Talking Crazy

If I knew that when you break up with someone, you also break up with everyone you met because of them, I may not have gotten into a relationship in the first place. As if it isn’t enough of a drag to feel one enormous hole in your life, suddenly people you thought of as friends fall off the face of the earth, proverbial guests lists for parties you had looked forward to attending are now lacking your name, and there are numbers stored in your phone that will probably never be called, ever again.

The nice thing about my current state of affairs is none of my friends became friends with him. I always joined his cronies, not vice versa, so there’s no possibility of them asking how he is or anything like that. So that’s easier.

Ah, but lets not forget that friendships are not only exchanged, but things are. I am down one spare contact case that could very well still be sitting on his bookshelf (although, I must consider the possibility that is has been thrown out or donated to his visually challenged roommate). He walked off with a dozen or so vinyl albums that I would have liked to have owned myself. And now, books I kept on intending to borrow are a bit out of my reach. Blast.

Pretty much, everything gets fucked up with you break up. This should have occurred to me prior to now, but this being my first relationship and thus first end-of-relationship, I just never thought that one person’s exit would take so many others with him.

(Disclaimer: This may very well piss many people off. I am writing on a subject that I know is very controversial. Sorry…but not really. And, Mom, this may make you cry. Sorry…for real.)

Our society puts a lot of emphasis on this whole living concept. (Crazy, right?) But seriously, there’s all sorts of talk about life expectancy, how to live a long, happy life, making the most of your life…the list can go on for kilometers.

But my question is, if your heart is still beating and your lungs are still filling with air, does that mean you’re still alive? Or do brain waves mean you’re alive?

Conservatives got all kinds of up in arms after Teri Shaivo “passed away” ; her parents insisted that she had minimal brain acticity and “wanted” to keep living. But more liberal thinkers countered that brain activity or not, she was a vegetable, living purely because of a machine, and that ain’t livin’.

So who is right? When does the term “living” stop applying? After that last pitiful breath? I don’t think I can buy that.

I’m sorry, but I’ve seen one grandparent slowly shrivel away to nothing, living off of an oxygen tank while being used as a lab rat to help save future cancer sufferers. He didn’t crack jokes, didn’t let me put little pink curlers in his hair to cover his bald spot, didn’t sit in the backyard eating his pretzels and drinking his beer while listening to Ernie Harwell on the radio. The only echo of his old self was the way his still said “How’s my Pammy?” when I walked in the door. Was that living? Can we really call the last few years–but especially the very last months–a life? We mourned him before he toon that final breath, so how can we say he was really living?

And now, I’m seeing a pseudo-life that’s even more painful to behold. Another grandparent, completely healthy in body, wasting away in mind. Accusing her own children of theft, kidnapping, conspiracy, you name it. Thinking her sister, ten years dead, visited that morning and then giving us a suspicious eye when we tell her Jane is dead, as if we are lying to her. Crying about her husband, also dead for over a decade, who is living with his other family. I cry every time I leave her house now; she’s no longer Gramma, she’s a shell of a person. Is this living? If her past self could see how she now lives, would she wish this future for herself?

I find myself again mourning a grandparent who is still breathing, find myself almost wishing she’ll just go to sleep and not wake up because she can’t take care of herself anymore.

I keep thinking about my future. If I come down with incurable cancer, if my brain goes and I suddenly can’t remember to turn off the stove or the names of my grandchildren, will I want to keep living, keep breathing? Maybe. Maybe the me 50, 60 years down the road will plead for more time. But I know that in my current state–one where I can think and move and do and be with 100% capacity– I can’t see how the ends my granparents came/are coming to are any life I want to ever attempt to live.

So where is the line? When is blood pulsing through veins no longer enough? When is a chest slowly rising and falling fail to indicate life in a body? When will “being alive” no lober be a synonym to “living?”

…and her name is iPod nano. Oh, how my music keeps me comfortable these days. For the few people that read this now and again, I have, on occasion, mentioned a boy, my boy. Well, for the record, he is no longer mine. Yes, Ms. Crazy has experienced her very first “heartbreak”–although I don’t know that that term applies considering I am quickly coping quite well, if I do say so myself.

Of course, it’s…weird. No one to call to say goodnight to. No get-out-of-my-house-and-into-the-E.L. free pass. No sappy handholding and spooning. And yeah, I’ll even admit though it pains me to put it into type, I miss him. But that’s to be expected.

Anywho, I have, as I always do in times of crisis, turmoil, disaster, or downright topsy-turvy-ness, I turn to my tunes to keep me cheery…or as cheery as one can be after 4 days of newfound singleness. And, though it seems at once both cliche and illogical, a smile can be brought to my face these days by sad-ish songs. But one song in particular is my new BFF. It shall be on repeat for a while, I feel.

And so, in traditional Pamela style, I will now painstakingly type out the comforting lyrics to my new theraputic tunage: Fine, Fine Line (from the musical Avenue Q):

There’s a fine, fine line, between a lover and a friend
And there’s a fine, fine line between reality and pretend
And you’ll never know till you reach the top if it was worth the uphill climb
There’s a fine, fine line, between Love, and a waste of time

There’s a fine, fine line between a fairy tale and a lie
And there’s a fine, fine line between you’re wonderful and goodbye
I guess if someone doesn’t love you back, it isn’t such a crime
But there’s a fine, fine line between love and a waste of your time

And I don’t have the time to waste on you anymore
I don’t think that you even know what you’re looking for
For my own sanity I’m gonna close the door and walk away
Uh huh

There’s a fine, fine line between together and not
And there’s a fine, fine line between what you wanted and what you got
You’ve gotta go after the things you want while you’re still in your prime
There’s a fine, fine line between love and a waste of time

Truer words were never sung…by a puppet.

Lately, my thoughts have been going on loop in my brain. It’s pretty much the same inner dialogue on three or four alternating topics repeated over and over and over and over and…you get the point.

Is this normal? Not that anything in my life has ever been normal, but, seriously. Does this ever happen to anyone else? You can’t get something out of your head, but also your thoughts on that something aren’t changing or growing so you don’t end up going anywhere, just keep on thinking last week’s thoughts.

But really, do we ever think any new thoughts. I mean, everything we go through is just a minor alteration of another situation we’ve been in or situation someone we know has been in or someone on TV that we aspire to be like has been in. I mean, every breakup decision-making process has got to be about the same time and time again: should I end it or should I stay? Every meal decision is the same: Pasta or potato, chicken or fish? Every wardrobe decision is the same: stand out or fit in?

Occasionally, I assume, there arise events in our lives that are unprecedented and we don’t know how to deal because we’ve never driven down this long, creepy, horrifying road before; or, to be less pessimistic, this road could also be smoother and sunnier than any road we’ve ever come across. But these moments are so rare that for most of our lives, aren’t we really just processing the same situations over and over and over, just waiting for something new and different and exciting to break up the monotony?

But the again, is this such a bad thing? Few people really enjoy change. Even when times are difficult, if the difficulty is familiar we find comfort in it. And even in the most positive situations, some drown in an ocean of anxiety and despair because anything out of the ordinary and habitual is frightful.

So, I guess I’ll just keep sitting here with my little broken record, hitting the same scratches and skipping in the same spots, because even though it’s dull and dreary, at least it’s safe.

Yesterday, I was “not happy.” This tends to worry people. Like I am a suicide risk or something. But in my vernacular, “not happy” is not a synonym for “the opposite of happy.” “The opposite of happy” is “unhappy.” “Not happy” means that I just don’t happen to have anything particularly pleasent or smile-inducing going on in my life at the moment–I’m not crying, not angry…I just…am. A state of unemotion, if you will.

“Unhappy” is a different story.

“Unhappy” is where the crying comes into play. It is the very real presence of a negative emotion. “Unhappy” is what happens when bad things happen. If I am simply lacking in good things, that’s “not happy.” “Unhappy” only occurs when the good things have been replaced by angry, frowny things.

It is very rare thing for me to say that I am unhappy. Even when I am feeling mildly blue, I do not use this word because it has such powerful meaning behind it–to me. When I say I am unhappy, I mean it: interpret it as “I am at negative happiness…and this is a problem.” But, if I say I am not happy, it ain’t no thing. Know the distinction.

Three weeks ago now, I said goodbye to my first car. It was a painfully emotional experience, like saying goodbye to a close friend. I mean, that baby was my first ticket to freedom. But, there was little to no hope of saving her, so I had to just…say goodbye. Worst day of my summer thus far. Hands down.

So now has begun the pain-in-my-stationery-ass job of finding a new car for myself. Or, more like, finding another old but less beaten and bruised car. I’ve found a number of cars that would suit my needs and my wallet. And the owners have even said “come see the car, we’ll discuss selling” blah blah blah. So why am I not back on the road again in a newish set of wheels? Because I have no wheels to get to the wheels.

I never really realized that I would need a car to buy a car. I mean, unless I want to ride my bike to Royal Oak or Livonia (which is…unlikely…to say the least) I need to get to where these cars are to, you know, buy them. And with my mom working extra long hours these days and doing all kinds of motherly errands all the live long day, and my dad working till the lateish evening as usual, I don’t really have a chauffer to schlep me to these sellers’ homes.

Eventually we’ll work it out. And I’ll be back behind the wheel of a vehicle to call my own. But I just never knew it’d be such a long process. Boo.

In six days I will be 20 years old, and no one will ever be able to rightly call me a teenager again. Praise Jesus!

It’s not that I hated the last *counts on fingers* seven years, it’s just that…I am so done with them. Now, I am aware that I will not magically become someone mature and emotionally stable overnight; as if May 31st I am angsty and sullen, and then BOOM! June 1st I am swallowed up by the overwhelming joy that comes with the two-decade mark. Psshhh. I know this ain’t how it goes down. But now that the title is leaving me, perhaps soon so too will the expectations for certain behaviors from my parents, certain members of my extended family still “earmuffing” me when they are going to say a “bad word,” and those working under me at the caf (you know, when I return in the Fall) no longer referring to me as “The Teenager.”

Of course, with the big 2-0 comes a few negative trappings: I am now officially a freak of nature because I am still growing (*rolls eyes* about a half inch in the last year, and just last night my legs started aching in that tell-tale way that preempts a sudden sprout-up); also, mood swings are far less accepted when you can’t blame it on puberty (then again, see above).

But all in all, I am quite content to be saying goodbye to my teen years. They were fun (sometimes), mopey (often), and chaotic (always). Good riddance.

A decision has to be made. This or that, A or B, whatever. You know there’s no escaping it. You can’t live in limbo forever, the fench is uncomfortable and eventually, hard as it is, you have to pick a side. The situation that arises an infinite number of times in every life. Of course, not every decision is an agonizing one. But the ones that are…they’re a bitch.

I have never been much of a decision maker. I play the avoidance game very well–a grand champion, if you will. But, of course, I am here, alive today, so I have made a decision or two in my life. And, I can say from experience, the only advice anyone has every given me on the topic of choosing is this: you don’t need to know right now. Thank you very much, Mama Wall. With many choices, you just…know. The answer comes at some point. A sign, an inkling, something whispers in your ear and suddenly all the indecison melts away…or at the very least, some of the indecision. Of course, the hardest part then is the waiting, waiting for the right decision to fall from the sky, but it’s better than wracking your brain for an answer that ain’t coming.

So when that next big decision rears its ugly head, don’t swaet, my pet. Just breathe (in and out, in and out) and remember that you don’t have to choose now. Not now.

I cannot do math for the life of me; even simple addition in my head takes me a minute. I am a klutz in the science lab, so even though scientific concepts fascinate me, I could never pursue a field that I can’t actively take part in. My memory for dates and names is…iffy…so history ain’t my bag. But words. I’ve got those. Plenty. And I can put ‘em together in a appealing way, too. That said, writing is an intimidating task, one that I fear sometimes I will not be able to attack head on, as much as I want to.

You see, I have read books that made me laugh until my throat was sore and by abs were tired. I have read books that made me weep, bawl, sob. I have read books that made me love a fictional character–like actually want to crawl into the page and embrace a person who I know is not real. And today, for the first time ever, I read a book that made me sigh, out loud, without meaning to. The sound escaped from me, but I didn’t even realize it was me who made the sound at first when I heard it. Others have written such amazing works that it makes me ache. Can I do that? Will I ever be able to do that? I…I don’t know. And that not knowing…it makes me sad.

No, not those kind of voices. I mean, the voice that sounds an awful lot like yourself in your head that tells you to do things with little logic or reason behind it…just…a feeling. That’s your gut talking. Your instincts. Especially if you’re a girl, trust those instincts. Yes, sometimes this voice will tell you to do something absolutely retarded that makes you wish you could ignore your gut. But, most of the time, when things come full circle, you’ll either be glad you trusted your instincts, or regret ignoring what your gut knew before you did.

Just thought I’d mention…