Thursday, February 11, 2016

Gentle, Not Sweat Lodge Manic

Today is a writing day. My aunt's birthday. What a lovely morning. I wish I could frame this time and save it as if a day were a photograph with a custom frame, set aside as a treasure from my memory. I figure as long as I have a bathtub, hot water and bubble bath, I can relax the same way I would if I had those yellow bars of Xanax. Wherever I go, as long as I have a bathtub and twenty minutes to myself, I have sunshine thoughts.
Who measures the depth of a thought? The importance? I wanted to write a blog on racism from my point of view because soon I'll have to leave my perfect home and go back out into the world.
My home is dark, with a view of a Texas forest with Texas rays of light streaming through Texas leaves with Texas exotic animals and upper class neighbors. My neighbors know my big fat cat by his first name, and they smile and stop to say hello when I go to get the mail. That is my life. At 5:30 I get to be an amateur philosopher, as all us A.A. members do. My job is little more then to pour clean water for the birds and squirrels on my patio. I have a bunch of plants that I am trying to resurrect from the grounds keeper of this apartment complex. One of my paper white bulbs are finally growing. My one gold fish has a huge freshwater tank that bubbles a quiet humming that calms the living room. I'm surrounded by photos of my family. Above the sofa is my thirty fourth birthday gift from my mentor, Robert Soffian. It's a painting he sent me when I was finishing my degree in Northern California. I had it framed, and it's going to be an heirloom one day.
A few thoughts. Instead of writing about racism today, I decided to Google the Playboy Playmate Holly Madison to see if she had fake boobs. I just did. She does. More power to her. There is no weight on thoughts until they go out into public. Then the public puts them into categories of importance. Fake boobs would be separate from important slots. They would be in the realm of gutter thoughts; or guilty thoughts or passing time. Personally I don't like that type of gleaming white bleached aesthetic, but someone does enough to make a large profit off of it. That was one idea that crossed my mind- the weight of thoughts.
The other was the point of writing. I get to write in this space, as anonymous as I feel like being the day I write. This blog is where my treasured thoughts go to rest. This blog is my bubble bath soak without reading material to distract or focus me. This is my retreat. I am an invisible voice. I think I've mentioned before why I like the writer Diablo Cody. The DVD to Jennifer's Body cost me less to buy then to rent. What trash. A mess. So I bought her book Candy Girl to see how depressed I should be about society nominating her as the new Tarantino. First, I highly recommend that book for both a guilty pleasure and just a damn good, inventive read. Second, as I was reading her stories, I was entertained and she was likable until one part in the middle of the book. She was talking about having stomach cramps that were so bad she did not want to get on the pole that night. The wording made me think, "Yeah, stomach cramps. No." Then out she comes with the confession, "Okay, it was explosive diarrhea." At that moment, she gave me (da reader) a part of herself. A part of her vulnerability. From that point of the book forward she was irresistibly lovable. No need to fill a Prozac prescription on her acceptance in mainstream Hollywood. She is one of the rare good voices. A good writer (does the exact opposite of everything I do) gives a piece of their being away. They are unguarded for the right amount of time. Kind of like how Sophia Loren was classy with her cleavage. In the SAT, Sophia Loren is to good writing (cleavage revealing) as Jane Mansfield is to bad writing. Mansfield gave herself away, always. In the end I think she died heading to a stage show in Mississippi. If that's not a fact it might as well have been.
Today I'm going to clean my little home, which is healthy, meditative and refreshing. Always keep a freshly cut flower in the home. It matters. I remember when I first moved to California alone at 20. I'd take lavender from a bush on a walking trail I took to sit on the jungle gym and think. I've done little moving and a lot of thinking in life it seems. The lavender was put into a bath and I'd soak for a good half and hour and plan my next move. It's more satisfying to me to use the resources around me for comfort, decorations and projects then to buy them. The opportunity to be clever and the satisfaction on saving a buck have motivated me to save worn down upholstered chairs for my cat to use as scratching posts as one example. When there is food in my kitchen I can go days without using my credit card and it feels...liberating. Today is a God Lovin Glorious Day to be alive! I'm going to drink ice water, dress in grey jeans, the first blouse I find that is not going in the wash, and wear red lipstick. If I could seal this day in a frame and display it for strength when I do go public in my life, I can always read this blog post.

Friday, January 29, 2016

Of course it's not my last blog

As for guns, every day I see my boyfriend, who always has a gun on him legally. That has been a point of contentious for many years between him and me.

For me to know that people that I love are rooting for me to fail is very difficult to accept. There are many people that I love that are actively rooting for me to never have children, or happiness, or a shot at anything normal.

If I write and write and write and justify and remember what better people have told me then I'll reach some sort of tangible peace. Or if I jog a lot I'll break my body down enough to sleep at night. At this point in my life I understand motivations and isolation but not celebration.

There is no sympathy for people who do not work for their happiness. My dear friend, my true friend, is around seventy years old and he is just now feeling the joy of a clear mind. When I call for help his answer is always: Work for your happiness. Keep fighting yet at the same time surrender.

Actually, at this paragraph I am starting to feel better. I own a copy of the movie Jesus' Son. I'd say life is less glamorous then that, and it's intentionally a realistic truth. I am over educated with a bad memory and worse grammar (I know!) A Bachelor's degree in Literature was not the greatest move on my part.

Note to self for a future blog: Simply copy my senior thesis paper for what I intend to do with my Literature degree. Short answer: Get laid at bars. I never factored in that I would quit drinking. Duh!

Note to self for another future blog title: The Premise for Enter the Dragon.

"You don't know what innocence is until you lost it." Note to self on a third blog: Write down your college notes. My college notes are interesting. Hopefully Berkeley has stopped teaching name dropping to obnoxious degrees. Professor Gage; I could not fucking stand that man. At that time I was passably attractive and my academically based therapist used my Literature, Theory of Identity class and the syllabus to guinea pig me to test out these theories. Does anyone really understand these theories? Really? Russian theory?

My strong dislike of Professor Gage was a topic in a therapy session. He name dropped so often that my therapist suggested that I use my time in his mandatory beginning Lit class (which I took the same semester as my senior thesis class) to make a graph after tallying all the times he name dropped as well as all the tangents he went on about his connections to successful writers. One example was him detailing the kitchen of a famous writer he knew. He was that pretentious.

His class was at either 8 or 9am in the morning and I was in love with another student in the class. We would lay in bed each morning drinking coffee and debating whether or not to attend his class or just stay in bed. I've always said a bed and a great thinker to share that bed equal nirvana for me. Not just in a sexual way. That lover and I just talked and shared our stories. He's the man who broke up with me with a note he left for a nurse after an accidental overdose (I nearly made the 27 club.) But there was a time where we shared a love for the bizarre, the exotic, and the ordinary.

Together we went into Professor Gage's class after being no more then ten minutes late. There was a movie on and before I sat down I heard from the television: He even took the last scrap of the buttocks and ate it." 
What the hell we were watching, I don't know. But before my buttocks  hit the seat I burst out in uncontrollable laughter. My stomach hurt from laughing.

As for the assignment to tally his name dropping and association to famous writers, well, Professor Gage found me working on that paper once. He did not say a word. My final grade was a 'D'.

I went to his office once to fight the grade. At the time I was 27 and he had a young woman entranced in his office for a good half hour, hanging on his ever story as if he was fucking the shit out of her through his inferior brain, like they did in the movie Barbarella.

Side Note: I had sex in R. Crumbs old house, which became Professor Mukherjee's home. I'm sure I did Professor Gage proud with that name drop.

My home;isolation. A nice day before I move from Texas. Soon to move.Vanity should be a virtue. 

Monday, January 25, 2016

Going Bat Shit Crazy

The title could also be: Everyone is out to get my cat.

A  few days ago I woke up feeling like something was wrong. There was a knot my stomach. I felt like someone died.

There is no glamour in mental illness. I can assure you that I want nothing more then to be normal. Boring. Counting diet pills. Allowing my non-existent husband to have an affair. I want a garden. House hold renovation projects. Read more about Argentina. Find out what happen to Claudio Caniggia  Be happy, joyous and free like the Alcoholics Anonymous saying. Most importantly the constant worrying needs to stop. I don't know how to get rid of insomnia. The closest answer was Flexeril. I slept. God gave me a glimpse of what normal people feel like.

I'm surprised I slept at all, let alone to 4:30 this morning. Okay, on to my cat. You'd be surprised how many people don't like fat, overtly friendly tuxedo cats. When I was living in Arcata in a small studio apartment in the Redwoods, a group of assholes hit my cat in the face so hard that it nearly killed him. They did this because they are cowards. I'll hold that grudge forever. Since I stopped drinking, I stopped calling the police up there about the incident. Police don't do a lot to help.

These neighbors were literally from South Central Los Angeles.

Side note: The Beatles song 'Get Back to Where You Once Belonged' was inspired by a group of people from some foreign country that escapes me now that moved to the U.S. of A and were sleeping on top of each other (maybe an exaggeration, but it was tight living quarters.) I know this because I use to listen to Beatle Brunch every Sunday when I was a normal girl. Anyway, these people had it good where ever they lived before, then moved to America and lived in severe discomfort. The Beatles did not want to sound racist- where ever they came from was touchy apparently- so they wrote 'Get Back To Where You Once Belonged' about a different subject.

This was a four unit building with all units being small studio apartments but other apartment buildings were around us. I just want to get to the fucking point about this. These loud people moved into both of the upstairs units- about eleven people in a small studio. The people above me consisted of a man, the woman he beat the shit out of like clock work three nights a week, and their seven month old baby. The other unit had very loud people and they were probably very tight. Humboldt has enough issues with aggressive panhandlers, meth in Eureka (sorry dad, I'm not moving into the condo you have for rent there) and bullies from both Los Angeles and Massachusetts who dominate the weed industry because they have no problem being unethical and making it a thug thing, rather then a hippie thing.

Side Note: I grew weed for about a year. Actually I was an accessory. My ex (my cat's dead beat dad) was the one who set it up. I just made sure the house had freshly cut flowers in addition to helping him make money for himself only. He's from L.A. My therapist also said he was a textbook case of Narcissistic personality disorder. I just assumed that he liked to paint pictures of himself and have them all over the house because he was perfecting a certain style of some sort. I just found two rolls of negatives of film and developed them. I was in one photo in both sets; and even that photo was with him as well.

Back to the people who bludgeoned my cat with a rock. I asked all the other neighbors in the other buildings to do something about the domestic abuse. It sounded like someone was throwing a bowling ball upstairs. I could actually hear the sound of fist hitting bodies. She'd scream for help. She would cry. At the time I was on a sleeping pill that would knock me out as early as 3 in the afternoon. Since I was in a domestic violent situation with the ex that grew weed (they are very common in Humboldt because people are paranoid) I finally called 911 regarding Mia's abuse. Surprise, the cops did nothing. Yeah, she ran into a wall at 3am. That's the noise I heard. The cops that came actually shook the man's hand. Racism is ridiculous there. They were black. There are not that many in Arcata, and it's a touchy subject. My downstairs neighbor was black too. But he was the perfect neighbor. I still write him from time to time and I left three years ago.

I also want to say that when the woman beater left the next day to go to work I went upstairs to talk to the woman. I'm too tired to remember her name; Mia I think. Mia and Nicholas. It's important because I called every cheap apartment in Arcata over and over to report that this douche bag hits his girlfriend and nearly killed my cat. But in time, she earned my hate too. I approached her to ask what I could do to help. I explained that it will only get worse, never better. I told her my apartment was open for her to feel safe in at any time, day or night. She was in the rationalization phase, and the justification phase. As they say in A.A. "Rationalization and Justification are like Masturbation: In the end all of them are fucking yourself." The only thing that stuck out in that conversation is that she said he punched her in the stomach around the 8th month of her pregnancy.

I was very confident that the man would retaliate. One day about 14 people where in the parking lot (and this place is hidden well by another building and trees.) Lucian (Lucian Price My Only Vice) is an outdoor cat and wanted to go out. Because of white guilt and political correctness, I let my guard down once. Just once. In less then two minutes, Lucian was wobbling at the front door, bleeding from his head. Now, at that point I was sorry that I did not own a gun. To this day I believe their life is shit. Hit me, I can fight back. To do that to a friendly cat? How is this for political correctness: for them and them only, I hope they are judged until they day they die. Just them.

I'm not going to write about Lucian rising from the ashes like the phoenix he is, but he did of course. The incident got them evicted, but it took time, and in that time they tried to intimidate me at every chance they got. One day I was walking home and I was surrounded by the dozen in the adjacent unit. I just kept walking. Luckily I will say that in Arcata, we have the numbers for animal loving, warm hearted people. The woman who was getting beaten up came up to me one day screaming that they are getting evicted because of me. Good. I hope they remember that to this day. She joined him in being extremely aggressive to me for a good two months before they left. 60 day is a long time to fear living where you do. Also I had to go out with Lucian every time he wanted out, which was annoying.

Lucian has been thrown off a two story balcony by a lady I just called Havisham. I caught him like a football once because she threw him at my front door. Catch the pass, check if he is okay, charge the quarterback. She slammed the door on me.

The reason I left Los Angeles is because my ex told me if I talked about leaving him anymore he would kill Lucian. He had a detailed plan. I left so fast a fork was packed from eating dinner. Then I got a rental car and saved him from his dad. The same man that I begged to not get a cat because my 24 year old cat just died and cats are a responsibility. "Get your own fucking cat then. This is my cat..." Well I was right. I'm in Austin, he went completely bald and now resembles a turtle to me. When I see a photo of him on-line, I think of a turtle.

Then there was yesterday. Someone sprayed human (I'm assuming) 'manure' (say that with a snobbish accent) all over my cat. Spray like how Jackson Pollock loaded his paintbrush with paint and sprayed the canvas. Lucian was the canvas for shit. Whoever did it sent a message because I had to clean him up. Here is where I went bat shit crazy. Crazy as in screaming to people. I deleted about 70 friends from Facebook, which may seem like nothing, but I moved often and I need those contacts for my next move. I quit A.A. for the 7th or 8th time. I was not in my head. As in, "Ah, out of my mind/ not in my head." Is that where it comes from?

Side Note: This should have gone up in a paragraph but two things: One, every time I heard those two fighting, I'd take a sleeping pill. As for growing weed, we were the only people I know of who were not robbed, and robberies can get violent.

Before I went to jail I ended a long feud with a worthy nemesis who escalated it to 911 calls on both sides, 3am calls to the management voice mail, and insane speculation. I'd rather be paranoid then right. We had a coyote that killed a cat. Someone put uncooked steak out where the coyote was seen. There was a Hansel and Gretel trail of baloney from the sidewalk going straight to the patio where Lucian hides from site but is still outside. Staring competitions. This apartment complex was built in the 1970's and I am the first and only person to get an apartment lease violation and warning taped to my front door that said my cat had to stay inside. The management could not believe this person they knew for six year would do any of this stuff, even though complete strangers were reporting it to them. So the management got really dirty with their tactics.

Example: I was on the phone with the head manager and I said, "I'm someone's daughter. Would you want this happening to your child?" They warped that question to say that I threatened their families. The person who stuck up for him the most was Sandy. She was loyal like a gangster. Even though Sandy took his side and turned into a screaming crazy woman toward me, I admire her out of the three. Later she hinted that she knew he was doing those things. She was devoted to this resident and strangely, I admired her the most even if she went low to defend him.

He apologized before I went to jail. Talk about duel personalities. His good side is a beautiful, model-like man. His bad side was basically the break down Tom Cruise had in the movie Jerry McGuire. I am serious. When my cat came home covered in poop, I assumed the war was on. I can not handle that any more. I'd rather be shot. It was that bad. Now there is a permanent cease fire, praise be to the Lord!

If there is one thing I can say about Lucian: That fat cat has heart. Three days ago I heard a scream. The death scream. I ran from my bedroom in my grand mom pajamas to the door, then to the street. If anyone has gotten a phone call about an untimely death, they know what I mean. Seconds pass with flashes of terror. Lucian had taken on a pit bull. The dog's jaws were as wide as Lucian is fat. Right now, as the sunrises and lights our homes while coffee brews as the work week begins, my cat is out on the same sidewalk where a pit bull almost mangled him. He's been bludgeoned, kicked, knocked off a two story building, cursed at (yes, from a highly intelligent woman) intimidated and hit by pebbles; yet he still acts as the mayor of the complex, watching for people to pass him so he can rub against their leg. For heart and a lot of soul, I love the not-so-little guy.

All of that and I never got into how crazy I got about the entire incident. I don't feel like reliving the feeling of chaos, paranoia, faulty premises that led to extreme conclusions and snapping at even the good people who are trying to talk me down. It's automatic, "He deserved it just as bad." Thank you Caligula. Now time to try to go back to sleep.

*In writing you are supposed to have more show then tell. 90% show and the rest tell. I've got it in reverse. Rereading my own blog here actually put me to sleep.

Monday, January 18, 2016

My Quiet Life

Quite is a euphemism for boring. I love my boring life. All the cliques apply to me. It's 5:30am and I just fed a bunch of stay cats. I have a raccoon (Frederick) who bit me three days ago. He literally bit the hand that fed him when I was grabbing his plate to put cat food on it for him. My own cat has the soul of Mussolini; a 20 pound tuxedo cat who I rescued from his deadbeat dad in Los Angeles. I never got into Nathanael West's Day of the Locust, but I remember the first sentence said people go to L.A. to die. More like they die from being there. I escaped with a tuxedo cat. My ex was such a narcissist he had to get a cat that looked like a butler.

Of course I attend Alcoholics Anonymous. Like clockwork I get dressed to go to the 5:30 meeting. I had a blog on it, but I took it down because:
a.) They really value their anonymity and someone might find this electronic diary.
b.) They brain washed me into putting my all into my recovery.
c.) Both and more that I can't think of to list as d, e, f, g, etc.

I don't work. In November I turned 37. My mid-life crisis is in high gear, so I posted a half naked photo of me in Northern California where everyone goes nude. This is my last year in Texas.

That's my quiet life. It should be boring, and I think I've earned the right to be boring by now. I took down the blog on my arrest (paranoia) but the blog about the year long fight never mentioned that the sweet D.A. was originally asking for two years of my life. I did not know this of course, because when my lawyer pulled me out of the court room to tell me I might serve a month of prison time (a lie he knew) I freaked out and- well, I'll leave it with "I freaked out."

All of 2015 was spent fighting that jail sentence. I was beyond stressed out. In my life I've only seen a few people who have reacted to stress the way that I do and usually it has something to do with their reaction to me. I just stare at them, secretly impressed as my love grows for them.

The prison sentence has been served. I've already quit one job. The stress should be over with now. After the fall. I love those three words. In Blake mythology it's the start of life on earth. We are all shattered pieces of ourselves, trying to find one another to be whole again.

In May I leave Austin. This time I'm breaking the 'A' rule. Annapolis, Albany, Arcata, Austin, Alameda (I never really lived there, just visited often while living in San Francisco.)  My moving makes me a one percenter by proxy; to San Diego. I miss my family there.
*I've decided to post photos because this is just a diary. Lucian is six years old and our next move makes it his 18th move so far. Hopefully our last.
 Our theme song is The Beatles song, The Two of Us.
Frederick is
trying to dig through concrete to get inside our home. He's not invited.
I had to add this guy. He got stuck on my kitchen screen window. 

Tuesday, December 22, 2015


And at night when it comes, in the darkest of times, I ask God
There is a God
I just don't know Him;
My prayer is that he soften my harden heart.

Monday, December 14, 2015

After a Year Long Fight....

*Ambien prescriptions should come with a coupon for a video or audio tape player. Habitual Ambien users will eventually get a tape on the behavior they can't remember. It was Ambien that landed me in jail...

2015 was spent correcting a spontaneous decision that ruined all my hard work to get that Bachelor's Degree. Or so I thought. It was meant to point me to something I now feel passionate about: Helping Addicts. I've got the Bachelor's Degree and the life experience to help others make better decisions. I've helped a lot of people in my 20's. But without boundaries and without self confidence these people just took advantage of my kindness and wrote me hateful letters. I want to help people that want to be helped, and that takes work.
If I can translate one thing about one's circumstance, I'd say to keep as much control as possible, because it's a wild world filled with all different walks of the globe. I willingly go to A.A now, something I love. My one point to the group is this: I woke up one morning and lost a decade of the work for the ability to go anywhere. I am now a felon. I told a monumental drunk that she could stay with me because I wanted to show her kindness. In less then 24 hours of her plane landing in Austin from Alaska I was arrested for a public intoxication. The felony came after I was incarcerated.

My God this is a lot of foreplay.

I woke up in a jail cell a day after I was arrested and was told that I spit on a prison guard. That is a felony.

There is no question that if I did not want to help that Alaskan drunk, I'd not have a felony. But I needed a wake-up call and I was not really living before. I'm a fighter.

She begged me to go with her in the early morning to a job interview. She said she needed my support. I went with her after a lot of begging. There was no job interview. I took her to my favorite restaurant where I drink like a fish. I always do, then take a cab home. But even though I drink, I keep some control. This Alaskan drunk was so out of control, they switched three waitresses on us. Then she begged to go drinking on 6th street. I don't go there. My phone was broken and she had just arrived in Austin near night time the day before. She did  not know where I lived. I made her promise that if we go out drinking, we have to stick together because I have no phone and she does not know where I live. In less then 15 minutes she tried to start a fight with a bartender, then split as I was yelling to her that she could not split up.

The last time I saw this person she acted exactly the same.

She's the type of drunk who would call me and say, "Oh, my ribs are broken and I don't know why." Or, "I'm checking into rehab and no one is taking my calls." That is not the type of person I want to help because they don't want help.

That was December of 2014. In late January I had a affair with someone who briefly moved in with me. I lived like a rock star for a good month. He moved out thank God. I put my focus in this felony fight.

It was a pain in the ass. I'd dress in high heels, tulle skirts, and prison stripped shirts to court. It was on the highest floor of an Austin courthouse. I'd look out the window and block out the jail sentence that I knew was coming.  
The jail outfit was much less flattering. When I was in high school, with 700 students per grade outside of Baltimore, I always wanted the administration to force the students to wear uniform uniforms. It was so hard to come up with outfits when my father depleted all the family money on a gold digger he met in the classified section. We had a huge family. Not a lot of money for clothes.

Onto jail. Of course I had my hair done by my stylist, Mikel, at my favorite salon for my mugshot. I have a wide smile on my face that says, "I just killed 7 people!" or as my lawyer put it, "You look like you are going on a journey." That I was.

I took the strongest opiate that would stay in my system for three days before I turned myself in. Also I took the longest acting sedative before I checked myself in. Also I checked myself in with a high tolerance to prescription drugs. So high that on the 25th day in jail, I was rushed to a neighboring hospital's E.R., because I was too weak to pick up a paper cup of water, let alone drink that water. I was 104 pounds then. Usually I'm much heavier. Between 25-40 pounds heavier. I'm 130 pounds now, not quite two months out of jail.

I ran before I turned myself in too. The stress caused me to lose so much weight. I can always tell when someone has spent time in jail by the look in their eyes. The look on my face after they sentenced me was....funny to recall now.

Here I am after jail. The blank look is still in my eyes. My body is showing it. Mikel's magic could not wash out that dirty feeling of being in jail. Thank goodness for self cleansing organs. 

I don't hide any of my shameful behavior. I had my nails done too, to, 'remember my humanity in jail', whatever that means. When I went to the spa for my mugshot, Mikel said in his super-happy voice, "So what is in store for you today?" "I need my hair done for a mugshot Mikel. I'm checking myself into jail later today". Silence.

When I got out of jail Mikel did my hair (above) and when I told him my hair looked great in my mugshot he said, "So how did jail work out for you?" He's been doing my hair for two years. I know him well enough to know he was hoping I would not go into any detail on that subject. 

Now, there are authentic, organic and spontaneously beautiful experiences spent in solitary confinement. I spent the majority of the time in solitary confinement. I learned Micheal Jackson's moon walk in solitary confinement. 

I wore nothing for two days in a windowless room with no toilet. That was not fun. The graffiti in the walls: My God! It's so hard to dent the wall. But to succeed, they put things like, "King was here." I learned hieroglyphics from images on the wall that were really just food thrown by someone who lost their shit. And it's always a treat to see someone lose it. I lost it once.

For example: They use the word, "Exploited" a lot in jail. I'm a little white girl (that was my nickname for three days) who could be 'exploited' easily. Meaning people just take things from me and I can't tattle tail. So they take precautions to ease the amount of exploiting by doing things like cutting off addictive drugs with severe tapers. Or having to say your name three times into the phone to have your voice imprint saved for further phone use. But this new, 'say your name three times' system for phone use hardly ever worked. Most people just said their name until they gave up. A few people managed to get patched through. I think of it as when Christian Bale tried to jump out of Bane's jail. But funny. Entertaining for people stuck in silence with hours of time and only one hour out of their cell each day. This one woman said her name so many times I thought she was through. Then one more round of repeating her name and she took the phone, stood up, slammed the phone hard over and over again screaming, "Mother fucker, work God damn shit fucker..." She lost her 'hour out' privilege and I got some entertainment to kill a few minutes. 

I was like a Survivor contestant. When I turned myself in, their was this bleach blonde woman screaming racist words (one word, loud, you know, that word). It was shocking because there were black guards arresting her. The guards told me that she was on heroin and drunk. I said, "I ask for one thing. Keep me far from that woman." Of course they said yes, as if I had any control. Two days later the Neo-Nazi proposed marriage to me. She had been to this rodeo before and she took me under her wing. Bulk up, she said. I could not eat the jail food so she got most of my plate. Cheese is a luxury. Peanut butter can start a fight. I felt like an organ donor. I felt like Jesus Christ. I felt Stockholm syndrome kick in slowly. 

The Nazi's name was Jen. She had the objective of moving us to the actual jail because we were just in the downtown holding cell initially. She wanted to transfer for her night time movie privilege. My objective was to follow the drugs and the nurses who dispensed them twice daily. And fight with the guards until Stockholm syndrome kicked my butt. On day three I yelled to the guards to, "Turn off the freakin lights!" They replied, "Ah, you're in jail." That was hard to hear. So my nearly month long jail sentence was spent in parts. The first part with Jen and her jail house wisdom. My food for her protection. Women loved to offer their protection to me. Jen was the first of a few. 

I was an asset to the other prisoners because I was a vegetarian with corn and peanut allergies. So I basically stopped eating in jail all together. After three days in one cell I was automatically moved. Just when I started thinking, "Okay. I can do this" nope, I was moved. From a few cells in the initial downtown jail to being chained to a group women sorely needing a shower. Hair was everywhere. Tattoos rampant. I saw a heroin addled prostitute who was withdrawing so badly, she had open sores on her feet, face and hands. That's a body in need of a mother. I saw that girl twice, both while seeing the nurse. The second time I saw her, she smiled. 

Drugs are the icebreaker when making small talk. "What is your drug of choice?" I've never seen so many cases of drugs messing people up then in jail. 

When I was transferred from downtown to the actual prison, I was put in a three day, "Is she going to kill herself?" cell. Then after three days, I went to jail. I was only in actual jail for three days. Transferring from solitude and a thousand stupid thoughts to actual jail was hard. I walked in with my blanket holding little more then a deck of murder cards-

Side Note: Yeah, they make it as depressing as possible. You are given a deck of cards that features a murdered person on each card. There are a lot of unsolved murders. I nearly memorized the people's story. Then I got so bored I started to create scenarios, back stories, possible explanations for their whereabouts. Dismal.

I was in the maximum security psych ward of the jail. Only extreme cases. Attempted murder. One woman was on her 5th armed robbery arrest. They were tough. I had two small, sharpened pencils in my shirt pocket just in case. They were very real in that they shared their fears of going to jail jail- that's 3 years or more I think? But they had tattoos with sayings like: Sometimes there is darkness before sunshine. That was an actual tattoo, and it was newly printed on the woman with 5 robberies

Well I was overstimulated with the socio-economic mess of drug addict race wars. Women with no teeth. I had the most teeth there! Women immediately calling me a little bitch, fucking bitch, blah blah, because I kept shutting my cell door and it made a loud sound. The over stimulation of half these women asking me why I was in jail, 'hey white girl', loud talk. Remember, I was withdrawing from Valium in there. The sound was piercing and I knew it was a matter of time before I lost it. 

But one notable memory is that when I first went into real jail, it was loud with insults and my new cell had a toilet that overflowed and the junk inside (someone was flushing horded food wrappers down the toilet) nearly touched my blanket with all my belongings inside. My murder pack. Hey, I sleep on that blanket. The dogma poop monster nearly got my blanket, and that was it for my sanity. 

I was given a 'time out' to calm down while the guard, who was too young to know who Charles Manson was, told the ladies that I was new and to be nice to me. 

Side Note: That's another thing I noticed in jail. I was hanging on the last month of being 36 years old. Many women were 18. I noticed my jokes about not being Houdini or Macgyver were lost on more then half the women there. 

I remember Jen, who was separated with me by this time, saying that many people are murders. She said to trust no one and don't tell them about your crime. They will use things against you. We had to take our tray of food, sit down and eat quickly. The tough Spanish women took one table. One of them was built like a man. They had corn rolls. I wanted to sit next to them and say, "Okay ladies, this is going to be an educational experience for me." That would have turned out well. 

I fell into a small group of women; one black, one Spanish, one 15 days older then me, one pregnant. I sat at their table the most. Through small talk I learned that most women read one terrible romance novel a day. A quiet woman with long brown hair and a plain face was in their for attempted murder of her boyfriend. 
My other derogatory name was, "That other white bitch" because I wore my glasses, and the lady 15 days older then me wore glasses too. There were plenty of white people but I guess they grouped us together. A group of black women smuggled some narcotic in, and the noise they made- with Valium withdraw- I was on edge. Also they all managed to put their difference aside to wake me up for breakfast so they could get my food. Pain, not eating, not sleeping, fear, it was getting to me. When I heard the attempted murder story I think that put me into a flight or fight mode. 

So yeah, I lost my shit too. It happened on day 14 at 9am, which was October 14th. I clocked every day! My friend James from A.A. did a phone visit (a screen we can see each other through) and I snapped. I snapped goes in my Guinness Book of Records. I told him to get me out. I was screaming that I am surrounded by murderers. My entire body cried and shook. I said I'm giving up. Then I hung up even though he made the drive to see me. 

And in my panic something beautiful happened. All races, all egos, all the women crowded around me to give me their two cents on panic attacks. "Remember, it's just chemicals in your head." They all got together; because truthfully, we are all so close to losing it in jail. One person represents all of us. They ladies got together and made me some coffee. Then I was removed to solitary confinement for the rest of my stay. 

Towards the end my body and mind just stopped working. I kept saying, "My mouth won't work." I could not speak without slurring my words. I was too weak to walk so they put me in a wheelchair and wheeled me to the doctor. Then the hospital. I've never felt like that before. My mouth kept drooling. I could not hold a phone when my brother called. 

Before I got that bad I spent two days in the suicide room. You're stripped naked and given a vinyl blanket that is not long enough to keep you from touching cold hard concrete. People wiped boogers on the wall. Male nurses would come talk to me as I was naked. 

Around day 11 I realized I could not use my looks to get anything, because I was hideous. They build you up from jail clothes to using 'The Commissary' for socks. I was more angry that they took away my socks when I was put into isolation then anything else. They make a single cookie feel like freedom. The isolation makes everyone loopy. I remember I switched rooms with some poor soul, a pretty black woman who saw me out for my 'hour out' and she ran up to the door, asked me a ton of questions, asked for the newspaper, or anything. The boredom and time creates panic. 

I remember distinctly when I got out of jail that I was obsessed with time. Freaked out by it. My brother and boyfriend played miniature golf with me a few days into my freedom and I felt so bizarre. I kept asking what time it was. My apartment felt foreign to me. I have not gotten my stride back yet. And today I have a job interview. I've already gone through one job since I became a felon. Now, today is another interview. Part of me is still in those jail cells. Staying up all night. I stayed up 4 days at a time. 

The first photo is me the day I checked into jail. The last is me the day after I got out of jail. So yeah, it wore me down. Now after a year long fight to avoid jail, I did not even think about becoming a felon until after I got out. It's a done deal now and I can't get it expunged from my record. I looked at my sent e-mails and so many are to the drunk girl who is probably drunk now who I wrote far too many e-mails to with the title, "An apology would mean so much to me." I won't hold my breath. People are using the saying, "It is what it is" a lot these days. At first I was angry for helping her with this outcome. I helped someone when I was almost 21 by inviting her, as a nearly complete stranger, to come live with me. I was surprised she took me up on the offer, but when she showed up at my front door with her suitcase I bought her a pizza. I remember thinking, "I want to show her that people can be nice." My nature will always be to help others, even if it's just to make myself believe there is goodness in people. There is goodness in people. Even in a convicted felon. Says the felon. 

Saturday, August 8, 2015

Pretty Girl Syndrome

This blog contains my thoughts and it is as anonymous as I could make it (minus a tiny photo of me in a skirt.) So maybe knowing that I'm a woman makes me qualified to write this blog. Or maybe an observing man would see things better. Or instead of better, an average Joe would have a different view. Here are my thoughts on beauty and youth...

Pretty Girl Syndrome (PGS) is a sense of entitlement that older teens and women think they are owed simply because they are attractive to the majority of others around them. In time they lose their youthful beauty, but they still behave as if they deserve special treatment. Perhaps they did not get the memo that they are losing their looks, but its irrelevant to them in the onset of PGS. When they understand that they have to fend for themselves like everyone else has been in the world, they lose the syndrome.

The people/society surrounding them makes them who they are in respect to their entitlement. Take me for a running example: When I turned 18, I started having cars stop to ask if I needed a ride during my one mile walk to work. It was weird. Growing up in a house where I was not complimented on my looks made this entire blog content neutral to me. Until I turned 18. But growing up on a organic blueberry farm in seclusion as a child, my (now) step-sister joked that my theme song was, "Never make a pretty woman your wife," laughing that, "there was hope for me." As children we largely raised ourselves and kept to ourselves in school, so the subject of beauty in society was for someone else.

I had no interest in dating and in high school the feeling was mutual. The first compliment I got was from my my step sister's best friend, who mentioned that I must have, "looked amazing" as my step sister and I got ready for Spring Break by trying on bikinis. I thought she was insulting me. But by that time, I was use to getting insults about my appearance.

I've always insisted that I have never been a victim, except in the beginning stages (18 years old) of being treated like a good looking woman. I felt awkward, confused, and generally embarrassed by my adult body. Men can spot that insecurity quickly, and without a solid foundation intellectually, spiritually, or physically, I was often treated terribly by the first man to show me attention.

Like the Rolling Stone song, "I wish I knew what I know now, when I was younger," God does this strange thing where we embrace our divine given gifts often a bit too late. At 36 (and damn proud of it) I realize a ride given to me to get home now is done out of kindness (which is rare) rather then a shot at getting laid.

Not many people could related to my sophomoric poetry at that time either. Poems that call admirers "Predators with prey in their clutches. Vampires who think a kiss will consume their soul and make them whole." People are not created equal. Good poetry finds a foundation that levels the playing field.

So that's my long winded story. Some women take it rather hard when the reality hits them that they are not anyone's muse by site alone. Some resort to plastic surgery. I know a few women whose husband left them for that muse with a built in beauty-timer ready to detonate ever so slowly. That power she has will go up in smoke as well, just like the woman before her.

Side Note: I realized again that the internet is not advancing us in certain ways. It unifies complex ideas so large masses can understand them more simply. This ties into the concept of beauty. Okay:

My mean step-sister had an otherworldly beauty. Her beauty was a veneer for two thousand insecurities that manifested themselves in the form of a distant, cold and heartless snob. But her beauty was a self made image: Victorian white skin shown with her, 'Just got out of bed' style of putting on the clothes closest to reach: A jean skirt, and a spaghetti string chemise that showed her hand drawn tattoo on the center of her back. She often sat with a journal on her lap, which she would be writing in while sitting on her brick stairs, waiting for me to meet up with her for an adventure.

Can the Internet capture that type of beauty? Can it bring one's highly polished idea of what is beautiful to each individual person? I knew my step-sister for so long that I felt I could see all her turmoil and arrogance when her green eyes turned my way. She had ideas, a high level of intelligence, and it came off naturally and seemly effortlessly. I'm sure right about now, with her being about six months older then me, she is feeling the pain of PGS.

A brilliant instructor at the community college level (in Redding, California of all places...a few gems in the worse of places) told the class that the only people in life that matter are the rich and beautiful. Those two categories get a pass for privilege. I believe he overestimated the later, but I believe him.

The cat calls slowly died down. Faster then molasses, but its almost invisible if you are not on high alert. No hottie wakes up one morning to find that all those secret privileges vanished. My first move to Austin (at 33) was the last of the preferential treatment. From doctors telling me that I was 'lovely' to a job interview with a (would be) fellow employee telling me that I was a pretty girl, to a man asking me if I needed a ride on a hot day. That was all inside one week! Three years later and that same doctor recently said, "Get your shit together! You're almost 40." Errrk!

You can't just go up to one of these fading beauties, like Tennessee Williams created so colorfully in his plays, and say, "Give it up. You lost your looks. Join the rest of us. Take the bus." I was not that attractive anyway.  I can't imagine how someone like, say, Uma Thurman goes from being called The World's Most Beautiful Woman, to press calling her old and irrelevant.

Side Note: A well known actress (Maggie Gyllenhaal) tried out for a movie which she would play a woman married to a 57 year old actor. She was 37. They told her she was, "Too old for the role."

I always figured that there was a general interest to see if the exterior matched with the interior. When I was 23 and living in San Francisco, seeing a woman dressed in a unique, well put together manner intrigued me. I just wish that someone would have told me that I was attractive when I actually was attractive. The result was wondering why men would try to sleep with me and not tell me what they saw in me...ever. Or my girlfriends. You know a woman is a true friend when they encourage your self worth and add that you are beautiful. If they are not encouraging you, then they are not real friends.

Oh and Pretty Girl Syndrome women use that annoying, rude and snobbish behavior on other women who have PGS. It's not just something a women pulls on a man to see how far he will go to get laid that day. No! They use people as stepping stones and believe they have some special quality because they had great cheekbones at 20. News to them: A dentist told me that people unconsciously grind their teeth in their sleep, and with age, stress, and plain living, the cheekbones sink down permanently. Just like these PGS people need to sink down from their high horse. There is a thick line between PGS, which is something society creates in them and some don't exploit, and being a narcissist. One type of afflicted person will one day realize and deal with their hang-ups. The latter are scavengers who stop at nothing to get where they feel taken care of, at anyone's expense. If you helped a narcissist, don't expect a 'Thank you' note for your support in their time of need anytime soon. You won't find that 'thank you note' in your mailbox; not in this world.

Call me superficial for pointing out the truth. Why do we care more about the murder of Dorothy Stratten (who died at 20), then my ex fiancee's one time wife (Rachel Aria...I remember her), who died at the same age? Same way too. One woman's life was a caption in a worthless news paper in an impoverished city in California. The other had two movies made about her short life, and a Pulitzer Prize winning article written about her. The entire industry of Hollywood is just one example. The topic of beauty, and our attraction to attraction is there whether you choose to ignore it or embrace it. People care about beauty.

So slowly, my looks are on a par with anyone you'd see at a line in a grocery store. Slowly but has almost come to an end. The free ride is gone before I got stoked that I had the ride, but [she] don't care. Now I care. Okay, I care, I care. Give me a refund for that unused ticket please!

But then again, by this age, I've established myself in the world. As long as I am learning, evolving, and open to ideas, challenges and changes, I'm good to go! The preferential treatment was good while it lasted, and I'm grateful that I got to take part in a golden path; even if my path was flaking near the end of my youth.

Besides, yesterday a girlfriend told me what cream she uses; her secret for a perfect looking complexion.