Boring but FREE

Oh right. I have a blog.

No… I didn’t forget. I have no excuse for not posting. It’s not like I’ve been super busy and nothing bad has happened. I just didn’t think I had anything interesting to say. Frankly, I felt downright boring.

One interesting thing did happen this week. A friend of mine was hospitalized again at the local psych hospital. It’s the same hospital where I did an outpatient, partial hospitalization day program – and where I met her.

I have a student very close to her house, so on Tuesday I offered to pick up some toiletries for her and bring them to the hospital. Today she was discharged and I picked her up and drove her home.

Both times, when was in the psych unit, I was struck by how depressing a place it is. Even though I’ve been hospitalized three times (once for a week, once for a month, and once for three months) I tend to forget.

I forget about the constant florescent lighting, the recycled air and the non-operable windows. I forget how sad the family members look when they’re visiting. I forget how noticeably loud that door sounds when it locks you in. I forget how much it hurts to see the staff leave at the end of the shift – to realize every eight hours that they have the privilege of a life in the real world and YOU don’t.

Each time I left this week, I took a tiny, secret delight each time they buzzed me out. They’re letting me leave, I thought! And when I got home… whew! This apartment may irritate me, but wow. What a delight to have a home and to be allowed to live in it.

Oh, and I'm not a Protestant either.

Our homework assignment this week in DBT was to write down things we want people to know about us. I thought about it all week. There are things I’m proud of… things I’m ashamed of… things I guess I’d like people to know about. But mentioning them seemed more like bragging. So I started thinking about what I REALLY wanted the group to know. Then it came to me.

I want them to know that I’m not what I seem.

I think people see me and think that I’m easily understood. Maybe they see a stereotype, a cliché. I look like a WASPy, white bread, upper middle-class girl from the northeast. Someone who got a degree in liberal arts and has generally had life handed to her on a platter. But that’s not true (well, not entirely… I did get the liberal arts degree.)

I’ve always felt that people have misread me. In the past, people have taken an almost visceral dislike to me. Some people have thought I’m snooty because I’m usually well spoken. Some people have thought I was manipulative or needy because I have this mental illness. But what really bothers me were the people who didn’t dislike me… they just didn’t GET me.

What they don’t see is that there have been these huge rifts, these huge extremes in my life. Hell, these make it hard for me to understand myself

For example, there’s a big difference between my background and my education. My parents may be wealthy now, but my mom’s family is straight out of Appalachia. That whole side of my family has had little education or comfort. I grew up in a very rural town and had a somewhat… primitive childhood; think homespun, old-fashioned.

On the flip side, I’ve had these fantastic opportunities because of my education. I’ve met fascinating and important people. I sang with Dave Brubeck, I got to go inside a nuclear reactor (before it was running) when I was eight. I’ve been to the top of the Parachute Jump at Coney Island (doing an architectural survey).

But the biggest discrepancy by far, between how I look and who I am lies strictly within the confines of my head.

A lot of the time, I think I look normal or sane on the outside and feel completely insane on the inside. I’ve felt this way my whole life. When I was hospitalized or in a residential program, I finally felt like I belonged; like I was surrounded by like minds. I finally felt comfortable.

tap-a, tap-a, tap-a...

So last night, my husband and I were sitting on the couch, chatting. I was tapping my fingers.

As usual.

I've always compulsively tapped my fingers, usually in time to some repetitive jingle or rhythm that gets caught in my head. It's like I'm working out fingering on the piano (I'm a musician). Sometimes, it's been a problem. When I've performed on stage with various music ensembles, I've had to hide my hands or force myself to just stop tapping. I didn't realize this until kids in middle school used to tease me about it.

Last night, I didn't even notice that I was tapping.

"Why are you tapping your fingers?" My husband asked.

"I dunno... " I said. "I'm just tapping."

"I don't buy it." He said. "When you tap your fingers, it means you're thinking about something. It's like when the cat twitches her tail... it's hardwired to her brain. When you tap your fingers, it's a little warning sign. And when you think too much, your thoughts build up until your head explodes and every thing's covered with the bits."

If the man didn't already have a phd, that comment alone would qualify him for an honorary doctorate in psychology.

Personality Disorder + gift with string attached = hate^3

I hate, hate, HATE the fact that life exhausts me so much.

We went car shopping today. I managed to look sane in front of strangers. In front of my husband, well, I’m sure I looked a bit more… unhinged.

On Monday night, my husband went online and submitted a request for price quotes from dealers who had the car we are interested in. Six emailed us back by Tuesday morning. Most of the emails didn’t include a price quote and didn’t say whether or not the even HAD the car. I found this troubling and didn’t know how to proceed.

What if the first dealer we talked to was right and nobody had this car on the lot? We’d have to order the car and pay full price. That would not please the people who are paying for the car… namely, my parents. I hate, hate, HATE this process, I kept saying. Buying a car with their money feels very stressful. Maybe it wouldn’t bother others, but if you knew how judgmental my parents are, you’d get it.

--- --- ---

Finally, on Thursday, I worked up my courage and emailed the dealers back. I said that if they had the car and told me how much they wanted for it, I’d come in this weekend and talk to them. I asked them to EMAIL me back.

Three called. One of the callers didn’t really have the car I was looking for, so I made appointments to go see the other two callers today. This morning, we drove out to the first one in the East Bay. We took a test drive and I liked the way the car handled.

It turned out that he really didn’t have the color with leather seats like we were looking for, but everything was pleasant enough. He looked around and thought he could get one for us.

Great, we said, here’s the price to beat.

He beat it.

Great, we said, make sure you can get it.

He got it.

Great, we said, here’s a deposit. We’ll be back to do the paperwork.

No, his manager said, we won’t take a deposit. You have to do the paperwork RIGHT NOW.

Uh… no, we said, we have to get our finances in order and frankly it’s a $30k purchase. We require 24 hours to make sure we’re happy with this decision. (and honestly, we needed to shop his price around a bit and see if we could beat it.)

No, the manager said. Paperwork. Now.

Good bye, we said, and walked out.

--- --- ---

So, we drove over to Target. Where I tried not to have a panic attack about the whole thing. I started in with the familiar negative thoughts:

What if the first dealer we talked to was right…?
Nobody has this car on the lot…
What if we have to order the car…?
My parents are going to think I’m stupid because I can’t buy a car…
I hate, hate, HATE this.

But… one dealer in the North Bay actually READ my email and emailed me back as I requested. He said that he’d be getting the car I wanted in a week and would hold it for me with a deposit. So as soon as I got out of the East Bay dealership, I called him up. Yes, it was the car I wanted. Yes, he could go slightly lower in price than the East Bay dealer. Yes, he’d actually TAKE a deposit (what a concept). Done.

--- --- ---

When we got home, we called my parents to tell them the news. My dad was less than exuberant. “Well, that’s $1k less than the MSRP. But the dealer’s still making $2k. Are you sure he’s not adding on a bunch of extra fees? Make sure he’s not adding a cleaning or polishing fee. And what’s he giving you for the trade in?”

I don’t know dad, I said. It’s probably not gonna be the $6 or $7k you want… the car’s got a small dent on one side. And it’s got 95,000 miles on it.

“Yeah, I know” he said. “These guys are all crooks. If they try to give you less than $5k, then you gotta be prepared to walk outta there and wait for someone else. These slime balls… “

And as he launched into another rant, my negative thoughts came marching in…

What if the first dealer we talked to was right…?
Nobody has this car on the lot...
What if we have to order the car…?
My parents are going to hate me…

“Aren’t you excited about all this?” I heard him say. “You’re getting a brand-new car!”

I hate, hate, HATE this.

*update: right after I finished typing this, I got a call from another dealer. He'll give me the same model for slightly less. Sigh. Now I guess I have to pit him against the North Bay dealer to see who will give me the better trade in price. Oh, that'll be fun. I can see it now... this guy won't want to hold the car for me while I run off and see what the North Bay guy'll give me...

depression + PMS + cranky = meme

Since I've been in a bit of a funk this week (depression + PMS + cranky) I haven't blogged much. Thus, I'll resort to a meme.

10 Firsts

1. First best friend: Anonymous Mom (met when we were 1, friends when we were 2)
2. First car: 1985 Oldsmobile Cutlass Cruiser wagon with bench naugahide seats. The thing had a V-8 engine and idled at 20mph.
3. First love: according to my mom, Mr. Strobitzky, my art teacher in 2nd grade.
4. First vacation: Nantucket… I think?
5. First job: assistant counselor at a YMCA camp in New England.
6. First piercing: none!
7. First concert: I’m almost too ashamed to admit… Huey Lewis and the News somewhere back in the 80’s.
8. First record/cd bought: something classical probably.
9. First real love: an art history professor from London at the YMCA camp. At least he married the girl he left me for.
10. First screen name: Juniper

9 Latest

1. Latest beverage: drinking Calistoga sparkling water as I type.
2. Latest car ride: home from tutoring in Tiburon tonight.
3. Latest movie watched: I went to see “Because I Said So” on Monday. It was ok, not great. Mostly, I was annoyed because all the characters have impossibly nice apartments.
4. Latest phone call made: called UT to reserve a room. I’m joining my husband on an interview trip in a couple weeks so I can ski for FOUR days!
5. Latest jacuzzi bath: hmmm… long time ago.
6. Latest played cd: CD? I think we actually played a P-Funk CD while setting up the Christmas tree.
7. Latest time you cried: Almost every day this week! Again.
8. Latest meal: Reheated leftover pizza for dinner. We were tired.
9. Latest curse: Dunno. I’m sure I swore sometime today though.

8 Things You Wear (I’m assuming they mean on a regular basis)

1. Do contacts count?
2. Trying to start wearing a bit of foundation. Makes me look less blotchy all the time.
3. Underwear & bra
4. Wedding & engagement rings
5. Socks. It’s been too cold lately.
6. Watch
7. I’m trying to wear shoes that make me look taller.
8. A scowl.

7 Have You Ever

1. Dated one of your best friends: yes. Married him.
2. Been arrested: yes
3. Fallen in love at first sight: yup. My husband.
4. Been in a TV program: no
5. Had your heart broken: yes. See above British professor.
6. Said you love someone without meaning it: no
7. Made a prank phone call: probably.

6 Things You’ve Done Today

1. Tutored the SAT.
2. Went to my depression support group.
3. Watched 2 episodes of The Simpsons, of course.
4. Read part of the New York Times.
5. Wrote work emails I should’ve ignored until next week.
6. Showered.

5 Favorite Things

1. Sushi
2. Joni Mitchell
3. Grey cats
4. Sleeping
5. Being in the woods

4 People I Can Tell Anything

1. Psychiatrist
2. Therapist
3. Best Friends
4. Husband

3 Choices

1. Black or white? Black
2. Summer or winter? Summer (provided I have some shade)
3. Chocolate or chips? Chips

2 things to do Before You Die

1. Be a parent
2. Finish my book

1 Thing You Regret

1. Getting arrested (and the things I did to get arrested)

Something you could happily do an infinite number of times:

• Wake up next to my husband

assume = ass + u + me

For homework in DBT this week, we were asked to observe and describe various situations. One reason we do this is to compare these descriptions to our own, internal assumptions. We all make assumptions about our experiences - but they're not always correct.

Sunday AM:
OBSERVE: I felt self conscious and insecure while tutoring my noon client.

ASSUMPTIONS: I am a lousy tutor, a lousy adult and an even lousier woman. Also, this is not one of the families who treat me like an educator. They treat me like hired help.

DESCRIBE: I was late because I couldn't find parking. I was surprised when I saw that the student lived in a very modern loft-like building in a very trendy area of town. He looked neat, thin, and kinda athletic. I was wearing old pants and a fleece that were very loose. My hair was still damp from a shower and I wasn't wearing any makeup. I started to think that I looked fat and frumpy. He briefly introduced me to his dad. I started comparing myself to the dad who I saw as a "real" adult. The kid acted unsure of what to expect... he didn't know how much tutoring he wanted. I started worrying that I was talking too much. I forgot to introduce myself and tell the kid about my background. The kid is very smart and I wasn't quite sure what help I could be to him. He was already getting a 780 on the verbal section.

REALITY: Both the kid and I were a little unprepared and uncomfortable. Things'll probably go smoother next time. And I'll wear a nicer outfit so I feel more professional. It wasn't such a big deal and I don't need to beat myself up over it.

February fourth. Best day of the year.

Arthur's Seat. Kinda looks like a camel, doesn't it?

Tomorrow’s our anniversary. Not our wedding anniversary, or the anniversary of our engagement, but the day we became a couple. Eleven years ago, I met him on a hike to the top of Arthur's Seat in Edinburgh. We were both studying abroad on the edge of the North Sea in Scotland.

My husband fit the image of an Irishman, intense and enigmatic. He was infamous for being opinionated and funny. I thought he seemed too smart, too confident for twenty-two. A tormented writer, he claimed his work turned to crap the instant it hit the paper. You got the sense that he would be very famous, although his disposition suggested his fame might arrive posthumously.

The second week of school, we went sightseeing. We walked down the wide Georgian streets of New-Town and up the hill to the famous kirkyard overlooking the castle. The granite buildings seemed relaxed with their plumbing hanging out their backsides. At the National Museum we sat by the pools of carp under the nineteenth century glass arcade. In the mediaeval cathedral, a small, old man approached and asked where we were from. When we told him we were from New York the man showed us a plaque donated by a New Yorker. I watched my husband listening patiently and realized how proud I'd be if we were a couple.

The next week, my husband helped me buy a bike and I lent him the use of my laptop. We spent a week of evenings together. We sat up drinking and I’d play with his feet. One night I had a dream we were married. Finally, on February fourth, I kissed him. The first time, it was the way you kiss a corpse, softly, slowly, and on the forehead. I thought, if I marry this man, and spend the rest of my life with him, I might kiss him for the last time in the same way.

For our first weekend trip we went to Glasgow. We both had grandparents born there. My grandfather had been a steam-hammer man and his had owned a brass works. I’d read about how dire the tenements had been. I remembered the tintype pictures of blackened oval staircases hanging from ship's steel and rust. The narrow closes filled with washing hung from every window and the buildings coated with coal dust, too heavy for the ocean gales to blow away. The tenements had been torn down but we saw the rows of warehouses and "to let" signs. The streets led to no great cities, only thousands more granite houses with walled gardens and sodium lamps that paced out, up to the tops of the hills.

Back in Edinburgh, we liked to walk through the residential streets by our dorm. The tiny stone houses squeezed into plots of land that could be more than a sixteenth of an acre. Hand in hand, we analyzed the gardens, talked to dogs, and described what sort of house we'd like to live in. We paused at one window, looking at a room filled with bookcases and plants and deep red walls. The street signs were bolted into the granite walls.

One night, we found ourselves back at Arthur's Seat, sitting in the tall scrub. It was June, but cool, and he put his jacket around me. He told me about his family as we watched the castle lights. We were so far north that the sky never really got dark. It always stayed a deep indigo blue.

We spent Sundays in bed that year, watching the slanting sun while we fooled around. I knew that I'd remember these days when I was old and know that this was what it felt like to be twenty-one. I lived abroad and fell deeply in love with a very kind and interesting man.

Wise-Ass Onesie Wednesday (a day late)