CranialSpasm

Occasionally when I am feeling downright rotten and want to regress into the cavernous recesses of my psyche, I choose to watch cartoons or made for TV movies. It’s not the best side of me, nor is it the healthiest.

To give you an idea of why I have been so distant, here is the best explanation I can give. I have gone through all 76 episodes of X-Men (from the 90’s), all 65 episodes of Spider-Man: The Animated Series (from the 90’s) and pounded through all 13 episodes of the 2003 revamp of Spider-Man (with the voice talents of Neil Patrick Harris and Lisa Loeb).

Last week I had a day that I wrote 5,000 words (about ten pages) of a story that I have been thinking about for over two years. I was so happy to get it out of me. For the longest time I was suffering from “Writer’s Blockage”.

While I don’t suffer from the same Writers Block as many people have described, I do suffer from Writer’s Blockage. The easiest way for me to describe it is in terms of an accident on the highway. There is a lot of information at one point, but it is off in the distance. I can’t quite reach it due to the other cars (or in writing, superfluous information) blocking my way.

It often feels like the story is there, but when I open a blank document and try to write there is so much going on inside my head. I know what I want to say, but it keeps getting stuck in traffic with the other sides of the story that I want to get out. Dialogue, exposition and scenery gather together like an angry Voltron refusing to let anything pass through my fingers.

Oftentimes I put on the Muppets and for some reason I cannot stop crying when Kermit starts singing “Rainbow Connection”. I guess maybe it never struck me how absolutely sad the song actually is.

I pulled up the lyrics and starting reading them and wondered to myself “Did Kermit not think he was a lover OR a dreamer? He did so many amazing things, put on so many amazing shows, and could play a banjo with froggy palms WHICH IS CRAZY AMAZING AS THERE ARE FAR FEWER FINGERS.”

Perhaps he just felt like he was watching everyone else succeed and it was a little bittersweet. I get it. I see people succeeding everyday. Whether it be a blogger that I absolutely adore getting top billing on the New York Times Best Sellers list for her new book “Let’s Pretend That Never Happened” (Jenny Lawson. Do yourself a favor and buy it.), a friend releasing her new album, a podcast getting planetary recognition, or a friend revealing that they are expecting a child.

The song speaks so strongly to me because I feel like I’m a dreamer that is so terrified of “the sweet song that calls the young sailor” and dooms them to a shipwreck, I keep myself from trying. Self doubt is as much of a self esteem issue as any of the others. It’s absolutely crippling to avoid things because there’s a possibility of failure.

I feel like I have a voice, and while it shows on my site that there is traffic here there isn’t a lot of interaction. Then I wonder if I’m essentially screaming into a black hole. The desire I have to create is directly related to the interest of others. That makes me a shitty writer. I guess that’s why I only have 64 pages of my story out of my head and a universe of story still rustling around my noggin.

For today I remain the “and me” of that supremely bittersweet song. Now to find another cartoon series

I know that everyone carries this stigma of the 13th Friday of any month. It’s never been more than a lucky day for me.

Work today was extremely difficult and I felt anxious and overwhelmed, but I soldiered through because I’m not going to let anything I can control beat me. I CAN control a panic attack. I CAN relieve anxiety and depression. The past has taught me that things get shitty, and things get awesome.

So I got home and filled out my rental application for the apartment I want. I was excited and worried at the same time. I, like so many others, have a weird credit history (long story) and I was terrified that it would result in a dismissal of my request. I decided to be proactive and check my credit score. When I saw the number, I felt my eyes well up with tears of joy. I had jumped over a few really crappy hurdles and it was shown in three numbers. I was so excited about applying!

The rollercoaster had reached the peak FAR SOONER than I expected. The drop was also out of the blue.

A few of my friends are having a shitty time and their drop is longer and more perilous than mine. One posted to a private forum that they had a gun and shot themselves. After ten minutes with no reply/confirmation, I called the police station in the town that Facebook said they lived in. The dispatch rep was very calm and asked for any information I could give him. at one point, my voice broke because I realized that I had VERY LITTLE information to provide them. He was able to locate their address and promised to send over someone to make sure everything was okay. He took my name and number. I initially thought he was just making sure it was on the up and up.

He called me back fifteen minutes later to tell me that they were able to contact them and they were okay. That dude… he was amazing. I don’t think he needed to do a followup but he did and it helped IMMENSELY.

I was relieved, but also angry. This was posted in a private group where there really was NO GUARANTEE that anyone would have caught it in time.

I’m not going to tell you that life is worth living. Sometimes, I STILL have those moments where I want to end it all.

Occasionally I won’t even know it. I will be driving and then I will think “I wonder how long it would hurt if I drove into that telephone pole”. Then I remember that it happened to me once (accidentally) and it was no fucking fun. Everyone has dark impulses. It’s your inner shithead trying to poke you into a decision with long term consequences.

So say it with me now. FUCK YOU, inner shithead. You’re not going to fucking win. You might tell me to kill myself sometimes, but I don’t need to listen to you.

Have you ever watched a movie that was so compelling and then the power went out and you were disappointed? Think of your life like that. If you think a movie needs a soundtrack, sing some of your conversations randomly (I do this all the time).

Most importantly? I don’t want you to die. Think of the childr  … me. Think of the me.

When I was younger, I worked at a movie rental store with a guy and often times we had shifts that coincided.

It was because of him that I formed an appreciation for the movies Little Shop of Horrors, Nightmare Before Christmas, and My Blue Heaven. We would shuffle through our work and help the occasional customer while dueting with Audrey II, Seymour, and the Ronettes. We would each take on Lock, Shock or Barrel’s dialogue and shake our asses and overexaggerate our movements for Oogey Boogey. He led me through the store like Rick Moranis and Steve Martin did with those ladies (even though he was supposed to be lying low, what with being a snitch and all).

He was (is?) a special effects makeup artist and I found myself completely amazed at his artistic abilities. I watch Face/Off in the hopes that one day he’ll be on it. We had even talked about creating an incredibly terrifying Haunted House and had started laying out the details of making it happen when he had to move to Pennsylvania (or something).

In case you couldn’t tell, we lost touch… and I was kinda crazy about him. Not crazy like watch-him-through-the-windows crazy. Every year around his birthday (May 5th) I wonder what he’s up to and whether or not he’s on any of the social media sites. I remember he and I chatted very rarely on MySpace, but that in itself is an indication as to how long it’s been since we last spoke.

So much has changed in my life in such a short time. It would be great to catch up with him.

Do you have any stories of people you lost touch with? Have you ever tried looking them up? Alternately, have you ever been contacted by someone you hadn’t seen in years? Was it awkward?

Oh Moriarty, you clever bastard.

Yesterday was a rotten day.

I assume it felt like everything was piling up due to the fact that I had returned to work on Monday and was incredibly frustrated with what I came back to.

There was just something about yesterday that got to me. Maybe everything about yesterday got to me, I don’t know. What I do know is that I spent 4.5 hours in a noise reduction headset watching the latest reincarnation of Sherlock.

There is something about clever writing and intriguing plots and amazing twists that does wonders for bringing me out of a funk. It is ultimately one of my modes of escapism.

I don’t really have much more to say about yesterday as it’s still causing me discomfort today. I had words with several people regarding a myriad of issues, I returned to a metric buttload of snark at work (and not the cheeky adorable snark that I get from Benedict Cumberbatch), and I wanted to spend away my troubles by online shopping.

I didn’t. Instead, I nursed a half a beer (instead of giving myself something easy for me to drink in massive quantities – like scotch) and went to bed.

I wish I had something more to write about, but I am feeling uninspired. Feel free to leave a comment about what you’d like me to rant/discuss/story-tell and I will hopefully be back to my demented self very soon.

re·ject

tr.v. re·ject·ed, re·ject·ing, re·jects

1 a : to refuse to accept, consider, submit to, take for some purpose, or use <rejected the suggestion> <reject a manuscript>b : to refuse to hear, receive, or admit : rebuff, repel<parents who reject their children>c : to refuse as lover or spouse

2 obsolete : to cast off

3: throw back, repulse

4: to spew out

5: to subject to immunological rejection

(cited from Merriam-Webster)

During the latest episode of Walking the Room (#93), Greg Behrendt shares a story about finding a possible publisher for his memoir. He is assured that he will have an offer in very little time and he was soaring and showering “golden awesome” (as Gryphons do) on the world. He then gets the call. THE call. The publisher passed on his proposal.

I don’t exactly know how he felt, but after receiving several dozen rejection letters I can explain how I felt when they happened.

When I received the first rejection letter, it was like someone had taken a hearty dump on my soul then decided to break up the pieces with a meat tenderizer. It was as if my inner asshole was shouting “I fucking told you that you weren’t good enough.” Instinctively, I wanted to hurt myself. I went through my brain rolodex (my noggin hasn’t been upgraded to digital) with all of the possibilities – booze, meds, cutting, popping open a jar of cookie butter to devour, and angry hate sex came to mind.

When I’m not talking out loud or singing, that shit is going on in my head. My inner soundtrack queued up a steady playlist of depressing music. I remember that my vision actually blurred because I had stopped breathing for a moment and my body was screaming for me to focus on oxygen.

It all sounds melodramatic, but you all know the tired expression about feeling a pit in your stomach? When it’s happening it feels like a fucking chasm.

People react to rejection differently. Sometimes they say “fuck you” and keep going. Sometimes they think “well that was totally not worth my time” and just file it away in their Things to Furiously Masturbate to With Tearlube folder (everyone has one of those… right?). I eventually have a tendency to power down. I don’t want to do a damn thing. I don’t look for someone to share my problems with and that is incredibly stupid on my part.

My first instinct is to laugh. My first reaction to tragedy and pain is to laugh. When it finally sinks in I have to slide under the covers, go fetal, and stare at my desk. Everything happens internally. Even though my physical reaction is to do nothing, my brain spends all of that time berating me. If I had telekinesis, I would have destroyed everything around me.

But after that wore off, I went about my life. I did what I needed to do to ensure that I had a roof over my head and nourishment in my belly. Then the second rejection letter arrived. Lather, rinse and repeat. There were a good two weeks where my emotional roller coaster had essentially fallen so far off of the rails it has skidded into a nearby playground, exploded, and there were hypothetical people threatening to sue.

You would think that a girl who had so much experience as a child would react better to something like this. But here is the difference – when I was being rejected in my youth it was all surface. This hurt so much because I had put myself out there about something that I LOVED to do. I loved telling stories. I loved thinking about characters and situations and trying to explain things that I didn’t even understand myself. Writing was my safety net.

To be told that my safety net wasn’t useful was a pain that was so intense I wanted to hide. But… Wait… My place to hide wasn’t good enough (according to people that probably hadn’t even read my proposal)?

I vowed that I would never write fiction again. I didn’t ever want to experience it again.

After making that vow, I just blogged. I vented about my anger about things. When a character popped in my head I mentally eviscerated it. It took awhile for me to realize that was why I had become so miserable. My brain was so full of ideas, my subconscious would try to flesh out stories during dreams. Unfortunately, my imagination is fucked up so I would wake up in the middle of the night terrified and wouldn’t sleep.

For a total of five weeks, I averaged about seven hours of sleep each week. I became a husk of a person. My reaction to rejection became ME.

Then one day I laughed. Actual, full bodied shaking laughter that brought tears to my eyes not from sadness but from pure mirth. It had been so long since the last time I had laughed.

What was it that made me laugh? A rejection letter.

For weeks I spent my life not living. Not doing what I loved. I slipped into the mundane and wanted to cry every day because I didn’t want my life to just be that. I don’t think anyone ever aspired to be mediocre at best, but that was what I had become.

As I wiped the delighted tears from my eyes, I succumbed to the seduction of the keyboard. My fingers danced like they knew every letter that needed to be expelled from my body. As I continued to type I let out a sigh and looked up at the clock. I had written for three hours.

It was a triumph. But most important of all? I was EXHAUSTED. I slept uninterrupted for seven hours. I got up in the morning, stretched, kissed the top of my slumbering laptop and hopped in the shower. I went to work and my palms itched. I wanted to write again.

During my lunch breaks I have taken to opening up a word document and writing that one story for an hour.

I have 48 pages.

I have realized that the only thing that has been constant in my life is rejection. Originally, I thought that was bad. Now I think “at least it’s not herpes”.

Let’s face it. Some days are worse than others. Today I have found that it has taken every ounce of my being to not tear into someone at the slightest provocation.

In my past, I would have moments where I would be tempted to lash out and would gladly give into it. I reveled in influencing someone else with my negativity. I was that real life troll that would love seeing the reaction of hurt on someone’s face and then I would consider it a challenge to make everything okay again. However, the people that don’t have to love you shouldn’t have to put up with that.

BUT… I really want to do that today. My brain is telling me to tap into my über bitch and unleash all of this pent up rage. It’ll be healthier if you do, my anger-goblin has been whispering in my ear. Making someone feel bad will probably prevent you from getting cancer.

My inner goblin monologue is stupid. But I believe that it is motivated by primitive instincts. I think that’s the part of the brain where it’s located. Also, it’s a goblin so it’s adorable and illustrated by Brian Froud and brought to life by Henson studios.

It’s been awhile since I have really been as angry about nothing as I am at this moment. The slightest provocation would be horrible right now. Logically I don’t want to make anyone cry because of something I’ve said. But instinctively I really want to tell someone something incredibly hurtful about their personality and make them suffer like I feel like I am right now.

Instead, I am trying to distract my brain by online shopping. The best part about it is that I just add a bunch of things to wish lists because I’m moving and really don’t want to pay more money to move a bunch of shit that hasn’t made me happy. So even though my fury is encouraging me to BUY BUY BUY, I at least have a bit of logic controlling my trigger finger on the mouse.

It is a bit boring populating a hypothetical domicle though so I might switch to google imaging “cats in hats” or spend a few hours trying to find something to take my mind off of it. Maybe some stupid video game that doesn’t require thought because intelli-Ali is MIA right now.

How do you deal with the rage-goblin inside you? Do you stab the homeless? Do you tickle the elderly? Do you have shout time inside your car during your morning commute (and do the people in your carpool cry?)? Do you listen to a bunch of podcasts where people will rant about things that will make you feel better? Do you watch countless youtube videos of kittens filmed in Japan (because somehow Japanese kittens are TOTALLY cuter)?

Leave a message in the comments!

Whenever there was something introduced to my spongy brain that emotion deemed hazardous, I would shove my nose in a book or a movie. I would color. I would build something. I would pretend to be a dragon in the backyard. THAT was where I sussed out a lot of my pain. Luckily I had kids my own age that were just as creative as I was and we would have epic fanciful adventures.
In the winter, we would pile snow into massive mountains to climb. Our mini Caradhras would entertain us until someone else brought a new tool and it magically changed. We were then tasked to break through the Deeping Wall of Helm’s Deep. Winter was spent doing snow related things, what with being raised in a New England town. Sledding, snowball fights and shoveling were a definite part of every child’s routine.

In my head however, the sled was my spaceship. Even though it felt like I was going down, I was going up with great speed and breaking through the atmosphere to float along the universe.

We used to always go to the same sledding spot. It was a hill relatively close to home, but mom would drive the van out and sit and wait, listening to music and reading. My brother and I would meet with our friends and run up the hill and careen down at lightning speeds, trusting gravity.

Imagine our surprise one day when we found that there was a frozen pond at the base of our hill. After stepping on it and hearing it slightly crack, someone confirmed that it was frozen completely. As an adult I realize how incredibly stupid that reasoning is. There needed to be something less dense underneath it in order for the cracking to even occur. At nine? It was perfect logic. Plus it meant I could still go sledding.

Blissfully ignorant to that concept, we all rushed up the hill, snow tubes and sleds in hand. I remember having this heavy plastic inner tube for pools that my parents had us double for sledding. It was solid purple on the bottom half and the top half was white with purple accented lines. The handles were thick and not wide enough to accept both my hand and my mitten when holding on to it. So I took off the mittens.

As any child figures out after their first time sledding, I knew that if you get a running start you go faster. I ran as fast as I could before hopping unto the donut shaped propulsion device. The moments down the hill can only be described as pure exhilaration laced with joy. You have very little to do with control and you have to accept that to truly enjoy yourself.

I enjoyed the hell out of it… Until I hit the pond at the bottom. I had seen several kids just slide completely over it. Apparently, the introduction of a chubby girl on an inner tube resulted in me reaching a dead stop at the very bottom of the hill. I couldn’t get out of the donut as I was wrapped up in forty-seven snowsuits.

The sound of cracking ice is terrifying, even if you know that it’s not that deep. Your brain knows exactly what is going to happen before it does and it goes through several different scenarios to send a bunch of fear through every inch of your body. You tense and brace for impact.

I assumed that I would be flung from my inner tube. I expected to be flung from my inner tube. What my brain failed to expect was that the pond was deeper than I anticipated. My tube cracked the ice, my weight shifted to one side, and I capsized. My face hit the frozen ground and the icy, dirty water kept me from passing out. I pushed myself out of the water and inhaled a bunch of chilled air.

Everyone shouted from above, asking if I was okay. I nodded and shook them off as I was coughed and sputtered. I had every intention of going again until I realized that lifting my arms was difficult and I was starting to feel really tired. So I started the trudge back to the van and realized that my head was starting to feel crunchy.

I pulled off my hat and winced as stands of my hair were frozen to it. I removed my gloves as they were so saturated they weren’t keeping me warm at all. I imagined that I was Luke Skywalker on Hoth, struggling to make it until Han rode in on a Tauntaun. Even though I spent a lot of time in my own little fantasy world, I knew that Harrison Ford was NOWHERE near me and I definitely needed to get to the van.

When it was finally in view I started screaming for my mom, but saw that she was engrossed in a book and most likely had music playing in the background. She’s also deaf in her left ear, so instead I thought about how warm it would be when I finally got there. It was so cold I was terrified that I would be walking and accidentally step on and shatter a toe. Yes, it most likely wouldn’t have happened. My head has a tendency of playing things out in grand fashion.

I finally got to the door and tried opening the side door and my fingers just stopped cooperating with me. Mr. Press was in the car next to us and jumped out and assessed the issue. He yanked my coat over my head and pulled the door open and shouted for my mom’s jacket. My mother practically vaulted over the seat and started stripping me out of my clothing. I was so cold and so tired I didn’t care that I was getting naked in front of my friend’s father.

I was burritoed up in my mom’s jacket and thrown into the passenger side and all vents were redirected to me. My mom asked Fred to drop my brother off when they were done and then sped back home.

You know those moments in movies where they try to speed up the parts of the story that are inconsequential but they show you that time has progressed? I’m referring to the “fade to black and then fade in to a new moment” effect. That was pretty much what was happening every time I closed my eyes.

My lids would droop and then I would open them and I was being held under a warm shower. I’d blink and then I was putting on pajamas. I’d blink and then I opened my eyes and I was sleeping on the side of my parents waterbed where the heater was and my mother informed me she had turned it to the max and I should just rest. She and my dad then woke me up every few hours.

Looking back, I’m pretty sure it could have been a lot worse.