( Rising from the ashes. )

(This entry was written for therealljidol, Week 7 - One Touch. It is, once again, an entirely true story, and please feel free to comment if you so desire. Also, the meeting between my psychologist and I was documented, word for word, the day after I had that session - I'd written a journal entry about it. But even without that reminder, I could never forget his words. I HAD, in a way, been freed that day, and for the first time in more than a year, I allowed myself to feel again. It hurt, but it helped in a profound manner as well.)

This post has been a long time coming (and it was looking back on a picture from this LJ Idol entry that made me decide to finally post this), and it was a very hard one for me to write, given my current situation. I'd like to note that if I said anything that anyone finds offensive and/or derogatory, I extend my apologies, and would love a discussion on the matter. There will also be work-safe pictures under the cut, as well as thoughts about beauty, the medical profession, weight, and general appearance.

( I want to be beautiful, whatever that means. )

If you read through all of that, I owe you cookies, hugs, and some other reward of your choosing. Seriously, thank you.

( 'Not all of us want that one thing,' he said. 'Some of us just want to love you.' )

(This is my entry for therealljidol, Week Six - Sunrise. Apologies that it is a bit long; there was no way to tell this story without all of these details. As a side note, I should mention that that phone number of my attacker that I had so desperately clung to the night of that party on August 28th, 1999 ended up coming in handy - I found it at the foot of my bed, underneath my covers, a week after the assault. I gave it to the police, and they were able to track down and arrest the person in question. Sadly, there is no happy ending to that story. The person who assaulted me had only been 17 himself, and all charges were dropped.)

I could tell you all the stories you already know - true tales about sickness, rape, tragedy, trauma, death, heartache, and misery. As I have done so many times in the past, I could hide behind my words, creating a pretty landscape via text of what it's like to feel used, betrayed, and manipulated. Or I could stab my words into you, carving out a slice of the truth that is my life, hoping the knife twist pierces in just the right way.

I do have that right, after all; I do have the freedom, the wherewithal, to throw my words up onto the page like dry leaves, hoping one of you will catch one of them as they fall down, hoping one of you will hold onto some glimmer of truth or beauty that I dare scatter about. The hope is always, always that those words mean something. The hope is that no matter what state I'm in, my words have the privilege of continuing on, with or without me.

This past Tuesday, I saw my rheumatologist - who, after taking a brief look at me and my blood work, deemed my illnesses "more progressive than [she'd] like," and that a girl my age should be getting better, not worse. A girl my age. I'm 28. I can't help but smile at that now. Does 28 still make me a "girl"? If so, I will count my blessings on that front before continuing on.

My doctor is putting me on a new combination of medications, some of which have some very powerful side effects. She is not optimistic that I am going to recover, or that some day soon, I will walk around in a healthy, active state. Her hope is that these medications - as well as a referral to yet another hospital in the state for an in-patient rheumatological work-up - will slow the progression of my illnesses, and that one day, I'll be able to take a deep breath again, or can wake up without pain, or can stop passing out. The goal isn't recovery anymore; the goal is survival.

So after an appointment like that on Tuesday, I wasn't feeling thankful for anything. I willed myself not to cry on the car ride home as my husband drove (for I am no longer allowed to drive) and listened to the radio; I willed myself not to scream obscenities as my parents told me to "remain positive" while I made a short visit to their house to reveal the news. As my husband ran out to pick up my new medications, I sat on the floor of my mother's bedroom, and I cursed everything in my head; this broken body, this deteriorating mind, this state of anxiety and panic over a life which no longer seems like mine.

And then, my husband returned. As he greeted me, walked me outside, and helped me into the car, he handed me a bouquet of flowers. "I had to get these for you, too," he said. "I thought they'd make you happy."

And in that moment, I was grateful again. I pushed aside the terror, the doubt, and thought about the things that were helping me survive.

I thought about my husband, who has not once left my side during this ordeal. We've been together since 2003, and married since 2008. Two weeks after our wedding, I became ill, and never recovered. Our whole marriage has been about making me better, and by this point, many partners may have become frustrated and left. Mine has not. His patience, kindness, and unfaltering love give me a reason to wake up in the morning. I am thankful that his heart, somehow, led to mine on that cold November night in 2003, and hasn't left me since.

I thought about my family. I have had issues with my family in the past; there have been hurts and betrayals far too complicated for my simple words in an LJ entry to explain. But deep down, despite the hurt, I know my parents do love me. I know my relatives and in-laws love me. And I know that my 20 year-old brother, who is an amazing person, is going to have a wonderful, giving, caring life, helping others and living every second he has to the fullest extent, as is his way. So I am thankful that in my time of need, my family is really willing to take my hand and say, "OK, what can we do?"

I thought about my friends, both in real life and online. My friends, who have offered love, support, care packages, funny emails, suggestions, relief for my pain, stories to read and photos to share. Sickness reveals who one's true friends really are, and I am beyond lucky that, this year, I have discovered those people. I am thankful for my extended family, around the country (and globe), who have supported me without fail or question. I love you.

I thought about my two cats, Emmy and Ritty, who have literally stayed by my side every single day since the moment they came into my life. Whenever I am ill, they stay near me, and Ritty - the youngest - curls up against my chest or neck, nuzzles me, and purrs until I fall to sleep. They are beautiful, funny, engaging animals. I am thankful that they are part of my everyday existence.

I thought about the things I still can do, and the things I have done. I wrote 76,000 words in 2 weeks for a writing competition, and am 3 chapters away from finishing my third novel. I have been published, and have been featured in poetry readings. I have written academic papers, musicals, poems, plays, and stories. I went to a good college to earn a good undergraduate degree, and started to earn a Masters from one of the best colleges in the country - and at that school, I really discovered my voice as a writer, a voice which has carried me through to today. And I can also still sing - which is my true passion - albeit not as well, and not for as long, as the pressure in my chest is too intense. But I can still do it. Music is everything to me; I came out of the womb singing, and will go into the grave doing the same. I have been so fortunate as to perform lead roles in musicals and operas. I have trained with amazing, professional opera teachers. I have won scholarships and competitions, standing on stage in beautiful gowns, singing with all that I am. And I still can sing, when I get the chance - when my body takes a break and lets the notes fill me up once more. Sure, maybe that singing is just playing Rock Band, or while I'm fixing lunch in my kitchen, but it keeps me alive. I am thankful to have passions, desires, talents, and activities to sustain me.

I've seen the world - sunbathed in Spain, gambled in the Bahamas, walked the streets of Morocco, froze my ass off in Canada. I've caught line drives at third base that have bruised my hand. I've knocked back shots in seedy bars, sang on pianos in even seedier bars, and laughed until I made myself sick in one of the fanciest restaurants in America. I have witnessed, and been a part of, rescue efforts, blood drives, missions to help others live the best lives that they can. I have been part of hope, and in that hope, I have seen humanity.

So I have had a LIFE. And I am thankful for it.

But what am I the most thankful for? The fact that it isn't over. Not yet.

Not yet.

Happy Thanksgiving to you all.


(This is my entry for therealljidol, but it is a free week, meaning that there will be no voting or eliminations for this topic. So this is just something I wanted to share with everyone, because I am grateful for all of you - and not just on one day a year, either.)

The blanket still smelled like him, even 48 hours after his departure. There was a clean, pure, comforting scent threaded within the white weaving, and I picked it up, held it to my face several times, inhaled over and over again. Finally, having finished the inane, useless ritual, I wrapped the blanket around my shoulders, and headed outside.

3:15 in the morning is a beautiful time to step out one's front door. It is silent, ethereal, celestial. The skies seem open, ready for the possibilities, ready for wishes, promises, prayers. And it was with high hopes that I exited my house, cocooned, shrouded in white, hoping that I'd be able to gaze upon the clear, beautiful skies and catch a glimpse of the oncoming Leonid meteor shower.

"Sit in your front yard, and look up to the left," he'd said via a text message, sent from several hundred miles away. "That's the best position from which you'll be able to see it." So I followed his instructions. I went to the front yard and sat down, my body crunching against the fallen pumpkin-hued leaves that littered the ground. I looked up, gazed at the constellations, smiled at Orion, pointed at the Big Dipper like a small girl who'd just discovered its obvious shape for the first time. And I was that girl, for a moment; excited, smiling, full of hope. This was my night. Despite the heaviness in my heart, the self-imposed loneliness, the sickness that I promised wouldn't prevent me from exiting my front door - I knew that I was out there to see, and feel, the show of a lifetime.

"We'll watch it together," I'd said in reply. "You'll see the sky from where you are, and I'll see the exact same sky from where I am. We'll meet at the skies." It seemed like the right thing to say (albeit a bit too "Somewhere Out There" from An American Tail). But it was the wrong thing. I had no right to utter such sentiments, sentiments mired in lyrical romantic notions. But the words had been put out into the universe, truths which I could not retract. Those words, as heavy as the darkness around me - together. We'll meet at the skies. Those words I could not take back. Those words which had the power to change lives.

I looked up, awaiting the show. But suddenly, and before I could see even one meteor fall down from above, the skies above me clouded over. I lost sight of Orion and the Big Dipper. The blackness of the sky, the pure whiteness of the stars, were suddenly covered in thick shades of grey.

So I did what I swore I'd never do. I prayed. I broke down, and I prayed.

"Please," I said, my voice a whisper to the covered skies. "Please, God, let me see them. I have to see them. If I don't, I won't know what to believe any more. I need something beautiful, something pure, in my life." I shivered against the cold, and pulled the blanket around me, holding it so tightly against my body that I felt mummified, constricted, short of breath. "Please let me see at least just one. I need to see, and to believe. It's the only way I'll know for sure that everything I'm feeling in my life makes sense. It's the only way I'll know for certain that I'll be OK."

I heard a short beep then, and turned to my right, where I saw my next-door neighbor - a nurse getting ready to go to the hospital for her shift - get into her car. She waved at me, and I returned the gesture.

"Searching the skies?" she asked.

I nodded. "I need to see the meteors tonight," I said. "I've been waiting."

She smiled at me, an indecipherable expression into which I chose to read nothing. She then waved goodbye, blinded me by the headlights on her car, and took off into a world far away from mine, certainly forgetting the words I'd said to her.

But I kept replaying the words which she'd heard escape my parted, chilled lips. And then I replayed hers. "Searching the skies?" "Searching the skies?" I said them to myself, over and over again. It was more than the skies I was searching, but my heart felt as vast as the space above me. Searching was, indeed, the proper word. But she wouldn't understand why. She wouldn't understand what she was actually watching me doing, trying to coax the universe into giving me what I desperately needed. She wouldn't hear what prayers I was uttering, what wishes I was counting on coming true.

The skies never cleared. At one point, as I kept my naive eyes upwards, a stray cat wandered into the yard, crunched against the leaves, and then took off, startled by the sound. I'd noticed the cat, but the sound it made - the sound which had frightened it - sounded only like defeat, just another departure from my life. The only thing I'd really heard all night that had mattered had been from my neighbor. Everything else was just silence, space, altered time, confused reality.

My phone vibrated as I prepared to go back inside, dismayed, shivering under my white, scented blanket. "I can't see a thing," he said to me in a short text message. "It's too cloudy."

My reply was just as short:

"I guess we missed our chance."


This is my entry for therealljidol, Week Five - Bearing False Witness. I welcome comments of all kinds from everyone, participants or not. Also, as a side note: People always ask me if these entries are true, or if they are parts of the stories meandering around in my head. Answering that, in this case, will alter the entire entry. Therefore, I will let readers believe what they'd like to believe this time. Perhaps this is a truth that only I get to know.

I know this was a topic posted about three days ago, but I wanted to come back in order to discuss it. And after tonight - a night in which tanaearanduril and I discussed the nature of attraction, chemistry, love, unrequited love, and past interactions (and then watched Moulin Rouge and sang along to all of the songs:) - I feel like a response is necessary.

I absolutely believe that romantic chemistry is both instant AND evolving. Biologically, I believe we are programmed to respond to certain people - certain smells, hormones being released, angles of faces, whatever. We search on a deep, innate level for a mate who fills us in a biological manner. Humans may be intelligent (mostly), but we're still animals, and I still think instinct takes over. I do not think romantic chemistry can be helped. Hell, I'll admit to FEELING romantic chemistry for people I shouldn't at times I shouldn't have; it was instantaneous. The feeling was just there. Did I act upon it? No. But could I deny the chemistry? No.

That chemistry does evolve, though, into something deeper once one gets to know a person. I was initially attracted to my husband without question; something clicked within me, and fortunately, clicked within him. It was like being programmed to be together. But HOW that chemistry works evolves. It grows, deepens, has more meaning the more one comes to know a person. And that can be true for married couples, couples in relationships, or even for those who feel unrequited and/or forbidden love - which is the worst time to feel any sort of chemistry, because then you know it cannot be acted upon.

I don't think we should ever deny the urge to LOVE. I just think that we need to keep in mind the way our actions could potentially alter our lives.

In my love life, I have given a few people a second chance. It never worked out. That was probably for the best, as one was an old relationship that was trying to be rekindled, but shouldn't have been, and the other was a relationship that kept me a manic, emotional, sobbing wreck. I am not sure I regret going back to either of those people to give love another chance - both of whom I did love - but I regret the way the situations were handled.

As for the last question - yes, I have fallen in love with someone I didn't particularly desire at first. This person was just a random friend, but came to mean more to me as the days passed. The chemistry was always there, but my level of desire wasn't very high, as I was not focused on being with this person. Over time, however, it grew. That happens, and I could not help it. Such is the nature of love, I believe. There was no way to make that love work out, and while that is sad, it is a beautiful sadness, because for a few fleeting instances, it was pure and heart-stopping and REAL.

I am a person who loves easily, and who loves with all her heart. I cannot change that, even if that is a trait that winds up hurting me frequently. I don't trust easily, no, but I fall in love with people, objects, concepts, songs, stories, words - everything - within the blink of an eye. The more I trust those things - a reliable person, a moving book, a touching song - the more I come to love them. That love can be felt and expressed in myriad ways, but one thing is for sure: If I love you, there will be a point in which I'll tell you, or show you, or in which you'll know it. For love - no matter what that word means to every individual person - is not something to be held inside. It is to be shared, through affection, songs, stories, poems, deep conversations, dances, gazes. It is to be shared, and spoken, and not overlooked.

Perhaps it is corny - and I accept that - but at the end of "Nature Boy" (which is a lovely song), there is one line that sums up this entire post. And that line is "the greatest thing you'll ever learn is just to love, and be loved in return."

Simple words for a complicated notion. We, as humans, try to complicate love. But there's no need. It's just THERE. It's allowing ourselves to give in, to be fed by it, that is part of our humanity.

If only we could give in - could hold hands, cuddle on couches, share song lyrics, look into each other's eyes as friends, lovers, whomever - if only we could give in and say, "yes, I love you," I think a lot of people would feel a sense of relief, and of security. I think our needs as human beings would be met - and the loneliness that takes hold of so many people's lives would dissipate, even slightly, if they just knew that they were, in some capacity, loved exactly as they are.

I sat on the edge of the hospital bed, trembling, trying to recall all of the legal information from the paper the neurologists had just made me sign.

"I don't want to be here," I said, shaking so hard that my teeth chattered, rattling my jaw, altering the fluidity of my speech.

My husband, Toby, and Catie, one of my very best friends, sat only a foot away from me. They both gave me sympathetic smiles. "It's going to be OK," Toby said as one of the neurologists - the one wearing a Batman shirt under his blue scrub top - wheeled a hospital table in front of me, separating me from my husband and friend.

"No," I shook. "Noooo."

"Just think of it like when we got our tattoos," Catie said. "Just think of it like that. It didn't even hurt you then."

I nodded, wanting to be reassured, but then glanced up at the team of neurologists, who were all shaking their heads. This wasn't like getting a tattoo, and they knew it.

This was, instead, a long, thick needle, inserted into my spine. The purpose of the needle wasn't to beautify my back with a new piece of artwork; it was to rule out the causes of my nausea, syncope, exhaustion, and passing out spells. It was to rule out why I couldn't remember words like "pink" and "flower" only an hour after a beautiful, dark-haired nurse had asked me to. It was to rule out all of the diseases that, when told you have them, you have no rational way to accept as fact. They just become empty words, those diseases, random arrangements of letters that serve only to startle others into sending cards and flowers.

Subserviently, I pulled down the back of my Baltimore Orioles PJ pants and held the top of my hospital gown around my midsection. The doctors joked about how shitty the O's had been this season; from my hospital room, I could almost see Camden Yards, where the O's played, and hoped the words hadn't reached the ears of some of my favorite players. It was still September. I hoped, albeit foolishly, that we still had a chance of winning something. I was full of false hope, wanting so much for things to be different from how they really were.

The lead neurologist in the Batman shirt tried to distract me. He told us the neurology unit often wore Batman shirts, as BAT stood for "Brain Attack Team," and that's what they were trying to do - attack sick brains back into normalcy. It was funny, but short-lived, because then, he told me to press my elbows against the table and lean forward. I did so. He told me that if I wanted to hold Toby's or Catie's hand, I could. I didn't. I told them I wouldn't cry.

I cried anyhow.

Not at first. At first, as the numbing injection went in, I flinched. I said "oh, shit." I even giggled, shocked by the piercing, pressure-filled feeling. But then, the needle designed to draw out the spinal fluid went in, and as the doctor fished for the correct spot, I felt a shock go down my leg. It surprised me, and I flinched slightly.

"Don't do that," my Batman doctor said sternly. My eyes filled with tears.

No, I thought to myself. Please don't do that again. PLEASE.

They did it again. And again. Each time, they missed the spot, and couldn't draw out the fluid. Each time, the shock went down my leg, so electric, so alive with its desire to remind me of its presence. I screamed. I sobbed. I said, "please stop. Just please. I can't take it anymore. Please don't do this to me." But they wouldn't stop, not until they had fished around so many times that they had grown frustrated.

"We can't get any fluid, so, we'll just do it under fluoroscope," Batman finally said. "We can't get to the right place. So we'll sedate you, numb you, and do it again."

I sobbed, shook, held my leg. I hadn't showered in three days, because I wasn't allowed to stand by myself, thanks to the seizures. I had worn the same clothes since the day I was admitted at the hospital. My arms and hands were vampire bites of blood sticks, of missed IV attempts. My chest was bruised from a cardiac monitor. I was the ugliest person alive, and now, I couldn't use my leg. And something in me snapped. This was it, and I knew it. I wasn't going to die - not yet, not that day - but I was going to be crippled, disfigured. I was going to leave with a damning diagnosis. And I was ugly now - uglier than I had ever thought I could be. Sickness doesn't make people pretty and dignified like it often does in dramatic movie scenes; there are no soft tears, warmly lit faces, hair that still glows under the fluorescent lighting. There are only bruises, swollen faces, bloody arms, and puncture wounds.

Later on, after Catie had left and Toby had gone down to the cafeteria for dinner, I huddled up in the hospital bed, stared out the window toward Camden Yards, and cried so hard that it shook the little wooden table, situated beside my bed, reminding me that it had tried to support me only hours before, but had failed to do its duty.

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The next afternoon, I was wheeled down to the neurological fluoroscopic unit, sobbing, holding my husband's hand. "Tell me they won't hurt me again," I pleaded to the poor tech who wheeled me through the maze of hallways. "Tell me I'll be able to stop my leg from hurting."

He didn't answer. But back in the unit, when the doctor arrived - a handsome man with calm, dark eyes - he took my hand and said, "I won't hurt you."

"Promise?"

"I promise."

He then wheeled me back into x-ray, where he, along with another, tall doctor, placated me. They promised I'd feel no pain. They documented the previous incident, told me the leg pain would eventually go away, and stroked my dirty hair, telling me that never should have happened, they never should have continued to hurt me the way they did the first time. And only then, once I felt as though I could trust them, they rolled me onto my stomach, and went to work.

I looked up at the x-ray of my spine as the dark-eyed doctor showed me where he was going to stick the needle. He promised again - this time without me asking - that it wouldn't hurt. The tall doctor went over to the computer, slipped in a CD, and immediately, an Irish jig started playing. I laughed as the dark-eyed doctor mumbled that he was "tired of that crap."

And we were under way.

There was pressure, but no pain, as the dark-eyed doctor numbed my back and then stuck the needle into my spine. The tall doctor sat up next to my face, told me jokes, talked about his wife. He asked if I liked being married. He talked about my tattoo. He asked me why my eyes kept changing color as I talked to him. I only cried a little, and when I went to wipe my tears, the tall doctor shook his head.

"Don't," he said. "You're OK. You're beautiful." And he stroked my hair again.

Nine tubes of Cerebrospinal fluid later, I was rolled onto my back, and told not to move for at least two hours. Both doctors started marking up the tubes as I rested. I listened to them chatting casually, mocking the music that the dark-eyed doctor had objected to from the start. And I realized that no matter how sick I was, no matter how dirty and scarred-up and bruised and swollen, there were still going to be moments that made me smile. And I did smile. I listened to their banter, and I smiled.

"Now, was that so bad this time?" the dark-eyed doctor asked, walking over to take my hand one last time. I shook my head - it hadn't been.

In a way, it had been beautiful.




(This is my entry for Week Four of therealljidol. There were five topics from which to choose this week, and I chose this one - moments of devastating beauty. I wanted to talk about how sickness and pain don't make everything ugly, because at this point in my life, that is so very important to remember. However, I should also point out that I still have nerve damage in my left leg that has not gone away - two months later - thanks to that first botched tap. That is certainly not beautiful - it is just devastating. But I am learning to deal with that, as well as my medical conditions, through physical therapy and the amazing support of my friends and family, both in real life and online.)

"Mike," I said. "You don't have to worry. I will take exceptional care of your watch until you come back to town the next time to retrieve it. Promise."

I didn't hear the groan on the other end of the phone line, but I imagined it was there, and I hung up, giggling.

My husband I were preparing to leave for an eight-day vacation to the Outer Banks in North Carolina, but the day before - the day I'd spoken to my dear friend Mike - we were at a party in Pennsylvania, where Mike had accidentally left his wristwatch before heading back to his hometown several hours away. As his closest female friend, Mike had decided that I should be in charge of safeguarding his oh-so-special property, and as a caring friend, I accepted. But that was when the plan formed, and my mind twisted in fun ways usually reserved for either the young or the insane.

"The watch," I announced to the fifteen party-goers, "will be going on an adventure." I strapped it onto my wrist and added, "it's about to go on an eight-day trip to the Outer Banks. It's being kidnapped, and the only way Mike will know about it is via all of the pictures I will send to him, chronicling the many adventures of his watch."

The group of our friends smiled, laughed, and one even yelled "hell yeah!" That was all the encouragement I needed.

Mike's watch had an enjoyable trip to the Outer Banks. It sat on the red and blue striped line at the ever-popular gas station and eatery known as the Border Station, which is famous for being located directly on the border between Virginia and North Carolina (thus proving one can be in two places at one time - or, at the very least, one watch can). It sat on the beach, looking over the waves with a watchful eye. It posed with waiters at expensive restaurants and ice-cream vendors at sound-side stands. And most importantly, it was the witness of a horrific crime scene:





Now, if I was bleeding ketchup from my busted jaw, I'm not so sure I'd 1)be smiling myself, or 2)be pleased about all of those smiling asses and a wristwatch nearby to note the time of the event. But the smiley-faced witnesses were there, the honest passersby of a mindless crime, and the watch was there as well, letting us know that the crime was executed at 12:33 pm on July 19th, 2009.

Smiley fries, I'm sorry for your loss. I hope that these past few months have given you ample time to grieve.

And Mike, your watch has never been more important, and I'm glad we had it with us on that day.

So sorry that ended up dying, too.


This was my entry for week three of therealljidol, with the topic of Smile. Hope you enjoyed it. I must say, it was a nice reprieve from the 9,606 words I've written for NaNo during the past two days, which are, well, not quite as amusing (and do not involve smiley fries).

If you liked my second LJ Idol entry, regarding my heartbreaking trip to Colorado and a very brave girl I met on an airplane, and feel that it's worthy of a vote to keep me in the competition... please go here, scroll down to the second tribe, and vote for me! I'm listed under my username, as always.

Thanks in advance to anyone who votes to keep me in the competition! I really appreciate it, and love that I have the chance to do both this AND NaNo this year.

Speaking of... NaNo kicks off in just about 26 hours. I've said it a hundred times before, and I'll say it again - bring it, November!

"Honestly, darling," I said, haphazardly throwing clothing into the cardboard banana boxes we'd begged for from Food Lion, "if my husband slept with three hookers and two nursing students in my bed while I was in a different state, I'm not sure I'd be able to forgive him. Or move in with him. Just sayin'."

She looked at me, shrugged, twisted her mouth into an expression of disdain. "Well quit saying, and just keep packing," she replied. "He expects us in Colorado in two days. And God, I hope my clothes don't end up smelling like bananas."

Hours later, we hurriedly loaded her Ford Escape, armed ourselves with travel mugs of coffee, three boxes of chocolate chip granola bars, and the heaviest, most cacophonous music we could find, and took off on the 1674 mile trip from Westminster, Maryland to Denver, Colorado.

It wasn't until we neared Colorado that I felt the pressure in my chest. As the car climbed, moving inch by inch into the state, I grew lightheaded. Inch by inch, I guzzled water and Gatorade, hoping the feeling would pass. Inch by inch, as we ascended, I realized that my already-ill body couldn't handle the drastic altitude change. I was losing precious air, and I knew that if we didn't call for an ambulance so that I could receive some oxygen right then, I was going to stop breathing.

But the uphill battle wasn't really mine. It was hers. As I gasped and choked, she cried silently, and I knew she was contemplating all the words she'd say to her new husband - a doctor who had been assigned to his residency in Colorado several months following their Maryland marriage. She sobbed for his indiscretions, for her hatred of herself. She cried, knowing that the only friend she had in the world was me, which was why I was taking the journey to her new life with her - and I'd told her a day earlier that her new life wasn't worth living. So I kept my mouth shut, gasped for air every few seconds, and opened the window, hoping the fresh air would help. It didn't, so I kicked off my flip-flops, stuck my bare feet out the window, and settled in for another few hours of ascending pain.

Those few hours turned into days. The emotional pain between my friend and her husband was tangible; though my guest room, in which I spent most of the "vacation" sleeping, was on the other side of the house, I could hear them both sobbing on and off throughout the days and nights. Her piercing cries, followed by the sounds of their desperate love-making, made me gasp even harder for air. But the physical pain I felt from the altitude remained my secret, as I had no desire to burden an already-burdened couple with a problem that would go away once I reached the safety of sea level once again.

When it was time for me to fly home, I was beyond relieved. Though I knew I'd miss my friend, I needed to be free from both her relentless emotional turmoil and the deep pressure that the lack of oxygen was creating within me. We hugged a sad, long goodbye at the airport in Denver, and I boarded the plane, relieved that I'd be home in just a few short hours. I directed the air jet, located above my seat on the plane, directly onto my face, and closed my eyes, anxious to be able to breathe in short time.

But my seat-mate - a young girl in her late teens - accidentally clutched my arm the moment she sat down. I flinched, startled by the action. "Oh," she said, her voice full of tears, "I'm so sorry. I hate flying. I hate how high we go up, you know? Like you can't breathe that high. Like you're going to die."

The words tightened my lungs, but I'd been a caretaker for several days already, and it had sustained me. I could play the role for several hours more. So, jokingly, I kicked off my flip-flops, reclined back in my seat, and smiled. "Come on," I said, taking the young girl's hand. "This is nothing. Just think of it as a short, direct car ride to Maryland. There's nothing to worry about here. Look." I took a deep, painful inhale, my lungs tightening in my chest with the action. But I kept smiling, let out a big exhale, and said, "see? Just fine. You do it now." The girl mimicked my actions, and within an hour, she, too, had kicked off her shoes, and we were chatting lightly about the shitty in-flight movie.

We descended safely, full of breath (and hot air) in Maryland, and as we started to exit the plane, the young girl turned to me and gave me a brief hug. "Thank you for distracting me," she said. "I needed it."

"I know," I said. "It's not a problem. I knew you were worried about not being able to breathe up there."

"That's not it," she said. "I go to college in Colorado. I'm used to the thin air. But the thing is - the thing is, I'm in Maryland for my mother's funeral. She died yesterday morning. I've been unable to take a deep breath ever since I heard the news. So thanks for talking me down." Then, she smiled at me one last time, bowed her head, and left the plane.

It wasn't until I entered the terminal that I realized I'd left my flip-flops on the plane. I wondered if the girl had done the same thing, had left her shoes behind upon my suggestion that we take them off, that we relax as we ascended into the sky.

Back on the Maryland soil, I still couldn't take a deep breath. I still gasped, still sputtered, desperate for something fresh and pure to fill me. But this time, the gasping was for my friend and her broken marriage, as well as for the young girl and the death of her mother. Their climbs into strife, into turmoil, into depression, had involved me. But with the exception of my lost flip-flops, I'd honestly lost nothing - not even the air in my lungs that I'd so foolishly worried about during the entire ascent into a new sense of how good my life actually was.


(This is my second entry for therealljidol. And I'm submitting it 3 minutes before my birthday, while I'm still young enough to remember the details, haha...;)

My mother came into the kitchen, flushed from the early evening tennis game, to find me squirming and struggling in the man's arms. Our eyes met; her blue washed over my green with a knowing look. I've been where you've been, she silently said to me.

Then she turned around and walked right back out, and left me to my demise.

The evening tennis games stopped, but my parent's friendship with the man and his wife continued, albeit hesitantly. I made up excuses to avoid being around anyone but my peers; there was homework to do, 10th grade play rehearsals to attend, friends who desperately needed my sage 15 year-old advice as they floated through an innocent world I'd somehow lost weeks ago. But once my parents left the house, I'd heave my body into the bathroom to vomit. I'd take my clothes off to stare at the body he had stared at. I'd run my fingers over the scar on my thigh. I'd wonder what he saw in my adolescence that had made me so seemingly irresistible.

I can't help it, he'd said. I shouldn't, but I really like you. You did this; your singing, your piano playing, your poetry. You wanted me to hear your voice, your words. So now, you can't say them. Don't tell my wife; if you tell my wife, I'll lose my job. I'll lose her love. I want you, but I can't lose, either. If you tell, both you and I lose everything.

I'll kill myself, and take you down with me.

Eight years passed, but the scar on my thigh remained. I hadn't sheltered my body from the gazes of other men during those years; instead, I turned it toward them, brazenly, offering what had already been taken, allowing them to see the scar as they went in for what they'd come after. He'd been right, all those years ago; there was no way to lose. I was already gone.

My mother came to visit me in my apartment in Frederick, a little basement abode in which I studied for college exams, watched movies with my boyfriend, and stayed up all night online so that I'd have a plausible excuse to avoid sleep. When she arrived, she brought a vacuum cleaner with her. "You don't have one," she said, lugging the huge contraption through the peeling white door. "And you need to vacuum. Come on. We'll go to dinner, and then, when we come back, we'll put this thing together."

We went to Chipotle, ordered burritos and nachos and sodas, chatting and smiling like the mother-daughter pair I desperately wanted us to be. But inside, I seethed. Eight years had done nothing to help me forget that she'd seen my destruction and had walked out - and had kept it a secret since then, held it against her heart as though she owned it. But it was my tragedy. I wanted it back.

"I'm seeing a therapist," I said, keeping my tone light as I spoke in between burrito bites. "He's pretty cool. He looks like Captain Picard from Star Trek."

"Who?"

"Never mind. Anyhow, just thought you'd want to know."

"What do you talk about?" my mother asked. "Besides me, of course."

"What?"

"Daughters always talk about their mothers. I know how it works. I did something wrong, so you hate me for it. You know, mothers don't GET therapists. We don't work that way. We just know our daughters are going to grow up and bitch about us, so we accept it. It's part of having a daughter. You'll see."

"I talk about, you know." I paused, setting the food down. "What happened that summer. You know, it happened four different times."

"I don't know anything about what happened," she said. "Just that he was too old for you, and he was married. I know-"

"-nothing!" I interrupted. "You know nothing, except for what you saw. And really, Mom, shouldn't that have been enough? Shouldn't you seeing IT have been enough? What else DID you need to know? That he said he loved me? That he left a scar on my thigh?"

"But I..."

"Never mind," I said. I took a sip of my root beer. Flat. I stood up to go dump it, to try again, and as I did so, she grabbed my wrist.

"I love you," she said. "I'm your mother. I've always been here for you. I bought your books for college this semester. I took you to dinner. I bought you a vacuum. Who else would buy you a vacuum but your mother? So honestly, Mandi. Can't you just let it go already?"

It was too late, though. There was no letting it go. She couldn't clean up what had already been dirtied, so many years ago.

I was born a cat.

Pointy ears (corrected by surgery, mind you!), desire to sleep when it suits me, independent one day and fiercely cuddly the next - and, above all, with nine lives. I'm currently on life number seven. I hope this life, and the next two, turn out to be slightly better than the first six have been - especially since the first six ended by drug and alcohol use, septicemia, nearly being hit by a train, falling down stairs, and two brutal attacks better saved for other days and more serious conversations.

I was supposed to be born on October 5th, 1981. I held on until October 27th. I'm sure I did this for three distinct reasons: One, I knew Halloween was going to make all of my birthday parties extremely entertaining thanks to the addition of costumes and disgustingly sweet candy corn; two, I am the very definition of a Scorpio, convincing even those who roll their eyes at astrology that maybe, just maybe, there's a hint of truth to it; and three, it was warm and safe in the womb. Really, who wanted to come out of there? I've polled people on this, but they say they don't remember. They just, as Harry Chapin sang, came into the word in the usual way. I swear I remember holding on, kicking and mewing and probably cursing until they forced me out. No wonder my mother dislikes me to this day.

In my lives, I have been myriad things and people:
-A professionally trained opera singer, who starred in shows, won opera competitions, and sang notes so high that I used to stun my professors and teachers;
-A college graduate with a degree in English, several publications under my belt, and a short stint in the journalism industry, where employees desensitize themselves to car crashes and murders and suicide in order to keep showing up the next day to make their poverty-level wages;
-A teacher in both the public and private sectors. I taught British Literature and American Literature in public schools, and the SAT and GRE for a private company. Both were - entertaining, at best, and bureaucratic, at worst;
-A wife (of one year), a sister (of 21 years), a daughter, a mother to two adorable kittens, a friend, a betrayer, a girlfriend, an asshole, a student, a model, a lover, a performer, a cheater, a manipulator, an enigma, and a giver of myself to my fullest means and abilities.

But here's the rub: I cannot, and will not, define myself by what I USED to do, and by who I used to be. I am chronically ill now, and the prognosis is not positive. I will not die tomorrow, but the likelihood that I will ever sing on a stage, or work as a newspaper editor, or teach in a classroom again is very unlikely. There's good and bad in this; I've never known myself more in my entire life than I do now, but at the same time, I've never known myself more in my entire life than I do now. When I stopped operating behind the societal facade, I learned a lot. I let myself know the things that make me who I am, and in fact, am still learning those thing.

So in this life, life number seven, I am the following:
-A writer, who must put words on the page lest she allow her mind and fingers to break from lack of use (and who is working on two novels, a short story, and a rock opera);
-A singer, who has lost some technical ability, but who still gives into music with her entire heart and soul (and who can still rock the house when the moment is right);
-A student of everything life still has to teach and offer;
-A survivor and victim both - an amalgamation of strength and weakness, creative force and destruction, a person both obvious and mysterious. I suffer from Undifferentiated SLE (Lupus) Connective Tissue Disease, Poly-arthritis, Chronic Syncopal Episode/seizure disorder, Fibromyalgia, Chronic Fatigue Immune Dysfunction Syndrome, Hashimoto's disease (chronic lymphocytic thyroiditis), endometriosis and ovarian cysts, and possibly PCOS. I also enjoy a touch of depression and PTSD from some childhood trauma, but hey, I take a lesson from Nietzsche here: What does not destroy me, makes me stronger. Of course, he had his own physical problems and kind of went a bit insane, too, but that's beside the point;
-An abuser of parentheses. Nothing will break me of this habit (nothing, I tell you).

I look forward to getting to know the other contestants, making some new friends, and reading some amusing, heartfelt, and (insert your favorite adjective here) entries.

Best wishes from an LJI virgin,
Mandi

I signed up yesterday to participate in therealljidol this year (for my very first time), and since then, a lot of people have popped by to add me to their friends list. So, hi, newcomers, and welcome. Never mind the insanity here; it happens.

I'm keeping this entry unlocked for this disclaimer:

For other future friend-ers: If you wouldn't mind just leaving me a comment so I know who you are and where you found me (though again, during this season, I'm assuming it's from LJI), I'd appreciate it. My journal is locked because of some past incidents regarding security, and since I can no longer write by hand very much, I (insert obligatory eye roll here) take the privacy of this space semi-seriously. So just let me know who you are and where you found me, and we're good to go!

Looking forward to this upcoming season of LJI, and good luck to everyone. Between this and NaNo, I suppose I won't be parting from my laptop very much during the month of November (and hopefully longer, depending on how LJI goes), but I love my laptop, and have separation anxiety when she and I cannot spend time together, so all is well.

...I'll be doing LJ Idol Season Six this year, too. I'm a newbie to this competition, and know very little about it, but I'm very excited to have yet another reason to write!

So this is my official notice that I'm doing yet another writing competition. Myriad writing contests are to me now what singing competitions were to me in high school/college - the more, the merrier. No time to think about it, no room to breathe. Don't stop believin', eh?

For info on what LJ Idol is, go here. Feel free to join up, share in the madness, or at least stop by and vote on some entries that I write, if you think they are awesome. I'll keep you all updated as the contest progresses.

w00t to writing!

I am not particularly happy about this decision, but due to some recent events, I've decided to make my journal friends-only from this point on.

Obviously, if I've already friended you, this doesn't matter a bit (unless you aren't logged in, of course).

If you've been following my journal but aren't on my friends list, please comment below and I will add you so that you may see my entries. However, if you do not have an account, this post is the only one you'll be able to see unless you create an account.

Thanks for the understanding, everyone. I'm not thrilled with this, but this is the way things have to be.