What's behind door number 2? ("Chapter 2")

I used to be somewhat of a control freak. I thrived on structure, planning, organizing, working ambitiously at whatever it is I wanted. If I did A, B, and C, then D, E, and F would happen. Or so I had believed. The way I viewed life, people, and even myself changed that summer of 2005. I became more uncertain. The more I thought I knew, the less I knew. The instances in which I felt like I didn't know what I was doing, what was going to happen....those seemed to be the times I felt most free, most alive. Surrendered to the unknown. Eventually even an unexplainable comfort arose in me in such moments.

I left off by telling you how the methadone job opportunity fell in my lap. What I haven't told you is that I also thought I would be working where B worked, at the downtown clinic. B thought one of the employees would be leaving soon and that I could be his replacement. I called her boss to express interest. I met with him for a very informal interview (he took a phone call within minutes of us stepping into his office). I don't recall him scrutinizing my resume'. He was overly nonchalant, so much in fact that I questioned whether he was all that serious about considering me as a potential candidate for hire. Only now in retrospect can I reflect on this as being a very telling snapshot of his personality and how he operates, even in serious matters. As unsure as I was about the interview, I did have one thing going for me. B. told me loyalty was an important trait to him. If B. was recommending me as a new employee, I must be worth him taking a second glance of consideration. Still, I waited with bated breath. Especially after I heard what I was truly up against, the risk I was willing to take in the name of obtaining full-time employment...anywhere. I was in for a shocker.

If I were to take the position, it would not be downtown. It would be at a brand new clinic he was in the process of opening up on the northside of Chicago. He already had two existing clinics, one in the suburbs of Chicago and the other near downtown. The epitome of a businessman attempting to close a successful deal, he strategized and bargained. We could both benefit, he coaxed. With my help, he could establish another avenue of his business in the hopes of longterm growth, professional profit, and the utmost reputation of what we could offer to 'consumers.' With his help, I could seize the opportunity for what it would ultimately turn out to be: one helluva learning experience.....nothing I could ever find in a graduate school textbook or the most experiential/role playing of intellectual classes. He was offering me the School of Hard Knocks.

I knew what to expect from academia. Papers, practicums, analyzing hypothetical situations. I didn't know what to expect from this. I would be the only counselor, working with only a few other staff members. I would not be micromanaged, nor have supervision readily available. I would need to deactivate a security alarm to walk through the door every day for safety reasons. I would be starting my day while most people in the city of Chicago were still sleeping, 6am. I would have to put on somewhat of a front that I knew what I was doing or I would be eaten alive by manipulative addicts. I was scared shitless. And I accepted the position.

The first few weeks were devoted to rudimentary training basics and then.....I was on. my. own.

How it all began

I officially started writing for my potential 'book' today. We'll see what happens with it. For now my goal is to just write. Intricate details and concerns will come later, if it's meant to be. Here's what I have thus far:

If you were to tell me 10 years ago that I would one day work with heroin and cocaine (and everything but the kitchen sink) addicts at a methadone clinic, I would: 1. have no idea what you're talking about, asking 'What is a methadone clinic?' (that's how nieve I was back then) 2. have thought you were crazy and 3. think you must have me confused with someone else.

During graduate school, Introduction to Substance Abuse was a required course for all students regardless of the specific master's program they were in. I remember thinking the class was interesting, and somewhat intimidating. Aside from a lame DARE education class I had to take in 6th grade and exposure to pot during high school and college, I had no knowledge or experience with drugs and addiction.

It was Winter Term of 2003. The best assignment for the substance abuse class entailed a requirement of attending three ("open," meaning they are open to non-addicts as well) 12 step meetings of my choice and then writing a short paper about the experience. I remember being completely fascinated by each one, in very distinct ways.

I went to Alcoholics Anonymous, Crystal Meth Anonymous, and Narcotics Anonymous meetings. Alcoholics Anonymous seemed the most open, welcoming, cheerful, and spiritual of the three. A young twentysomething woman approached me afterward to ask me if I needed a sponsor. I was touched, even though I was not in need of help. Narcotics Anonymous was the night to AA's day. My least favorite of the three, I found it to be secretive and borderline creepy. Crystal Meth Anonymous was especially unique. A room of 15-20 gay men sitting in a circle, with me being the only woman. I asked if they were comfortable with me being there and that I would leave if they were not, but they graciously accepted me into their circle. I listened to their powerful stories and even joined them for dinner at a nearby restaurant, an after-meeting ritual of theirs.

I was in awe of their process of healing, a resilience from darker times in their lives. After completing my assignments, I began to think about what it would be like to work with individuals struggling with addiction and recovery. A part of me thought "I want to do that someday." That chance would come sooner than I ever could have imagined.

In the same class, I remember my professor (brilliant though he was) only barely touching the surface of heroin addiction and the brief mention of methadone. Granted, there was an incredible amount of topics to cover for an intro class. Looking back, however, I wish he had spent more time educating the class on heroin addiction treatment and methadone maintainence. The only thing that was mentioned about it had a negative connotation and if I recall correctly, fed into the myths and judgmental attitudes prevalent in society. It is sad that even academia (especially in psychology!) can perpetuate negative stereotypes. But I'm getting off topic.....

Two years later, spring of 2005. I was studying nonstop for my master's exam in marriage and family therapy. In the midst of my overly prepared study time, my anxiety level continued to rise. The clock was ticking and I would soon be thrust into the 'real world.' This means....I needed to find a full-time professional counseling job. I was slightly freaking out and networking, networking, networking.

My marriage and family peer T had some students from our program over to her place for some drinks and appetizers one night. I started talking with B, whom I had lost touch with since she graduated months prior. Curious as to what she had been doing since I last saw her, she told me she was currently working as a counselor at a methadone clinic downtown. I became all the more curious, especially after she informed me they might have a potential opening for another counselor.

I asked question after endless question on that night and days to follow. I remember having a very interesting conversation with her over margaritas at Cesars shortly thereafter, learning all the fascinating and intense details of the job.

While I did not know what I was getting myself into, needing to find any counseling job was a driving force for me at that time. Had that not been the case, I might not have pursued the job opportunity. I was persistent about obtaining the position and about two months later, I would be working at a methadone maintainence clinic.....with absolutely no applicable knowledge or prior experience of addiction whatsoever.

New developments

After having felt crappy for so long, I recently made a conscious choice to make taking care of myself my top priority. This may sound simple, but for those of you who know me well are well aware of my tendency to put others first and put myself last. I finally realized I cannot do it anymore; it's just not healthy. So now I'm currently being mindful of what I need to do for myself to be healthy, joyful, and passionate about life while balancing taking care of others. This means I am getting back into exercise, alternating between walks during the week and running in my neighborhood on the weekends. I'm also eating ALOT of veggies and fruit. While I would like to drop some weight (and need to do so), I am not focusing on that as the ultimate goal because I want to be able to stick to this healthy lifestyle. Weight loss will be a secondary perk to this vital change I'm making.

A few weeks ago I had a physical done (bloodwork) and got the results the other day. Turns out I have low Vitamin D levels. Normal levels are between 40-100 and mine is 11! That's what I get for living in a minimal sunshine area. My doctor recommended I take strong doses of Vitamin D (which she prescribed) for the next 12 weeks....so I'll be doing that too. That's the update on my health.

In other news....

This really has nothing to do with what I was just talking about, but I found it to be funny and amusing....maybe even 'meant to be' (haha). On my commute to work on Wednesday, an attractive man sat beside me....which never happens, especially considering there are rarely attractive men on the bus. I wasn't sure why this particular guy seemed intriguing to me, but let's just say it was an enjoyable distraction to that part of my commute. I wanted to say something to him, but what's the chance I would see him again and furthermore, what would I say? There is a fine line between being friendly and being creepy. I didn't want to be the latter.

Yesterday (Friday morning) I happened to take the same route (there are two possible routes I can take and I switch off depending on the day,etc.), again on my commute to work. 10 minutes later, imagine my surprise when I look up at a man walking down the aisle looking for a seat.....and it was HIM. And he sat BESIDE ME AGAIN. I almost couldn't contain myself (nervous and amused by this coincidental event) and once again, I froze. I almost busted out with a comment about the fog (it was extremely foggy), but all I could do was glance at him now and then when he wasn't looking/paying attention. I must think of something to say to Hot Bus Crush. Help, my readers. What are some good, subtle things I could say without being lame? Haha.

Job memoir writing project

I had an epiphany on my commute home from work today. I realized how many friends of mine have commented on my writing lately and it got me to thinking how I could best channel my creativity/skills and also be motivated at the same time. So you know how for a long time now I have been half joking that I'm going to write a book someday about my methadone clinic job? Well folks, the time has arrived. Not officially, of course....but it's in the works.

I'm brainstorming right now and will likely devise a rough outline of topics/ideas to cover....and then start writing a 'manuscript' on my computer. It also occurred to me that I really don't have any friends who are writers (professionally anyway). I really wish I did, as I could use the guidance and feedback of how to go about all this. Perhaps it will just take some extra legwork on my part and a few trips to Borders for 'how to write a book' guides. Hmmm.

More to come soon. Stay tuned. :)

Exercising courtesy

As much as I criticize Seattle for being an asshole when it comes to certain aspects of its 'personality,' I have recently discovered a more endearing quality about its city folk. Having gone jogging in my neighborhood quite a bit in the past week and a half, I have observed something very odd and refreshing that is unlike any other city I've been thus far. Generally (anywhere), people drive with a sense of manic eagerness to get to their destination. You have to be on guard and protect yourself from getting run over, maimed by an oversized powerful scrap of metal. Not so here.

While the slow driving here can certainly push my impatient buttons, it also has its perks.....take for instance, as a jogger/runner. At first, I thought it was just a lucky break when I was waiting to cross a moderately busy street with an ongoing influx of cars going by in both directions....and they STOPPED to let me cross. (And there was no crosswalk, stop sign, cop around,etc. to account for this unusual behavior!) Maybe the timing was just right, that I caught them at a generous, courteous moment. Except it kept happening. Today and yesterday. I almost felt guilty for these people having stopped in their tracks for me! It's all so new to me. I smiled and waved with appreciation, of course.

Do Seattleites have an uncharacteristic respect for those who exercise or something? Regardless, I'm impressed with their sense of exercise courtesy....

Creativity...and Dad

Yesterday I came across and contributed to a brief survey on women's creativity. There were questions to answer I had not considered before, such as asking who or what encouraged me throughout the years to be creative, the definition of creativity, what holds me back creatively, and what inspires me. All very telling answers came of this. It was as if this survey was reminding me of something I either had no awareness of or lost somehow.

My definition of creativity was by no means academic, more simple and tailored to what it means to me as an individual. I think I said something about "to be known and seen, expressed outwardly" or something to that effect. I known 'known' and 'seen' were the primary words I used. Things that inspired me were people, beauty (nature) and feeling personally touched by something. When I thought about what stifles my creativity, I began to make sense of this malaise I've been feeling lately. I remember my top answers being monotony/routine (in my life) and the perception that no one 'sees'/cares about my creativity (but how can they know and see it if I don't do it? ha!).

I thought about who were my biggest sources of creative inspiration over the years, as far as people in my life (not celebrities or other famous people). My dad, my grandfather (mom's father), and my mom immediately came to mind. Particularly Dad....

During my teen years, it was customary for me to spend summers in Florida visiting my Dad. My fondest memories of time spent with Dad involved hanging out with him at the photography studio in Tampa that he shared with a few other avid photographers. As Dad worked alot (his day job as a deputy for Hillborough County Sheriff's Dept.), this made the time I was able to spend with him all the more valuable.

Photography was the one commonality between us that facilitated connection and the ability to connect for its own sake. Dad had a music system set up and turning on the music real loud was one of the various studio rituals he went through as part of the creative process. I remember being fascinated with the fancy, yet technical looking studio lights always lingering in the background...just waiting to be used for enhancing a featured object or person.

Sometimes Dad would even let me be the subject of a 'photo shoot,' allowing me to try on different hats, boas and such as he snapped away. Being a kid who always struggled with my weight, it was the one of the few times in my life where I could experience feeling beautiful and the positive attention of being a 'model.'

Dad and I would also occasionally take little photo adventures together, he with his professional Nikon and me with the Pentax he gave me when I was around 13 I think. At that time, I remember thinking it was the coolest and most 'grownup' thing anyone had ever given me. I wondered how worthy I was of such a serious gift. We would take pictures together at Busch Gardens, Lowery Park Zoo, vacation spots in North Carolina, St. Augustine (my top favorite places with Dad). As I think about my sense of spontaneity and adventure with photography now, I can't help but smile and attribute this to Dad's influence.

Then there was the darkroom. You know those 'if' question games where someone asks you 'if you could pick (fill in the blank).....what/where would it be?" Well, if I had to pick my absolute favorite room of all time I would pick that studio darkroom. There was something magical about it, like it represented a mysterious element of untapped creative potential. Especially when Dad flipped the lights off, the only light emanating from the small box of faintly glowing light at the top of the ceiling so that he could see just enough to develop and print the finished product into black and white. The ritual of pouring the three necessary chemicals into their respective trays. Stop Bath was my favorite. I just liked the weird sound of it, like the photo was getting a cleansing bath that would wash away anything that would take away from the beauty of its overall attraction. The mixture of chemical smells in the air gave me both a creative high and slight revulsion.

I spent so many hours in that room with Dad that if I count the hours I watched him and observed with a voyeuristic curiosity for the creative process, I could have gained amateur photography intern status. We talked about more topics in that room than anywhere else before or since then too. Maybe literally 'being in the dark' lends itself to exploring those things that usually remain hidden.

"She's dead"

I was first struck with the magnitude of death on a quiet afternoon in the spring of 1988. My mother was at the college taking a final exam, having neared the end of her bachelor's degree program. Our next door neighbor usually came over to babysit/supervise me during the time mom had to be at school. This particular day for whatever reason though, I happened to be home alone. I cannot remember what I was doing in those moments before the phone rang, only that I was in the living room and it was afternoon because it was still light outside. I answered the phone in mom's office alcove area around the corner from the living room. It was a nurse.

She asked to speak to my mother in a very grave tone of voice, emphatically telling me my grandmother was sick. Even at 11 years old, I was highly intuitive at sensing when things felt somewhat amiss. Being that I was alone and had no grownup to turn to for assistance with the emergency, I had to think quickly. I remembered that my brother Alex's dad Kenny had mom's pager number in case of emergencies. I told the nurse that I would have her paged, as I jotted down the hospital number. I called Kenny and relayed the information.

What I remember most vividly was what I did after I hung up with him. In a daze, I walked over to our white plush couch in front of the big living room window of our second floor condominium. I stopped in my tracks and stood in front of the window, looking out, staring. It wasn't raining. It could have been cloudy or it could have been sunny. All I do know is in that moment I knew my grandmother was dead. It was like she was whispering in my ear, reassuring me and giving me comfort in my distressed moment of solitude. My eyes welled up with tears that couldn't quite let go. I was holding out for the possibility that I was imagining something, like a child who is afraid of monsters under the bed that do not exist.

Needing to be with someone, I called Kenny back. He picked me up and took me back to his apartment. Watching tv with him and Alex, I waited with nervous anticipation. Minutes felt like hours. I was scared to know what had happened to this woman whom I loved more than anything else in the world. The moment mom arrived through the door with puffy red eyes and a sad demeanor....said it all. "She's dead, isn't she?..." I remember thinking and possibly saying aloud.

Yes.

The funeral was in a pretty white church in Derry. She was buried in the stunning dark purple dress she wore to Mom's wedding the previous summer, her favorite color. I remember being afraid to go up to the casket where she lay, being that close to death. I had never been exposed to a dead body before. I was repulsed, frightened, sad, and curious all at once. I studied her face and what I could see of her body that lay there. Her silver tinted hair looked the same. Her soft, wrinkly face was no different. Her eyes were closed, as in a peaceful sleep. But there was no voice and certainly no breath. It looked like her, but it didn't "feel" like her anymore.

The most influential person in my life has also been my first experience with death. Perhaps it is no surprise I have spent my adulthood exploring the philosophical....

Philosophizing

As you may have noticed, I haven't written on here in awhile. I'm not sure what's going on with me.....lately I feel like I have alot on my mind and no clear way to articulate it or am completely blank on inspirational writing material. It makes me sad too, because I don't feel completely "whole" unless I write. Does that make sense?

Tonight I was chatting with one of my close friends and he commented seemingly out of nowhere that he doesn't like not seeing me write. Another partial reason I've temporarily gotten lost with it is that I don't feel like anyone cares about my writing anymore. There was a time when I felt like knowing I had readers who were interested in my thoughts, ideas, and feelings really drove me further into a passion for it. It's been said that one should do something simply for the sake of doing it and/or for oneself regardless of others. I agree, to an extent. At the same time, that's like telling a painter to paint something that brings out all their inner passion without having the additional pleasure of sharing it, having it be seen and known by others. When I write, it is my way to be seen. How can I be seen if I'm writing to an empty audience? I don't know. I'm getting more and more philosophical for my own good as more years zoom by.

So, here's what I propose...to myself and/or to whomever few people actually read these words across the screen......I cannot promise I'll write every day or something that will be super exciting, thought provokinge, etc. All I can do is promise to seek that which has been hidden for whatever reason, to bring back the creativity in whatever way I can....even if it's in the mundane for now. Thank you for this, Eddie. With that said, here are a few things that have been on my mind the past few days......

Have you ever read a book set in an era and country which you knew nothing about, other than the fictional (and perhaps semi-real) descriptions.....and found yourself utterly intrigued to go there someday to see if it's anything like your imagination? This is how I felt when I finished reading Tolstoy's "Resurrection" yesterday. Russia. Colorful and rich with history, though only bits and pieces of knowledge imparted to me. It never caught my attention....until reading classic Russian literature. Now I'm driven with a curiosity to experience the actual country. Is it anything like the traveling I've done there in my mind?

This happens for me with dreams and fantasies too. Do such people, places, and experiences exist outside of the power of our minds? Is something any less "real" to evoke the deepest of emotions if it's not in the physical realm? It has been said that nothing is quite as powerful as fantasy, that anything more "real" cannot live up to that imaginary expectation. Anything to an extreme is dangerous territory though, I suppose.....both "real" and "imagined." One interesting example.......

Death and dying/grief and loss issues seem to be front and center themes in many of my therapy sessions with clients lately. Each person presents with their own unique narrative and in that way, they are incomparable. I was especially touched by a session I had today, a teen who drew me a picture of this recurring bad dream she has that ultimately gave me the interpretation she is still mourning the loss of a family member she was close to who died of cancer. My client has fears that her own parents will die/be taken away from her. Even though just a dream, she experiences it as something very vivid and real.

Where does reality end and creativity begin for us human beings? How can we blend the two to help us heal/transcend pain, sorrow, and loneliness....instead of adding more to the heaping mess of emotional wounds? This is the philosophical case I'm currently trying to solve.....

Enlightenment and classic literature

I consider myself lucky to have crossed paths with exceptionally intelligent people in my life, many of which have become my friends. Still, I have to wonder what it would be like to live in an exceptionally intelligent society. Sadly, it's almost unfathomable to me.

The other night while conversing with my mom and brother, somehow we got to talking about compliments. Mom was curious to know, "What would be the highest compliment someone could give you?" It took my brother and I a few moments to contemplate one all-encompassing word to describe who we are as individuals. Alex came up with 'genuine' (which I like) and for me it was 'enlightened.' It's not so much that I see myself as enlightened as far as an end result, but rather a process on the way to an enlightened state. This would be the highest compliment because it speaks to all aspects of who I am as an individual....in regard to knowing thyself, the world, and its inhabitants. Enlightened is a word that sums it up for me, with utmost humbleness.

I am reminded of a disappointed friend who recently shared that he wishes he had friends who liked to read/intellectual discourse more than just going to the bars for fun. I know only too well how he feels. Even though I have my share of smart friends, the ones I can have literary and philosophical conversations with are few in number.

Then there was some higher education article link my mom sent me a few weeks ago detailing the depressing commentary of aliterate people in this country, those who CAN read and choose not to do so. Or intellectual poseurs who have "impressive" books they have never opened, only displaying them on ornate bookshelves for aesthetic purposes. Being the bibliophile I am, hearing this thoroughly disgusts me. Mainly, I feel pity for others who haven't had the experience of reading a classic literature novel and all it can evoke.

For example, right now I'm reading Russian novelist Leo Tolstoy's "Resurrection." Each time I read a classic, it is as if I'm reading it for the first time. Each novel presents itself to me in a unique way. It challenges my intellect with the words it uses to describe details (not the "dumbing down" words we are consciously or unconsciously privy to in everyday mainstream society dialogue), words I may have forgotten I knew the meaning of or sometimes encouraging me to learn new ones. Through in depth character development, there is the opportunity to see through the psychological and emotional lens that can impact the characters to do what they do. These are significant aspects that cannot be found in a fluffy blockbuster film. I would even go so far as to say not even in a majority of contemporary fiction. It seems getting a book published in the 21st century has more to do with who you know and how much money you have than it has to do with real talent. Or how much a writer's work has the capacity to be both timeless and a worthy contribution to humanity (in what it has to teach, inspire one's imagination, or both).

Furthermore, classic literature is one of the few genres that is rich with layers of complexity. It examines the dynamics in relationships across the board (between friends, lovers, and family members) and how those patterns influence the outcome of events unraveling throughout the story.

Universal themes (love, power, forgiveness, guilt, religion/spirituality, romance, lust, the various forms of prejudice one may face, secrets, redemption, the list goes on and on) and moral implications.

"Resurrection" has me contemplating something I learned many years ago in a Sociology class (Intro to Criminology). I remember learning various theories that served as possible "explanations" for criminal behavior. I can't remember the name of the theory, but basically one in particular talked about lack of community resources being a motivation for individuals to go down a path of crime that they normally wouldn't under more 'supportive' circumstances. One of the main characters in the novel feels a sense of guilt that he led his one true love down a downward spiral of prostitution, theft, and murder. The way he responded to her years before, he feels, may have made the difference between her being a 'good' vs. 'sinful' woman. If he had the courage to love her and not repress his true feelings, her future (and his) could have taken a different path. In a way, he feels it was HE who did all those 'bad' things for which he must seek atonement. It made me think twice about how much responsibility we have to others. Perhaps it's the small part of compassionate 'idealist' in me that strongly resonates with social responsibility and looking out for other's welfare. Yes, we make our own choices and it's ultimately up to oneself to create our own reality.....yet, I feel both individual and social concerns are at stake.

See what I mean? The layers are endless with classic literature.

I hope one day I live in a society that places a priceless value on the humanities (creative arts and education) because as it stands, we aren't as 'human' as we could be.

"The unexamined life is not worth living."
---Socrates

True meaning of Christmas

As I sit at my mom's computer in the attic-like room of her small house, I am surrounded by darkness, cold air, and snow gently falling outside. Mom is napping, Keith is wrapping Christmas presents, Chloe is napping and Sable is sitting pretty in a Christmas cape outfit on her cushiony dog bed. I hear the intermittent sounds of airplanes overhead, the only sound I hear besides my fingers clicking away at the keys on the keyboard in front of me. I feel somewhat sad that my brother isn't on the plane that I'm hearing above.

Yesterday I found the unpredictable winter weather here in Seattle fun and interesting. Today I just want to take some sort of revenge on Mother Nature, and then I realize it doesn't work that way. Alex was supposed to be coming in from Boston tonight. He called us late in the morning to say his flight plans were all screwed up. He was really mad (understandably) about the situation, but is apparently trudging through it with a perseverance that only the most 'stuck' traveler can muster...standing in line for hours to find some miraculous alternate flight plan to make it to Seattle for Christmas. Mom and I left shortly after his discouraging call, en route to Target for some final Christmas items.

As I roamed around the store and the inevitable pandemonium, I got to thinking about the true meaning of the holidays. I know I'm not alone when I question how many people grasp the deeper symbolism Christmas is supposed to represent. Somewhere in the holiday shuffle, the importance of it has become lost to commericialism and stress of having enough money to spend or "What do I get for so and so?" What about being with the ones you love? I've been going through the motions of buying Christmas presents, almost as if approaching a dreaded chore. Sure, I'm a thoughtful and generous person. I'm also a simple, non-materialistic person who doesn't need presents and conversely, I don't like to feel obligated to get them for others (which is the case with my extended family members this year). I would rather have the gifts of conversation, laughter, travel, and hanging out with some of my favorite people. The gifts of experience and memories, the things that don't have a shelf life or the ability to be re-gifted or returned with a store receipt.

As Mom and I commiserated about how the weather has created an unpredictable change to our plans for Christmas, I realized seeing my brother Alex is the only thing I've been looking forward to and the only thing I 'want' for Christmas. I'm not sure how it will play out. I am happy to know, however, that I am in the proud minority of society who can appreciate the true meaning of Christmas. Funnier still, considering I resonate with Buddhism over Christianity. But that's another story.

Adult Children of Alcoholics (ACOAs)

I wanted to share something I found from a book I had to read for my "Chemical Dependency and the Family" class I took this semester. Very interesting and it really made alot of sense to me. I have personally seen the numerous characteristics described play out in ACOAs I know....

(From Before It's Too Late: Working with Substance Abuse in the Family by David Treadway)

Most ACOAs are unaware of the relationship between their early life experiences growing up in a dysfunctional family and the problems that bring them into treatment. Yet, due to the legacy of low self-esteem, difficulties with trust, unresolved dependency, and blocked affect, adult children are likely to develop a wide variety of symptoms. In addition to being at very high risk for replicating the alcoholic family system by becoming an alcoholic, marrying one, or parenting one, ACOAs are particularly vulnerable to having difficulties in their close relationships.

A strong fear of being hurt and a desire for nurturance are usually the prime motivating forces for ACOAs in their relationships. For most ACOAs, these needs for safety and for intimacy are mutually exclusive. Intimacy is based on the partners's being trusting, affectively available, and interdependent. For the adult child this is a very unsafe position, one that almost always evokes the sense of danger, dread, and entrapment from childhood.

ACOAs struggle often unconsciously to find a form of intimacy that doesn't sacrifice safety. Many adult children simply avoid becoming too close to others, preferring a life alone to the risks of being hurt in a close relationship. Others find ways to engage in self-protective partial intimacy. They may find emotional closeness acceptable, but sexual intimacy impossible or vice versa. They may become emotional pursuers, thereby avoiding the anxiety of waiting to be sought after. Alternatively, they may play the role of distancer, avoiding the risk of rejection. Some individuals manage by maintaining multiple relationships, rather than putting all their emotional eggs in one basket.

The need for safety is compounded by the fact that adult children usually are blocked affectively and have very little underlying self-esteem. This leads them to be unaware of how they are expressing their anxiety and neediness in relationships as well as afraid that everything is their fault in the first place. Adult children are prone to remain in abusive relationships because they are not in touch with feeling abused and feel they don't deserve any better.

Finally, ACOAs seek in their present relationships a chance to make up for their past pain. They may look to marry strong competent people who, they hope, will be able to take care of them in a way that didn't happen in their childhood. Conversely, they may marry underfunctioning spouses, since they feel most comfortable in the caretaker role. Such a marriage gives them a chance to rewrite the story. The young woman may not have been able to rescue her alcoholic father, but maybe she can transform this rebellious young man with her love.

Seeking in one's adult relationships emotional reparations for the hurts of childhood is an effort doomed to failure. No matter how much the spouse loves the ACOA, he/she can't really make up for the past and will often feel inadequate. Spouses become frustrated and tend to distance because they feel that nothing they do is ever good enough. This response only confirms the ACOAs' worst fear, which is that other people will ultimately abandon them.

Birthdays

Birthdays become so dull and insignificant as I get older. I suppose they have never been particularly "exciting" for me, except in the way that I get a sense of the proverbial warm fuzzies just seeing and hearing from the thoughtful people in my life. I'm all about the little things in life. I don't know. I guess when I get to share it with people I love, it's a comforting ritual. When I'm in transition and far away from those I'm most connected to, it feels like just any old day...non-special. Or at least this is what I anticipate will happen a week from now, seeing as I'm currently feeling that way.

I'm partially bummed because today it's my close friend Rajiv's birthday and I totally wish I was with him tonight celebrating. I miss him so much. I hope he's having a wonderful night with his new friends. I just wish I was in Chicago, even if just for tonight. It is moments like this when I wish teleporting were totally possible. With that said, my birthday without Rajiv and Eddie will likely be quite boring and uneventful. As of this moment, I have nothing planned for my birthday. Absolutely NOTHING. I am taking the day off from work to have a "me" day, relax and whatever. I was looking online yesterday for a potential spa to get a massage, as I haven't had one in over a year and that's my idea of the perfect indulgence to treat myself. If not that, maybe go on a photography adventure somewhere in the city (if the weather permits) or go see a movie during the day and maybe have dinner with my mom that night. Who knows.

I like being independent and doing things by myself, but some things are better enjoyed with company. I'm trying to take the Carrie Bradshaw (from "Sex and the City") perspective and have a "date" with the city....meaning, Carrie would create her own joy by doing fun things by herself in New York City and not depending on others for her happiness. I like to think I emulate her (the character's) persona in some ways. Maybe this will be another chance for me to do so.

I remember the last time my birthday felt kinda "blah" was December 2001, my last really big year of transition...as I had just moved to Chicago...literally, like a few days to a week before my birthday. My mom and I had unloaded all my shit from the Penske truck into my tiny studio apartment. It was incredibly cold, characteristic of Chicago....but I wasn't immune to that sort of weather yet (not like I ever truly was in the 6 years I lived there, but still!). I didn't know the city at all; it was a total stranger to me. Nor did I know a soul. My mom would only be staying with me for another week because she didn't want me to spend Christmas totally alone (for which I was grateful) and then she would be going back home. I would eventually be totally on my own in a big, bustling metropolis. We got everything settled and cozy in my new apartment. My birthday rolled around, not feeling much like a special "me" day. I remember wanting to see "Vanilla Sky." My mom and I took the el to this really ghetto movie theater on Lincoln. As we were standing in line to get our ticket, something caught the corner of our eye out the front window. A taxi had pulled up and the passenger inside jumped out, shouting and creating quite a commotion with the taxi driver, who had allegedly scammed the man out of a legitimate route (the driver was accused of taking a longer route to milk more money out of the customer, which...knowing Chicago cabbies, wouldn't surprise me).

I remember watching "Vanilla Sky" and liking it....but my most vivid memory of my birthday was this particular scene. Not sure if that's a good thing or not, though the odd absurdity of it still gets a chuckle out of my mom and I when we get to reminiscing about amusing memories....

Then I think back to one of the best birthdays I've had yet, that being my trip to Michigan with Eddie and Rajiv last year. It brings a smile to my face just thinking about it. I wish every year could be that special and yet, it might not have been that special without something less significant in contrast. Like it was said in "Vanilla Sky," 'I know the sour, which allows me to appreciate the sweet.' Still, I told a coworker today that I'll be glad when this year is over and DONE. It's been a challenging year, not full of much fun. Good riddance!

May the next year be a helluva lot brighter, fun and more endearing with new Seattle friendships.

Karma Chameleon and the smell of wet dog

Kindergarten (or pre-school...but same difference)
Sitting in the passenger seat next to my mom, I would look up at the sunny sky through the windshield at the same exact spot (about 20 seconds before she pulled into the stone covered parking lot)....and sneeze. No, I didn't have a cold or an allergic reaction. I just wanted to sneeze. It was a ritual for me. I forced these sneezes for as long as the weather permitted.

I remember back talking a teacher on one particular day and learned never to do that again after I got a fresh bar of soap stuck in my mouth to teach me a lesson. I believe a teacher might get his or her ass sued for doing something like that nowadays, but hey, this was the 80's....a time when watching "All My Children" with your teachers during lunch and dancing around the room to Culture Club's "Karma Chameleon" was the norm. I also had a crush on Boy George. I thought it was both cool and confusing that he looked like a girl. Turns out, I liked gay men back then and didn't know how to articulate it yet.

I hated nap time. Too many restless bodies in one room trying to fall asleep on their blanket on the floor. As if the blanket made the floor as comfy as a mattress. Puh-lease. Fortunately, my grandparents came to the rescue. While everyone else had to take a nap, I got to go to what was then referred to as 'tooty flute' lessons, which was basically a very simplistic and plastic instrument version of...you guessed it, a flute. There was a handful of us children that would pretend to play something that resembled a song as we skipped around in circles in a boring, lifeless room. None of the notes we played on our tooty flutes sounded good. It was just a bunch of noise and yet, it was the most pizazz that lifeless room had seen all week. I wasn't a fan of the tooty flute as much as the squishy cookie cutter shaped ham and cheese on white bread sandwiches my Narnie made for me. I lived for those sandwiches, bread so soft that it dug into my teeth and stuck to the back of my mouth. Between the uncomfortable floor and daydreaming about sandwiches, who can take a nap in kindergarten?

6th grade
I did not have any romantic potential with boys in the 6th grade. I was still trying to overcome the Ugly Duckling phase. I enjoyed too many slices of greasy pizza with the family at our favorite pizza joint, Chesapeake Pizza....the only torrid love affair I had yet to experience. That same year I was rewarding myself with a taco salad from Taco Bell when mom and I weighed ourselves at Weight Watchers, excited to discover we lost 3 pounds in the overall 30 left to lose.

On top of being the overweight nerd girl, I also did not have the perfect smile. I was wearing braces and some other metal contraption at the bottom of my mouth. I sure could have used a Vicodin prescription back then for the pain I was in when that was installed.

My friends were also sketchy during this time period. There was Kim Hodges across the street. She was very religious, especially about playing piano and her devotion to New Kids on the Block. She had every conceivable magazine picture of them that had ever been taken....from Tigerbeat to YM to Teen magazine. You name it, she had it. All over her walls. All over her ceiling. I bet she is embarrassed about this sick obsession as a 30 year old woman now. Too bad I have no idea whatever happened to Kim Hodges. Imagine the case study it could have provided.

Then there was Brooke. She had a mopey brother named Jessie who liked to wear surfer label clothing, even though looking back in retrospect...he didn't know the first thing about surfing, nor the social skills to pursue such an ambitious sporty endeavor. I liked hanging out with Brooke. Sometimes I would spend the night at her house, funny considering she lived next door to me. We would listen to The Bangles or help her comfort coat wearin', chain smokin' "Granny" with her crossword puzzle. "Now Brooke....!" she could frequently be heard scolding with a raspy undertone. The family dog Daisy, however, was the most delightful member of the household. Those were the neighbor friends. There were also the school friends.

6th grade alternated between Ms. Norman and some other teacher whose name I can't recall. Although Ms. Norman was the nicer of the two teachers, I was torn between which class I dreaded most for different reasons. Teacher Whose Name I Don't Recall was obese, mean and unattractive. All I recall about that class was learning about Ponce de Leon, that Coronado guy, some Aztec and Mayan history, and a cop coming to talk to our class about the dangers of alcohol and drugs during our lame D.A.R.E. (Drug Education Resistance Education) course. Norman's class offered me the chance to share desk space with 3 other people. They couldn't be just any ordinary kids either. No, I was stuck with Stinky and Drama Queen.

Shannon O'Leary started off as a friend and as time went on, more of a foe...at least to my nose. Sweet girl, but she lived with like 20-30 dogs. I'm not sure if she didn't shower either or if it was just the sheer magnitude of being surrounded by 20-30 different dog odors that had her coming to class smelling like....wet dog. It was so bad that it made me nauseous to sit near her. I finally had to pull Ms. Norman out of the class and gently confide in her as to the cause of my olfactory and digestive distress. I'm not sure what she ended up saying to Stinky, but I remember the smell just went away one day. Sometimes you just have to speak up if you want the smell to go away.

Jessica was a chubby girl with chipmunk cheeks, blond hair usually worn in a ponytail, and many family issues to boot. I would occasionally let her see my answers when we had to do assignments during class time. She complained about how miserable it was at home. I felt sorry for her and letting her cheat off me was the least I could do. Drama Queen was so upset one day that she threatened to run away. When she was absent from school for a few days after that threat, I remember thinking she really went through with it. I reluctantly told my mom about the scandalous run away from home plan on our way to Chesapeake Pizza (I told you, it was a torrid love affair with the pizza that year). A part of me wished she had run away, at least for a little while. I wanted to hear the juicy details of where she had gone and what she'd seen or done on this run away mission, assuming she came back. It's unclear to me now whether she was truly troubled by family or perhaps suffering from something like Bipolar disorder or pathological lying. Is it any wonder my future as a therapist and storyteller was paved well before adulthood?

You know you're a "grownup" when.....

the idea of going out on a Friday night requires more motivation than a sense of adventure.

you start referring to those 7-10 years younger than yourself as "kids."

you feel like you're the oldest person at a sports bar and just want to leave the crowded atmosphere.

you're attracted more to personality (intelligence, kindness and sense of humor) than physical looks.

you wonder if the person you like is married and look for a wedding ring.

the person you like is divorced, has kids, and you still want to date him/her.

you run into your crush at the grocery store instead of the bar.

you would rather sacrifice fun for sleep than the other way around.

you find yourself having lower expectations of people.

you consider what it would be like to change your career someday.

you're buying wedding and baby gifts for your friends, wondering when you will be the one getting married and having children.

social and political issues become more important to you......and you actually do something about it.

making your parents happy becomes secondary to your own happiness.

your birthday feels like every other ordinary day.

you are the only one in the room who knows all the words to an 80's song.

Yes, I am a grown-up.

Vivid dreams

For some reason, I've been having very vivid dreams the last two weeks. Like the night of the election, I remember not sleeping well on my mom's futon (it wasn't comfortable)....but of the sleep I got I had a dream where there were maybe four people gathered around each other in a little circle. A guy was holding this massively huge snake (a boa constrictor?), it's length coiled around the man's arms, neck, stomach. The group was laughing and having a great time. I don't think they even saw me standing about 8 feet behind them. I was petrified and screamed out in fear, even trying to scream in my sleep that came out as a weird noise that woke me up from the dream. That's all I remember. Then a few nights after that I had a dream that I was answering an ad to possibly move into a new house and went to check the place out. There was a guy living there and I was excited about his bedroom being right beside mine, that we would be roomates. I remember loving the kitchen. It had tons of counter space and all these culinary appliances I had never seen before. It made me want to just get in there and start cooking up a storm. The place, overall, was grand.

Last night I had a bizarre and somewhat scary dream. I arrived at my friend E's house. I was excited to see her and reconnect, as I had not seen her since she got married. I was happy for her marital bliss and wanted to hear all about it. She proceeded to tell me she had a sexual experience that she called "cake" and asked me if I knew what it meant. I paused, trying to think of what I was going to say because I didn't know what it meant and also didn't want to sound nieve by admitting as much. But I decided to be upfront and admit, that I didn't know. What's "cake?" She apparently said it was having sex with two people at the same time. As she started to tell me about it, we had to leave her house for whatever reason. I had to go home, I think.

I got on the wrong bus, had to get off the bus after I realized it (and my old coworker Annie was on that same bus, weird) and wasn't sure what to do. E. was suddenly there again and next thing I know, she and I are both on this flimsy looking thing that looked like a cross between an ironing board and a surfboard. She was laying on one and I was laying on one.....and we're thousands of feet above the sky. It's a sunny day and I can see the water, tons of city buildings below. At first, I thought it was cool and fun, this "magic carpet ride" in the air of sorts. We're dishing girl talk and I'm excited that I'll make it back to the south end of Seattle faster than if I had tried to figure out another bus route!

But then.....the thing we're both on starts nosediving and tilting in different directions. I'm getting queasy, nervous that I'm gonna throw up. That feeling quickly turns into extreme fear of "Am I going to die?!" because no matter how much I clutch the flimsy thing I'm laying on, I feel like I'm falling off and going to tumble to my death below. There's no security. E and I are screaming and I'm pleading with god to help me. I'm so scared, my heart is beating a million miles a minute and I'm pretty sure this is it for me. A minute later, as we fast approach the ground....we land calmly and safely on the ground. We're still alive, untouched and unharmed.

"Friending"

I thought I was the only one who had these thoughts and feelings, but as it turns out I'm not. My mom didn't even know I was going to write about this today when I was hanging out with her earlier this afternoon. I laughed when she unknowingly mentioned the same thing to me.

What about you, dear reader? Have you ever crossed paths with a stranger that you were attracted to and wanted to ask out for a "friendship date?" I've had a handful of encounters with strangers lately that have stirred this feeling within me. I want to do the friend equivalent of dating: "friending."

It first started last month when I was on my way home from work. It was a rainy night. I'm pretty sure it was the same night I had to hospitalize a suicidal client because I didn't leave work till about 7:00. The windows on the bus were all fogged up and Young, Friendly Woman Reading A Book that I sat beside made a comment about not knowing exactly where her stop was coming up because the windows were foggy, thus it was hard for her to see. We exchanged a few pleasantries, including her revealing she also wasn't familiar with the area because she had just moved to the area. I perked up at hearing she was 'new.' I should have seized the moment and told her that I was a newbie too, but I think I was too tired and stressed out from my day at work to make the effort. She seemed nice and different from the typical "Seattle freeze" people I typically encounter though. For a split second, I wish I could befriend someone like her.

Coincidentally, I saw YFWRAB on my morning commute last Monday. It was an arduous journey that day, as various passengers commiserated about us being stuck in traffic because someone on the Aurora bridge was threatening to jump. There she was, dressed casually in jeans and talking on the phone. Whomever she was talking to was someone she was on her way to meet, as she told the person where she currently was on her commute. I wondered if she was on her way to some political activity, as she donned an Obama button and clutched a 'green' bag over her right shoulder. She stepped off the bus at a stop right before the Aurora bridge. Why do I keep running into this woman when suicidal situations are going on too? Is there a sign in all this?! As the bus took off and I looked at her through the window, I wished I could be friends with her. Why? I couldn't tell ya. She just seems...friendly, interesting, intelligent.

Then yesterday I interacted with a few men while doing errands who triggered the same feeling for me. I walked into Sip N' Ship to mail two books to a friend of mine. As I approached the counter, the guy working there was talking to a middle aged man. The way they were talking indicated they were friends, or at least acquaintances....making plans to do something later. Middle aged man leaves and I have Cute Postal Guy's full attention. He was very pleasant, asking me how my weekend was going and was very helpful in giving me the best bargain for my buck. Something about his personality gave me a yearning to be his friend too, and it wasn't just his looks because I think he might be gay.

An hour later, I'm in the checkout lane at the grocery store putting all my shit on the black assembly line conveyor belt. A thin, attractive man with slightly spiky hair who appeared to be in his early 30's pushed his cart behind me on register 6. There was 3 feet of space between where he and I had placed our collective items. Being ever the observer (and voyeur), I peeked at his vegetarian selections. He jokingly asked if I had enough room for my stuff and I played along with a witty repartee. Again, I was in "friending" mode. He followed me to the customer service desk....like me, to get a roll of quarters.

I'm going to invent a "Friending" bus route and/or shopping day, for those of us strictly seeking interesting people for friendship. It could be an easy and nonthreatening way to get to know someone that you really deep down just want to blurt out: "I really want to be your friend!"

"Friending." So innovative that I've just coined the term. And hopefully the concept.

Well, one can dream.

Writing exercise

After posting a few thing I wrote in years past on here, I thought maybe it was time to write something new.

Friday night after work, I wandered into Borders with my 30% off coupon and $5.00 off rewards thing eager to buy yet another book to my ever expanding collection of books. At first, I looked at the new books section. Nothing caught my eye. I walked upstairs and asked the bookseller behind the information desk when the Dido cd would be coming out. Not until November 18th. So much for that. I head over to the religion, philosophy, and psychology section. Again, nothing catches my eye....and frankly, I'm not in the mood to read psychology books seeing as I think about psychological things all day at work. I need an ESCAPE from work, not a reminder. A lightbulb goes off: creative writing. A short, older woman with glasses (a bookseller) is talking to a scholarly looking man who appears to be in his fifties in the History section. They converse for a few minutes, as I stand 8 feet behind them unnoticed for the next 5 minutes. When the woman realizes I need help, she hurries over and I ask her if they have a creative writing section because I cannot find it. We start to walk towards the section, a feeling of deja vu stirs within me of the days when I was the one leading the customer to their desired literary object. I notice she is pointing out 'writing style' and 'publication.' Did she not hear me when I said creative, not mechanics? As she is scrambling around trying to show me she was indeed listening (because creativity and mechanics of writing are apparently mixed in together, who knew?), there they are staring back at me. In all its creative glory, one of my inspiring muses from years past, Natalie Goldberg's books. Perfect! I had forgotten she had a new book out, one that couldn't be more apropos: "Old Friend From Far Away: The Practice of Writing Memoir." I scooped it up, trying to control myself from hugging the damn thing as if it were indeed an old friend whom I haven't seen in years.

What is the point of this anecdote, you wonder? Well dear reader, as part of my whole goal of getting the creative juices flowing and having more of a passion to write again after feeling a fizzle.....I am going to be brave with my creativity and try some of the writing suggestions from her book on my blog here. For fun, for reflection, and to get the proverbial ball rolling. It may sound great. It may even sound like crap. But at least I'm writing again. :)

With that said, here's the first one.....

Tell me what you will miss when you die.

How can one articulate into words the depth, the magnitude of the human experience of being alive? I don't even know where to begin, but here it goes. I will miss being holed up in my apartment on a rainy afternoon, listening to music that brings back memories from different times in my youth. I will miss the comfort of warmth, wearing my favorite sweater or wrapping myself up in my dark blue blanket that carries the lingering scent of me on it. I will miss the sounds and smells of coffee brewing in the still morning hours before the sun rises, the anticipation of that first sip when my lips touch the curve of the top of the mug. I will miss the feeling of being in a virtual postcard, walking amongst scattered autumn leaves along the sidewalks that look as if some technical stage crew in the sky poured them and let them fall in just the right way to perfect the concept of beauty. I will miss water filling in my eyes, being moved by any and all emotion: anger, sadness, joy, inspiration, fear, gratitude, empathy. I will miss holding a book in my hands, my eyes enveloping the contents. I will miss the rush of a new romance and the curiosity of the unknown. I will miss the musky scent of all the men I've been attracted to in my lifetime. I will miss being turned on by intelligent discourse. I will miss the unique and distinct laughter of all the 'favorite' people in my life. I will miss road trips to Michigan in the dead of winter when my body was numb from the frigid temperature, but I never felt more alive. I will miss spontaneity and surprising others, myself included. I will miss physical affection---intimate kissing, hugs, full body massages, sex. I will miss being comfortable in my own skin. Close friends, my parents, my teachers, my lovers, clients I really liked, cuddling with sweet dogs. And FOOD! Green bean casserole, Nicole's chocolate chip cookies, hankerings for avocados, Garcia's margaritas and off the wall (both the witty and the deep) conversations with my two favorite Chicago men. The excitement of having something to look forward to and the memories of all I've accomplished, where I've been. I will miss witnessing progress in the world, in humanity. I will miss photography. I will miss the kindness of strangers. I will miss flirting and being playful. I will miss inside jokes. I will miss the smell of seaweed and saltwater in the air, sand stuck between my toes underneath my socks after a hot summer day at a Florida beach. I will miss the hours of time it would take me to list the infinite number of things I will miss that my brain cannot think of in this moment.....which is to say, I will miss the experience of all that goes along with being a living human being in all its idiosyncracies.

Favorite places

(Photo taken by me, October 2007)

Continuing with the theme of things I wrote years ago, here's one I wrote about my favorite places on 9/1/03. (It's interesting to see how my favorite places have changed in the past five years. Maybe I'll write a current favorite places blog soon....)

My favorite places are not that of distant, exotic lands. They are all a piece of "home" to me. These places are more important to me for the people I connect with and for the comfort of feeling "at home" no matter how far I am from the house I live in at the time.

Camping and hiking at Lost Maples, Texas, picnic meals in the crisp, autumn weather in the woods---reminds me of home in New England. Quiet and Walden-like. Clearwater Beach in Florida and seafood at Leverock's with Dad and again with Mom. Drives through Wimberly to visit Jennie or watch Eliza Gilkyson play at Cypress Creek Cafe. You can see all the stars out there in the pitch black of night, cruising down the winding roads of Wimberly while jamming to music on the radio and talks with Nicole.

Driving along the roads of the west---Utah, California, Wyoming in all its beauty, natural in its green fields and rocky chiseled mountains. Reno and other parts of Nevada reminding me of family closeness I had for 6 months after I graduated college. Ladd, Juliana, Elijah. Jeff's visits to Reno and hanging out at Harrah's in Lake Tahoe. I won us two bets on the Roulette table that bought us dinner that night.

Walking around the block to Uncle Don's house for a tuna fish sandwich, Fritos, and maybe M&M's or highly addictive salty pistachios to munch on while we had long talks at the kitchen table, my surrogate father in an "uncle" disguise. And now, talking to him on the phone comforts me and brings me home to the days when my grandfather imparted his words of wisdom to me. I feel like he's talking to me again when my uncle talks with me.

Breakfasts and brunches in restaurants late at night or in the late morning on the weekend in my grandparents' apartment in Derry, New Hampshire. Eggs, toast, and the artery clogging greasy bacon was my childhood favorite. Sleepovers and swimming in the pool till my fingers turned prune-like. I lived in that pool it seemed, even when the chlorine was green from some chemical problem the pool had.

Now my breakfast meals out are fun times with Eve and the occasional quirky Nate. Clarke's on Belmont is great for camaraderie. Stella's Diner off Broadway is a Sunday morning hangout to debrief after Eve and I have hung out with Brandon and Paul the previous night.

Tuck's, a dive bar with character that reveals the personalities of its inhabitants. Nostalgia felt in the tunes it plays and the memories it brings with the guys we know.

The sights of Portland, Oregon last time I saw Tracy, my old high school friend. I felt at home, reminiscing of our lives over the past 8 years with such an enduring friendship.

The campus of Southwest Texas State, another home of sorts with all the experiences and friends it provided. Finding Nicole again. And meeting Carla in boring Sensation and Perception class, a Psych requirement for my major. Going to the gym with Carla, my "personal trainer" and motivator to workout. Nicole's apartment my second home from my own apartment. Chillin' out watching movies and going to Austin for dancing with Nicole, Jennie, and Carla. "The square" in San Marcos, socializing and getting buzzed with the Swedish guys or Nicole and Jennie's neighbors at The Oaks.

Bookstores always follow me around with that feeling of my special place to be. Maybe it's because I grew up in a virtual library or quasi-bookstore home with Mom's endless shelves of books for me to peruse in fascination and/or curiosity, a thirst to fill my need for imagination and knowledge. My overall favorite bookstore is hands down, "my" store on Michigan Ave in Chicago---Border's with its kooky employees who I have come to know as coworkers posing as my other little family with their own lovable odd idiosyncrasies. Some even remind me of my own family---Cheri is what I imagine Kristen to be like in some ways, a little sister. And Brian G. takes on the physical and comical characteristics of my brother Alex. I am hardly ever depressed when I am around these people---I have found my intellectual niche, very comforting.

The lake down the street from me at Belmont Harbor is where I go to run away from my problems, stress, and shed my old self (cellulite). I love to watch people and the dogs playing or sniffing around the park. The ducks floating along the water, carefree and calm. The ice on the lake in the winter creating a beautiful sight that resembles a broken sculpture.

Tuesday's Child is where I go to be a child again and re-live days of innocence and simplicity, when the small stuff was what mattered most....when you weren't afraid to do what you felt in the moment, hugging your friend and telling him or her "I love you!!" with no hesitation or fear of the consequences.

The longer I live in Chicago, the memories it has given me and continues to give me leaves me feeling like I am more and more in my element, feeling more like a home that is mine and only mine----a favorite place I created and molded from scratch almost 2 years ago. My current favorite place.

"Character" sketches

While working at a bookstore in the booming metropolis of Chicago, I got to know some interesting 'characters' (ie, my quirky coworkers)...two of which I befriended (can you guess which ones?) and the others I haven't seen or heard from since we stopped working together one day.

I concocted a description of some of them back in April 2003, maybe as a way to give me ideas for fictional characters if I were to ever write a novel. :)

1. Phil---white guy with short, curly black hair, late 20's. Wears black-rimmed glasses, as well as red "festive" shirts. Smokes pot every night to relax and fall asleep. Supervisor, works in the art and photography section. Goes to Columbia (an artsy school). Has a cat who likes to look out the window of his apartment, only reads fiction, wants to move outside of the US one day, insists his parents could use couple's therapy, has a sister, doesn't like Christianity (nor Nativity scenes at Christmas time), a gay man who doesn't want to live the typical gay lifestyle.

2. Brandon---white guy in his late twenties, green eyes. Reads the New York Times Monday through Friday and Newsweek on the weekend, enjoys using big words in casual conversation with others, a journalism graduate student at Northwestern, sometimes answers his phone saying "yo!," claims he's "just a white guy," once tutored kids. Physically attractive to most people (men and women). Can be seen sauntering quite a bit and mumbling witticisms, mutters softly when others ask him questions about himself, claims to be a 'common man' who drinks Old Milwaukee beer at yuppie bars like Sheffield's, admits to trimming his chest hair. Proud to be gentlemanly and chivalrous with women. Frequents a bar that serves free wine every Tuesday nights, twirls his black curly strands of hair as he talks or reads the paper. Has been known to eat very routine meals consisting of a sandwich, carrot sticks, yogurt and a banana, and drinks water alot. Thin to average build, wears Gap and/or thrift store clothes that don't always match, once got excited when someone complimented his $3 "Waldo" sweater, doesn't want to be like everyone else. Hates the suburbs. Makes jokes about masturbation. Once went to a Miami Vice themed party, has an occasional 'lonely' Friday or Saturday night. Liberal. Used to work a "boring" information systems analysis job. Sometimes wears artsy black rimmed glasses, lives off Addison in a condo, originally from Indianapolis. Made out with coworker Claire at a party. Had an ex-girlfriend who was a painter. Always listening and observing others. Would like to work for the Chicago Tribune or New York Times someday. Compliments (or corrects) words one uses in conversation with him, has lived in Chicago for 5 years and only goes home for the holidays. Not materialistic, though opinionated about certain fashion faux pas (such as not wearing white socks with dress shoes). A self-proclaimed "stoic." Works out at Bally's. Birthday is in December.

3. Meredith---20 year old white girl with lots of colorful tattoos, long black hair. Likes to wear black and thrift store clothes alot. Has many male friends. Often looks tired, eats salad alot from FoodLife in the Water Tower building on her lunch breaks. Lives with her sister, sister's boyfriend and another guy. Hates to sleep naked and has an oral fixation. Likes to drink and party. Good listener, gives encouraging pep talks to others. Got kicked out of her last apartment. Close to her dad. Smoker. Has a fat cat named "Tommy." Has been told she looks like Courtney Love, Norah Jones and Britney Spears.

4. Stephanie---Early twenties, half-Asian, half-white, originally from Colorado. Lives near the Loyola campus. Sarcastic and blunt. Has many theater friends, intelligent, interested in journalism and almost applied for law school. Considering going to medical school. Studied abroad at Oxford. Has a habit of falling for the wrong guys. Likes to go to the movies. Sorority girl in college. Works at Timothy O'Tooles too. Takes cab rides home after late night shifts. Adventurous. Has family in Hawaii, has been vegetarian for 2 years. Shamefully admitted to owning Cher's Greatest Hits, well-liked by coworkers but believes herself to be a 'bitch,' always looks hit, down-to-earth, can't stand pretentious people, at a crossroads with what to do with her life.

5. Eric W.---24 year old thin white guy with glasses. Friendly to everyone. Wears a baseball hat most of the time, frequents bars a few times/week, can be quite funny when drunk, clueless to just how many girls like him, good listener, would like to be a teacher someday, originally from Ohio, considering going to grad school. Used to live in Texas. Close to his family. Has run in the Chicago Marathon. Easy-going. Is in love with "let's just be friends" Kristen and won't give up hope that one day she will one day realize they should be together. Buys a new cd every Saturday night after work. Also works a 9-5 office job at an insurance company, likes to go to the museum, see obscure movies and do things that are different. Admits he tends to pursue women, but feels they don't pursue him (and when they do, it's not a challenge for him). Nicknamed "E Dubbs" and eats cold food alot because he doesn't have a microwave at home.

6. Michael---27 year old white gay man who claims to be the 'woman in the relationship' with his boyfriend. Down-to-earth, liked by all, witty, and intelligent. Neat and clean freak (likes to Swiffer his apartment). Lives with 3 female roomates off the Montrose brown line el stop. Once lived in Italy while working as an R.A. Originally from Indiana. Went to Loyola. Just started working at Illinois Institute of Art. Likes Trader Joe's. Can always be found cooking and eating delicious meals. Great cook. Reads fiction, as well as the Economist magazine and Italian newspapers. Sometimes smokes when he drinks. A churchgoer. Likes Star Trek, Harry Potter, and Lord of the Rings. Got laid-off at a former job and was unemployed for a year before finding a job at the bookstore. Likes to relax on Sundays. Watches BBC. Did volunteer work at a museum. Likes to try new things and places. Wants to teach someday, thinking about graduate school. Has lived in Chicago for 5 years and has two brothers (one who lives in Montana). Likes to discuss movies. Liberal.

7. Andrea---white, tall, 26 yrs old, overweight, red hair, wears glasses, smokes. Supervisor. Has been with boyfriend for 7 years, who once gave her a potholder from Target as a "fun" surprise gift. Originally from St. Louis, Missouri. Funny. Claims to not have much of a sex drive these days. Likes guys who have a baby face look. Mother died of cancer years ago and she doesn't get along with her father. Alcoholism in her family. Likes ice cream sundaes. Dislikes wearing jewelry, except for the occasional necklace. Drinks Coke alot. Buys clothes from "the fat lady store" (ie, Lane Bryant). Used to work with kids at the YMCA.

8. Brian G---white, tall, 29 years old, easy-going, reminds me of my brother Alex, slightly overweight. Likes "Six Feet Under." Has been known to go out drinking with various coworkers. Lived on the west coast. Would like to live in Washington or Vermont someday. Frequently wears the same sweatshirts and green camouflage pants. Liked by all. Has a long-term girlfriend named Sarah and lives in a not-so-good neighborhood. Sometimes sleeps for 12 hours at a time. Jokes that he may have family in the East since he and his family members found pictures of other women that 'weren't Grandma' in his grandfather's "treasure chest" after his grandfather died. Cute and funny. Supervisor. Originally from California. Owns a car that breaks down alot.

9. Braettie---white, early thirties, red hair, earring in middle of her chin, acne scars on her face, wears eclectic clothes, prefers to wear men's pants because she feels they fit better/are more comfortable. Great laugh. Sarcastic and moody. Hates Disney. Listens to Yo La Tengo music. Originally from Austin, Texas. Married to a musician named Angel. Dares to be different. Loves Belfast, Ireland more than touristy Dublin. Once wore a nametag that said "Prudence." Doesn't like working with people much. Can't tolerate stupidity. Likes funny Irish stories. Creative. Writes and likes non-conformist art.

10. Nate---white, 20 years old, tall, thin, wears funny shirts and baseball hats. Has been told he looks like the Naked Chef. Student at University of Chicago (political science major). Bought his girlfriend Maureen a guitar. Originally from the suburbs of Chicago. Has family in Indiana and Ohio. Seems close to his family, whom once had a Corgi. Nicknamed Katie "Lawson" and "Ship's Navigator," though he never explained why. Odd sense of humor. Intelligent, yet socially immature. Likes to have argumentative discussions in his classes. Vegetarian. Doesn't drink or smoke. Rarely takes himself seriously. Tells funny stories. Hangs out with Meredith and Brian R alot. Wears good smelling deodorant that smells like cologne. Doesn't have cable tv. Frequently stays up till early morning hours and sleeps only a few hours before getting up.

11. Brian R---white, 21 years old, medium height, black curly hair, shaves his head in the summer, originally from Chicago. Plays basketball. Watches Seinfeld, Simpsons and South Park. Jokester with everyone. Lives at home with his parents and sister. Has a friend he calls "Buddy Holly" (real name is Freddy). Ran after a girl to ask her out. Tells funny stories. Hangs out with his 25 year old friend "Crazy Julia," along with Nate and Meredith. Has perfectly shaped white teeth when he smiles. Laid-back. Once told Katie she should be the natural laugh track for his future tv show.

A cup of coffee

(Written April 30, 2006)

"What are you doing tonight?" she asks curiously, as she debates whether she will ask him if he'd like to grab a cup of coffee now that they're off from work. She decides she won't ask him, as she's always the one initiating their spending time together and is to the point where she really wonders if he cares for her or not.

"I don't know. Probably just hang out, watch some movies with my friends tonight. I was thinking about going to get a cup of coffee though. Do you want to go?"

"Sure," she answers casually, but on the inside slightly surprised and relieved that he wants to spend time with her. They have been friends for almost three years now and she has had an unexplainable thing for him from the beginning (Little did he know until 8 months ago...).

"Just give me a few minutes to read the last chapter of this comic book and then we'll go."

"Ok. Where should I meet you, here or upstairs?"

"You can just wait here...."

"That's fine. I'd like ot sit down for a few minutes anyway" she replies, as she plops lazily on the couch-like black leather chair a few feet away from him.

She has had a long day at work. You see, for about a year now, she has been working six days a week, Monday through Saturday, at the crack of dawn (literally) at a methadone clinic and continues to give a little bit of time to her favorite bookstore in downtown Chicago on Saturday afternoons. Although she is exhausted by Saturday, she isn't quite ready to let go of the supplemental income, the intellectual stimulation in the air, and of course...him. So she keeps going, yawning all the while, but happy because she can't imagine her life without his presence...not quite yet.

"Are you ready?" He gathers his beige messenger bag, stuffing the comic book deep into its pockets, then flapping it shut.

"Yeah, let's go."

It's early evening and dreary with light rain falling as they gaze out the window. Juan has an umbrella that he prepares to open as they step out into the damp, misty air. He exchanges brief small talk and goodbyes with two of their male coworkers who are leaning against the wall smoking a cigarette and making chit-chat. "Ok, bye, see ya later."

Juan offers his umbrella to Katie. She has her own, but tells him it's all disheveled from trying to use it in the horrendous rain/wind storm the previous day. The gentleman that he is, offers it to her and won't take no for an answer.

"Alright. Thank you," she says sheepishly as she opens it up and attempts to hold it over her head against resistant winds. "Actually that's ok. The wind is pretty bad and it's too much effort to hold this thing in the wind..." and gives it back to Juan.

They talk a bit as they walk one block over to the Starbucks on Chicago Ave. They go inside and stand in line behind six people who are waiting to place their orders to the baristas.

"You gave me a reality check back there, Juan. You've made me aware that maybe I need to be more positive. It's easy to get stuck in a rut and get negative about things, but I realize I have a lot of good things in my life."

As they had been shelving books close by each other in the travel section at work, Juan had made an observatory remark that Katie doesn't seem as happy as she used to be in the past. She had asked him if he meant that she doesn't seem appreciative of what she has (because she is), but he just wants her to see she's got a lot goin' on for her.

Inching closer to the front of the line, he reveals to Katie that he too had been feeling less than positive until about a month ago and that while he doesn't look any different, people at work have been responding to him differently, complimenting him, and getting him to be more social.

"I'll have a tall nonfat latte please" Katie tells the friendly cashier, handing the woman her Starbucks giftcard.

Juan orders a grande vanilla latte and while they wait for their drinks to be made....

"I do have one positive thing to tell you--"

"You have lots of positive things" he interrupts her, misunderstanding what she is about to say.

"No, I know. I mean, I have an example of one positive thing that happened this past week at work. I'm starting to get more creative in working with my clients, doing sessions with couples and family members, because my boss is giving me the freedom to do different things, so in a way, I guess I'm getting to do some family therapy kind of stuff after all."

They grab their drinks from the counter and head over to put some sweetener in their coffees.

Katie continues sharing insights and ponderings from the last few days regarding change. It fascinates her how everyone falls on the continuum of change, some slow to change and others change fast before your very eyes.

"I've learned there are three kinds of people. There are walkers, runners, and jumpers," Juan begins.

"What is that, Juan's philosophy?" she jokes playfully.

"Yeah."

"So which one are you?" Katie inquires curiously, eager to hear his answer.

"I'm a walker."

"And me?"

"You're definitely a runner."

"What is a jumper then?"

"Jumpers are people who have everything going for them. They're the ones who graduate two years earlier than everyone else, that sort of thing."

"Hmmm." Katie ponders and again is reminded of why she has not been able to let go of her feelings for this guy over the past year, despite knowing almost without a doubt they they will never be more than friends now or anytime in the future. Flirtation and intimate conversations are as close to 'couple' like behaviors as they will get.

Sitting at a corner table by the window, they talk casually about life and things that only make they laugh and smile. He's still bitter about his ex-wife Lisa. It has been years since their stint of a marriage, but he has yet to let go of the hurt and allow himself to love and trust again. Katie had tried, but the pain and fear inside him is much stronger than all the love she can give. He wants to step outside that comfort zone and take a risk, but all he can do is hold back. She realizes she needs more than he is able to give. Despite her past yearnings, she is slowly feeling like loving him for the kind, wonderful person and friend he has been in her life the last three years.

At one point, Katie looks at Juan and thinking back to him comment earlier about his not looking different, she now tends to disagree...he does look different, healthier even. His hair has grown a bit more, so it looks slightly darker. His facial complexion looks clearer and he is smiling away as she stares at him thinking about how he looks to her. She keeps it to herself, however, as she doesn't want him to be self-conscious, nor him to know she is studying his appearance with her eyes.

An hour goes by and it is time to go. Juan is off to meet up with his new friends, Jasmine and Michelle, who live near him out near Midway airport on the south side. Katie is exhausted from her long week of counseling the various addicts that walk into her office in the wee hours of the morning.

"What are you going to do tonight?" he asks her.

"I think I'm just going to hang out at home tonight and relax since I went out last night..." Katie responds.

He walks with her to the bus stop and turning towards each other, give a sideways hug. Katie puts her arms around him with warmth in gratitude of their friendship, while Juan limply puts one arm around her. Katie is a little hurt by his lack of enthusiasm, sensing his somewhat distance nature, but brushes it off.

"Bye Juan."

"See ya later..." he trails off. Katie scurries off to catch the #145 bus that has just pulled up at the bus stop in front of Water Tower on Michigan Avenue.

She sits on the bus, content now. Not because she is going over and over in her mind the events of the past hour with Juan, but because for once, time spent with Juan doesn't cross her mind.