Tag Archives: creativity

A Mind is a Terrible Thing to Fake


I woke up this morning out of a sound sleep with what my mind at 6am believed was a brilliant idea.  In order to force myself into much needed weight loss I thought I’d tell myself I was losing weight in order to fit into my beautiful wedding dress!  Great idea, and if you don’t know me you may not think there is even anything out of the ordinary about the plan.  Those who do know me, however, are probably more than aware that I’m not getting married any time soon.  No wedding date set, no plans under way, in fact no groom in sight!

My thought process goes like this:  if I pretend I’m getting married, and I really want to fit into that dress, then I might be able to fake myself out and actually lose the weight, thereby attracting a man, and once attracted, who knows, we might end up getting married.  See, it’s a simple direct line from my craziness to reality.

Strange, I know, but I try to do things like this to fake myself out all the time.  I make deals with myself: no eating in front of the TV; no eating in that particular chair; you can only have popcorn on weekends; if you don’t eat any sweets this week you can have those new shoes you want; etc.

I know that I’m only affecting the symptoms of my disease, but if 30 years of therapy can’t eliminate the root cause of my emotional eating, I’m willing to fake myself out and simply try to eliminate the symptoms one by one.

The only problem is, I’m a pretty smart cookie, and it’s often really hard to fool me.  Unless you’re a 50-something man who’s a total loser and trying to get me to believe you’ve got it together.  In those instances, I’m apparently a pushover!  The rest of the time, however, my rational mind keeps intruding and saying things like:  “You’re not really getting married.  Go ahead and eat the chocolate cake.  Eat in that chair if you want to.  It’s your chair.  You paid for it.  You can do what you want.”

So, in order to make this wedding dress thing work, I’m going to have to get fairly involved in my delusion.  I’ve begun looking for the perfect dress and telling my friends at work about my upcoming nuptials.  I’ve already received a lovely “We think you’ll make a beautiful bride” card and two women have volunteered to be bridesmaids.  (I’m not certain that good taste allows for bridesmaids at third weddings.  I’ll have to check into it.  I think just the thought of a third wedding would make Miss Manners faint!)

Can this plan work?  I have no idea, but stay tuned for further details and feel free to check out my Bridal Registry at www.target.com.

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In Session


Lewis taps his fingers rhythmically against the paperclip. He always has something in his hand to tap against. I picked him from the long list of other therapist profiles because he looks so… Southern California. The therapist website in itself was weird, looking like a dating site with pictures and small quips about the counselors, their educational backgrounds and particular therapy styles. Lewis’ profile was different, the way most profiles that catch your eye are. He didn’t write the profile as if he were talking to you, rather it read like a Curriculum Vitae of a potential research professor.

I really like Lewis. Lewis really likes himself, which we seem to have been trained to despise but in Lewis it glows outwardly, inspiring people around him to like themselves as well. Which makes sense as to why he is a successful therapist with an office in a high rise building in downtown, the view of the harbor glittering sunshine back in. His office is mild, clean, with an outdated laptop humming away in the left hand corner of his desk.

I started therapy because the depression had gotten to the point of destruction. I found myself in my kitchen one night, in an apartment that was too big for me, crouching like some crazed beast on the cold linoleum floor holding a knife and screaming through thick, clotted tears. I wrote words down that night that were so angry I cannot read them on the page, it does not look like my writing. The next day I could not get out of bed, because the only motivation I could find for removing myself from my bed was to jump off the roof and I could not do that to my mother. I didn’t understand before this, that depression could cripple you. Grab your mind and suffocate it slowly, a boa constrictor that takes over every aspect of your life, your mind, until you are a victim to it as if a stranger were squatting like a little black lizard where your heart should have resided.

Lewis titles these episodes as my ‘earthquakes’. He says this triumphantly. Lewis loves metaphors and his own cleverness, mainly the latter.

“It’s like an earthquake! You don’t know where its coming from or how long its going to be. And then afterwards you have little aftershocks, don’t you?!”

He sits back, a self-satisfied smile still floating over his lips. I look at him from across the desk. I sit in a deep leather seat, with a pillow on my back because otherwise I’m too small and my feet don’t reach the floor.  In Lewis’ office, I always make sense. I love it there, when the words tumble out of my mouth like tiny pebbles being thrown around by white water, Lewis just leans back until I am done and then carefully reconstructs what I have said, following the tangled strings of emotions until he has clean lines laying before us. Unlike anyone else in my life, Lewis presents me with cool, linear logic that doesn’t condescend. He never angers at my reactions, in fact for the most part Lewis treats every single one of my emotions, outbursts, tears, and laughter as the most singularly important thing that has ever happened in the world. He seems truly excited and enthralled by the fact that I, indeed, exist.

Today, I am explaining to Lewis about my self-sabotaging in relationships. Not only romantic ones but friendships as well. He leans back in his chair and looks at me through his spectacles while I take him through the claustrophobic vines that I attempt to machete through when explaining how I feel to people. Therapy is an odd art form, we attempt each session to place into neat categories every memory, touch, and influence we have had throughout our lives.

“Why is it concerning you now that you do this?” Lewis asks. He pretends it is an innocent question but Lewis is a very deliberate person. He explained to me that he is the most important person in his own life, and as such his time is invaluable. He does not spend it circumventing what he really wants to know. When he told me this, I asked him if he ever worried about offending people and having them not like him. He looked slightly confused when I asked him this.

“Not like me because I am asking an honest question? Well they sound like someone with something bad to hide and, I don’t want to know those people anyway”.  Lewis lives his life with a close-knit circle of people he loves around him whom he will do anything for, and the rest of the world he treats as if they were in an interview for the last available slot to be his friend; politely and with extreme discretion.

“I’m concerned because I don’t want to sabotage anything this time. I can’t lose him, and I like my friends and I’m tired of feeling as if the only way I’ll be happy is if I am completely independent of everyone. Like my safety net is figuring out a way that I will be completely okay if any particular person is no longer in my life”.

Lewis doesn’t say anything at first, just looks at me as my body clenches and tenses. Expelling this darkness in this neat rectangular office is the most exhausting thing I have ever done. It is a chain weighing 10,000 pounds that I have wrapped around me, longer and longer, for years. Slowly we are tracing back the knots and the kinks, figuring out what I have done in order to undo it and free me, pound by pound. Sighing inwardly, Lewis sits his small frame back up in the black chair and says

“No. You are not alone, you are not independent, you are not unattached. And it is not an admirable quality to be those things. I haven’t cooked a meal in 20 years because my wife is an incredible cook, if she were to leave me I would have no idea how to cook for myself. But I don’t refuse to revel in her cooking, I take it in, I bask in it”

At this point Lewis is leaning back in his chair, arms stretched out and an almost monk like expression of peaceful bliss extends on his face.

“You have to allow people to love you. You have to just, take it all in, enjoy it, swim in it. When people want to do nice things for you, you must nod your head in agreement and say ‘yes, do nice things for me!’. Otherwise life is miserable and short. And why wouldn’t they want to do nice things for you, why wouldn’t they want to love you? You must expect people to treat you as if you were the most important person in your life because you are.”

I laugh. Lewis is not joking but I can’t help but laugh, the idea is so freeing. I am still in shock when people love me the way my friends and family do. That demonic little presence in my head has slowly convinced me it is all false, Lewis’ main job is to tell me that I am fine, that I will be fine, and that no one has the capacity to hurt me anymore than I allow myself to react by being hurt.

The hour ends, and Lewis stands and smiles at me. Therapy is precise, within a set time frame, the way situational comedies always resolve themselves within a half hour.

“Next week, same time?” he asks as he opens the door for me. I nod as I walk out the door and back down the stairs, preparing myself to re enter a world that overwhelms me, a world that never seems to resolve itself no matter how many hours tick by. I look over my shoulder and Lewis smiles and waves goodbye, until next weeks session.


Anniversary


Anniversario

He left her a year ago, walked out of her office into the summer heat and drifted away, each step permanently bruising the cement. She never thought she would see him again, after a brief, cursory hug she sat back down in her chair and looked at her screen pretending with all her might that he meant nothing.

A year ago he walked into his house, into his ordered life with his neat, square fence, and prepared for the vacation he had been intending to savor for so long. But this girl had slipped into the crevices of his mind and she demanded all of him to be happy, he sensed her requiring every small piece of his being, every dark corner that only he was master of; she needed it all before being satiated and for some unknown reason, he had to satiate her. She was younger, impetuous, filled with a strong desire for him that he hadn’t felt in years. Absent-mindedly he wiped his hands on his leg before realizing her thighs had been left in the intricate mappings of his fingertips. He shuddered at the thought of someone else touching her, tasting her, swiftly cutting out the image of any other person creating the moans that he so viciously burned out of her. He would never admit this to her, never confess to his overwhelming need to have her only ever love him, need him, to consume her world the way she had consumed his. While he walked away a thick coating of fear trickled into his throat, if she did not love him he would disappear.

On her part, she tried in vain to forget him, convinced he did not care for her and cried in silent agony at falling for yet another human who could not consume her with the same vengeance she met every single moment of life with. She exhausted herself in the pool that night, each time she hit the wall and pushed back into cool blue wishing she would look up and see his face. He is not the type to surprise, not the type to need her so desperately that he cannot stay away. She loves this about him as well. Walking home in the thick heat to her small apartment her legs can barely pick up and carry her but her mind is far, far away. He smells stronger than the chlorine. Her organized chaos taunts her as she turns the key to her tiny apartment with too much furniture, arranged like pieces of six different puzzles. That night, away from everyone, she breaks and whatever small piece of her heart he left in her chest so that blood could still pump falls to her toes. She screams at her walls, her windows, rips down the pictures and paintings she has haphazardly put on the walls so that she would become attached to something. Left alone in this tornado she realized she was dying.

They are in love, that sickening sticky mess. Humans are piles of goop and muscles, growing bones long enough to stand up next to someone so that when they fall apart again there are arms to disappear into. She feels her skin stretch away from her breastbone towards him, forming a thin invisible line. The glue that holds the world together, and he knows that without it he will wither and die. But every mile that he drives away from her she senses herself breaking down, falling apart. Her existence is his memory of her, snippets of waists and nipples.

Together now, they celebrate the anniversary of this abandonment quietly, without flowers or cards used to mark occasions of lovers coming together, and every day she wakes up yearning for him more and more. He lies next to her every night, and yet she feels the sinking desperation to hold onto any part of him she can, mediocrity is her worst enemy, her worst nightmare. She remembers all too clearly how her heart cut out of her chest on that hot August afternoon, that horrible day he left her. She is afraid of becoming ordinary, of their love becoming daily, of becoming forgettable again. He loves her more and more, for the way she believes that omens are told through the moon, for her obsessions that change weekly, dictating the entire vacuum of her attention. He is unyieldingly proud of her, she has the courage and spirit he has emulated his whole life. She loves his ordered, careful ways. Not a single part of her understands them and it consumes a grand majority of her time to remember to put the glasses away in the right order, the place to leave the sponge, and how to lock the front door.

They live together and still cannot believe it. The darker memories gnaw at both of them in different ways, bittersweet reminders are left all over the house, a house she does not feel a part of. These memories cut at her, making her wish the skeleton made up some part of the human heart because maybe then bone could stop that cold knife of past loves from piercing. She is too young to realize how much of him she owns, youth clouds the mirror and makes it impossible to understand that other people hurt and fall in love with the same fascination. . Without realizing it they have become the lovers so many stories were written about, people so utterly smitten they have banished the cold thought of life after each other.

They mark the anniversary of this love by remembering that day, a day so hot the wind was too sticky with sweat to move.  The bitter memory of him leaving remains, like a cut on the side of her mouth that splits open every time she smiles. Her heart seizes with the thought of him one day walking away forever. Love, like life, is not to be savored because it lasts forever. It is its inevitable end that feeds the fire, makes hands grasp hips, and tongues slip over unfamiliar teeth. They love each other with voraciousness, all too aware of the pain of losing the other, and celebrate the dark side of that coin to remind themselves that for at least one more night, both get to fall asleep listening to the breathing of someone they secretly swear they can never live without.


Letters to Asher (Letter 2)


-A-

I wish there were a literary equivalent of a dramatic unveiling. Some gesture that could be captured in the curve of a ‘V’ to illuminate the way a hand can swoop down, grab a curtain, and then swoop up again to reveal a grand truth. Humans seem to be cursed with this endless pursuit of truth, of knowledge. We have created an entire field around it, with such precision of the word being granted to having a sliding scale, from theory to fact. It gives us a strange sense of superiority to know something, when in reality we are simple little dolls, thrumming to the beat of music we refuse to listen to. Day in and day out I am concerned with the mundane aspect of my own existence. Convinced that whatever psychological turmoil is seizing my heart at that moment is of such brilliant importance that it is vital that I write it down, capture it in some way. Even in my egotistical rages, some semblance of me can appreciate the irony of wanting to capture these fleeting moments in the belief that they are eternal.

Tonight you spoke of cowardice. You used a slightly more vernacular vocabulary, but I’m sure it will quirk your smile a little bit to see me wrap it in the pretty bow of eloquence. Life, in this little ones humble opinion, is simply too short to not use as many words as possible. Smarter creatures than I uttered ‘you will find poetry nowhere if you do not carry some of it with you’.  Are you bemused by this idea? I am so curious about you. We are all cursed with chasing after anything that is difficult. I found myself fiercely defending a person not telling the truth about their emotions because for so long I was that figure, the joker thinking it was their pretty words that made people laugh and not their very existence. Siddharta explained that you must go through life with the conviction that everyone around you has achieved perfect enlightenment, and that any behavior towards you is done in order to help you achieve it as well. I try to hold on to this thought when frustrated, angry, or sad. Breathing in and out and learning to practice patience, to smile when I am angry, to control my emotions and outbursts to the point of knowing how they shape me, instead of waking up one day, twenty years down the line, and realizing that I have no idea how I got there.

If I were to assume that you were perfectly enlightened then, what would I learn from you? I would learn to never shy away from how I am feeling, you saw my cowardice for what it was and held it up in ugly light. It is hardest to see your faults held in hands that you find completely perfect, there is nowhere else to look. You forced me to recognize my own worth, my own brilliance. It was the cruelest line you wrote to me in that letter, those compulsory days of solitude which we failed at so miserably. So much of that letter made me taste bitterness, realization that I had unfairly condemned you and worse off, reduced myself to this pathetic figure that I had always despised. My biggest fear is to realize that I am not brave, that in reality I am mundane, a person so castrated by trepidation that I lose out on anything worthwhile. Cowardice may not be honorable, but it is certainly safe. You always know where cowardice will take you. I was a coward when it came to love before because I was so fearful of being found out. If you forever hold people at arms length, all they see is a mystery and not a scared little girl begging for an excuse to just breathe the way she wants to. The former is much easier to maintain, albeit lonelier. I want a brave love, a person that is mine, that is proud of me and cannot wait to hold my hand. I refuse, however, to give to this love in any way. I tip toe around the ugly parts, soothe tempers and bite my tongue when upset. I must be easy, I must be simple, I must be perfect for whomever is laying next to me at the time. Once the first flowers fade I am already finding excuses to leave, discovering cracks in what I had painted to be a perfect picture, pitfalls that I do not even consider attacking. The only celebration we have, however, is that moment when we realize that we can no longer live in constant fear, that the darkness is suffocating, not soothing, and that with our hair a mess, and our eyes still sleepy, we grab whatever weapon we can and charge forward. I have found this lesson in you as well, because if you are lost, then the ground will shake and split open and I will fall in. So I will give you everything I have, I have no other option.

Finally, in you I learn what it means to rise to a challenge, confront demons. Force myself to stand up in the back of the truck and scream into the wind because I demand to be heard.

I love you madly, in that way that begs of you not love in return but rather, your scorn and your anger. I wish with fervent necessity to have that which is most base about you, if it is simply thrown at me with little regard to where it lands is fine. I demand you, every time I wrap thin fingers around yours it is with the childish hope that I will be able to capture some part of your essence that I swear is hiding from me. If I could have you in your weakest moments, when you are angry and out of control, when your perversions have captured you and you are enraged and engorged by things you cannot comprehend I will be happy. When you bend over me, naked and sullied with the dirty interactions of two people laughing at the cosmos with desperate desire and your eyes intensify while you look at me, give me that in all its completion. Give me that, and I will stop wreaking havoc on your perfect plans (I swear). I want to drag you outside in the rain and the mud, I don’t want to taste your lips in sweet kisses but rather tear at your skin until you bleed, broken and despondent. I want you, all your stupidity and imperfections, your anger, your repressed need to feel sanctioned and approved, your disastrous belief that you will find immortality through beauty.

Give me every dark corner of yourself and I swear I will be happy

I love you today.

Matilda


Letters to Asher (A Series)


asher

His name should not be capitalized. Not out of lack of respect, admiration, or love. Capitalizing a noun gives the assumption that it is tied to something concrete, or understood. He is none of these things.

Heaven has either decided to curse me or the fates have an extraordinarily cruel sense of humor. I have dreamt of him, tasted him for years, reached between my legs to feel that prohibitive moisture rise forward at the sensation of him being near me and yet, he lies next to me in this white bed and my hands seem to tremble in fear of their own desire. I attempt, over and over again, to explain to him how I feel. As if this simple naive art will be enough to enthrall and overwhelm him just for some measure of time. He’s never shown any form of terror to me, yet he has so much of mine. Those cold, breatheless nights when I wake up feeling that my life has ended, I am resentful of the fact that his hand calms me down.

If I were to leave him (or more likely, him me) would I have shaped him? Carved any small piece of him in a new way? I’m afraid of walking somewhere and not leaving any discernible trace, even though I may have lost my soul among those footsteps.

It was Borges, in his interminably frustrating wisdom that said “To fall in love is to create a religion with a fallible God”. I am raising my legs as temples to him and rewriting every book I own so they will sing his praises, and just like every other God ever imagined, he is above the clamor and the rude interruptions to his existence. But I would rather dedicate my life to the blinding slavery of faith to him than to exist as a cynic without him.

Matilda 


Strange Sensation


STRANGE SENSATION

I have a strange sensation that I’m going to die today. Some sort of a natural disaster is going to take my life, and it’s not going to be singular or important in any fashion. I think I’m not only going to die, but I’m going to be one of those numbers people read about in the newspaper. You know, ‘today a city bus overturned on I-405, killing fifteen people and injuring several more’. My family will be devastated, as will my friends. People who knew me will pretend they were better friends than we actually ever were and I won’t be around to be disdainful. In a few years most people (other than my family) will feel slight twinges of sadness when they think of me but they won’t feel me in them.

How depressing is that? It’s horrible. I don’t know why I feel that I’m going to die today. It’s a perfectly normal Wednesday, it might be singular in that its one of those perfect, beautiful fall days where the sun is out and the leaves are changing colors. Other than that, there are hundreds of Wednesdays just like today.

Except, of course, this premonition of being on the precipice of my own mortality. Facing my own mediocrity down is hard enough as is, I don’t need imminent death to make me realize how utterly insignificant I am. I get it, Universe, I really do. I am alone in a huge city. This man that I am in love with, just like all the other men except that he is himself. This man is hundreds of miles away, just a sort of quiet distant voice at the end of a telephone. In the face of this feeling, I am supposed to say no. No I am doing the right thing having moved away from him, grappling with an overwhelming loneliness, a sensation of despair that seems to tinge everything I do. Peels me raw so that I have to find again the callousness that marked me for the last six years. But all of this is more important than being in love. Love is superfluous at best. People claim it is what makes life worthwhile but looking around at them I notice that most people live their lives in search of a few fleeting moments of perfection, and fill in the rest with inanity. We exist in this vacuous continuum of spinning our wheels and shouting out how important we are.

If I die today, if the earth opens up and swallows me whole, I will miss a lot of things. I will miss the feeling of safety I get when I’m laying on the couch in my parents house and my dad puts a blanket over me and brings me ice cream while we watch criminal movies. I will miss talking to my mom while we take walks at 7 in the morning, telling this woman my secrets because I know she loves me more than her own life, a love I have yet to understand. I will miss laughing with my sister until we are both crying. I will miss running with Ella, drinking with Amy and rating women in bars. I will miss the smell of a car heater when you are driving on a really cold night and the way hot chocolate curls up into your nose. I will miss the anonymity of existence. I will miss his sweet smile when he is about to fall asleep, when he forgets to wear the armor of daily life and he is just listening to me read him old poetry about hellish punishments.

I will miss my legs burning after I have been running for too long, excusing me from feeling imperfect because look; I have exercised until it hurts. I will miss the edge in his voice, the impatience in his look. The way nothing is ever good enough, the quiet comparisons in his head between his life now and his life then. I will miss the utter sadness that I get when I hear his hesitation, because I want so badly to not feel that in someone. I will miss saying goodbye to my grandma in the airport, crying together because neither of us knows if we will see each other ever again. I will miss the taste of coffee in the morning when no one is around and I don’t have to worry about my face being puffy or my legs not being shaved. I will miss hearing the pride in my dads voice when I tell him about my accomplishments, miss the feeling of being completely loved.

I will regret not having had children. I will regret not telling him that I would do anything for him, I would leave this program and finish closer to him, I would transfer to anywhere if he asked it. I will regret not telling Aaron that I loved him so much, that I wanted him to be my husband, and that when I realized that he would never live up to being the man I needed him to be my heart broke into ten million pieces because even I couldn’t love him enough to do that for him. I will regret not telling my sister that I forgave her, that I hoped she forgave me. I will regret not having told my parents how much I loved them, how much they inspired me to live my life with grace and compassion. I will regret not being honest with him, not telling him when he was pushing too much, being too cruel. I will regret not having found someone who saw me, loved me, wanted a life with me.

I will regret never having tried to become a writer. I will regret not calling Kathryn more, or emailing Annette back. I will regret not having gotten together with Maggie more often. I will regret the million and one times I sat in front of my mirror, sobbing until I couldn’t breathe, wishing against everything that I could take a knife and cut off my pieces of my body, I wish I could take back all those moments and revel in the incredible beauty of my limbs. I will regret the times I faked an orgasm instead of just admitting I wasn’t enjoying the night and asking the man to leave. I will regret the instances when I said “I love you” when I didn’t really mean it, just to appease the ego of an idiotic boy. More than that I will regret the times I didn’t say ‘I love you” when my whole heart was screaming it and my world needed to be ripped open by it but I held back because I was convinced that behaving that intensely would be ‘too much’ for the other person.

I will regret ever having felt that my intensity was something to apologize for. I will regret having toned myself down, explained away emotions, rationalized tears in silence, let myself get swept away by the bullshit rhetoric of a man who has lost the capacity to feel.

But, truth be told, I have felt this all before, on other days in other ways, and most likely the day will end and I will still be among the living.  Thankfully, joyfully, among the living and I will have time to tell the ones I love what I need them to hear and time to not repeat those errors that I feel have lessened my soul.

~Matilda~ 



The Welcome Post


We are two women living in Weird Town, U.S.A. combatting the daily struggle of existence through friendship, laughter, wine, and the all important art of writing. Join us as we discuss anything and everything under the sun in an attempt to understand the world around us and strengthen ourselves through creativity.


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