Dropping Weights.

When I was younger, and things were much simpler, I just didn't give a shit about anything. I worried about me, and nobody else (besides my family). I didn't even start pulling decent grades until high school, and not because anyone told me I was headed down the shitty path (though plenty of people did). I simply started doing the work because I figured colleges cared about grades, even if I didn't.

I always wanted to just...be. Especially in the last two years....from mid-2009 to November 2010 I basically existed within the confines if a deep, dark depression. There were days that were so bad I didn't have the strength to get out of bed, let alone feed myself anything more than a bowl of rice. If I was lucky enough to get a Netflix that day, I'd lie on the couch and escape into a world that didn't exist for a while. Anything to get away from the despair I felt in my own life. I didn't sleep, I began to hate my own bedroom because all I did at night was stare at the ceiling and wish for the refuge of sleep that never came. Some nights I dragged my blankets out into the living room and just lay on the couch, channel surfing until I found something dull enough to put me to sleep. Not only did I give a shit, but I carried it all around with me, like some sort of ugly piece of heavy jewelry, that rattled with every step, reminding me of its presence.

I hated the fact that I felt anything, because all that I felt SUCKED. I had no job and kept failing at finding one. No boyfriend (which I don't mourn, but I did then). I had barely enough money to pay the rent, and some months I scraped by purely by the grace of God. And worst of all, Raul, a 19-year old boy with hopes and dreams and deeper faith than anyone I knew, was dead. Nothing made sense.

One early morning over a year ago, after another night of lying in bed and weeping, I got up and turned on the TV. There was nothing on (in English, anyway), but I clicked on, hoping to find something with at least some kind of storyline. I finally stopped on one of the many Jesus channels, on some sort of sketch act that actually seemed amusing. The two actors went through several scenarios depicting ways that people accumulate baggage during their lifetimes, and that in order to be productive and functional and happy, one needed to drop all the baggage (illustrated by actual heavy bags one of the actors carried around) and move on. Their main point was that one did this with the help of God. I wished to be someone who could simply drop it all.

Almost by instinct, I walked to my dresser, where in a top drawer, hidden by knick knacks, I had a small, hand-painted, heart-shaped box. Inside was a pair of earrings, in my birthstone. Anthony gave them to me for my birthday. As I stood there and gazed at the little box in my hand, I realized that I felt nothing for the box, nor the original gifter. I immediately felt that I needed to get rid of the box and its contents as soon as possible, but I didn't want to throw them away, nor did I want to be so heartless as to pawn them. On impulse, I grabbed my car keys and drove to the best place I could think of: Anthony's mom's house.

(I know what you're thinking. I'm kind of insane for driving to my ex boyfriend's mom's house at 5 o'clock in the morning. I probably was and I don't question my mindset at that time. I wasn't well and I don't pretend that I was. And that's that.)

When I got there, I ran up to the porch and dropped the box in the mailbox on the porch. No note, no explanation for how or why they got there. I wasn't looking for drama or fanfare...I simply didn't want them anymore. I quickly ran back to my car and drove home. As I got back on the freeway questioning my sanity, I was overcome with a feeling of...weightlessness. Like I had just shed a 50 pound weight in the span of less than an hour. I couldn't quite figure it out. Was it truly insanity? Joy? Or simply sleep deprivation? No idea.

I got home, went back to my spot on the couch and laid down again. On my phone were a couple of messages from two friends; one old, and a new one that would change my life in ways I couldn't ever imagine (though I didn't know it at the time). They could wait. As I finally, finally drifted off to sleep, I drowsily smiled to myself as I realized what that feeling was.

It was the first inklings of freedom.

I have friends! Yay! I feel slightly less loser-rific!

Standing on the verge of some great truth
Where I’m finally in my place
But I’m fumbling still for truth
And it’s cluttering my space
Casting shadows on my face.

I live my life by music. My car is full of CDs and the radio is always on. I can’t work out or run unless I have my IPod, and I have 10 years of choir under my belt. These past two years, I slowly put together a playlist of songs that resonated with pretty much every emotion I felt. It was usually what I listened to when I’d lie on the couch in a ball and cry, stare blankly at the ceiling, or (and I confess this with difficulty), lie in bed at night and contemplate the possibility of not waking up, and thinking it wouldn’t be so bad. (*NOTE* Don't freak out on me people. No one needs to be talking me off of a ledge anytime soon. While I did wish to just go to sleep and never wake up, it never crossed my mind to take a proactive approach to it. Calm yo ass down.)

And though I have the strength to move a hill
I can hardly leave my room
So I’ll sit perfectly still
And I’ll listen for a tune
While my mind is on the moon

One in particular is a song I heard in an indie flick, Away We Go, with Maya Rudolph and John Krazynski. Pretty much as soon as we left the theater, my sister and I went and got the soundtrack (translation: she bought it on ITunes, and I subsequently stole it in one of my periodical pillages of her laptop. Shut up.). Anyway, the name of the song is called Wait, by Alexi Murdoch. To me, the song asked the all-important question of, when the shit hits the fan, and I just can’t be this awesome person for you, will you still be here for me when I need you? Will you wait for me?

If I stumble, and if I stall
And if I slip now, and if I should fall?
And if I can’t be, all that I could be
Will you, will you wait for me?

I loved this song when I first heard it on the soundtrack. And it struck a chord in me later when I asked someone that very question, and his answer turned out to be no, he would not. For a time he feigned attempts to stay in my corner, but truthfully he was slowly backing out of my life until he finally turned tail and ran. And that’s regrettable. Devastating at the time, but I have grown so cold and distant to that particular chapter in my life that I can’t help but feel only distant anger mixed in with pity.

‘Cause everywhere I seem to be
I am only passing through
I dream these days about the sea
I always wake up feeling blue
Wishing I could dream of you.

At the same time, there are others who I asked the same question, and their answer was (and I get the feeling it always will be) that they would. If I have learned anything these last two years, it’s that you truly do find out who your friends are when you are at your lowest moments. The ones who force you to go to the gym and sweat out your misery (Buckner), the ones who surround you with new faces and new possibilities (Therese), the ones who go out and get ice cream or cheap steak with you at midnight (Rick-Nachooooo!), the ones who will drive through LA 5:00 traffic just so you can see the bench from 500 Days of Summer (Brian), the ones who will listen to you on the phone when you call with hysterical tears (my fabulous Nino!), the ones who invite you over for dinner and let you cry on the couch (Anne, Vanessa and Lucy). Even those who, if they didn’t live in Oregon, would show up at your door, slap you in the face and tell you to quit being such a whiny pendeja and shut up already (do I really need to name names with this one?). Anyfuckingway, before this gets all Oscar-Acceptance speech-ish (it already kinda is. Should I be wearing a dress instead of a Transformers T-shirt and jeans I've had since high school?), All of the party people I just named are full of The Awesome. There is a special place in my rotten, dessicated little heart for all of them, and as soon as I win me the lottery, I will buy them all some hookers and booze.

So if I stumble, and if I fall
And if I slip now, and lose it all?
And if I can’t be, all that I could be
Will you, will you wait for me?

(Ed Note: Don't ask me what brought this on all of a sudden. It's a temporary moment of insanity where I show emotions for some reason so just take it as is.)

Un Rinconcito en el Cielo

I fucking hate funerals.

I know this is a redundant statement, because in all honesty, who (besides morticians, funeral directors and just creepy people in general) likes them? It’s like a really bad party where everyone gets together to reminisce and cry about the stiff, regardless of whether they were a good person or a worthless shitbag.

In my lifetime I have only been to six funerals, and yes, they were ALL good people. I would not have gone if they hadn’t been. I am sometimes honest to a fault, and I despise hypocrisy. I have said before that when certain people (who I have the great misfortune of being related to) snuff it, I’ll subsequently throw a party to celebrate that they are no longer around to poison society. At the very least I might attend the funeral to make sure they are dead.

Two months ago, I went to the memorial service of a dear, dear friend who was practically family. During the service, people were asked to share any stories or memories they had. This led to several church members approaching the pulpit to talk about how much of an inspiration Raul was, how strong he was in his faith, what a firm believer he was, etc. This I will not, or ever, challenge. In the face of a terrible and, eventually losing battle, Raul was strong and never lost faith that God was with him, no matter what was going to happen. He was a great kid and would have made a great police officer.

As a child, Raul was a right pain in the ass.

My parents were the best man and matron of honor at Raul’s parents’ wedding. My only memories of that day were waiting FOREVER at the park for the goddamn pictures to be taken already, and getting my chair upchucked (with me still in it, thank you very much) by some drunken fat guy trying to catch the garter. That shit hurt. Fucker. Anydangway, we have pretty much known Raul since his in-utero days. He was an adorable kid with eyes full of mischief, chubby cheeks and a bucktoothed smile that told you he was up to something and you’d better damn well run or hide the valuables.

Whenever my parents announced Raul and his parents were coming over, we’d groan internally and quickly go through the house, putting the breakable stuff on high shelves and locking our bedroom doors so we wouldn’t get our stuff stained, broken or set on fire. He is the only four-year old I have ever seen ride a full-sized mountain bike. He was driving before I even got my learner’s permit and left more girlfriends than I can count. He repeatedly asked my dad when they were going to steal a cow and make tacos.

Once, when I was around 8 or 9 years old, I was lying on the living room floor on my back watching TV. Raul was about 3 or so, and consequently weighed about thirty pounds, or whatever the average weight is for a toddler. Cue the running jump on little toddler feet, followed by a powerful leap, landing a perfect cannonball on my exposed torso. I deflated like a Goodyear slashed by a crazy ex, and at that moment, truly understood the meaning of ‘having the wind knocked out of you’, except it felt more like ‘having the wind (and any other internal organs) mercilessly pounded out of you by an insane and rabid child’.

He was stubborn, mischievous, occasionally obnoxious, always entertaining. He was also sweet, brave, and unfailingly kind.

I will always think of him as my guardian angel.