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The Skeleton Friend
February 2010
Rachel CJ.
Monday, February 22nd, 2010 11:24 pm

I have been thinking about why I am so afraid of moving forward.  I have been thinking about why I am procrastinating, often moving in reverse, the goals I tote all the time.  The dreams I spend hours dreaming.  The ideals I label future-self with, labels obtainable but so far away.  I have wondered about what's stopping me; what am I so afraid of?  In the past week, I have had serious downs; breaking down in front of new friends, fearing the need to say goodbye to old ones, my mother yelling at me when I've already been sent home sick.  Everything's just been shit, and I am certain it's self-inflicted.  I am certain that if I opened up and just let myself be happy, it wouldn't happen anymore.  But, I know that things down miraculously change for the better.  One day the tide doesn't just turn and everything is alright.  And the people around me know that too, though some of them are clearly in denial.  It takes time, it takes effort, it takes motivation.  And even still you fall, even still you relapse and question and wonder and you think hard about taking a drink, or shooting up, or doing nothing but lie in bed and eat.  It's going to happen no matter what you do.  More than once, differently people have told me "you're going to fail.  Just accept it, because it is going to happen."  I have argued that sometimes you have to succeed.  And that's true.  And by failing and learning, usually you can.  But if you never even try, you've never given yourself the chance.  Now, I don't want to fail.  Me?  This one time I'd like to win.  And people keep coming back at me with that line.  All I can think is they don't believe I can win.  And I am starting to think I agree. I realize I am going to fall down every once in a while, but I haven't accepted that I might actually stand strong.
My argument for putting it off has been this: I am searching for the things and the people who are going to make me strong, so that when relapse comes, I don't completely crumble.  And yet I have still fallen, and I have still crumbled, and I have still not moved forward.  There has to be more to it than my lack of support group--a group to which I am incessantly blind.  I keep telling myself I am trying, but clearly I am doing very little of that.  I am doing very little of anything.
Today, sick, as I have actually been, I laid in bed and read all day.  Patricia Cornwell, murder mysteries; I know.  Don't look so imperious, they are entertaining and don't require much thought.  I am sure I read them for the same reasons other women divulge in romance.  I also read them, because it reminds me of the things I want to do.  Of course I realize life isn't like a novel, the characters never quite do what they are seemingly supposed to, plots never really work out the way they seemingly should, but nevertheless, the idea is along the same lines and I have a forum by which to imagine myself taking part in the game.  And, as I was doing just that, all day long today with Body of Evidence, I thought about the life I wanted and realized something: if I get into the navy, if I become a Master of Arms; once I am out of boot camp and past A-School, I am a badge carrying, gun toting equivalent of a street cop.  I could literally be there, doing that, in less than a year.  My bother has do to more than that to actually become a cop, and I could do it in as little as a year.  I could actually be somewhere close to who I've imagined being at thirty in a year's time.  I could be literally a step closer, in school on my off-time, working fifty hours a week building life experience the FBI just loves.  It's literally right in front of me, so close I could nearly grab it with the tips of my fingers.  And yet, I stand still.  I stand back, get fatter, get sadder, and let it slip away?  What am I so afraid of?!  Everything I have ever dreamed of is literally right in front of my fucking nose!  What is holding me back?
I tried the move-away, grow-up, be-independent thing, and it went miserably wrong.  I've tried it twice, and both times I hurried home to my mother's house, to Oklahoma, to a death sentence in my personal opinion.  I've curled up in my mother's spare twin bed, curled up into my youth and clung on to the support of the familiar to comfort my bruised ego and battered self-esteem.  I've hidden away from problems and ignored phone calls.  I've just closed off.  And all that time, I dreamed up in my mind all of the great things I would do, a few years from now.  And the age I would be when I did them has increased with my own, as the belief that I could ever accomplish them slowly receded.  
Somehow, I have found the easiest way to get what I want, somehow that was the conclusion I came to.  For years before, with all of my running and all of my hiding, I would scheme little ideas to get what I wanted; little ideas that turned out to be complicated and difficult.  I touted my favorite saying to tout, "Hard work is everything; without it nothing means anything."  And I would plot my little plots, never playing a single one out.  And, on my last straw, on my last leg, I came up with a new one.  An obtainable one.  One that will actually do it, and do it fast.  All I had to do is lose weight, and I think I knew I could stop myself.  But, I have found out it is harder to hide if I did.  It's easy to lie about bills and debt and jobs and money.  It's hard to lie about pounds and sizes and muscle mass.  I have stopped myself, and everyone can see it, and I have nothing to blame because they know it would come off if I ran every day, they know the asthma would settle if I ran every day, they know I would moving forward if I ran everyday.  I tell myself it's their knowing that stops me from doing things that I know are good for me.  I hate how they know.  And I hate how they look at me when I've done something they think I should.  Especially if they've told me, and told me, and told me to do it.  The look on their faces, it drives me nuts, I can't take it.  I don't want to fucking do anything for them, so I don't do anything.  I use this excuse, and I guess if that's the reason, I need to learn to not care.  Fuck them, I should tell myself, I know better; I know who I did it for.  I don't tell myself, that, however.  And I continue to use that feeling as an excuse.
But it isn't an excuse, and it isn't the excuse.  Never before in my life have a realize how close to success I actually was.  I have always been able to talk myself out of it, always been able to stop myself from happiness, always been able to quit my dreams while still dreaming them.  It's super fucked up, I know, but it is my cycle, and it's one I'm realizing is coming to an end.
Kirstie, a member of that group I can't seem to convince myself I have, may possibly be signing with a publisher.  She's two years younger than me and I am sickeningly envious.  But, what have I done to be where she is?  Nothing.  She writes, probably every day if she can help it.  I talk myself out of writing because I don't "feel like it," even though I know if I would just sit down and do it, I'd "feel" better.  I would, writing lifts my spirits.  That's why I truly believe it's the only thing I was ever really meant to do, and I put it off like geometry homework.  I realize, looking at Kirstie, that if I would do what she does, I probably would be closer to it than I am right now.  But, publishing isn't the only thing I want to do anymore.  I have thought about it, and just laying around writing all day isn't what is going to make me happy.  Not that I can tell.  I need movement, I need motivation, I need something everyday to keep me going, something to write about.
Yes, I could already be there, I am starting to get that.  But if it isn't yet for me, than I can't quite argue with that.
What is yet for me, as I am quickly realizing, is to break my cycle and move fucking forward.  I am not going to get away with putting it off anymore.  I am not going to get away with excusing and blame.  And I am not going to get away with rolling over and hiding.  I don't want people to look at me with "I told you so"s, or worse, that look they get when I've done something good.  But, I don't have to care about that.  I don't have to listen to "thank yous" and I don't have to be bothered by looks I am probably imagining.  I don't know what was done to me to make me feel this way, but it's stupid and childish.  This is the time when absolutely nothing should be stopping me, when I am literally close enough to touch success.  This should be the time I leap forward, not stand around and wait to be pushed.  I'm tired of hiding, and I am tired of sleeping when I could change the world.  I'm tired of closing the blinds.
But, I am afraid.  Everything I have ever wanted is actually within reach.  That has never happened before.  I have always found a way of avoiding accomplishing my dreams, and suddenly I have no choice.  I am not giving myself a choice, fate is not giving me a choice, no one is giving me a choice.  And I am terrified.  It's right there!  Right fucking there!  I could actually be doing it.  I am terrified.
I could be an adult, and I am terrified.  I have lied to myself my whole life about wanting that if I am so terrified about it today.  I have lied to myself my whole life.
I guess that's why, more than ever, I need to do random, adventurous shit.  I need to put myself out into the world.  I need to write everyday and I need to do crazy things.  I need to step out of bed, out of hiding, and just start forward.  I need more than ever to do things I have never done.  If I am so terrified of everything I have always told myself I am ready for, everything I have told myself I was working for; if I am so terrified that I can't let myself have them, then what is to come of me?  Not good things, more not good things.  So, now is the time to stand up and do something outlandish.  And probably a good time to do something responsible.
And probably a good time to do something smart.
I don't know how much of any of this makes sense...I think that sentence got away from me a bit.  What I know is this: I feel better than I did yesterday, I feel better than I did last week.  I feel tired, and a little on the verge of tears.  I feel like I needed to write it out and put it out there no matter its eloquence or its coherence.  It isn't really for you, but I hope it worked anyway.  I am going to go to bed, now.  Tomorrow, I am going to finish my laundry, I am going to run, I am going to clean my room, and I am going to try to find another job.  One that pays more, so that another Monday down the line, I can start paying off debts and saving for things outlandish and ridiculous but all the same cleansing and spiritual and awakening.  No more being terrified, no more standing still.  Just jumping.
Even the Stars Hideaway

Current Location: That place with the former feeling of dread
Current Mood: complacent complacent
Current Music: The Weepies//The World Spins Madly On


Rachel CJ.
Wednesday, February 17th, 2010 02:42 am

Well, I will live another day.
Or, at least, I have finished this day.
It started out fairly modestly, turned into fairly exciting, and ended with me sticking my feet in six inches of freezing water, searching for a metaphor.
I guess you could say I relapsed again.
I knew this was going to happen, a few times a least, when I set out to do this.  I knew I would break down at least once to my new friends.  I knew I would battle the sadness and the shame more than once so that I might come out of it stronger.  I just wish it hadn't been so petty, what sparked it--although, you can hardly call anything sparking my moods, they build up until I break and I kind of just have to let the flood gates open.  It's pathetic and stupid, but it is who I am, for now I suppose.  I would like to, someday, not be so blatantly emotional, but maybe it is right and it is good that I am.  Maybe, I just haven't found the good of it yet.
The water was freezing, and I could only last a minute, but I urged myself to last longer.  I begged myself to stay in.  I made myself stand there and look through the interlaced branches above, up into the stars.  Except for the numbing sensation in my toes, it was peaceful, and perfect.  We can say now that it was underwhelming, not really what we were planning, but it wasn't wrong in any way.
Last night, as it is now, I took a few drags from a cigarette, I had four beers, I watched a movie and rewrote many of the lines with my friends.  Friends, people that I want in my life, but when it comes down to it, I tend to push away.  I tend to not want to get close, when what I truly need is a good hug and someone to have coffee with.  But, the people in my life who tell me that they love me, those people have always managed to disappear.  Whether they use me and lose me, or just walk away, or leave angrily at something I selfishly have done, it doesn't matter.  Anyway it happens, it happens.  It's sad, and it's a little pathetic, but it is life.  It is a life I am not happy with, a life I am constantly battling against, and yet I push away those who tell me they are here, and who I should probably believe.  I have often said, if I could get myself to put stock in anything, maybe something would come of it.  I am sure that is true of friendship.
Amanda said something, something I should have been happy about.  Something a true friend celebrates for another.  And yet, I wasn't.  I turned bitter and the facade of the day broke.  The little game I had been playing was forfeit.  The little mask I was wearing ripped off.
But they stood by me.  Amanda and Kirstie, when I was a bitch, when I was a cold, jealous bitch, stood fucking by me.
They said something, something I don't know that I have ever actually heard: "I'm not going anywhere, no matter how hard you push."
And I push pretty fucking hard.
So I cried, in the car, just fucking sobbed in their arms for a while.  Because, every now and then you should do it in somebody's arms.  It's one thing to cry in doorways and the shower, it's another to do it against somebody's bicep.  It's humiliating and freeing all at once; I think we need more of this combination in our lives.
It was offered several times for someone to drive me home.  I was in the process of driving someone home when I broke, and now everyone was rushing to take me back to my house.  But, I didn't want to go.  I didn't want to be alone.  I didn't want to be couped up.  I wanted to drive, I wanted to breathe, I wanted to do anything but go home alone.  So, Kirstie got in the driver's seat, and I scooted to the passenger's, and we proceeded to drive.
I flipped on my iPod and scrolled to The Beatles.  Searched through all of their songs until I hit the one I wanted.  Pressed play, lifted my feet to the dashboard, curled my arms across my chest, and watched the world pass by.  As the song played, my favorite song, the one that can make me smile no matter what, I began to cry.  Kirstie reached over, and without saying anything, took my hand.  The night went on outside, the music played softly in the car; everything was still for just that moment.
We went to IHOP for cheap coffee and I made her laugh when I didn't mean to, and a little bit when I did.  And we talked about deep things.  She told me her first impression of me, and how she wanted to know what broke me.  No one has ever asked me that before.  I still haven't really answered, I don't think.
And, she told me this, when I said that at the end of all of this, all I truly want is to be able to say, "I accept who I am, and I forgive whomever hurt me, including myself."  She said this: I think you need to start with forgiving yourself.
And then there was this idea in my mind, to cleanse, to wash clean.  So, in the spirit of the memoir and the project I am attempting to right my life, I took her out on a little adventure.
There is a creek that flows behind the neighborhood where I grew up.  I stood in it, barefoot, because I didn't have the ability to jump into a river.
I would have, would have stripped down and thrown myself into a pond or a lake or a river, but everything was frozen and I wasn't wearing panties.  But I would have.  I would have jumped from a bridge into the Arkansas if I didn't think I might actually die from it--or land on a sand-flow and break something important.  I wanted so desperately to be baptized of this feeling, that I would have done it.  A bit of me wishes I had, if only to wash everything away, because the metaphor is so sickeningly sweet to taste.  But, life isn't a television show, and there isn't always a river you can plunge into.  I took what I could get, a freezing creek in the middle of my old neighborhood, and I made of it what I could.
And it didn't seem so cold for the five seconds I let go and stared up into the sky.  It didn't seem so bad, not when there was so much out there to see.
We walked around a bit after; I shattered a mug we found in the mud and we screamed in a drain tunnel.  We could have gotten onto the highway and just driven, could have gone anywhere we felt we could go.  But, what we did, though small and seemingly useless, was better for the both of us.  She came with me, kept on following me, didn't let go.  She held my hand as I stepped into the water, and she reached out to grab it as I waded out.  She was in it, with me, for me.  She was there, and I finally believed she was going to be.
When we got in the car, shaking and shivering, she asked me how I felt.  I told her I felt like I could make it 'til tomorrow.  I was alright for tonight.  And we headed home.
Alone in my car, I turned up The Beatles, and nearly went hoarse singing along to whatever came up on shuffle.
I think I am starting to grasp the concept that life isn't always what we want it, but we can make of it what we have the ability to; everything doesn't have to go according to plan, and that isn't so bad after all.  Because, life boils down to the little adventures; the spontaneous moments in the dark; the people you chose to take along with you.  And, if you stand still for a moment, and look at all the things there are to see, and try to take them all in, the pain doesn't seem so aching and the numbness doesn't seem so cold.
Eddie Izzard, Shitty Coffee, and a Few Adventures

Current Location: Bed
Current Mood: content content
Current Music: What's going on in my mind.


Rachel CJ.
Wednesday, February 3rd, 2010 02:44 pm

My friend is calling this "Julie and Julia, but with Eddie Izzard."  I am calling this "recapturing--or, capturing, actually, since I haven't ever really had it--the will to live."  It's both those things, except more.
It's like this: in six months I will be twenty-two, and I will have never really lived.  A couple of days ago, I told my mother if I didn't dig out of the financial and emotional hole I am in, if I don't get my life together and get started moving forward toward my goals, if I don't get out of my head and into the world, I am probably going to end up killing myself.  Literally killing myself, something I have never seriously considered before.  It would be a waste of life if I can't get it together soon.  I know if I don't do this now, I am likely never to, so I might as well end it.  I don't want to end it.  I don't want to die.  But, I can't exactly call what I am doing living.  I have been sad for a long time, standing still for even longer.  I have to start moving forward.  I have to start living.  All my life I have been dreaming of doing crazy, incredible things because I have been trying to find my own will to live, my own survival mechanism, my own fight instead of flight instinct.  This is the time.  I start this now.
I am giving myself until my twenty-second birthday, July 15, 2010, to start living.  I have a list of things I want to do before that time, as well as a couple of partners in crime to find adventures with.  All of it is going to culminate in the ultimate show of self-confidence and self-belief.  I am going to do a stand-up routine on my birthday.  It is something that I have always secretly wanted to do, secretly hoped I'd be good at, but never truly believed I'd do.  I never thought I would want to put myself out there like that.  Stand-up is a scary, scary thing.  You can kill, yes, but most likely you'll die.  And the silence and the desire to please and the fear and flop sweat is just absolutely terrifying.  Why would I ever want to do that to myself.  Well, because I have always loved being on stage, and have always had a performer's heart, even if I've never had the confidence or the will.  I think I could do it, I think I could be funny, and I think if I am ever going to survive in this world and find who I am, if I am ever going to accept myself and become something, I have to believe I can do it and try.
Eddie Izzard says you have to believe you can do it, see it happening, before it can.  That, of course, is also what many books say on the matter of achieving anything, and I don't disagree.  I have to believe in myself, I have to believe in something, because for so long I haven't bothered.  I have to have faith, put some serious stock into myself, have some fucking hope, and believe.
Why Eddie Izzard, you say?  He's my favorite comedian, and if I could aspire to be anything in my one performance, it would be to be like him.  Of course, I am not trying to actually be like him, I think that's considered impersonation.  I guess I would just like to do him proud.
So, for the next six months, I am going to do everything I can to live.  I am going to write about it, I am going to share it with the world, I might even try to tell Eddie Izzard--although, I doubt he'll notice.  (He seems busy, is all.)
I am going to capture the will to live, so that I might live, for once in my life.
This is my story of how I took Rock Bottom and turned it into something new.  This is the uphill battle, the acceptance of who I am, and the refusal to quit now when I have so much I could do.
This is it.
Wish Me Luck

Current Location: Panera
Current Mood: chipper chipper
Current Music: Nothing


Rachel CJ.
Saturday, January 30th, 2010 02:42 pm

It's days like today that I am not so afraid of believing in God.
I believe in signs, patterns, things happening for a reason. There are no coincidences in murder investigations; I don't think there are any in life either. Things happen, there is irony, and there is a pattern, and we just have to see it when it happens.
Today I told my mother that if I didn't make it out of the situation I was in soon, if I didn't pull myself up and make my life into something, that I would kill myself. I wasn't lying, or being melodramatic. I was serious; completely serious. I would take my own life, because there has been nothing in this world that I have bothered to live for, and if I can't get out of this, there never will be. It will be a waste, all that I have done and all that I could be, a waste. And I would remove myself from the earth than bother knowing I really wouldn't ever amount to anything. It isn't meant to be melodramatic; it isn't meant to be "angsty". In fact, I don't think that I am either of those things. I am quite literally depressed; the kind of depressed the prescribe Prozac for. And, though I have never before thought seriously about it--because, you always feel better tomorrow--but if I knew there was nothing to this life, that I was never going to be anything but this, I would end it. If I knew that all there was for me was to re-learn the same lesson over and over, digging myself deeper and deeper, I would end it. I am almost to that point. I have this moment to change it; this moment to pull myself out. If I don't take this moment, I won't make it, I will die.
I told her that and she looked at me, and she knew I was serious. And then I went to get ready for work.
I don't want to go to work. I don't want to throw myself into the same situation day after day; retail will be the death of me, truly, if I don't get out soon. As I got ready, nothing was right. I was fidgety, my attitude declining, my eyes welling with tears. Retail isn't that bad, you say; not enough to make someone want to drive their car into a snow bank just so they can call in. But, when you know you're smarter than that, when you know there is so much out there you could be doing, when you know that you're holding yourself back, and one of the ways to do it is to piss and moan about retail: retail sucks ass.
So, I was fidgeting with my hair. Messing it and combing it and straightening then twisting it around my fingers. I was pulling and shaking my head. I was clenching my teeth and twirling it in my fingers, but not in the flirty, thoughtful way. In the way addicts do when they're going sober. The way mothers do when they're worrying about babies. The way people do when they think about death. And I was telling myself to suck it up, suck it in, write about it later and be done with this right now. But I felt like I was walking to the gallows. If I went to work today, I was accepting it, my fate. If I went to work, I was giving up for nothing. If I went in, I was putting off cleaning up until tomorrow, and I need to clean up today.
I gave up on my hair and threw on a cardigan that has never really fit, but I wanted it because it was yellow. I love yellow. Yellow does for me what only beer can do, doesn't it? I see it, and I think, maybe today. Maybe I'll be happy today. On the inside, like I pretend to be on the outside. With my smile as I tell you how wronged I have been and how fucked up I have made it. Maybe the color, like the alcohol, will penetrate. Maybe I will absorb yellow. It didn't fit like I wanted it too. A button had come off in the wash, anyway, and every time I moved, another would pull out of it's hole. So, I ripped it off. Let it fall to the floor.
I stood in my room, looking at the clothes on the floor, knowing I had nothing to wear that would make me feel worth the trouble. I wanted to cry.
Pink always makes my cheeks rosy and my lips red. Facing the mirror in a sweater I love to hate, and sometimes just love, I looked pretty. I wanted to cry then too.
I have a pimple. A big, bulgy pimple on the lower, left side of my chin. The pink brought out the red in that too. Every day I work to look like I did, in that moment, and I fail. And today, when I wanted to jump into a cold river and go, I accomplished pretty. So I resigned myself, into myself, said don't care, don't feel, don't bother, nobody else works in that joint, neither should you. Tomorrow comes tomorrow, and you can make anything of it that you want. I went into my room, closed the door, and pulled out make-up. I didn't want to look pretty, I didn't want to put myself together, I didn't want to care anymore for anything than the bed sheets being pulled over my head and curling myself into darkness. So I put on foundation, covered up the pimple, lined my eyes, and glossed my lips. I resigned to the numbness, and let myself look nice when I felt like I should never look nice again.
And then I went downstairs to an empty house. I packed a lunch--a sandwich, some carrots, some cookies--and told my friend what I had said to my mother an hour before. If I don't figure this out soon, get this mess that is my life together, I will kill myself.
I had a new voice mail from a call I'd missed while making little bags out of plastic wrap. It was my manager. They where closing the store an hour before I had to clock in.
I believe in signs. I believe in omens.
I cried in the kitchen, and I thanked a god I am too afraid to believe in. But, of course god is another story.
Something happened today. I hit rock bottom. And then something came and picked me up.
Thank You

Current Location: Oklahoma
Current Mood: distressed distressed
Current Music: The heater blowing its hot air.


Rachel CJ.
Wednesday, January 6th, 2010 04:02 pm

Guess who's working again?  That's ME!  I am writing again, for the upteenth time.  But, this time I am successful!  I am going to update as soon as I type up this intro bit, and I want you to read it and comment.  Read and comment.  Read and comment.
I feel like if I say that enough, it might actually happen.  The likelyhood of it actually happening: low.  So read and comment! <3
It's Dorothy meets Dead Like Me, with a dash of "Blink," a twist of Dexter, and a teeny bit of Eddie Izzard for flavor.  When I say that, that's mostly what is inspiring it right now.  But also, it's true.

Okay, here's this, the introduction to the first chapter of a novella called "Good Thing Gone."



                You never know a good thing until it’s gone.  Life is like that—a good thing; and, until you don’t have it anymore, you tend to take it for granted.  I know I did.  But not anymore.  Because, I died.  I died naked.  Except for a pair of shoes.

                I didn’t know I was dead.  Not at first.  That realization came as I watched my reflection in a shard of glass.  I watched myself bleed, stiffen, and bloat.  Finally, the stench reached the hall; the neighbors complained; the maintenance man unlocked my front door.  The man who found me has been no doubt scarred for life.  I feel for him, it’s terrible finding a dead body, especially when it’s your own.

                I didn’t know what was happening.  The seconds it took for my lungs to stop breathing and my heart to stop beating were black.  The days it took for them to find my body went by like moments in a montage; a second of rigor mortis, a flash of flies lying eggs, a brief instance in which my belly deflated and I succumbed to the effects of decomposition.  I know all of this now; recognize it for what it is, but in that place following my death, I thought for sure it must be a nightmare. 

And then they came for me.  They placed a sheet over my body and transported me to the morgue.  I knew it when I felt the unrelenting cold of the freezer, the hollow emptiness of my body as it sat open on the table. 

Since I had no place else to go, and I still didn’t know how exactly it had happened, I hung around the morgue and learned my cause of death.  A stray bullet, a drive-by shooting, an unintentional mistake by a wanna-be-gangsta.  It ripped through my heart, my lung, my breast.  It shattered the mirror in which I had been looking, deciding on an outfit to go with my new red shoes.  Shoes now in a plastic bag; evidence, to be locked away and never worn again.

It was all very depressing, watching my death unfold, so I sat up and walked away from my body.  The sutures down my front where clumsy and dark, my skin, insipid, a sick contrast to them.  I resembled a fucked up rag doll, gnarled and broken, an imitation of human.  I was glad when they put me in the hearse.  I was thrilled when they burned me.  It took so long to get there, to get to that point, to be disposed of.  I waited for that moment my whole-death-long; for the weight of existence to be lifted.  Turn my shoulders to ash and the world topples away.

The relief never came.  But something else did.  

                His name was Dexter.

Current Location: Floor
Current Mood: creative creative
Current Music: The Beatles//Hey Jude


Rachel CJ.
Monday, January 4th, 2010 10:24 pm

I just watched the last episode of David Tennant as the Doctor. I'm sad, but excited about Matt Smith. I think he will be fun. A different kind of fun than David, but that's a good thing. It's not as if I can't go back and watch them all again whenever I want; I know that bit. It doesn't stop the sadness, though. It was like reading the last book of a beloved series. The good news is, it still goes on. Looks like they're changing a lot of things to go along with a new head writer and a new Doctor. I happily welcome Eleven, but that means a farewell to Ten.
He'll always be a friend of mine.
PS--Billie looked a little weird...other than her serious overbite for, like, three lines of dialog.  Just saying.  :)

Current Location: Earth, Milky Way, Universe
Current Mood: bored Sad/anticipatory--not a word?


Rachel CJ.
Monday, December 7th, 2009 03:15 pm

All I want for Christmas is to be thin.
Wow. I said it.
Seriously, though, I finally joined a gym, and I am making some progress. I am down a size, but that is hardly where I need to be to get into the Navy. I did try on my trench today to see what it looked like, and the jacket I bought that was a little too small is almost a little too big. Gasp. I was pleased, but fuck, I am going to need to buy a new coat! I wish I had a really cool friend who would make me one...but she is in Chicago, and I think it would be difficult to do a fitting being 700 miles away. Boo.
The good news is, I am making progress, and I am semi-enjoying my job. I get to talk about books and I get to talk about coffee and that's pretty alright with me. I also get to make a huge list of books, and then slowly read them all for free. Another plus. In fact, I have little complaint other than "it's retail and cafe...how many times have I done this shit now?!" Which I think is a valid point.
I am currently reading 1984, which has me officially offended already. Distruction of the language?! Hold your tongue! I think I am supposed to have this particular reaction, but that doesn't stop the reaction from happening.
Wow. I really don't have anything to talk about.
Met a boy.
Need clothes.
Am still 30lbs overweight.
No matter how much water I drink, my lips are still chapped.
I tried the CoverGirl lipstain, and I mother fuckin' love it.
I heart Dexter?
Yeah...that's what I've got. How about you?
That's right. I just asked other people what they are doing in my own journal. I lack a social life, but it's picking up. Once school is out for holiday, Allison my love will be back in Tulsa, and then things will be better. I will have TWO people to go out with. Wow. TWO whole people. Fuck me if that isn't a ton!
...pathetic anyone?
The good news? I really am losing the weight.
And that's pretty much my life up until this second, and probably thereafter for a while.
Worst update ever? Probably close.
Now, to read and drink tea, because this is what life should be about. Or is that populating the planet? Eh, we've done that well enough. Tea time it is.
I'll Follow You Until You Love Me

Current Location: Borders
Current Mood: anxious anxious
Current Music: iTunes U Lectures on Bones <3


Rachel CJ.
Thursday, September 24th, 2009 10:43 am

So, here it is: I am joining the navy.
I went MEPS yesterday and was told what I already knew but was hoping I didn't: I need to lose weight.  I am only 4% over limit, so it won't be hard.  The doctor gave me eight weeks in which to do it.  I'm pretty sure I can in eight weeks.  It's only a couple of inches, and I plan on running at least five times a week.
I was offered the Nuclear Power School program, and I am seriously considering taking it.  Yes, there are risks when working the helm of the nuclear reactor, but it is a large bonus, a year of school, and the chance to work on an aircraft carrier.  It is the third hardest school to graduate from in the country--after Harvard Law and MIT's engineering program--and if I passed, I would have 45 college credits under my belt in six months.  I would get to live in Charleston, SC on an E-4 paygrade (which would normally take the average enlister two years to achieve), and I would get to learn all kinds of cool things about physics, thermodynamics, and radiation medicine.  The job I am considering is basically a lab tech, who checks the chemistry of the reactor and aides in treating anyone who might happen to be affected by the radiation.  It is a very good starting point for nuclear medicine and/or physical anthropology.  So, I think I am going to do it.  The downside is: it's quite a few years.  After my initial schooling, I have a year of accelerated learning and on-the-job training before I can start working on my carrier.  And if I become a lab tech, that adds three more months.  Then, after I have completed that, I am able to re-sign for six years.  I dunno how I feel about eight years of my time going to the Navy, unless of course, I can get my education.  I am pretty sure they offer an officer path, which means I would need to get my bachelor's.  I still have a lot of questions about it, and I have eight weeks to think.  But, it would be a complete 180 from where I am now.  My mind is melting away here, and I would really like to do something mentally challenging everyday.
The other thing about it is that I won't ship out for a year.  I am moving back to Oklahoma this weekend.  I figure, why spend $615 a month on rent working at Old Navy and never be able to pay off my debt?  If I decide on Nuke, I will have a year in which to go to TCC on the navy's dime, which basically makes me ecstatic.  I will be able to take calc, physics, and chem, which will put me a little ahead of the game and give me a boost up when I am in school.  I will have to get a job though, which really I should be able to do since I have a CNA and Tulsa hospitals are hiring like crazy, which is nice considering Chicago hospitals all seem to be in a freeze.  I will need a car too, but Harley is looking into it.
If I don't decide on Nuke, I could ship at any time within the next year.  If I don't decide on Nuke, it will be something in intelligence.  I always wanted to work for the FBI--what better to put on my application than a super-top-secret, uber-classified, pentagon-level intelligence position?  I am qualified for the really batshit ones, so we shall see what else they offer.  I really like the Nuke idea though....
Anyway, that's that.  I will be back in Tulsa/Skiatook on Saturday.  I am already applying for jobs.  Like I said, Harley is trying to find me a car and I am going to get a drivers license as soon as I can.  In the meantime, I am going to play with the wiener and learn to drive stick.  And find a job.  And plan on getting my--skinny--ass back up here in eight weeks to be weighed, processed, and sworn in.  Woohoo.
I Never Know the Next Thing In Store

Current Location: Library--Second to Last Time!
Current Mood: contemplative contemplative
Current Music: Psapp//King of You


Rachel CJ.
Wednesday, September 9th, 2009 01:26 pm

I'm feeling despondent.  Livejournal update no one's going to read?  You bet.
I don't know why, but no one can ever seem to answer my texts.  You know, it wouldn't be so bad if I had a lot of friends, then when one fucked me over, I could turn to another.  But, really, I am an introvert, an antisocial.  I isolate, even when I am desperately trying not to.  So, I don't naturally have a lot of friends, and on top of that, none of them want to talk to me anyway.  I kind of, sort of, a little bit want to sob when I think about that, and for that I have to say I am a tad bit bitter.
I don't feel like being sad; I don't feel like spending the day alone; I don't feel like watching other people as if I am standing on a desolate island while they walk the main land.  I don't really like to spend my days this way.  And yet...oh, and yet.  And now I don't even have Old Navy to absorb the loneliness currently creeping through my veins.  What I should do--instead of what I've been doing the last three days--curling up with a book I can read in one night and doing exactly that--is smile about the fact that I am putting myself right, sit down with something comforting like a coffee or a coffee, and write.  Write being to write is to be happy, at least for me.  But, writing requires thinking about the delicate relationships of humans, and, honestly, that's what I've been doing for the past month.  Been doing since I made the decision to fix my life, since Steven told me he was fixing his, since Nancy told me she was trying to fix hers.  Since Allison left to go back to school, presumably to discover what to do with herself.  Since Nicole practically got engaged.  Since I started drifting away from that incredible feeling of control into the still, gray waters of uncertainty.  All I want is a conversation.  A long, drawn out, funny, indepth, profound conversation.  With each one of these people.  Right fucking now.  I want them to want me, to call me, to ask me how I am because I am not alone or anything, facing huge decisions and a lot of change.  No, I'm just fucking fine, cooped up and reading another murder mystery because anything more profound makes me think, and thinking makes me sad.  Not sad, just aware.  Aware of all the little emotional triggers and annoyances.  Aware of the fact that I haven't spoken to my best friends, really spoken to them, in much, much too long.  And what I want is to stand in front of them, curse them, and yell how much I need to talk, but even that wouldn't work.  So, I am doing what everyone else suggests I should do--by everyone else I mean my mother and Chetara, who are currently the only people who bother to speak to me first--and just let it go.  Float them on a big boat out to sea.  A foggy, rainy, stormy sea, and see if they row back.  I don't hear any fucking oars slapping water.
I feel like crap, and I shouldn't, because I am doing something huge with my life that will finally get the ball rolling.  What I need is to be happy, to be smiling, to be enveloping myself in positive feelings and overwhelming my senses with joy.  And what am I doing, I'm crying because once again I have told everyone I love I am leaving them, and they are saving themselves the trouble of saying goodbye.  Well, to be fair, I do often do the worst things to myself, but c'mon people, be more than human for once.  Clearly, I can't actually ask that.  Mostly, because I would either be asking them to be dolphins or mice, but also because they can't cease being human, and I wouldn't ever want them to.  No, what I really want is for someone to call and ask me how I am.  For friends who are supposed to be friends to act like friends.  What I want is a family, a support group, people I can count on.  And I want it to be large.  Instead, I have a full sent box and twisted stomach.
What I should say: fuck them, and move on.
But I'm not going to say anything.  I am going to stay out of the loop, stay out of their lives.  I don't need this; I need to be happy.  I offered myself up to them, which was a mistake, I think.  So, I am taking it back.  Myself, or whatever.  I'm just going to let them let me disappear.  And then, when I suddenly appear again, I am going to say: whatever.  Because, seriously, as stupid and cliche and so self-help as it sounds, I am kind of better than all of this.  Well, at least that's what I keep telling myself.
Clearly, I have brought a lot of my misfortune--friend, family, and financial--on myself.  So, let me be the first to clean up whatever mess this is and say fine.
Fine.  Whatever.  You can fix yourselves.  I'll be here, but you probably aren't going to call, so nevermind that.
Also: I think I am going to write today.  But, first I have to stop myself from crying in the Chicago Public Library.  I really don't want to be that girl.
And yes, I am doing this so people will read it, or else I wouldn't even bother.  I have been clear enough with cries for help, now I'm just pissed off.  As nice a girl as I can be, I don't even like me when I'm angry.
Do I Cause You Heartbreak to Write a New Broken Song?

Current Mood: anxious anxious


Rachel CJ.
Thursday, September 3rd, 2009 02:41 pm

So...not gonna lie...feeling a little desolate right now.  Not a lot of reason to, necessarily, but I feel kind of lost and alone.  I think it's just the weather and the things I am thinking about.  I find myself wishing for more friends--no, wishing more of my friends spoke to me on a regular basis.  That's a little more accurate.  I just need people to talk to.
But, I really don't have anything to be so depressed about.  I am going out tomorrow night with most of my friends from here, which should hopefully be fun, and I should hopefully get drunk.  That would be nice.  I needed a drink last night like woah.  I think I ate a Slim-Fast bar instead, which really didn't satisfy anything except possibly my hunger for four hours.  But really, with the emo-ness, it's kind of annoying.  I really don't have a reason for it.  Fuck me.
I started working on the book again.  I am in a good place with it, so I think I can move forward.  I am thinking about working on it today, actually, because I really don't have anything else to do and no one to see.  It's much better, writing, than sitting at home alone, and my computer is still dead.  I don't have any money, so wherever I go it's going to be someplace they won't mind me sitting and just chilling out.  Probably Starbucks, I mean really.  It's not as if I can get away from Starbucks.  I went there this morning and spent my last two dollars on a grande coffee.  It was satisfactory, although unfortunately I am still extremely tired.  Which probably has a little to do with my general emo-ness.  I feel like I might have a sinus infection, or something, and that could be making me tired, which could most certainly be bringing down my mood.  Fucker.
But, yeah, books and things and I have a twitter and a future plan and all sorts of shit that is actually happening but currently pending and thus making me crazy with anxiety and desire.  It's sort of a mess.  I really want to talk to some people, but some people won't talk to me.  Maybe I should just leave them alone, but honestly, that doesn't help me much, does it?  Yeah...fuck me.
Oh well, is what it is.  I guess I am going to try to think happy thoughts and get this damn book written.  I'd really like to do that, because that is weighing on me too.  Not a bad, emo-fied, painful weight, but nevertheless, my shoulders are getting heavy.
But You are Made of Bone

Current Location: Gah with the library already!
Current Mood: exhausted exhausted
Current Music: Cell phone ringtone.