Let's give 'em something to talk about

In the past week I've been emailing a lot of people, trying to make a lot of plans for our upcoming adventures. As a result, I've had the opportunity to read emails that other people sent about me. I didn't have to sneak around to read these - they were attached to replies or cc'd to me.

But reading them left me feeling strange, nonetheless. I assume people don't talk about me much - I'm not that interesting. But it felt odd to see what people say about me, even when they know I'm listening:

Example 1: from my mom to a friend who works at the Hawaii Tourism Bureau

"Hi J!

[paragraph of pleasantries deleted]

Our daughter and son-in-law will be moving from the west coast back to the east coast this summer. Our son-in-law just finished his post-doctorate work in the Bay Area. They have had a long struggle getting to this point. He will be going on to Very Famous University in the fall now. They’d like to take a much needed vacation to Hawaii, where neither have ever been, before leaving the west coast, in celebration of all their hard work. They’ve been at this for about eight years. Our daughter, Juniper, will be in touch with you soon to get some suggestions from you about where they should go. Any help that you can give them will be much appreciated by them and by us.

[more pleasantries] Hope all is well with you.

Best regards,

Juniper’s mom"

My thoughts: Jeez mom! "long struggle," "all their hard work," "at this for eight years!" You make it sound like we've been on a chain gang! OK granted, the past eight years have been hard, but the way she tells it, my husband barely managed to get by!


Example 2: letter from my husband's therapist to a friend of his in New England:

"Dear L,

I have a patient who is moving with his wife to take a job at Very Famous University. I’ve treated him for three years, with moderate success. V and I also treated his wife in group therapy for a time.

She is a borderline personality who has responded well to intense treatment and will be looking for a therapist in town. I would very much appreciate referrals for her. As you can appreciate, confidentiality is a high priority. Thanks.

Hope you and M are enjoying your summer,

B"

My thoughts: uh, apparently I've become a new kind of species: "A Borderline Personality." I know this is the way a lot of docs talk but can't I at least have a diagnosis? Do I have to BE my disorder?

My husband's reaction: "I've only had moderate success? What's he talking about?!"

Me: "Well, I wouldn't know since I've responded well..."

The Circle Game

Drum roll please…

We’ve made a decision. My husband took the job at Very Famous University (VFU) in New England. We would’ve preferred to stay on the west coast but none of those universities made him offers. Still, after we visited VFU a few weeks ago, it quickly became our first choice. It just felt right… familiar… like coming home. Literally.

You see, my husband grew up less than 50 miles from VFU. My hometown is less than 25 miles away. Most of our family and friends live just an hour or two away. When we moved to the Bay area in ’99 we tried to keep in touch, to visit at least once a year. But it’s taken a lot of effort. And a lot of the time we’ve felt pretty isolated. We’ve envied our friends who have the support of an extended family nearby.

I’m still scared to be leaving California, my therapists, my friends, my colleagues. But knowing that we won’t be so alone in our new home - it removes a lot of the anxiety. And, at our house, anything we can do to reduce anxiety is a good thing because we… we've been a little out of our minds with the stress of having to make such a big decision.

I can't believe we're going back home. My husband and I have lived in so many towns, so many states, even a couple of countries. I almost can't believe we have a home. It's surreal and eerie and kind of nice. It's like that song I've known since I was small... the one with the lyrics I can sing without even having to remember:

And the seasons, they go round and round
And the painted ponies go up and down.
We're captive on a carousel of time.
We can’t return, we can only look
Behind from where we came
And go round and round and round
In the circle game.

- Joni Mitchell

Summer & Shame: part 4 - Full Circle

But in the long run, I doubt the people at my camp would remember much about my troubled childhood. Maybe, somewhere in some file, it says that I was clingy and needy and troubled. But I’m sure there were lots of kids who wanted more attention from their counselors. Besides, it all happened so long ago… such ancient history.

But when I got into my late teens, I became a staff member. Whenever I wasn’t in school, I was working there. Those are some of the memories I cherish and regret the most. There are a lot of quirky kids in the world, but I was a needy, clingy, troubled young woman. In retrospect, I wonder if it was glaringly obvious.

I’d always planned to do the counselor-training program when I turned fifteen. It seemed like the perfect summer job; to become the strong role model I’d always looked up to. There was only one problem. I’d spent the spring in a locked psychiatric unit. My parents warned me that the camp might not want to employ me with such a history. When we called to ask the camp director said it was no problem. They trusted me – heck, they’d known me forever. My parents were slightly amazed but let me go.

It was wonderful. For the first time in months I was taking care of myself. At the end of the summer, I went camping alone, up in the hemlock forest for a couple of nights. It was part of the program, a test of our survival skills. At night, the sky was barely blue and everything else was black. I couldn’t see my sleeping bag just a foot away. The ground below felt hollow, layered with soft, brown needles. It was still warm and the air smelled clean, like the trees. I listened to the crickets and the rest of the world down by the lake. I felt strangely confident. I hadn’t just survived the hospitalization - I wanted to live.

For the next four summers, I was a full counselor. I loved being in charge. When the kids paid attention I taught them rappelling, respect, and the breaststroke. I became captain of the lifeguard team; my shoulders tanned while I watched the kids and twirled my whistle around my fingers. My hair hung almost to my waist and around my neck I wore a large green stone on a leather cord. I cuddled my girls through thunderstorms and gave them my hot dog when theirs fell in the campfire. At night, my campers climbed into their small bunks and I sang Joni Mitchell songs by flashlight. On nights off, the staff all went bowling or drank beer at bonfires in the woods. I had a station wagon so I was frequently the driver. The only time the police hassled us I was sitting in the back seat and they didn’t ask my age.

I wanted to look like I didn’t need anyone to take care of me. But inside, I desperately wanted a boyfriend – anyone – to love me. Every summer I’d try to find the right guy and wind up with a loser or someone who’d dump me in the fall. There was Chris, the drunk from Maine who never let me go all the way with him. There was Eric, the Trekkie who played the trombone in the marching band. There was the art history professor from London who I feel deeply in love with. On our weekends off we’d stay in nice hotels or go to Greenwich Village on the train. After we’d fool around, he’d order tea from room service and we’d drink it in our underwear. I fantasized about moving to London, about marrying him and having a home together. When I went back to college that fall, I went straight to the study abroad office and got brochures for all the London Universities. He met the woman he would later marry and dumped me via airmail.

My last summer at camp, I started wondering if I was barking up the wrong tree. Our director had just come out of the closet and I’d always wanted her to like me. One night while we were sitting around the campfire I told her that I thought I might be interested in girls. Then a week later, I hooked up with Joe, the counselor from Namibia. He was fun to work with - a charmer with an Afrikaans accent. I wasn’t attracted to his long thinning hair but he told great stories about Africa; Zulus, Victoria Falls, elephants, wildlife preserves. We stayed together through the fall but when I cut off his comb-over and I still wasn’t attracted to him, I ended it.

By that point, I was twenty and embarrassed. There had been too many boyfriends, too many cries for help. After all the different personas and personalities I’d tried, how could I look anyone in the face? Surely, I had lost everyone’s respect. I never went back to camp. And I never forgave myself for ruining my home away from home.

Until…

well, until I wrote all this and saw just how innocent it really was. I was very young and I was struggling. I did the best I could. I’m sure the people at camp didn’t notice a lot of what I was going through. And what they did notice, I’m sure they didn’t mind because… well, I think they cared about me.

Summer & Shame: part 3 - The Cape

When I turned 13, I decided to go on the camp’s teen adventure trip, cycling up the length of Cape Cod. When I arrived at camp that July, the other teens were flirting and figuring out who would hook up first. I surveyed the situation and decided that the best I could hope for was a big, plain wrestler named Matt. He was a meathead, but he liked me and we made out in the back of the van on our way to the Cape.

The first night out, we camped in a scrubby forest in Sandwich. In the sandy soil, the trees grew short and twisted. Narrow paths crisscrossed throughout the vegetation, each one looking alike. I tried to navigate my bike through the maze but I got lost. I rode faster and faster in the dusk, panicking, convinced I’d never find my way back to camp. Later that night, safe in my tent, I felt like I might cry just thinking about it.

The next day we loaded up our bikes and left our vans behind. We rode across the fat, bicep part of the cape and stopped for the night at Nickerson State Park. After we pitched our tents and ate, we wandered around the place. There were strange abandoned buildings everywhere. It wasn't clear if the place had been a summer camp or a sketchy amusement park. We found an old bandstand so we climbed onstage and dangled our legs over the edge. It was pitch black and windy. All kinds of creaking and snapping noises came from the woods. The guys teased us by telling stories about ghosts and ax murderers until we screamed and ran off the stage.

Matt caught up with me and led me by the hand with his flashlight to a large building. The swinging door slammed shut behind us. It was an old gymnasium. We couldn't see much, but our sneaker squeaks resonated around the high ceiling. We lay down in the middle of the basketball court and I didn't say a word. We kissed for a while and I let Matt put his hand up my shirt. I could feel him on my leg and I pressed up hard against him. Soon, my shirt and Matt's pants were lying next to us. Suddenly, someone slammed through the screen door. Hey, the voice yelled, bouncing around loudly for a second. A flashlight scanned the floor and the person asked, 'who's in here?’ It was our counselor. He spoke our names and told us to get out. He sounded disappointed and annoyed.

I ran back my tent with my bra stuffed in my hand and collapsed, face up onto my sleeping bag. Oh god, I thought. I was so angry with myself. Now my counselors were going to think I was just a slutty little idiot. But that wasn't me. It was some version of me I’d created to impress the other kids. The real me went to camp to be ‘one’ with the woods. Why did I want to impress these stupid kids anyway? Just because they seemed cooler than me didn’t mean I had to completely change myself to match. I didn't see how I could do this trip now that my counselors had seen both versions of me. I couldn't be two different people at the same time.

My friend was still asking me if I was ok, but I didn't feel like talking. I started to think about how close we were to the ocean. I could walk down there, straight into the water. Maybe I could probably drown myself if I got out far enough. How would I keep myself from floating? The scene played like a film, over and over. By now, my friend had called for the female counselor to come over. She poked her head through the flap and asked me what was going on. I didn't respond to her either. I just concentrated on the noise of the wind and blocked out the sound of their voices.

Eventually, I realized that time must have passed because my friend was asleep. I didn’t want to let myself move or think, otherwise the momentum might carry me to the beach. My mind played thoughts like dreams, while I lay awake. When it started to get light, I knew we'd need to pack up and leave soon. Mary looked in to say good morning and to ask if Matt could talk to me. I tried my mouth and was surprised to see that it still worked. No, I said, I don't want to have a boyfriend anymore.

Outside, I could hear Matt swear, and then swear again louder like he was in pain. My friend dashed in delighted to tell me that Matt had punched a tree and had maybe broken his hand. Slowly, I got myself sitting up, then standing, and walked over to the campfire where everyone was eating. I still wasn't talking much. I was wondering what it meant that I was thinking about suicide again. The last time I’d entertained the thought was five years earlier, in the fourth grade, when I was eight.

By the end of the week I felt a little better. It had been good to push myself, to ride so far. I learned that it didn’t kill me to be sweaty, and gross and sore. We celebrated our last night in a youth hostel on the narrow wrist part of the cape. The town wasn't much more than a sandbar covered with huge dunes and sea grasses. Later that night, lying in my bunk, I couldn't stop thinking about the ocean.

At dawn, we all walked to the end of the sandy road and watched the sunrise from the top of a dune. The water turned gold for a minute as the arc of the sun appeared. While we watched, a familiar ache crept back into my chest - like I was an actor following a scripted play. There was a plot and I knew that the dramatic climax was about to happen. The play just took me along with its momentum and all I had to do was yell and cry at the right time. Damn it, I cursed, why does every thing feel so intense for me? This doesn't have to have some profound meaning. The sun rises every day, I argued. Still, my heart wouldn’t let go of that heavy, stepped-on feeling.

Next: last part - Full Circle

Summer & Shame: part 2 - The fire

My favorite class at camp was called “Adventure.” For the first few days we’d make our way through the obstacle course: the wall, the swinging log, the swinging rope, the tight wire, the trust fall, the caterpillar walk, the parachute, and the trapeze. All the challenges built teamwork and leadership for the high ropes course later in the week.

The high ropes course was in a clearing, way up in the Hemlock forest. The main element was a log suspended forty-five feet off the ground. To get to this catwalk, you climbed an inclined log, and crossed a two-wire bridge. At the other end of the catwalk, there was a long zip line that sped you deep into the woods. At the end of the week, we spent the afternoon rock climbing at dead man’s cliff.

My counselor, Becky, let me belay the other kids and tie their harnesses. She was a sturdy coed with a mess of curly blond hair. Everyone called her ‘Grizzly.’ She called me “wild-woman’ and I wanted to spend as much time with her as possible.

One afternoon, as I was securing our safety line to a tree, I looked up into the scrub above the cliff. Twenty feet ahead I could see a small wisp of smoke. When I looked closer I saw an orange smudge and heard a crackling noise. I called down to Becky “There’s a fire up here!” Becky told me to gather up the rest of the kids and lead them back to camp. On the path we saw other counselors running fast back towards the fire.

As we reached the field, we heard the blast of the air horn. That was the camp’s disaster signal and our cue to line up on the basketball court. I could hear the lifeguards shout as they swept the cabins looking for stragglers. We sat on the basketball court and watched the smoke spread above the trees as fire-fighters pulled into the driveway.

After the fire was out, I saw Becky walking out of the woods. She came right over to me to ask me how I was. I couldn’t tell her the truth. I couldn’t tell her that I’d found the whole thing exhilarating – almost electrifying. That wasn’t the way to keep her attention. Instead, I started to shiver a little so Becky sat with me a while. I only felt a little shocked but I played it up, crying and shaking so she’d stay.

At the end of the season, we had the candlelight ceremony. All the staff would stand around the campers in a circle. Each counselor would take two candles and then they’d call for a camper to join them. With each candle that was lit, the night would get brighter and you could pick out everyone’s faces. I never got picked. But I thought for sure that this time, Becky would pick me. When she called out the name of another girl I just stared at the outline of the trees and shadow of the lake beyond.

Next: Part 3 - Cape Cod

Summer & Shame: part 1 - I can't sleep

When we were in New England last week, I worked up the courage to visit my old summer camp. I hadn’t been back in almost ten years, so I thought a visit was overdue. As we drove through the leafy, rolling hills over to the river valley, I had some time to worry. I wasn’t sure I should go back. Would anyone at the camp still remember me? Would they want to see me? Would they think it was strange that I wanted to visit? I looked at the late afternoon summer storm clouds pursuing us overhead. Would it start to rain?

And why was I so worried??? After all, I spent thirteen straight summers at this camp. This place was like my home away from home. For me, camp was a placed to be young, healthy, confident, and most of all, myself. Sure, most of the staff were seasonal college students and wouldn’t know who the hell I was. But I knew the director and her family were still there. They’d remember me.

But what would they remember? Or should I say… how much would they remember? These people watched me grow up. And it was a bumpy process. So many good memories and so many things to be ashamed of. Sometimes, at this time of year, at midsummer, I lay awake, thinking about camp and how intense each day felt.

- - - - - - - - -

There was a click and then the noise of a needle being placed on a record. Two seconds passed then a recorded bugle playing reveille bounced through the ancient loudspeakers. God, I loved camp. Last week, some of the British counselors hijacked the loudspeaker and played God Save the Queen. I slid out of my slippery sleeping bag and into my clothes. I didn’t even comb my hair; it just fell in place. Everyone moved slowly, especially the counselors who’d had the night off. I’d been awake when they came in at one in the morning.

I was the cabin waiter that day so I’d be spending a lot of the day at the dining hall. I headed out early, letting the cabin door slam behind me. I walked to the dining hall along the lake. The water was still and the cool air made the hairs on my bare legs stand up. At the dining hall, I grabbed my busboy bucket full of plates and silverware. I picked up sugar and syrup and butter from the kitchen. Outside, the flag raising song played. Everyone pushed in and the giant room filled with noise. When it was quiet and we were standing around the big round tables we sang grace. I omitted the words God and Lord as usual.

I munched on my frosted flakes and studied the names of foreign counselors that covered the walls. Each of their flags hung from the ceiling. I liked the symbols on the Korean flag. My counselor was going to be on lifeguard duty so I asked if anyone wanted to be buddies for free swim – just so I could be near her. After breakfast, I cleaned the table and ran back to my cabin. We had inspection today, so we took the towels off the rafters and shoved our clothes in our cubbies. At least I didn’t have to clean the bathroom.

My first class of the day was Jewelry. We braided strands of metal together to make bracelets. Then the noise was everywhere as we pounded them flat with big, wooden smacking mallets. I made one and spent the rest of the time wandering around the room; looking at all the cool stuff people had left behind. The arts and crafts building was built into the side of a hill and back by the kiln there was a huge boulder that protruded into the room. On the rafters, someone had painted old logos from 70’s rock bands I’d never heard of. My next class was windsurfing so I had my bathing suit under my clothes. I’d taken the class so many times I knew how to rig my own sail and board. I’d get the sail up and glide for a couple of minutes. Then when I lost my balance I’d leap into the cool, deep, water.

Lunch was gross and I almost got Sloppy Joe sauce on the card dad sent. After we ate, I cleared the mess and we stood up to sing “Father Abraham.” At each refrain we flailed part of our bodies until we were leaping around in spasms. After lunch I dozed on my bed. It was peaceful, listening to the small waves lapping outside the cabin door. If everyone was quiet, you could hear the kids yelling at the public beach across the lake. Sometimes, a motorboat would pass nearby and the waves would get slightly louder.

After the hour-long siesta was over, I ran across the soccer field to the rifle range. My 22 caliber bolt-action rifle had bad sights but I got two bulls-eyes in the prone position. Paul, my Kiwi instructor, tapped my foot and asked me where I learned to shoot like that. From you, of course, I answered, grinning, careful not to turn my torso to look at him. I was too tired by free swim. I sat by the water watching the raft rock and sway as the swimmers jumped off the diving tower.

At dinner, everyone was starving and I had to go back to the kitchen for thirds. We waited, watching for the chef to come out and hang the giant fork or spoon. Today was a spoon so we’d have pudding or Jello for dessert. When everyone had left, I wiped down the table one last time and waited for my turn with the broom and mop.

I found my counselor on the beach with the other girls, dragging a huge aluminum war canoe. My counselor sprayed us with bug spray and we climbed in. The mosquitoes could be vicious in the evening. Eventually, we got our paddles in unison and we sped across the lake, echoing repetitive camp songs. When we got close to the mouth of the river, we picked up our paddles and the canoe slid through a patch of lily pads. Noiselessly, we floated along, looking for turtles and lizards. A few years before, I’d walked through the swamp. I never forgot the feel of the knee-deep mud, the fear of the snakes and the leeches. We had a campfire on the beach before bedtime. Rob, the shaggy-haired counselor played guitar and sang folk songs. Michael told a story with sound effects and different voices.

By the time the bugle sounded the call to quarters it was past dusk. Everyone made their way back to their villages by flashlight. I went the other way, across the empty fields to the infirmary to get my nightly vitamin. When I got there, the kids were lined up, joking around as they waited for their medications by the light from the screen door. Once, when I was very little, I had passed out in the dining hall from heat exhaustion. My counselor brought me to the infirmary and I spent the day in the quiet screened-in sick room laying in bed and reading old MAD magazines.

After I got my vitamin, I headed back into the dark night. Halfway back to my cabin, I stopped and lay down on the dark soccer field. The sky was a clear expanse and I could feel the earth spinning underneath me. I wanted to hug the dirt - to embrace it - and never leave this place.

I got back to the cabin, climbed in my sleeping bag and pretended to fall asleep. The counselors crept over to my bunk and whispered how sweet I looked. After they left to go hang out on the picnic tables by the field, I pretended to wake up so I could talk to the other girls.

After an hour or two, everyone else was asleep. I lay there, searching my mind for the courage to go outside and talk to my counselors. I wanted as much of their attention as possible without seeming like a needy brat. I just wanted someone to hold me and take care of me. Last year, I told them I didn’t want to go home. They rubbed my back and sent me back to bed. I could tell them again but I doubted anything would change. They never believed me.

Instead, I lay there and tried not to think about all the snaps and creaks coming from the forest outside. I was supposed to be a brave and fearless wild-woman. I wasn’t supposed to need anyone to protect me.

Next: Part 2 - the fire

I have no life.

I have no life.

No, seriously. Right now, I have NO life. My job is now officially over. Slowly, my relationships with my various therapists are winding down. I’m still cultivating the few friendships I want to keep when I leave the Bay Area, but the rest I’m letting go to pasture. My gym membership has ended and there’s no sense in renewing it just for a month or two.

(Granted things will probably get busier when we decide where we’re moving. I’ll have a new job title: Vice President in charge of moving, planning and anxiety.)

But right now, I don’t know what to do with myself. I’ve watched more movies this week than I have in the past month. I got my annual physical. I’m trying to become the housewife I’ve always failed at being. This morning, I even packed my husband’s lunch. I got the car tuned up. I’m even considering digging out our ironing board. Pretty soon I might have to crack open a novel.

Don’t get me wrong… the irony is not lost on me. When I’m busy, I want to have more free time. When I have free time, I look for things to keep me busy. Apparently, the damn grass is NEVER green enough to satisfy.

And once we’ve moved, I will have even less of a life. For a while (at least) I won’t have any work, therapists, support groups, routines… friends…

So I’ve been thinking a lot about what kind of life I WANT to have. I know I shouldn’t complain. Lots of people would kill to have the kind of flexibility I have right now. Some would consider it a luxury to have this opportunity; to redo every aspect of their lives would seem… inviting.

But for me… I think about starting over, and I start to feel really inadequate – like I just don’t have a lot going for me. I wonder if I’m just getting by with my mediocre life, telling myself that it’s ok I’m not contributing much. I was sick for a few years and HAD to take it easy. My husband is going to get this new job and THEN I’ll get my life in order.

But. When I see how flimsy my life really is, I wonder if the future will hold any personal or professional success. I know that most people don’t have perfect lives, yet I can’t help but compare myself to those around me. It just seems like everyone I know has a more impressive sounding career or personal life than me. It’s probably not true, but that’s how it feels.

So I start questioning every decision I’ve ever made. Maybe I should stop tutoring… maybe I should go back to architecture… I know that’s probably not the answer, but at least I’d feel like I had a “title” that defined me when I introduced myself: “Hello, I’m Juniper the fancy, important architect… the one with a life?”

Postscript

Yes, there is a real post below this one...

I just wanted to apologize for my recent lack of blogging. I know I don't have to, but I wanted to anyway.

I've been working a lot - trying to keep my students from failing their finals. I've had logarithms, quadratics, series, conic sections, and rational functions coming out my ears. "Rational means ratio... you know, ratio? Like a fraction? Functions in the form of fractions? Now what happens when you have a fraction with a zero on the bottom? Right! There's no solution! Now remember those asymptotes? See?"

And on and on...

And we were traveling and stressing out. A lot.

So, sorry.

Aaaaand... am I the only one who noticed when Tony Soprano said his mother had a Borderline Personality? I'm glad to finally have a celebrity with my illness but does it have to be a fictitious harpy who spawned a sociopath? That doesn't do much for the whole stigma thing.

Sorry Paul. And thanks for that saving my life thing.

I didn’t sleep much when I was a freshman in college. I’d stay up late at night catching up on all the TV I had been denied as a child. Some nights, my friend Paul and I would hop in his four-wheel drive station wagon and drive aimlessly through the dark upstate New York wilderness. He had welded a skid plate to the bottom of his station wagon’s chassis so it was safe to take it off-road. We drove up abandoned dirt roads until they became open fields or impassable forest. Then he’d tease me, wondering aloud what we’d do if an ax murderer suddenly appeared, silhouetted against the horizon. Sometimes he’d reach over and pull the lever so my seat would slam back. Then he'd lean across me and growl suggestively, "Hey baby."

I couldn’t decide if I was attracted to Paul or if he was the big brother I’d always wanted. When we were cuddled up, doing homework on my roommate’s futon, I wondered if he might have feelings for me. I pretended to fall asleep, my cheek resting on the curly brown hair over his heart.

Sophomore year, Paul and my roommate’s boyfriend got an apartment off-campus. My roommate slept over every night so I spent most of my time there too. Paul was a cross between a renaissance man and an overgrown child. He spent a lot of his time repairing an old typewriter he found on the street or cooking macaroni and cheese on his camp stove in the middle of his bedroom. When it was time for bed, he’d make the twenty-minute walk with me back to my dorm. By late fall, I gave up on the dorm and just slept on the scratchy wool couch.

- - - - - - - - -

That winter, my summer boyfriend dumped me and I spiraled into the third major depressive episode of my life. My behavior had always been erratic and needy, but now I had become all-consuming. I lost my temper too much and some people stopped talking to me. I started stealing from my roommate’s liquor cabinet.

Paul was back together with his old girlfriend, Denise. Even though I was jealous, I started hanging out at her place because she was older and would still buy me alcohol. One night, Denise fell asleep early while Paul was at the library. I drank all the alcohol she had in the apartment and decided to kill myself. Then Paul came home. Why was my coat on and where I was going, he asked? I was going to fall asleep in a snow bank and hopefully, freeze to death, I said. He pushed me away from the door and I fought back. It was like shoving against a bull. He picked me up and pinned me to the floor. I finally passed out around three in the morning.

When I woke, Paul and Denise were making breakfast and ignoring me. Finally, Denise said, “Now I know why your roommate told me to keep you away from alcohol. You can’t come over here anymore, Juniper. Not when you’re doing this. I can’t take the responsibility.” I quickly walked to the bathroom and locked the door behind me. Crying hysterically, I lay down and put my cheek against the cool tile floor. Denise’s razor stared at me from the shelf in front of my face. I held it to my wrist for a while. Eventually, they pounded on the door and I went home.


A few weeks later I told my roommate that Paul and Denise didn’t like her boyfriend. It had been a secret. Paul and Denise stopped talking to me. They were struggling to get through their engineering degrees and didn’t have time for my bullshit.

- - - - - - - - -

I missed them a lot. Especially Paul. But. They really taught me something.

I was tired of everyone thinking I was “crazy-Juniper.” Nobody saw how scared I was. Acting crazy and sick just left me alone and more depressed. Wanting to die was pointless, selfish, indulgent, and a stupid way to get attention. College students didn’t know what to do with me anyway. I realized that if I controlled myself, I could take responsibility for my actions and emotions, put away all this noise and be more mature. I stopped bothering my friends and tried to be more responsible. I didn’t want to drive everyone away.

I’ve always wanted to get in touch with Paul and Denise: to thank them and apologize. Occasionally, I Google Paul’s name to see what he’s up to. He married Denise a few years ago and now lives…

Oh my god. Paul and Denise live in the apartment complex my husband and I visited this weekend. We were in New England looking at my husband’s last job offer. The offer we’re probably going to take. Which means Paul and I could be neighbors again. I don’t know what they’d do if we ran into each other…

Denise became a psychologist so maybe she understands borderline now…

Maybe she’d think I was stalking them…

Woah.