Taming of the Schumer (MOVIE SPOILER)

 "This is the way the world ends
    Not with a bang but a whimper."

                                                                                               - T.S. Eliot

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In what I assume will be a welcome departure from one of my usual posts, where I expound upon my icky feelings and emotions and the general shittiness of my life, I've decided to write a little review about the film "Trainwreck", which I took in last weekend. I had high hopes for the Amy Schumer vehicle, which seems to have at last made her a household name. I've been an ardent fan of Schumer's for years. I don't want to say, "I loved her before anyone knew who she was!", but it's pretty much true. My facebook friends can attest that I have inundated them with clips from her Comedy Central show, "Inside Amy Schumer", since its premiere.

I have always found Amy to be so delightfully-relatable, so candid, brave and honest. I saw so much of myself in her comedy, with its many references to body image issues, dysfunctional family dynamics, romantic disasters, drinking binges and aversion to traditional constructs of marriage and child-rearing.

Witness, if you will, her "One Night Stand" skit, in which a giggling woman with tussled hair leaves a man's apartment of a Saturday morning. A split screen shows how each of their respective days play out: Hers, involving meeting her friends for brunch and gushing over her new beau, sending him a flirty text message, then opening a joint bank account for the two of them and checking out possible wedding venues. He, in the meantime, whiles away the day nursing his hangover and playing video games, and tells his friend, over beer, that he "didn't get up to much" the night before. He also takes a prolonged nap and has a good wank session to the image of a busty Italian mother on the side of a pasta sauce container. When she calls him, asking what they are doing that evening, he doesn't even know who she is.

Schumer's comedy is thoughtful and obviously born of past foibles, heartaches and regrets. Self-effacing, gutsy and instantly endearing, she's been one of my favourite comediennes since I first became aware of her on the stand-up circuit.Thus, last weekend, with a heart full of hope and a purse full of beer, I entered the darkened theatre and hunkered down for what I hoped was going to be a satisfying dose of Schumerian sass.

For the most part, I was not let down. Amy served up her usual shock-value based hilarity, somehow managing to make a life of functional alcoholism and meaningless, unprotected sexual encounters look pretty damn glamorous in the process. The reason, of course, was that, just like in her TV series and stand up routines, she (and her character) completely owned their questionable life choices, giving not one single fuck about what anyone else thought. As I happily popped the hissing tab on my can of Stella Artois while deftly ignoring the admonishing glare of a fellow movie patron in my row, I thought, "Yeah. Giving no fucks, indeed".

Since "Trainwreck" is, of course, a story about romance, it stood to reason that Amy's leading man,  a sports physician named Aaron Conners (played by Bill Hader), would be introduced fairly early on in the film. As expected, Amy and Aaron are opposites in almost every way, yet somehow manage to form a pretty solid bond. He is conservative, he loves sports, his favourite song is "Uptown Girl".  He even asserts that he "doesn't mind" the fact that Amy's slept with a lot of men, or that she smokes weed and drinks excessively.

At one point, Aaron takes Amy to a Knicks game, where they sit courtside, and she observes the pregame cheerleading routine with obvious discomfort and disdain. To mask her insecurity over half-clad women prancing around in front of her boyfriend, she makes snide comments and heckles the cheerleaders with, "You're going to lose us the right to vote!" Aaron suggests that maybe she doesn't like cheerleaders because they are "positive, and bring people together". Barf, Aaron.

Eventually and inevitably, things go off the rails for the unlikely pair. At about 77% of the way through the movie, (the approximate time at which this is supposed to occur), we come to the Low Point, at which Amy's family isn't talking to her and Aaron, who finally reveals that he does indeed have a problem with her lifestyle, has walked out. While we are shown a montage of both of the characters struggling through depression and loss to get on with their lives, it is, curiously, only Amy's character who decides to make some huge life changes in an effort to win Aaron back.

We see her flying about her apartment, collecting every half-drank bottle of alcohol ((I highly doubt her character would have left that much untouched)), as well as her formidable bong, and handing it all to a homeless man who hangs about outside her building. While the changes the character is making are probably healthy ones, the underlying message that disturbed me was that positive life changes should only be made to impress or win back the affection of someone who doesn't like you for who you are.

The final disappointment comes at the end of the film, when Amy dons the skimpy costume that she decried as sexist not an hour before, and performs her own peppy, 15 minute cheerleading routine alongside the Knicks cheerleaders, for an astounded and impressed Aaron. Of course, he immediately takes her back. And with this final scene, my worst fears were confirmed. The message here was glaringly-obvious: Change everything about yourself, your lifestyle and your beliefs, to suit someone who isn't going to make a single change to compromise with you, or else you'll end up an old spinster. Thus, "Trainwreck", although at times completely hilarious, proves to be nothing more than a modern-day "Taming of the Shrew". How disappointing a message to independent females everywhere, especially coming from a comedienne of such unapologetic veritas as Schumer.

a/s/l?

 Periodically, I look around my dim, witchy apartment, full of history tomes, antiques and Victorian mourning art, and I think, "I should probably go out and interact with other humans, before I myself am an antique. Hell, maybe I should try going on a DATE. I used to go on those." Trouble is, it's mighty hard for a gal like me to meet eligible bachelors in the real world.

The sleepy town in which I live is partially to blame. There are very few events that appeal to me in this town, other than the occasional party or show, and the scene in which I move is woefully-small and decidedly picked-over. Another issue is probably my job, where the only interaction I have with single men involves handing containers of cremated remains to teary-eyed widowers who, although occasionally attractive, would probably not appreciate the funeral home receptionist slipping her number into a deceased wife's urn. So what's a single, mid-thirties goth gal to do? Why, turn to the miracle of modern technology, of course.

Over the years, I have had a reasonable degree of success in the arena of online dating. Back in 2001, for example, I met a guy named Mike over the internet. This was well before the days of Plenty of Fish, but in the heyday of a television show called "Blind Date". The premise was simple: two romantic hopefuls were paired up and followed around for a day by TV cameras, then made infinitely more entertaining through the post-production addition of asinine cartoons and "thought bubbles" indicating what the hapless singles might possibly be thinking about their interaction. Check this link for some retro "Blind Date" goodness:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=X8pS6K9Dkdw&list=PLA0BAB4214EA0DC86


In addition to the show's painful hilarity, it also offered, by way of its website, a chance to meet up with and go on your own awkward blind dates with people in your area! (The reader will remember, of course, that in these pre 9/11 days, this was something innovative, indeed). And thus, after perusing "Blind Date"'s website for eligible hunks, I met Mike.

Bonded by our mutual love of karaoke, marijuana and professional wrestling, we decided to meet in person. I was immediately physically repulsed by him. We went to Milestone's, drank Bellinis and talked about Chris Jericho and the Hardy Boys. Although I never once touched him, Mike and I ended up developing a very close friendship that lasted for several years.  He took me to all manner of shows and events, and even bought me a tiara which, for some mystifying yet secretly-gratifying reason, I wore whenever I came over to his house. Eventually, he figured out that I wasn't ever going to sleep with him, at which point, he cut me off entirely and subsequently married a husky girl with a mustache, by whom I'm told he sired two unfortuate-looking children.  Thanks, "Blind Date"!

Another online fairytale romance occurred for me exactly ten years later, as I trolled the fetid waters of Plenty of Fish. In early 2011, while checking out the site, I came across a handsome, 6'3" government worker named Clinton. We arranged an initial, innocuous meeting at a coffee shop. Although he did not offer to pay for my latte, I liked him. He was definitely intelligent enough, and possessed of a biting, sarcastic sense of humor that I found intriguing. I assume he didn't think I was a moron or something.

 Once assured that we could tolerate one another, we arranged a second date, this time at a pub. We both became so inebriated that, although I went home with him in a cab, we ended up merely passing out on his bed. In the morning, since I felt obligated and grateful that he picked up the tab, I succumbed to the indignity of awkward, hungover first-time sex, in the stark, unforgiving morning light that poured in through his bedroom window. I did at least get a conciliatory Tim Horton's breakfast sandwich out of it, which I chewed ponderously while we sat in the parking lot of the restaurant.

Surprisingly, Clint wanted to see me again! And thus, our courtship began. And what a courtship! He was SO GREAT! And we had SO MUCH IN COMMON!... Except that he loved reggae, and I'd rather gouge my eyes out with a spoon than listen to Bob Marley tell me to "no cry"... Well, and except that I was a smoker, a fact that dismayed and repulsed him... Oh. And for the fact that he was an avid golfer and surfer, and my main hobbies included shopping and couch surfing... Thinking back on it now, I think Clint and I always kind of hated each other. The two crucial points on which we DID connect, though, were a) we both loved to drink, and b) we both REALLY REALLY wanted to be in love with someone.

Clint was older than me (38 to my 31), and thus, operated largely in a world of married couples with toddlers and mortgages. He wanted more than anything to be one of those couples, and I always got the feeling that any girl on his arm would do, so long as she could fit into the mold and facilitate that reality for him. The few parties that he took me to were depressing, macabre affairs. I didn't even know that people like that really existed, until I attended events at which I was expected to sit primly in a party dress with the rest of the Stepford Wives, cautiously sipping Pinot Grigio and talking about Gymboree and tea lights, while the men retreated to the "man cave" in the basement, to crush beers and play Rock Band. Invariably, and to Clint's dismay, I'd end up down there with the dudes, belting "Livin' On a Prayer" at top volume, Lucky beer in hand, before retreating to the patio to smoke cigarettes with the one cool friend among the ranks of Basic Bros and realtors.

Yep, it was pretty grand, being in love. Sure, we fought constantly, and I refused to go on his stupid Wild Rose cleanse. He'd tell me that I wasn't "wife material", and I'd snap back that he was an egocentric idiot to whom I would never consider getting hitched in the first place. Slowly but surely, I came to see him less as a sarcastic intellect and more of a complete and total bastard. After six months of this bliss, we both looked at each other one day and said, "Meh". I left and we never spoke again. Word around the internet is that he did eventually find his Stepford Wife and they rode off together into the sunset on a golf cart, while the mellow strains of The Wailers carried on the June air.

2015 is upon us, and the future is now. Enter: Tinder, a dating ap for your smart phone. In many ways, this incarnation of online dating is the most ingenious yet. You can basically avoid trudging through all the meaningless "I like this, I do that, I hope for this and dream about that" nonsense, and just cut straight to the fun of judging people based solely on a single photograph. Choose your picture wisely, lovelorn iPhone owner! A poorly-executed selfie in less-than-ideal lighting can mean the difference between being approved of or being cast aside with the swift, merciless swipe of a thumb. 

But never fear if you are less-than-sublime in the looks department. The most gratifying feature of Tinder, as I've discovered so far, is the empowering feeling of quietly and ruthlessly judging others for yourself. A photo pops up, you examine it for two seconds, make a snap, unfounded judgement and, with the haughty detachment of a Roman emperor dooming a gladiator to his bloody demise, you swipe left. A delicious, giant red sign that reads "NOPE" stamps itself over the reject's photo, and whoosh! He or she is banished from your sight. Poof, begone. #deadtome.

I've been using this ap for a couple of days, mostly at the behest of my bestie, who has had some recent good fortune with it. While minding his own business one day, he was suddenly "liked" by one of the mythical creatures I call "The Unicorns". These apparitions are most easily identified by their aloof, cool beauty, stick-thin thighs, perky, pierced nipples, and their prolific Instagram profiles. They are also most certainly listed as being about 27 years old, about 5'8" and fully open to shooting "nudes" on Modelmayhem.com. Anyway, GVS found himself a unicorn and has been having what he describes as many a "blissful" weekend, often culminating in some sort of outdoor sexual escapade.  With this ringing endorsement, I thought I'd see what all the fuss was about.

So far, the only pleasure I've derived from the use of Tinder is the enjoyment of rejecting people without bothering to spend any time determining who they actually are. But hey, hope springs eternal. Mr Right Now could be only a swipe away. And at the very least, I might get a Tim Horton's breakfast sandwich out of it.

Planet of the Apes

 Perhaps because the past few days at work have been exceptionally quiet - "dead", even - a lot of strange little quibbles and quarrels seem to be happening, mostly regarding whose responsibility it is to do A, B or C. Most of this maelstrom has been occurring around me, while I sit stoically at the front desk, in the eye of the storm, placidly sipping a cup of tea. I remind myself on days such as this, a combination of mind-numbing boredom and annoying nattering, that I am constantly collecting prime fodder for my TV pilot.

I'm not sure why, but I seem to be feeling better in the past few days. I am relieved that I seem to have managed to weather this latest dysthemic, chemical brain storm without completely plummeting into a pit and losing the ability to function, as has been the case several times in the past. It may be because I am older, now, and have been through this cycle so many times that I am able to objectively observe this episode and predict, with the accuracy of a meteorological forecast, its manifestations and processes. It seems that now, I can mindfully sit with the unpleasant sensations caused by my overactive brain, instead of engaging with them and thus, launching into a full panic.

The past week has also seen me finally able to begin to let go of my latest disastrous attempt at a relationship. Now, I'm not claiming to be completely rid of the ghosts of it - They still hang about in the corners of my mind like dusty old cobwebs. There are things about this person, and our interaction, that I still miss greatly: when I hear certain songs, or want to share certain stories with him, or text him during the day just to say hi, etc. The many long, late-night hours that we spent talking seemed at the time to imply some sense of true camaraderie and emotional connection.

 However, as I recover from my latest disappointment, I also come to the realization that I take everything far too seriously when it comes to dating. I see "emotional connections" and "romance" only because I want to see them, and the majority of disappointments that I feel are caused by my own unrealistic expectations. As my ex boyfriend-turned-best-friend-in-the-whole-world, GVS, often reminds me, men will engage in any sort of dialogue, or adopt any type of flowery rhetoric, in order to get it in. A lot of what I have perceived in the past as "romance" has been nothing more than calculated, goal-oriented dialogue that I have not been able to properly decipher from behind the extreme rose tint of the glasses that I don when I consider the intricacies of human interaction.

 I don't even feel angry about this fact, anymore. I realize that, for the most part, the need to penetrate vaginas is such a strong, primordial urge in heterosexual men that they themselves don't even realize the lengths to which they will go, or the ridiculous yarns and fables they will spin, simply to achieve that precious moment of penetration. I used to think, bitterly, "But he said he LOVED me! We were planning a trip! We talked all the time about going to [insert exotic destination here]! He used to call me his little [insert nauseating name here]. He LIED TO ME!"  I know now that, in 99% of situations, things like this weren't said with the explicit intention to deceive. It's really just that, in the incredibly basic and predictable wiring of the male brain lies a surprisingly-agile mechanism that immediately assesses and responds to the style of conversation that is most likely to lead to the final, coveted prize.

Now that I know this, the whole thing is laughable. I have basically expected far too much from creatures incapable of providing it. You can't very well hand a monkey a copy of "Twelfth Night", then get upset when he fails to recognize the subtle nuances of the dialogue, and instead merely flings some shit in your direction.

The Days That Are No More (repost with edit)

 I had initially deleted this post, because I wasn't thrilled with the quality of the writing and found the subject matter totally pathetic. I didn't think anyone would notice, but good old David, my only fan, did. In the absence of something else to say, and with the intention of keeping up with this practice, I resubmit it. Besides, who really gives a shit if the writing sucks? This whole thing is supposed to be for me, anyway.

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' Dear as remember'd kisses after death,

And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feign'd

On lips that are for others; deep as love,

Deep as first love, and wild with all regret;

O Death in Life, the days that are no more!'

                                        - Tennyson, from "Tears, Idle Tears" (excerpt from "The Princess")

 The above quote is from my favourite Tennyson poem. I think about this excerpt a lot and it often rattles around in my mind. I seem to be perpetually-haunted by "the good old days". 

I don't really understand half of what is going on with me these days, but I can say for certain that most of it is not good. As my readership ((all two of you)) are well aware, unfounded and inexplicable gloominess is nothing new for me. Most of the time, I can wear it with pride, like a tattered yet noble old coat, covered in faded patches that once were bright. It is only rarely that I actually become frightened by my emotions. In the past two weeks or so, this seems to be the case. More and more, I've been feeling that there is little in the way of relief from the sadness I feel, aside from the blessed escape that is sleep and my vivid dreams. Not only that, I feel so terribly lonely, so isolated, that I don't even know who I am anymore.

Let it not be assumed that I do not have friends and family around me. My isolation is of my own volition. People still invite me to do things, from time to time, but I rarely follow up. Sometimes, I will make plans and just not show up at all. By doing this, and by making little effort to arrange any activities, my isolation only feeds into itself, a snake biting its own tail.  I know that I need to get out of the house in order to break the cycle, and I attempt to make plans and set small goals with the intention of finding some sense of purpose.. but I always feel so exhausted by the end of the day, from having to "put on the hat and do the dance", as my friend Kevin likes to call it. My occupation is inherently-social in nature. I answer phone calls all day in a chipper-yet-calming voice, I take messages with the gentle acquiescence of a secretarial robot, I type obituary notices and print death certificates like one possessed. Then I go home and just collapse.

A long time ago, I had a fantastic social life. In the halcyon years of 2006-08, I was seemingly never without something to do. I think back on those years now as an endless ticker tape parade of theme parties, BBQ's, camping trips, beach days. Think of it: Me. At the beach. IN A SWIM SUIT. I went to the gym all the time, in those days. I used to joke that I was "in training to party", to look fantastic at every event.  I even sheepishly admit that, in order to look my best in the sun in the summer of 2007, I tanned in a tanning bed to achieve a golden glow. 

My social circle in those years was broad and consisted of a collection of about five different couples. We were all young, beautiful, fearless. We arrived at parties and bars, fashionably late, in ironic, aggressive fashion that we pieced together from our Saturday afternoon trips to thrift stores. I myself was the unofficial party photographer of the group. Inspired by the decadent, hipster fashion exposes of The Cobrasnake, I would roll up to parties in my neon Nike Dunks, capturing with perfect poignancy the many moments of hilarity, of glittering indulgence, of youth.

 My boyfriend at the time, Morgan, a gangly, bespectacled lad with a wry sense of humor and a penchant for parties, would take over the stereo, and everyone would dance far into the night. We were the couple everyone wanted at their parties, the couple whose house everyone always wanted to visit. We were fun. We were hilarious. We were young and perfect. Nothing was ever wrong, in those days. We simply didn't believe in sadness.

When I think back to those days, to the Stef I was, I don't recognize myself anymore.

Urning a Living

Most folks who know me in the 'real world' already know that I work at a funeral home. It is indeed a shame that the dictates of personal privacy and general good taste prevent me from relaying the details of daily events, there - in just over two years, I have amassed a collection of personal tales from work, ranging in themes from the bizarre to the hilarious to the heartbreaking to the darkest of dark. I keep all of these little gems close to me, hoping that perhaps one day, I'll be able to publish a book. I often joke that I am writing my own t.v. pilot about the place - but honestly, I think it would make for some compelling watching.

One of the more common questions I get, when I mention where I work, is something along the lines of, "Do you put the makeup on the dead people??" No, of course I don't. You don't just waltz back there, MAC brushes in hand. "Putting the makeup on the dead people" is just one of the many steps in the process of preparation or embalming, the execution of which requires many years of schooling and certification.

 I am an administrator at the funeral home. Thus, I deal very little with the dead, aside from perhaps helping to move someone surreptitiously from one room to another without anyone in the building seeing, the process of which always seems like a classic English farce to me, with one door opening, while another closes, etc. Usually though, the majority of my day is spent  buried in paperwork, and fielding myriad phone calls, inquiries and general absurdities from the living relatives of the deceased, who consistently prove themselves to be far more frightening and difficult than the folks having a nice long sleep in the cooler.

A comment that I detest hearing from the uninformed regarding my job is, "Oh, a funeral home. That must be so nice and quiet." See above. Yes, dead people are quiet. Living people are not. The office has six phone lines, all of which can be lit up at any point in the day with constant calls from the public with inquiries ranging from service times to general advice to prearranging their own final dispositions; a staff of about twenty people in the building at any given moment and a slough of internal calls coming in all day from our three other affiliate locations on the island, to say nothing of random people who walk in off the street.

I believe the thing that's kept me around the joint for as long as I have - many interpersonal and professional difficulties not withstanding - is the polarity of the place. For someone like me, prone to feeling immensely and profoundly about a lot of things, an environment such as the one in which I work really provides a certain outlet to explore the gamut of human emotions. On any given day, I may witness a full emotional breakdown from a family after  viewing their deceased loved one, only to walk into the directors' office immediately thereafter and find myself in stitches, laughing at a coworker's antics. 

Although it sounds selfish to say this, I must also admit that being around the grief of others all day is in many ways a great relief for someone like myself. In my work world, tears are an everyday occurence, weeping and wailing are expected and encouraged as part of the process of coming to terms with loss. As a sufferer of chronic depression, being around the bereaved provides me with comfort, too. It provides me with the surety that we all suffer some times, and that every day, people are dealing with excruciating heartbreaks and losses.

Recently, I returned the cremated remains of a woman to her elderly father. Usually, I don't perform this function, but if other staff members are busy, or if I just want to, I can do so. In this case, the man in question and I had a definite rapport. I had dealt with him several times over the phone and in person, and my heart ached for his loss.

Secretly, returning cremated remains to families is my favourite part of the job, probably because it is the most raw. There is something unbelievably sacred about the process of handing a small container to someone, that represents what is left of the mortal remains of their husband, wife, parent, child, etc. There are often tears, but I take a special pleasure and privilege in participating in this final rite, and in providing some sense of closure and comfort to our families. 

When I returned this particular urn to the man, he suddenly threw his arms around me and hugged me tightly, as if he could somehow hug his daughter one last time through me. And I hugged him back, even more tightly, and felt a strange energy and warmth exchanged between us, something that I carried with me for the rest of my day. 

Whenever I doubt the existence of love, I simply get up and go to work.

Cracks in the Light

I live in a creepy, Craftsman style home, built in 1913. I've been here for just over three years now, and I do love the aesthetic of the place, with its high ceilings, hardwood floors, brick fireplaces, stained glass accents and gabled porch. 

Across the hall from me lives a girl named Claire. When Claire first moved in, I immediately disliked her. This was mostly because she moved into the biggest and most beautiful suite in the house, a suite that I had always coveted. Since the house was originally built as a single-family home, the suite in question was clearly designed to be the main living area. It is spacious, with a full, functional fireplace, a sliding wooden door that separates the living room from the kitchen, plenty of storage space and a glassed-in porch area. My own small suite, merely an afterthought, was likely the place to which the men would retire for brandy and cigars after dinner.

 When the big suite in the building became available, I did the math and realized with a sinking heart that I couldn't quite afford to live there alone, since the rent was about $200 more dollars per month. It sat empty for some time, until one day, Claire came.

Claire was the kind of girl I knew I could never be. She was pretty, blonde, and fit. She worked at a gym.  She had a thigh gap. She wore a lot of Lululemon clothing. She owned Ikea furniture. She had a handsome boyfriend with manly biceps, who drove a 2013 Ford Explorer with leather seats. Claire was gentle, soft, uncomplicated. She was like the sun coming up. Even her name was perfect: "Claire". "Clarity, light". 

People like Claire have always brought out my insecurities. They represent the person that I should have been, the girl who would have met the approval of my extended family, who would have made my parents even prouder of me than they were.  The sort of person who didn't live in an apartment filled with an assortment of antiques and religious art and taxidermy, who didn't spend the majority of her time alone, watching WWII footage and reading true crime novels. 


One day, just over a year ago, I was home from work, on a "forced hiatus", of which more may be said in the future. As I wandered about my bedroom that April afternoon, I suddenly heard a sound through the paper-thin wall. I knew it was coming from Claire's bedroom -  I had lain awake many nights, listening to the vigorous sounds of her boyfriend's ejaculations, punctuated by Claire's small, bird-like squeaks, through this very wall. The sound I heard on this afternoon was very different. It was guttural, low, half-way between a sob and a scream of pain. It sounded like a wounded animal, struggling in a trap. The sound was ugly. It couldn't be coming from Claire.

My preoccupation with true crime stories dictated my next move. I reasoned that something unpleasant was going on in Claire's apartment. I didn't know what it was, or if she was alone, but if she was being attacked or needed help, I couldn't very well ignore what I was hearing. I had read enough Anne Rule stories. It was always the same: the neighbour "heard something strange", but decided to mind his or her own business. If only said neighbour had knocked on the door, Maryann or Suzy-Jane would still be alive today.

Assuming that there was some sort of attacker in Claire's apartment, I then concluded that I couldn't very well show up at the door with a plate of cookies. I needed some sort of method of defense. I looked about my own apartment for something with which I could defend myself, or Claire, if needed. Knowing that time was of the essence, I found the first thing that looked painful: A six-inch stiletto heel covered in metal spikes.

I crossed the lobby, spiked shoe in hand, and knocked tentatively at the door of Suite No. 1. The screaming sobs suddenly ceased. I stood, breathless, on the doorstep for several moments, listening. Suddenly, the door opened. There stood Claire, but unlike any manifestation of her I'd ever seen before. Her pretty face, streaked with mascara, was swollen and red from crying. She eyed me and the shoe in my hand with total bewilderment and confusion. "I'm so sorry," she sobbed. "I'm being so loud." "I... I just wanted to make sure you were okay..", I answered.

It turned out, after I'd calmed her down, that Claire's life wasn't anything like how I had expected it to be. She told me about her parents, how they had pretty much disowned her, how her father refused to continue to help her pay for her university tuition, how he wouldn't invite her to his wedding to his new wife. I realized then that, even people who represent the archetype of perfection still struggle with insecurity, with rejection. Maybe I didn't have all the things that Claire had. But I did have parents who loved and adored me.

I still get jealous of Claire, from time to time. Just today, as I stood in my living room, I saw her and her boyfriend leaving the house, walking hand in hand up the stairs in the slanting afternoon light. Claire's perfect, size 2 frame was draped in a white sundress. She and the boyfriend paused beside the lilac bushes, giggling. She smiled up at him. They kissed. I quickly looked away, pretended to be incredibly interested in something on the table. 

As I returned to the silence of my bedroom, feeling the familiar knife of loneliness twisting into my chest, I reminded myself of the sound I heard that day through the wall. And I recalled the valuable lesson of that day: That there is always some darkness, even in perfect light, and that we are all screaming in some way, even if it's just on the inside.

Pity Party

I've been trying to make some changes in my life, as of late. In a frantic effort to cope with the depression and loneliness that plague me on an almost daily basis, I've noticed that I've grown entirely too reliant on the warm, fuzzy embrace of red wine in the evenings.

Ahh, wine. My best friend and closest confidante..until the morning, that is. The trouble with this potent nepenthe is that, while it temporarily assuages feelings of emptiness and calms my anxiety, it also creates in me a false sense of self. More precisely, it brings the Shadow Self to the foreground, giving it license to run amok, with a Machiavellian disregard for long-term consequences or the feelings of others.

 Occasionally, when feeling unable to deal with rejection or loss, The Shadow Self has said some terrible things to people who did not deserve it. This twisted version of me seems to think that this is an effective way to communicate, and fails to recognize that unpleasantness, negativity and vitriol will only succeed in driving people further away. In the morning, Stef is left to pick up the pieces of the Shadow's self-aggrandizing pity party, grasping desperately to recall exactly what was said, or why, and attempting to determine if the damage caused is in any way reparable.

After the recent loss of someone who was special to me, I recognized that I need to confront my emotional issues head-on, and without donning the distorted lenses of inebriation in a misguided effort to see the situation clearly. Therefore, I've spent the past week alcohol-free, and trying to practice mindfulness exercises.

 I've noticed that, as I am forced to sit with my unpleasant emotions, my brain seems to have reverted back into the dissociative state that has plagued me at various points in my life, after prolonged periods of distress. I first began to experience this sensation as a teenager. It has been best diagnosed as "depersonalization" - a feeling of being separate from my body, not recognizing or fearing my own voice, looking down at my hands and not feeling connected to them or wondering whose they are, etc. When this first began to happen, it was incredibly frightening. Now, having experienced it several times, I know it well and have figured out how to cope with it.

On top of all of this, I seem to have come down with a head cold forged in the very bowels of Hell. My throat feels like I'm swallowing shards of glass and I hurt everywhere. Yesterday evening, I had to force myself out of bed and to the store in a zombie-like state, so that poor Lola had something to eat for the morning.

Somehow, through all of it, I'm managing to get to work and get the things done that need doing. But, oh! Living alone when you're feeling like this is unequivocally the worst. I'm sure I'm setting the image of the independent, ass-kicking woman back about two hundred years by writing this, but how lovely it would be to have someone around to make me a bowl of soup.

Teen Poetry - Volume II

Still Life II

November 22, 1998

The rain lashes across the pane,

Rattles the fragile frame

With sharp strands of silver.

You stir.

Inside the dim haven of this room,

I lay against your heart,

Feeling the shallow rise and fall

Of your ribs.

There is a storm outside;

There is a whole great world

Beyond the glass.

But rest,

And dream that we will wake again

To summer's drone.

Sleep awhile,

And know that here

Upon this page,

I have hung you like a star.

Short Circuit

So, I've been thinking an awful lot lately about the fact that I think way too much about everything. And I guess that, by pondering that fact, I'm not really helping matters much. I seem to continually find myself stuck in thought loops that can, at times, debilitate me, or at the very least, and depending on the subject matter, alter or dampen my mood. I'm told, time and again, that I "think too much". Specifically, my compulsive analysis has made any recent attempt at forging a meaningful romantic relationship next to impossible. I know, going into things, that I need to not over-think them. The trouble is, I am hardwired this way.

The first panic attack I ever experienced, at the age of about six, was the result of one such compulsive thought loop. I vividly recall sitting on the living room floor, watching tv. ("Happy Days", of course - my favourite show as a young child). As I watched the Fonz strut around near the neon jukebox, in his popped-collar leather jacket, I began to develop a slight headache.

 Now, being the imaginative little imp that I was, I used to always think of the inside of my skull as a control room. My eyes were windows, behind which a tiny little man sat, pushing buttons, pulling levers, and just generally controlling my physical and cognitive functions. Now, when my head started to hurt, I thought about the little man in there. What was he doing in there that was making my head hurt? And, more interestingly, what if HE had a headache too? And if he did, was he sitting at the controls inside my head, rubbing his own head, thinking about the little man in HIS little control room? And what of THAT little man, the little man inside the little man's head? Did HE have a headache too??

Suddenly, the terrifying concept of infinity presented itself for the first time to my child mind, and moreover, hit me with the force of a brick.

 I trust that most humans have, at one point or another, and usually when pondering outer space and the universe, grappled with the discomfort of attempting to wrap their finite and limited intellectual scopes around the sheer terror of "forever", of endless, limitless always. Because we operate within the boundaries of quantifiable space, and because we ourselves have a limit, a terminus and an end, the concept of endlessness will always be unsettling to us. And thus, was six year-old Stef introduced to infinity, and launched into a full-blown attack of anxiety which lasted for several minutes, and well into the end credits of the show.

I know that the quality of my life - and certainly, the quality of my "relationships"  - would be dramatically improved, if only I could turn my brain off for awhile, go with the flow, not wonder and question and assume ad nauseum, and most importantly, not obsessively critique myself and attempt to define what it is was that wasn't "good enough" about me to make my latest beau leave. It seems to me that mostly, what isn't good about me is the way in which I'm always trying to figure that very thing out.

Intellectually, I know all of this. I can see this pattern playing out, as clearly and infinitesimally as the little man within the little man, or the perpetual unfolding of galaxies. For all of this awareness though, I haven't yet figured out how to actually STOP.  How does an inherently-analytical mind stop analyzing itself long enough to get out of its own way? And by even writing this post, am I further exacerbating the problem?

Maybe I should take up Sudoku puzzles. Or maybe a good old-fashioned lobotomy would be just the ticket. 

The World is Too Much with Us - William Wordsworth

The world is too much with us; late and soon,

Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers;—

Little we see in Nature that is ours;

We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!

This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon;

The winds that will be howling at all hours,

And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers;

For this, for everything, we are out of tune;

It moves us not. Great God! I’d rather be

A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn;

So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,

Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;

Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;

Or hear old Triton blow his wreathèd horn.