Everything In Between

My mind is in Schrödinger’s box.

Am I asking too much? Why can’t I just go to parties and have a good time?

It’s hard to talk when I’m sad. I want to, but I just can’t make my mouth make any sounds that form words. My father realized this when I was younger. One time, and only one time, when I was upset and feeling like I couldn’t talk, he set me up in front of a computer with a text editing window and asked me to type my responses to his questions. He was clever; his questions were simple yes-or-no questions at first. I think he realized that it was even difficult for me to type anything more than that at first. Slowly, as he sensed my body language change, he would start asking more complex questions that required more complex answers. Yes or no responses soon turned into short sentences and soon after that I was pouring my heart out onto a digital notepad.

That is how well my father understood how to communicate with me, for I am all but incapable of communicating actively when I am in such a state as that.

Interestingly, it is only around another person that that state causes such a complete shutdown of my communicative faculties. Alone, I am still quite expressive, as this short piece illustrates, for it was written shortly after I was left alone in just such a state. Furthermore, an internal dialogue is constantly running through my head in these states. Indeed, I am very expressive in every meaning of the word, except in outward appearance. Small gestures such as the slight twitch of a finger are in fact huge, sweeping, screaming motions, so loud as to silence my own thoughts for a few moments and yet so invisible to an outside observer that I somehow feel that much more unheard when someone—through little fault of their own—fails to recognize it.

This is unendingly frustrating. I am at once both completely irrational and unreasonable, unforgiving of people’s blindness towards me and at the same time intolerably chastising myself for being so incommunicative. The internal war feels as though it is enough to tear me limb from limb, which in addition to making it hard to speak makes it hard to move. Muscles become at once weakened and strengthened, incapable of lifting the weight of my own extremities and yet ready to unfurl in so spectacular a display of speed and strength at a moment’s notice that one might believe them to be constructed as though they were made of some giant wound metal spring.

I do not understand why it is so insanely impossible for me to break from these states. Of course, in moments of obvious sanity I tell myself that it is precisely insanity that makes me so distraught. However, this very thought also makes me wonder how I can be so sanely aware of my insanity and yet be so unable to do anything about it.

I should preface this with yet another warning that what follows is the incredibly hysterical ranting of an emotionally stressed person and should probably not be taken as anything other than an expression of the emotions currently running through my head.

Oh my god! This can not be happening to me. I simply can not deal with this.

There has been an ongoing issue at my work about training. After the absolute disaster at the last engagement I was on, I was promised three weeks of training–something I’d been asking for since after I finished my “official” training that I felt didn’t really help me at all because of the unorganized, utterly abysmal experience that was. Then it was two weeks. Then it a little more than one. Then it was just cancelled, and I was next put on an assignment that allowed me to work from home.

This working from home thing was awesome, because it meant two things. First, that I would get the chance to actually use the product I’m supposed to be an expert in supporting as opposed to looking over someone’s shoulder while they use it because they don’t want me touching their computer network due to the company’s security restrictions, which is what was happening at the disaster client. Second, it gave me the chance to work from home (duh), which is honestly not something I really care that much about for any reason other than the fact that it meant I don’t have to dress in ways I don’t feel comfortable and maintain this mask of someone who I’m not for the sake of the business. Admittedly, that is a big deal, but it’s not a dealbreaker, y’know? (I don’t actually have any problems being professional, but there’s a huge difference between being myself professionally and being a certain kind of professional that has to fit into the molds of the B2B corporate American mold. I can be professional, but I will never fit into that mold, not by a long shot.)

The really annoying thing about getting the chance to work from home, however, is that all this opportunity to spend at home is happening while Sara is in freakin’ Australia on the other side of the fucking world! Sara has been gone since january 24^th (and I missed her a ton immediately), the same day I fell awfully ill with the flu for half a week. It’s been an unbelievably long amount of time and the whole experience, for many reasons that I won’t go into here, has been harrowing in ways I wouldn’t have imagined to the point that I’m insanely anxious about simply getting to see her again because the thought fills me with a crazy sort of unimaginable fear. (I feel so stupid for being this scared about it.)

Now she is finally returning, though because of flight delays I don’t know exactly when, and I expected a call from her some time this morning but haven’t yet gotten one and it’s already 2:30 PM, so this whole airline delay thing may very well cut into our weekend plans. I have already booked flights for myself to Maine and for us to come back on Sunday night. I had to juggle my plans around because this next week at work was planned to be a formal Oracle database training intensive, which I have been looking forward to ever since my first day on the job when I learned about these training intensives because one of my bosses told me I had just missed (by a couple of weeks) the week of intensive Python training taught by Mark Lutz, the author of Learning Python, Second Edition. In brief, I cancelled my Monday day off that I would have spent as an additional “welcome back” period with Sara in Maine that I had asked for (and earned because of the fact that I worked the Martin Luther King Jr. Day holiday) in order to attend this Oracle training–because I wanted to.

Now, I just got an email from another engagement manager (a boss, basically), that they want me to fly out to Washington State so that I can be there on Monday through (probably) Friday. ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?!?!?!?! If I am made to go all the way across this fucking country on the first week of Sara’s return (this upcoming week) for a client who has offered me no real idea of what the fuck I’m supposed to do instead of the training everyone else is getting and that I was expecting from everything I was told at my interviews (I literally asked people “Why did you join this company,” and everyone told me because the learning opportunities were immense–which is true, the opportunties are immense and wonderful, but I want some of them too, damnit!), then I am seriously considering simply saying no and quitting my job on the spot. I simply don’t think I’ll be able to handle that, and with all of this turmoil and absolute torture this job is putting me through, I don’t think I’d feel as if it were such a loss (except financially).

I feel like every single fucking thing is going wrong right now. I don’t feel as though I have a damn shred of support (I know I do really, but it’s so far away), an ounce of understanding (again not really true, I have friends who can understand, but I don’t think Sara really can on anything but a cognitive level–not to say she doesn’t have struggles or that her battles are less important or easier than mine, but she does not have these struggles that I have and by that very fact simply may not be able to relate experiencially to what I’m going through), and the worst luck (and please don’t tell me to count my fucking blessings, that is not what I need right now; I know damn well what my blessings are, thank you). What makes it so unbelievably painful is that the whole of my experiences is so much less priviledged than Sara’s, who’s just been on a wonderful vacation for six weeks and is returning to the wonderful feeling of coming home for a weekend ski trip and to her boyfriend who is supposed to be ecstatic to see her. And I am ecstatic to see her again, but I am so stressed out and emotionally high strung right now that I feel as though I wish she isn’t going to have to put up with this from me.

I spoke for hours with my friend who’s staying with me (after her own horrendously painful breakup the week Sara left for Australia) and she told me that I have to start thinking about myself, not worrying about what kind of a burden I’m going to be on Sara. This is smart, and is probably what I should do, but it’s so hard for me to do that when I have this incredibly powerful urge to just focus all my energy on making everything good for Sara. (Why is that such a powerful urge? Oh my god, for many reasons, all of which are valid and many of which are perfectly healthy, but none of which I’m going to go into right now.)

My friend said that I should want to get pampered from Sara for a little while, have her take care of me, be treated to thoughtfulness and compassion and empathy, and that I should let go of all these stresses I keep taking upon myself like worrying about whether or not I’m going to be happy enough for her so she has a good time. Again, this is smart and makes sense; I can’t possibly have a good time or expect Sara to have a good time with me (which is what I want more than anything in the world right now) if I’m going to be obsessing about the question all the time. But I’m really scared.

I’m scared not only about this weekend but the future as well. What’s going to happen if Sara gets accepted to a school far away? Besides the point of fact that means she’ll be leaving New York, it makes me feel like another knife of how differently priveledged Sara and I are is once again thrust into my heart–not by Sara, just by the situation. I would feel much, much, much better about the whole situation where she feels like she wants to go to graduate school for creative writing if I could understand what the real driving force behind that motivation is. I have to know that if she leaves me for school (I evidently have major, major abandonment issues–not surprising considering my childhood with divorced parents and whatnot), she’s doing it for a reason that’s near and dear to her heart.

Not that I think she’d ever do something so big as moving to Australia for graduate school for any other reason than one that’s near and dear to her heart, but it will be easier to take if I can at least understand–not necessarily agree with–her choice of action and why that specific action of going to a graduate school is the right one for her to make, versus something like getting a full-time job and actually getting into the mindset of writing professionally–not just learning about writing–as I know she can do brilliantly. It comes back to the feeling of resentment (and I feel more guilt for having this feeling of resentment in the first place than I ever thought I would ever feel guilty about anything ever (especially since I constantly tell Sara that guilt is not a useful thing to dwell on–we both have our guilt complexes, me from this, and her from being more priviledged in life than I have ever been)) over my being forced by the Fates to fight a hellish battle for every scrap of happiness and capability to follow my dreams that I can get, whereas Sara has the good fortune to prolong her schooling–something she enjoys–and put off the dreadful experience of having a so-called “real” job (it is viscerally disgusting to me that a “real” job is always seen as something you don’t want) and putting up with the rest of the crap of living in the so-called “real” world (again, I want to vomit thinking that the “real” world is so full of strife all the time) for yet another four years (or more, if she goes for a Ph.D. in Writing in Australia).

(As a sidenote, holy shit, that was an insanely convoluted parenthetical paragraph. Also, I don’t actually wish for her to get a job she hates, of course. I would hardly wish this hell on my worst enemy.)

Again, it’s not that I think Sara doesn’t have her own stuff to deal with. But there is simply no arguing the fact that on many scales of measurable priveledge, she got dealt the better hand. She is brilliant, a constant inspiration to me. And she is so amazingly healthy. No other person I have ever met or ever heard of in my entire life, without exaggeration, is so glowing with the unmistakable aura of a uniquely qualified intelligent mind such as hers is and has not gone through a great deal of very measurable pain and suffering as the source for their genius, the likes of which is obvious to everyone who hears about their suffering. That is the case with me. I am very, very smart. I match Sara’s awesome strengths in many ways, such as self-awareness and intelligence, kindness, and skills in our respective interests. But I have so many still-open scars that have gotten me to this point. Her body is enviously relatively unscathed by the harsh realities of life.

I don’t want this whole thing to sound like a self-pity party–because that’s not what this is supposed to be, but I can’t not feel this way right now. I’m working on it, god, I’m really working on it as hard as I can because I don’t want Sara to have to deal with this huge amount of utter shit that’s in me. I miss smiling. I miss being happy enough to just listen to music and hum to myself. I can’t remember the last time I did that.

And of course, I miss Sara. My god, I miss Sara most of all.

Sara just called! Right as I was publishing this entry, Sara called. She had heard my rambling, crying message I left for her and called me back saying that she was sorry for saying that she’d call me this morning because she was thinking in California time, and I’m on New York time, so when she meant morning she meant California’s morning. (D’oh!)

However, also bad news is that because of the airline delays it is looking like she may not be able to get to Maine until 10 AM Saturday morning, which absolutely changes our weekend plans…. I don’t know what else to do about this weekend, my job, or anything right now, except to go through the motions as normal and so I’m just going to wait things out until I can see her and talk to her face to face and actually hold her in my arms again.

I hate working on something without knowing why I’m working on it. I also hate working on something without actually understanding what the desired result is. That’s very, very annoying. It’s also very, very inefficient and ineffective.

These past two weeks at work were prime examples of just such an occurance. The fact that these two weeks were supposed to be the weeks that I was getting additional training just makes this fact even more frustrating. Instead of additional training, which I still feel like I desperately need to be effective at my job (because the particulars of this product are so damn, well, particular), I was tasked with a vague and unexplained assignment.

(The kicker, by the way, is that in addition to the vague assignment, I was also given the task of training a new hire. So let me get this straight. You’re going to cancel my training, and then ask me to train someone. While I apprecaite the vote of absolute confidence, that’s more than a little backwards.)

The problem with vague assignments is that they don’t give me a direction to work in. There is certainly a balance to be struck between micromanaging an employee and giving them no direction. Neither side of the scale is appropriate or helpful. It’s interesting to me, however, because never before in my life have I experienced the “no direction” side of things so often. This assigment takes the cake, even in this job.

I understand now what it means when employers and managers say that they want someone who can “work independently.” What they mean is “we just want to give you some vague idea about what we’re looking for, because honestly we have no idea what it needs to look like and only sort of know what it needs to do, and you should fill in all the details yourself. Oh, and you’d better get it right.” (How the hell should I know what right is if you don’t even know, and I’m doin this for you?) Naturally, this makes a lot of sense and sounds perfect (especially to managers). After all, why shouldn’t employees do this?

Well of course they should. The problem isn’t in the paradigm, it’s in the execution. This paradigm assumes that the employee already knows what the desired result is and how to accomplish it. If this were the case, then the request wouldn’t have seemed vague to begin with. It’s the fact that I don’t know enough about the situation (see infuriating lack of context), the product (see infuriating lack of training), and the requirements (see infuriating lack of clear communication) that make it vague.

Thanks to so many reasons such as the Peter Principle and the nature of managerial work to forego employee’s interests in favor of shareholder’s interests, companies consistently sabotage their own best efforts to be successful. While I am sure that the size of a company is one contributing factor to this sabotage, I think that it misses the point. More to the point is the fact that managers are to blame.

A company that does not strive to “be large and successful” is not going anywhere. But it’s the manager’s fault that such horrendous acts of self-mutilation happen over and over again. Workers need proper training, managers need proper communication skills, and both parties need the wherewithall to understand the basics of teamwork. Frankly, these things are all sorely lacking pretty much everywhere.

Just another of the countless reasons why I know I’ll never be happy in corporate America. The more of this shit that happens, the more convinced I am that I’m here for the experience only. What doesn’t kill me makes me stronger, right? It’s just a question of when the next better opportunity comes along. There’s no point in suffering to gain experience when experience can be gained without suffering.

Warning: Emotional ranting follows. Don’t want to read angsty, angry drivel? Then don’t read further. You have been warned.

Oh my god. What am I doing? This situation just keeps getting worse. I’m amazed, utterly and completely amazed at the childishness of all of this. I have no idea what I’m here for, what I’m doing, what to do. I get forwarded emails with questions to which the answers are behind a single link in the email itself. (Why are you asking questions? You obviously didn’t actually read the email.) I write up huge amounts of detailed information on the situation only to be told I sound like a technical madman guru, and to please compose a Power Point presentation instead. (Technical madman guru? I didn’t even use a single acronym in the whole document, nor did I even talk about computers. I talked solely about the ridiculous interpersonal antics of the people I’m working with. Or not working with, as the case may be, because of said stupid interpersonal antics. And Power Point? Oh, I get it, no full sentences and really big text. Yeah, that does seem to be the norm for some reason.)

No one smiles, everyone talks quietly. Walking over to each other’s cubes has been replaced by email because of the tension. (What sense does it make to send an email to each other when I can hear you breathing not ten feet from me?) I can’t believe this is what the modern workplace is like. I’m so disappointed in our society right now, so angry that people as a collective don’t see this as a major problem, an incredibly unhealthy and dirty thing.

I feel so fed up with all of it, so much like just screaming at the top of my lungs at all these zombies around me. They are so dead, so…plugged into their insignificant activities. I loathe the thought that I even look like any of these people with their bland clothes and black leather shoes, identical haircuts and PDAs and black Dell laptop bags. It feels disgusting, like heavy vomit.

I hate it. And most of all, I hate that I spent the entire day doing “work” and I didn’t learn a damn thing about anything interesting.

Update: In fairness, today was a much better day, though in large part only because I found out I’ll (probably) be scheduled for additional training in the coming weeks. It was supposed to be three additional weeks, then two, but then there’s a holiday, so it’s really one and a half weeks, but that’s better than nothing. I just hope this won’t be like the first time I went to so-called “training.” I want to actually feel like I’m learning something that’ll help me.

Second update: So it turns out training was totally canceled on me, which is not a big surprise, but I did get the opportunity (probably by being pulled off the project I was on) to work from home for a few days, which was absolutely awesome (and educational!) anyway. And today, my first day in three days back in an office, I got to meet the new “boss” guy, who seems nice but, better yet, made an impassioned 10 minute speech about the importance of team building, ongoing training, and knowledge sharing to a successful team. Maybe things’ll get better around here after all. I can hope, can’t I?

This is stupid. This is utterly utterly stupid. Answer the following question:

Which of the following operating systems use Kerberos for authentication? (Select all that apply.)

• Mac OS X Server
• Windows 2000 Server
• Windows 2003 Server
• NetWare

If you selected all of them, you got the question wrong, even though you’re technically correct. All of these operating systems can use Kerberos for authentication, but according to my prep tests for the Network+ exam, Mac OS X can not implement Kerberos.

It’s these kinds of questions which are totally pissing me off about these certifications. The last thing I wanted was this whole thing to turn into something I just wanted to get over with, but now it feels exactly like that because these goddamn test questions are quite simply wrong.

::writing slightly huffy email to these people::

Update: earlier today I have obtained my fourth computer certification in as many months, the Network+ CompTIA certification. :) Now to choose my next goal….

I hope it is because I have not written lately that I feel so “ugh.” My trip to California was interesting; it was both exciting and disappointing in different and similar ways. As was my first day on the job today. I left work feeling awful for no easily explainable reason, even though I felt just great for the first half of the day.

I feel a little bit like I’ve just joined the CIA.

On a brighter note, for the first time in my life I am now in possession of a piece of paper that says I know something. (Two more similar pieces of paper are en route as I write this.) Having never graduated middle school and having had very little save disdain for such pieces of paper, this new acquisition is an odd one. It says that I am officially ACHDS certified, which basically means I know things about the Mac OS. But let’s get real: who didn’t know that I knew that anyway? I certainly did, and I didn’t need a piece of paper to tell me that.

As things stand, I am convinced that beaurocratic red tape will be the downfall of human kind (if greed doesn’t get us first). That said, I do understand far more clearly why I have been told, time and time again, to get my GED, especially since “it would be no problem” for me. Perhaps not surprisingly, this makes me even more resistant to the idea of actually getting my GED. If it would be so easy for me to do then it is not worth my time. It would be more beneficial and more pleasureable to spend my time doing things that challenge me, things for which I must exercise at least some modicum of mental effort, in order to accomplish.

And that makes me an arrogant bastard, because it means that whenever I am in a situation that I find ridiculous or stupid or wasteful I think of the people who are creating that ineffeciency or slowness or waste as stupid and worth less than I am. (Note I did not say worthless.) I sometimes think I should feel bad about that. Ultimately, however, my conclusion is always the same: feeling bad about such things is stupid and wasteful and my impatience and arrogance is ultimately justified because I am both faster and more knowledgeable than these other people. (Even if these other people get paid more than me for doing equivalent jobs, but that’s a whole ‘nother story that has more to do with a genuine lack of experience and negotiation skills on my part than anything else.)

So fuck it. To prove to myself that I am correct, to prove just how capable I am, I force myself to be extra patient and extra nice with these people and in these situations. Doing anything else would negate all my greatness. The aforementioned routine is what I expect to encounter for at least the next two weeks, and I am not looking forward to it.

And now I am done masturbating my ego.

At the periodontist today I had my oral implant, the stud for what would have been the crown of a fake tooth, removed. One thing led to another after I left the doctor’s office. I got angry.

At home I picked up the medications from the pharmacy which I had prescriptions for. Sara said she’d take a nap, but I wasn’t tired. It started to rain. Then I heard thunder.

While Sara slept, I took the opportunity to take my single-tail whip, and juggling gear, to the park. I left a note:

Went to the park. Have my cell.

Love, —Meitar

It started raining harder as I walked through Bennett Park. I had originally intended to crack the whip a bit there but as the rain intensified I just felt like walking further. I headed to Fort Tryon Park.

Lightning crackled in the air and thunder boomed as I approached. The rotary at the entrance to the park was emitting a thin, light mist due to the dense cold rain hitting the heated pavement. It felt magical to walk through that veil of steam slowly.

I passed Heather Garden and staked out a small, empty lawn overlooking the Hudson River as my own. I set my backpack and juggling gear down and took out the whip. The weather matched my mood; big, heavy drops of chilling rain, fast flashes of lightning and then a slow, rumbling thunder.

I cracked the whip. Then I cracked the whip again. I took over for the thunder.

I was there for an hour. The rain felt like it was searing through me, hitting my skin, digging a hole through my body and falling to the ground beneath me, cleansing me of my bad mood. It was like I had made friends with the lightning and the wind.

By the time I was read to leave, the rainclouds began to pass on and the sun was creeping out from behind them. Does the weather influence my mood or do I influence the weather?

Sigh. I just had a huge fight with Danica. No, more accurately, I blew up at her. If it weren’t for being home and being unable to relax or sleep, I’d actually feel quite good about it.

Catching Up on Work

I managed to do some work today. In the morning, I was actually woken up by a call from a client who I do very minor recurring work for. She asked if I had gotten her emails and had been wondering if she sent them to the right address since she never heard back from me.

My bad, of course, so I apologized and told her I’d get to work on her web site right away. I did, and managed to finish all of what I needed to do in a matter of hours. (Like I said, minor, minor work, despite having been piling up for the past week or so.) By 5:30 PM I was killing time again when my mother called me and told me to come over to her apartment tonight.

Short Visit to My Mother’s

I left for my mother’s at around eight o’clock in the evening. Once there I made myself dinner (er, lunch, no, actually it was more like breakfast) consisting of toast and tahini along with two chocolate doughnuts and a few pastries. I watched some TV briefly, and left for home sometime shortly after ten o’clock.

When I got home, the house was dark and empty as I had left it and as I expected. Danica was working the closing shift at work today and I didn’t expect her home for another forty-five minutes or so. This morning before work, she had left the house before I woke up and finally gotten the keys to her new apartment from the realtor.

Danica Pushes My Buttons

When she returned, I greeted her at the door for a moment before returning to my computer. I was listening to some random selection of music from my iTunes library and, after Danica took off her shoes and set her things down, one of the first things she did was ask me to lower it temporarily while she listened to a CD she was inserting into her computer. She plugged her headphones into the computer after I lowered the music.

Three: Randy’s Song to Danica

I asked her what it was and she responded that I probably didn’t want to know. This meant one thing: Randy had given her something to listen to. Sure enough, moments later she held up a plastic CD cover on which severeal lines of text were scribbled in all-caps black permanent marker. It was a song on a burned CD that Randy had made for Danica.

She offered a paltry and rather unapologetic Sorry, Mei… which I sort of scoffed at. I turned back around silently to my computer and resumed my own music. Perhaps defiantly, I simply didn’t care to accomodate Danica’s desire for a quiet environment so that she could hear his song.

Two: Danica Asks for Cooking Advice

She listened to the song, I heard her sigh and sniffle, and then she went to the kitchen. She began preparing dinner for herself from the chinese take-out leftovers we had kept the night before. Then she came to me and asked my opinion on which type of oil that we had in stock would be best for making fried rice.

I answered a very curt, I don’t really care, to which she responded,
Okay…thanks anyways. She went about making her dinner and I went about wasting my time online. Before she had finished with dinner, I entered the kitchen partially to do the dishes and partially to apologize for my earlier curtness.

Attempted Diffusion

I told her that I was sorry for being so curt but that I had done so because I was pissed off at her contemptible apology earlier. I also noted that I had long since stopped believing what she says (long since being read as since our break up). This upset her and she left the kitchen to call her mother.

I finished up the dishes (including the plates and the pan she had just used) and went to sit at my computer again. From there, I could hear her talking with her mother. Much of the conversation Danica had with her mother revolved around the current living situation, her work and finances, and me.

One: Danica Talks to Her Mother

As usual, I wish I had a tape recorder. There are just so many inaccuracies in the form of “not the whole truth” that I could write a whole blog entry merely listing each one along with the full context. I can’t even count the number of times I felt like getting out of my chair, grabbing the phone away from her, and filling her mother in on the rest of the facts. And I’m only counting the things that were said directly about me!

Somehow, Danica effortlessly and indignantly justified her spin as, and I quote, [My mother] doesn’t need to know all that! This is, by the way, exactly why I no longer trust what comes out of her mouth. I have heard her do this with so many other people about so many other things (and I’ve even mentioned this before) that I’ve finally learned to no longer believe what comes out of her mouth at face value.

The thing that finally got to me, though, was when I heard Danica talking to her mother about trying to get back her share of the security deposit she paid me when we moved in to this apartment. As she was discussing it with her mother I deduced that her mother wanted to know why I wouldn’t or haven’t given it back. Danica told her that if she talked to me about it, I’d just bring up all the money she owes me on various other things.

Two things about this pissed me the fuck off. (Yes, I actually just emphasized “the fuck” in a sentence.)

• Firstly, I have already gone through this whole damn security deposit nonsense with her before and there is really no need to repeat myself on the matter.

• Secondly, this whole issue is completely redundant as I have already written her a check which she immediately shredded upon reciept.

Of course, that tiny tidbit of information miraculously never made it into the phone conversation she had with her mother. It was at that point when I could no longer sit idly by as such misinformation about me was strewn around. I got up, knocked on the door, and pushed it open when Danica ignored me and continued talking with her mother.

I very loudly (hoping that her mother might hear) insisted that she tell her mother about my check which she had shredded. Danica responded by nodding at me and saying, and again I quote, Okay, okay, I’ll tell her.

Bzzz! Wrong again! Not only did she not tell her mother about this insignificant detail (remember, her mother apparently doesn’t need to know about this, despite her obvious insistent inquiries), when she got off the phone and saw me staring incredulously back at her, she said it’s okay because I convinced her to let it slide.

Boom: I Rage

Excuse me?! It’s okay because you convinced her to let it slide? <sarcasm>That’s not only taking credit for being such a generous and compassionate ex-girlfriend,</sarcasm> it’s actually nullifying my wholeheartedly and unduly generous attempts to make things as hassle-free for you as possible. Well, excuse my French but fuck you too!

And that’s exactly what I told her, multiple times, in a variety of different ways, using various colloquial euphemisms, though none of them gender-specific, as far as I can recall. I screamed at her as loudly as I could, citing almost all the aforementioned reasons why I was pissed off. I told her I thought she is in need of some desperate help, that she is confused about many things and doesn’t understand that she lacks even a shred of integrity, and that she will continue to spew nothing but crap from her mouth until she wisens up and changes her ways.

I stomped right up to her and screamed these things inches away from her face. She backpeddled a little, obviously taken aback that I could be so loud and rageful. Indeed, I have never before unleashed this sort of anger on her and had never raised my voice to such an intense ferocity for as long as she has known me.

I felt the burning flames behind my eyes as I screamed and towered over her. My pupils turned to coal and my throat felt sore (I’m still recovering from that cold) but I still screamed at her. It didn’t last so long, about five minutes or so, but I was talking very fast and can’t even remember all of what I said.

When I was through, I sat myself back at my computer. Danica went back into the bedroom and picked up her phone. I warned her that if she were calling Randy she had better do it from outside, but she told me she was not calling Randy.

Instead, I can only assume she called one of her cousins. I could hear most of the conversation and I was not happy about that, but I refrained from doing anything I might have regretted later such as forcing her out of the apartment or grabbing the phone away from her. Oh, how I wanted to, though, how I greatly wanted to.

The Cleansing Flames

I went into the bathroom and stared at myself in the mirror. This always helps steady me when I am in a rage because it reminds me of who I think I am and how I think I should behave. It is hard to actually do rageful things when you are busy looking at yourself in the mirror.

The anger, and especially the bout of screaming rage I discharged at Danica, felt very cleansing. It was as if the rage had sparked a fire that was burning away at the past year and a half the way a forest fire might level acres of land. Like most things in nature, however, this fire was constructive rather than destructive; it freed up all that space for something new and green to be reborn in its place.

After Danica talked with her cousin, she called a friend from California. As they talked, I continued to look at myself in the mirror and lean against the bathroom sink. Everytime Danica mentioned Randy, or how controlling she felt I supposedly was by the end of our relationship, I felt that fire burn away a little more inside me.

Finally, she finished talking with her friend and turned off her cell phone. I heard only silence coming from the bedroom but remained in the bathroom for some minutes more. When I felt calm enough to walk out into the hallway, I noted that she had fallen asleep with the light still on.

I entered the bedroom and turned off the light. I then left, closing the door the rest of the way behind me and went back to my computer. Of course, that’s when I started writing this blog entry.

Danica’s in bed, sleeping now. Despite having been awake a mere thirteen or fourteen hours, I am actually quite tired. Of course, despite being tired, I don’t want to go to bed and have to lay next to her.

One thing’s for sure: I am happy she is leaving. During my rage, I told her that every day you stay here I’ll miss you less. I now want to add: every day you’re gone I’ll think about you less. And that’s how it should be.

I can’t stand it. She is laughing. Laughing!

I have had a horrible day. Despite my various efforts at motivating myself, from opening my work documents to reading relevant subject matter, nothing had worked and by the time I finished writing my previous blog entry, I did not know what to do. So I picked up the phone and called my father.

He convinced me to come down to his office. Neither of us knew what for, exactly, but by that point it didn’t really matter. I was not getting any work done at home and staying in was not doing me any good, so visiting my father could not possibly have made anything worse.

I spent only an hour or so there; most of the time out of the house was actually spent travelling to and fro his office on the subway. I managed to complete the first Introduction and the first chapter to Fitness for Dummies, which my brother bought for me after our work out the other day. At my father’s, we spoke little about any actual work.

I left his office with a bag full of computer odds and ends, including a broken hard drive (with a working enclosure, which might come in handy), several RAM chips for my new boxes (I don’t know how much capacity yet), and an old flight simulator for classic Mac OS called Fly!. He also gave me a large sketchpad, which I currently envision doing plenty of database design and mind-mapping on, but for what I haven’t a clue. Absolutely nothing motivated me to do any work.

When I got home, I’m sure I did something equally unproductive. I can’t even remember what at this point. Right now, I am angry at Danica, very angry. That should be warning enough not to take everything I say too seriously, or to add your own grains of salt. Nevertheless, my father noted that whenever I stop blogging, my mood deteriorates, so this is an attempt not to let myself slip deeper into bipolar moodiness than I already have.

The only thing I can accurately recall doing after setting my new possessions in their respective places is vacuuming the living room floor. I remember this because, as I said, I am angry at Danica. The reason I had to vacuum the living room floor (for the third time in four days) is because Danica keeps walking around with her boots and shoes on after she comes home from work and before she leaves in the mornings. I spend most of my days in here, and cannot abide the feeling of dirt and dust and all sorts of other crap on my feet as I walk around, so I end up vacuuming.

Anger, Without the Argument

At approximately 10:50 PM, I went to take a shower. It was yet one more attempt to bring myself out of my bad mood. Near eleven o’clock, Danica buzzed from the building’s front door. I stepped out of the shower and listened for the door. Then I heard yet another insistent buzz from the buzzer.

Pavlov Returns

I grabbed a towel and scurried to the foyer to let her in. I unlocked the apartment’s front door and opened it when I saw her approach through the peephole. “Hello,” I said, “I was in the shower.” She gave me a look, not a blank look but not exactly a compassionate look either (I’m actually not sure what it was) and said, “Oh, I’m sorry.”

“Do you not have a key?” I asked. She said, “I was tired.” That wasn’t at all an answer to my question, but was a typical answer nonetheless. I interpreted it to mean that she was too lazy to actually take out her own keys and open the door herself. This is not entirely her fault: she has been buzzing me to let her in for about as long as we’ve been living together and, like an obedient lapdog, I have always opened the door for her.

To make it obscenely clear: I believe I am too fucking nice all the time, and was too fucking accomodating throughout our relationship. It did not do her, nor I, any good for me to coddle her all this time. It did, however, teach me some valuable lessons on self control.

I asked Danica again, “Do you actually have your keys with you” because I simply wanted to verify that indeed, yes, she had them. She said that she was sorry, but when I opened my mouth quickly added that she did, in fact, have her keys somewhere on her person. She undoubtedly sensed my next question, which would have been the same as my previous two as I had not yet recieved a straight answer.

Of course, there were two ways this conversation could have continued. I was dripping wet, cold, and soapy, and it would have been all too easy to glare at her and tell her to use the damn keys. While potentially making me feel a little better at the moment, I knew that would have been disastrous for the night ahead. Instead, I said, “How was your day?”

She said something about Tori Amos being at her place of work and it being an awful day because of it, but I paid more attention to the way her facial expression relaxed from that worried look she had on. Good, I thought, one potential fight avoided. The night was looking up.

Randy Returns

I finished my shower, wrapped myself in the towel, and headed to the living room. Danica was on her computer, bouncing back and forth between a few of her things (I caught a glimpse of her shoes being put away). I went online myself.

Then, some minutes later, I heard her speak. She was talking into her cellphone, and the moment she said the word “Hello” I could tell it was most likely Randy on the other end because of her instant switch into what I have come to call breathy voice. Breathy voice is when, during a moment of noteable drama of one sort or another, Danica silently clears her throat and pays careful (possibly unconscious) attention to the intonation of her speech. Breathy voice is quieter than normal voice because even though it uses more air it produces less vocalizations than normal speech; it is a seductress’ voice.

This angered me for several reasons, plenty of which are surely obvious and needn’t be repeated. One of the potentially not-so-obvious reasons was that just the other day I had explicitly asked her not to speak to Randy on the phone when I was unable to get away from the conversation. To be specific, I did not (and still do not) want to hear conversations she has with Randy and I especially don’t want to hear one side of them!

In this apartment there is no real way to avoid hearing phone conversations. Sure, I could put on headphones and blast the music, but why should I fucking have to do that? Okay, maybe I am not that nice. But that’s fine by me: I am through being nice.

More to the point, however, was the fact that she agreed not to talk with him on the phone while I was around. Despite her earlier (pseudo-)promise, however, there she was, talking, no, flirting with Randy on the phone and setting up another date for Friday night a mere two feet away from me. Perhaps I should have been able to ignore it, and I did try, but the more she talked with him the louder she became and soon I just could not stand it anymore.

So I rolled my chair out in front of her and started tapping my fingers on the arm rests firmly. It took a few moments before she got the hint, but she did eventually get it. Unfortunately, it did not do me much good. She told Randy, Hold on, I have to move to another room, went to the bedroom and closed the door behind her.

A valiant effort, perhaps, but not completely satisfactory. I am sure she tried to remain quieter, but I could still hear her decently well from my computer chair. After a few minutes, I wanted to somehow express my feelings.

I walked to the bedroom door and knocked three times. She told Randy to hold on and asked me what I wanted. I opened the door, and informed her that I needed to grab my pajamas. (And that was true, I was still wrapped in a towel at that point.) She asked me if she was bothering me (at last) and I sighed, saying I thought you agreed that you wouldn’t talk on the phone with—. She interuppted me with I know, I know, but he left me a message and I called him back and— something else about what happened.

Of course, all of that was true. Randy had left her a message on her voicemail (I heard his voice when she checked her messages) and then she had called him back. Here’s my point: She called him back. And the topic of discussion wasn’t even something urgent like the apartment lease she wants to get on his place. No, she called him back and made plans for Friday night!

Where is the integrity? Where is the personal responsibility? Where is the awareness? Where is the fucking consideration? (Okay, that last one is probably too subjective to be called anaylitcal, but then again most of this entry suffers from that. Hence the earlier disclaimer.)

In the end, she got up and put on her sweater and shoes. She left the apartment to talk to Randy (who was still waiting on hold on the phone) in the hallway of the building, outside the apartment. This was better; I couldn’t hear her anymore.

She came back, off the phone and finished with the discussion with Randy, only minutes later. On her way in, she held up the cell phone to me as if holding up her arms and said That’s it, it’s finished, I’m calling my mom now. And she did, in order to stress the importance of moving out as soon as possible.

New Attitude

Obviously, I began writing this entry back when she was on the phone with Randy, laughing and flirting. I was angry for a while, during that phone conversation, and even after she finished talking with her mother. Ironically, I had hoped tonight would be far more mellow, since I had had a pretty mellow, if unmotivated day.

After she spoke with her mother, Danica came to the living room couch and layed on it to rest. I was blogging. Somewhere in the middle there, she approached me and kissed my shoulder, and said I’m sorry, Mei. I didn’t really know what she was apologizing for, but I didn’t really want to stop writing. I didn’t answer, or react in any noteworthy way, so she left and went back to the couch.

(Later, I asked her why she had apologized. She said that she was sorry to have caused me pain, because she hates it when she does that and never means to do it. I didn’t say anything in response, but I did not really take what she said to heart. If she truly meant that at the time when she was causing pain, she would have stopped rather than get upset that I was inconveniencing her conversation with Randy. She also mentioned that she called Randy back as a last resort, after having tried to reach him online and having thought that his phone call was urgent. Even if this is true, I still wonder why she did not conduct her conversation with more consideration and awareness of her previous promise.)

Finally, somewhere during writing the previous parts of this entry, I stopped feeling so angry. In the angers place a quiet, uncaring resolve formed. Uncaring, that is, because I realized that I should no longer care what Danica’s intentions are. They should no longer constitute any part of any equation with which I form my reactions to situations that involve her. In other words: no more being nice.

I stopped blogging right before this subsection (the “New Attitude” section) and went to the kitchen to make myself dinner. I thought I’d prepare some pasta, but when I looked at the available ingredients I decided I’d make myself a sandwhich instead. While I was preparing the sandwhich, Danica came into the kitchen and sat down at the kitchen table.

We spoke during my dinner. She cried. I did not really empathize any more. I probably came off as quite distant and aloof. I spoke about my feelings and my decision to no longer be nice or accomodating. I mentioned that it was a conscious, calculated choice intended to do one thing only: protect my emotions.

At one point, Danica asked what time it was. She said she wanted to call her mother to further stress the fact that she really wanted to move out, but that it was too late to do so. (It was about 2:22 AM.) I simply stated that I was glad she found it necessary to move out, and that I was glad I was encouraging that behavior.

She told me, during this conversation, that she had been invited to a party after work but decided not to go because she was hoping things would be better between us tonight. She said she remembered how I said it was still hard for me to be alone (and it still is, regardless of whether I am nice or not) and so she came home for me. I told her not to blame me for her choices, and that I would not succumb to some unfounded reason to feel guilty. (Besides, she had made plans with Randy for Friday and Saturday nights; her social life is looking far better than mine, but you won’t find me guilt-tripping her about my lack of social outlets.)

In short, the fact that she broke her word yet again and I was hurt by it yet again showed me that I really must begin to remove myself emotionally from her. She seemed surprised when I told her it seemed like she was rubbing my nose in it when she called Randy. Maybe she truly doesn’t realize how often she breaks her words or what she was doing to me emotionally, but that is no longer going to temper my reactions. Ignorance is not an excuse to break the law, so shall it be with me.

I told her, when she was trying to explain her actions in that regard, that I no longer cared what her intentions were. I only cared what her actions were and how they affected me. That means they hurt me, and I was going to protect myself in whatever way I could. Obviously, the ways I have been trying so far have failed, so it is time to try a new way.

She claimed that I pushed her out of the apartment. In fact, I explictly told her when I entered the bedroom to get my pajamas, and I quote, No, I can’t kick you out of the apartment at this late hour. She told me that she should not care if I asked her not to speak with Randy on the phone, that she should just do it because it shouldn’t matter to her what I felt about it.

I told her that she had the right to do whatever she wanted, but that if she behaved that way then I had just as much right to make the environment palpable for me, whatever the cost. I would no longer hesitate to make speaking with Randy on the phone as inconvenient as possible for her in order to dissuade the action if it was hurting me. Childish? Protective.

She expressed fear that I would be “cruel” and do things like “misplace” her belongings. I told her I would do no such thing, that I had no intention of being agressive (or passive-agressive), and that I considered such things to be below me. I told her I was merely going to protect my own feelings at whatever cost necessary, which is reactive, not agressive. This means there would be no more accomodations, no more favors, no more considerations.

By the end of dinner, and our talk, she said she wanted to hurt me physically. (Her actual words were I want to kill you.) I shrugged, and when asked what I would do if she attacked me I said that I’d defend myself. I don’t believe she has any intent to actually lunge at me with a knife, but I do think she is quite pissed off at me. Good.

I will endeavor to no longer consider her emotions in what I do. Perhaps this is even something I should have done much sooner. At least now she gets to see the difference.

Bedtime

So now, I’m tired. It’s way too late, yet again, and I would actually like to get something done tomorrow. Hopefully, I will find motivation in some shape or form.

I am planning on going to the gym, even if it’s late. The subway ride will give me more time to read Fitness for Dummies and the work out will be beneficial. It may even give me the motivation I’ve been looking for. At the very least, I’ll be burning plenty of calories.

I am hoping that my new attitude will make life less painful, even if it is not necessarily smoother. I am not going to shy away from conflict and I am certainly not going to do any more bending. Typically, I have no tolerance for people whom I am not considerate of. Folks who know me know how caring and how thoughtful I can be. Folks who don’t know me don’t deserve special consideration because they have not earned it.

Danica has just lost all priviledges, and hopefully this will make my life with her here much easier; I don’t have to care anymore.

Meta-Data Notes on This Entry

This entry was written over a time span of about 6 hours. The timestamp is the publishing date and time. That means it’s long, obviously, and now that I’m done with it I’m way too tired to spell check it and go over it more than this brief look-over to find appropriate headlines.

As a result, this is simply not going to be as readable as some of my other entries which have undergone a less subjective write-up. Hopefully, I’ll still be able to pick out the facts from the story I have here.

I’m also just a little concerned that this entry will not accurately reflect all or some of the thoughts I intended to portray or record. I know for a fact that given more energy I could have phrased some things more accurately and included more pertinent details. It’s all good, though, since this is ultimately my entry and that’s all that matters to me.