Away wi’ ye!

In just over 24 hours, I will be tripping with my Cakes. We’re getting right-the-fuck-out of the city for a few days. Trepidation/glee sandwich, side of adventure, please.



Photos. A life.

I’ve always been pretty bad about taking pictures.

I feel ridiculous in them. (This post is so close to my truth that I did that snortle-sob thing you do when a dagger-stab of recognition takes you unawares on the train during rush hour.) I used to own a Pentax K-1000, the beginner’s tool back in the day. Bought it secondhand at a pawnshop, with a 1970’s-era paisley velvet strap that absolutely reeked of chain-smoking and failed dreams. Or maybe amateur porn. Anyway. In high school, I took a class. I was really good at architectural shots.

Travel, friendships, milestones. I’m the one hovering on the edge of the snaps, or better, behind the camera. I used to tell myself that I would just remember all the important things, that I could keep them just as well in my mind’s eye.

Maybe it’s age and the fear of memory loss, or finally feeling like I have something to chronicle, or the hope that setting things down in tangible, visible form will lock them down In Real Life, but I suddenly want to document everything.

I keep trying to come back to blogging, but I just haven’t really felt it. Maybe that urge will come back; maybe it won’t. Maybe I’ll turn to photos.

I have a few now, tucked into books, edging mirrors, pressed in frames. I’m surprised by how much they please me. But toting a camera around to steal “moments” feels vain. Somehow, the explosion of self-scrutiny online made me more self conscious of it rather than less. But there are things I wish to keep and share and review.

Hum. And still, no me here.

In other news, I am 34.

For the record, I had the most fantastic birthday, brought to me by the letters B and F, who cleverly drew all of my local beloveds into a karaoke spectacular. I had a head cold which dampened my extremely limited talents further, natch, and a metric fuckton of fun.

Is this real life? I hope so.

Back in therapy, as promised.

For some people, therapy is an admission of weakness, an inability to manage your issues on your own. For others, it’s a lifeline when you can’t manage whatever tom fuckery life has painted you with. For me, it feels like personal, emotional homework.

I pretty much always need this homework. I’ve gotten to a stage now where I recognize many of my neuroses, patterns, and blind spots, but I can’t always navigate my way through them without fresh eyes.

As I sank into my new shrink’s sofa last week, we opened with the ol’ “What brings you in today?” and I spent the next 60 minutes (thanks to insurance, just $0.50 per!) bobbing between my family and my relationship. As it happens, I think a good deal about both, I spend an inordinate amount of time considering my place in each, and I bean plate the fuck out of what I am rationally allowed to ask of the people I care for and what I am owed, if anything, in return.

“So, you clearly think very carefully about these interactions, and you are very aware and really quite judgmental about your own emotions and reactions. I can see how it would almost be harder, being aware of these responses and your inability to manage them, than for someone ignorant of their motivations,” she said, when she got a word in edgewise. “I think this will be a good space for you to actually get some affirmation that what you’re perceiving and feeling is in fact legitimate.”

I don’t know. I often live in “should,” not in “is.” I don’t know how people get by moving from moment to moment without analyzing the shit out of all potential outcomes. I really don’t.

I’m looking forward to tomorrow’s session. Aside from the above, I’ll be adding “pathologically manipulative colleague” to the “what’s fucking with me right now” crazy list. I just want to get through this week with the quiet little trappings of my life intact.

I awoke last Saturday morning, looked over at my sleeping love, grinned stupidly, then fell asleep again with that choice “Elf” quote looping through my brain. Later that morning, awake again, I looked over, and he was still there. More stupid smiling on my part.

I’m a superstitious, nervous woman. I’d blog every detail of my happiness, but I don’t think he’d appreciate the exposure, and quite honestly, though I know it’s silly, I fear that exposing my luck so to the attention of the universe would destroy it, somehow. Like as soon as I admit how happy I am, someone or something will come along and snatch the happiness away.

Yeah, I’m going back into therapy. I’d like to keep the smiling, you know?