about people being happy with me and start concerning myself with whether or not I am happy with them.

But if this is me- this girl who, like a chamelion, changes from surrounding to surrounding- then how do I turn it off? Do I even need to? Am I truly undermining who I am by being seemingly different people?

Of course, it could just all be in my mind.

The Interweb is a funny place

It is a place of Wonder! It is a Mecca for information! It’s a place where you can find anything at all, stories, pictures, people, knowledge!

 It’s also a damn scary place. The post may seem disjointed, it’s taken primarily from a post that I made on a forum, replying to a couple people.

 

John wrote:

I meet tons of people through the Internet. In fact, I will be staying in a large house for the best part of a week with 30 or so of them this summer.

I meet with a ton of people from the net, too.  I karaoke and watch BSG on Fridays with people from a (very) large internet forum… there are probably about 30 of us together, anywhere between 10 and 20 showing up at any given meet. They’re all (pretty much) awesome people. Smart, funny… we all have at least one thing in common (the forum) even though many of us come from different backgrounds. We have a musician, an astro-physicist, a hockey player, a gourmet chef, a man who can (more likely than not) program while intoxicated, sleep deprived, and blindfolded; and so many others. I love that I’ve been able to be exposed to so many different and wonderful people.  It’s gotten to the point where I’ll tell my mother that I’m meeting people from the ‘net and instead of “Oh honey, please be safe” it’s “Again? Oh, that’s nice dear.”
Also, to date I’ve dated… (and this is super sad, huh??) 5 people I met online. 2 from (hur!) video games, one from a dating site, and two from forums.

Anyway, there are freaks everywhere, online and people you meet face to face… it just is what it is… that said:

Sara wrote:

Honestly, I think when my son gets older and learns about the internet I think I’ll always be cautious. I saw something on MySpace about some 40 year old dude preying on some 14 year old girls (did I see that on your page LaceyNoel?).

I had a video on my Myspace in which two women tricked a creep into thinking they were 14 year old girls, and sent them inappropriate videos of himself, etc etc… they took all the evidence and gave it to police. I don’t know the outcome. 

Obviously, there are creeps on the internet. I’ve been active online since I was about 11, and I’ve been propositioned multiple times… but on the other hand, and what I think doesn’t get as much recognition, many children seek out this kind of attention. For one reason or another, many times they knowledgeably put themselves in these positions of… I don’t want to say harm per se, perhaps exposure.

I went to adult chat rooms. I told people I was young. I was curious about the kind of attention it got me… I never put myself in real harm, but I definitely saw/read things that my mom would have been livid over. I know that many many other young teens do the same. It’s a tough situation, but as long as you teach your child that meeting a stranger online is about as smart as scratching your eye with the tip of a steak knife, they’ll be fine.

This is what’s scary to me: Kids are smart. Kids are curious. Kids like the forbidden… they’re going to get into it if they really want to. **sigh** Remind me not to reproduce. I don’t want any kid seeing what I have, at the age I did.

(In case you’re wondering- I’m in my mid 20′s now… and I turned out perfectly normal, despite less than savory internet experiences at such a young age.)

Monday Confessions #1

I am in an on-again/off-again “relationship” (to use the term very loosely). The whole thing probably isn’t very healthy, but at least I’m aware of the fact, and I don’t let it stop me from being open to meeting new people. (Hence the off-again part.)

The Confession? I keep one of his old voice mails in my mail box, rather than deleting it, so that when we’re not seeing each other I can still hear his voice.

 How creepy/stalkerish is that?

 (We’re in an on-again session… hence why I feel like I can share this guilt-free.)

Apparently 4 blocks off a main highway is a little tough to figure out

In my fast-paced and exciting world of phone-answering, I (fortunantly) don’t have to deal with many customers. On a bad day, I interact with 3 or 4 couples. On top of that, the winters are a slower season in my industry. But somehow I’ve managed to get some winners in the last couple days:

Yesterday:
Him (holding a paper up where I can’t see it): Who wrote this?
Me (standing to grab the paper): I’m not sure, let me see
(paper is directions to the Showroom- not written by me, but the same and correct directions that I give to customers/homeowners coming to our showroom.)
Him: They’re wrong. Who wrote them?
Me: I’m not sure, what’s wrong with them?
Him: (shakes his head)
Me: If you can tell me what’s wrong with them, I’ll have them fixed.
Him: I can’t. (Or something like that. He was mumbling.)

So… because you don’t know how to follow correct and simple directions, you’re going to be a douche to me? That’s great. Thanks, I appreciate it. Douche.
(By the way, I really and truly love the word “douche”)

Today:
Lady in a Huff: You guys are hard to find!
What I said: Oh, I’m sorry you had a problem finding us (As I get up to close the door she left open)
What I thought: This coming from someone who doesn’t know how to close a god d*mned door? I wonder how she got her shoes tied this morning…

In completely unrelated news, I want to get married here. I always wanted to be one of the cool kids. What’s cooler than getting married by a Klingon in Quark’s bar??

And All That Jazz

Every Monday for the past month I’ve gone out to Karaoke with some buddies of mine. One of our own is the dj, and since he was hired to run the show the bar’s business on Mondays has at least doubled, more likely tripled. (I have lots of friends… who like to drink.)

I have sang Fuel, Melissa Ethridge, Reba McEntire, Madonna, Sixpence None the Richer, Jewel and as of last night, songs from the Chicago soundtrack. I’ve started to live for Mondays, which is funny because I’ve never been a stage person before. The idea of speaking before people has always terrified me, and really, it still does. In high school I’d fail projects just because I’d miss the day that I had to present. But with just one drink in me, I am the next American Idol.

Ok, so maybe I’m not quite that good. Maybe Simon, smug in his little black shirt (a small when it should so obviously be a medium), would make me flee the audition room drowning in a pool of my own tears and self-loathing. But that’s not really the point. The point is that last night, I channeled Cathrine Zeta Jones. I sang like I’ve never sang before. I’ll never be on Brodway folks, but you couldn’t have told me that last night. Lord, was I on fire… and then I followed up with the world’s most horrible off-key rendition of Papa Don’t Preach. And there was much wailing and gnashing of teeth from the rest of the bar.

I’m just thankful they didn’t kick me out.

(Today I have to sing Free Bird, even though I don’t know it. Hey, I promised!)

Relaying, when I should probably be reflecting

In 2001, when I was 18, I got into my first real relationship. Before that, I had dated some and always ended it before it even began to resemble commitment. I was a serial dater before I ever had my first boyfriend.  And then I started dating DE. Six years older than me, he was the soon-to-be-quitting assistant manager of the store I was working at. I am amazed to look back on it and see that things progressed at what seems to be an average, normal pace for relationships. Maybe things moved a bit slower than your average one, but nonetheless, the couple years we had worked together gave us a good foundation to build something on. He was the first person I loved, the first non-family member that I lived with, and pretty much my first everything else. On Christmas 2004 he proposed to me, and I replied with a dazed “Uh-huh.” (See, I had had  been woken up by annoying tv noise and was going out to yell at him when he popped the question on me. So much for waiting for the opportune moment… I am a very groggy waker.)

Wedding planning took a while, since neither of us were in a hurry, and money certainly wasn’t something either of us had in plenty. Sometime in early 2005 I started having doubts, which I quickly repressed and ignored.  I’m really good at doing that. Don’t have a damn memory of my parent’s marriage or divorce. Repression for the win!

DE’s brother had recently knocked a girl up, married said girl, and bought a condo. They also seemed to be a happy couple. We were, unbeknownst to DE, an unhappy couple. So what was the logical step for me to follow? Certainly not having a kid, because that would certainly ruin any late night gaming extravaganzas, so how about buying a house? That would solve all of my problems! (The Lacey Noel of two years ago was not a very smart girl.)

 So, sometime in the Summer of 2005 we bought our very own half of a duplex. Because what do you want to do to a relationship you’re scared of being in? Put financial stress on it. Yay! Especially when you want to… oh, I don’t know… go back to school? But DE was happy as a clam. And who am I to fault someone for their happiness?

(I’m not really a long-winded person. I’ll wrap this up.)

As anyone with a 4th grade education could probably tell you, buying a house didn’t solve my problems. (What a shock to me!) But the thing was that I didn’t know what my problems were.  I was engaged to someone who loved me very much, I was 21 and a home owner which was pretty cool, I had a decent if not prestigious job… what the hell was my problem? It was all pretty much what I wanted: the recipe for a happy life.

It took a very unexpected week long fling with a European visitor to make me realize that I had everything except love for the person I was with. Somewhere along the way I just stopped loving him. Cheating is bad. It’s wrong, deceitful, hurtful, and something I will never do again. On the other hand, it was the catalyst for ending something that was killing me, little by little. What my relationship had been was worse than just being in a rut. I wasn’t bettering myself. I wasn’t learning, I wasn’t experiencing… I was just existing.

Two months after my affair I broke it off with DE. I had set a date for it, January 20something. It happened two days before that. It wasn’t an angry breakup, but it was very sad. Selling the house was difficult, and he got all of our shared friends, which were pretty much ALL of our friends. I was depressed for a little while, but mostly because I just didn’t know what to do with myself.

It’s taken me a year to figure out what do to with myself. It’s been a good, dangerous, exciting, irresponsible and educational year.

I’ve done the best that I could. But now I can do better.