Where's the Prize for This Fighter?

Tonight's blog was going to be about a different topic entirely, but I was waylaid before I got to my keyboard and now I realize there is a more pressing subject to address: fighting. I'm not talking about a barroom brawl, though I'm not entirely a stranger to that scenario either, but this time round I'm talking about the choice to fight for what we want in life, more specifically, for a relationship.

I have suffered with insecurity and low self-esteem my entire life and it has caused me to sabotage a number of relationships out of the fear that I might get rejected. As I've gotten older and more secure with who I am this hasn't ceased entirely, but it is less dominant. What I see now is that I am a fighter. I fight for those I love and I can forgive almost anything. Can you? Love means accepting flaws along with the benefits and people are messy. We all have a not so pretty side that doesn't necessarily fit with our version of the fairy tale, but that's life and it is reality.

My reality is that I have moved all over the country in pursuit of love, I've put my career and goals on hold because I believe that love is a higher purpose. At 37, however, I'm wondering when I become the higher purpose for someone else. When does my partner or husband put me first? It hasn't happened yet and I think I've reached my limit of accepting being second. So if throwing myself into love hasn't worked, maybe what I should do is to refuse it. We say the world revolves on love and it's all you need, but maybe I've been too eager. I love my husband, but it did not prevent his depression and our culminating downward spiral. My love didn't save him, but then again, when only one of you fights for something it may just be a losing battle.

So here's to not fighting for love. Here's to career and school and friendships over the love of your life. If the divorce rate is at 50 percent and climbing then most of us are doing something wrong and I have yet to hear any of them say it's because they didn't try. We all want to believe we are trying, but maybe that's the problem. I think I'm done. It is time to stop fighting for love, fighting for the partnership, fighting for someone to want me as much as I want them. You either do or you don't, but from now on, it's going to have to come from someone else first, because I just can't fight for two anymore. Treading water for one is tiring enough, save your own ass and maybe if you value me the way you should, you'll want to save mine too.

Facing the Truth is Sometimes Ugly and Very, Very Lonely

What do you do when you are to blame for the most significant negative experience of your life? There is no one to comfort the transgressor, because that is the person who committed the heinous act, whatever it might be. All sympathies, all strong shoulders, all empathetic free beers are devoted to the person who is wronged. In our society, and in most I imagine, that guilty party is seen as undeserving of sympathy and without a need for it. I made a series of bad choices leading to a life I do not want and did not foresee for myself. Yet, here I am fighting it out every day to hold back the tears and the rage that I am not supposed to be entitled to.

Having something horrible happen to you is undeniably the worst possible thing. Events are out of your control and you are left to pick up the pieces, which unequivocally does suck. I'm not here to cry poor me because I screwed someone over and now I am alone and feeling lousy, but if we're on the topic anyway, I could kinda use a shoulder to cry on. Doing bad things does not make one a bad person and I don't believe I am unworthy of love or sympathy, but I'm not going around asking for it or crying in public. I don't have the luxury of those public breakdowns or sucking in friends to comfort me after my own selfishness and stupidity got me here.

So I self-sabotaged my life once again and now I am struggling with how to proceed. The normal Ame would behave just as I have been, with jokes, and deflection and the assertion that I am fine. A few whiskey's, a few wisecracks, and no need for any sympathy. I know I am in the wrong and I know that I don't deserve anyone to hand me a tissue while I cry it out, but it doesn't stop the pain or the self-pity. So in the spirit of this blog, I'm going to do the opposite of what comes naturally. I'm going to try to be real and honest and to put myself out there without hiding behind the attitude.

So look out world, because I am a mess. A big, blubbering, snot running down my face, wadded tissues on my floor, swollen eyelids, lonely mess of a woman. I made a mistake, I actually made quite a few mistakes and dodging the truth of my feelings and intentions are what got me to that point, so I'm not doing that anymore. I may end up crying alone, but I'm going to suck it up and have the ovaries to ask for help from those that love me. At last check, there were still a few of you out there, so stock up on tissues and whiskey, I'm going to need them both.

Serving It Up For No Discernible Reason

In true self-destructive style, I have utterly given up the hunt for career opportunities. After spending all of our cash reserves in the last two years, sending out more resumes than I can count and attempting short-lived stints at a chain restaurant, upscale retailer, and temp agency I have settled upon a career as a barmaid. Yes, while my English Lit degree gathers dust and my grammatical skills fade away, I am polishing my ability to look cute in a tank top, write down orders for beer and wings, and flirt for 12% tips. It's a proud, proud day.

I'm not freaking out, well not too much, but I am really poor. Turns out the bar I chose to work in, is never busy when I'm actually working. The people are great, but nice people don't pay the bills and as it turns out, neither do losers who give me their phone numbers while I'm carting away plates full of wing carcasses. Fun!

In keeping with my new lifestyle choices of pretty much doing the opposite of anything that seems to be a good idea, working at a dive bar with no guarantee of a paycheck should be the right choice. Sadly, I am still waiting for the pay off. I did get one free Jack out of it and a free order of really good french fries, but other that I'm still waiting for the benefits to kick in. There was the night I made a sarcastic joke to another girl that works there who was super drunk and got her feelings hurt then told another girl that works there and she confronted me about it and we had a little girl on girl melodrama showdown. Why are women so sensitive and annoying? Do I really need to have confrontations with twenty-somethings at a bar because they can't understand sarcasm?

I suppose while I'm on the topic of super stupid things to come out of my new career at the bar I should mention the night the young goth-esque girl that works there was relaying a story that apparently required her to repeat the "n" word out loud in front of tables four times. When I asked her to stop saying that word she then also felt it appropriate to lecture me about my behavior. Still not sure how that one happened in her delightfully empty head, but at least I put something else in that vacant space besides the "n" word.

Oddly enough, I'm finding that I like working at the bar. It is difficult on me physically as I am not used to being on my feet so long or working such late hours, but the social aspect can be fun and I really do like the owner and other staff . . . well, most of them anyway. It's nice not to be chained to a desk and I really like that my hours are varied rather than the straight 9-5 of my old life. Of course, I'm still not making any money, but I do have the reassurance of knowing that many unattractive men think I'm hot enough to foist their unwelcome numbers upon me. So that's a real plus.

Join me next time when I give up my bar job and take up panhandling. I can't make much less money than I am now, but at least I won't have to keep throwing away losers' phone numbers.

So smoking . . . I don't get it

So it seems I'm kinda bad at smoking. I tried, I really did, but I just don't get it. Every time I tried to take a drag the smoke got in my eyes and made them water. Also, I have no idea how to properly inhale so I just puff at it. When I did try to inhale it only served to make me cough. So picture me on my patio smoking, cat staring up at me confusedly, eyes watering, coughing and ashing on myself because I kept forgetting to flick the cigarette. I still have several left, but I just don't know that it's worth it. Still, I said I would try so I guess I have to give it a really good go to be fair to the experiment.

Another issue I have with smoking is that in order for it to help me lose weight it means that when I am hungry I should reach for a cigarette instead. This seems simple enough except I don't want a cigarette when I'm hungry. I want vegan mashed potatoes or organic PB and jelly on a brown rice cake. What the hell is smoking supposed to do for my hunger? It doesn't make sense. A cigarette takes a few minutes at most to smoke, but a huge bowl of stir-fried veggies and marinated tempeh will take me 30 minutes to properly enjoy, it's really just no contest. Food is going to win every damn time.

Also, much to my surprise, no one finds smoking appealing. Everyone I have told about trying to take up the habit has either emphatically tried to convince me to abort the project (usually while puffing away at their Marlboro or Camel) or else told me smoking is not sexy and very unappealing. Damn. What's a self-destructing girl to do? Oh wait, I know: whiskey and drunk texting work every time. I know it's stupid. I know I'm going to say things I shouldn't and be way more honest than is prudent, but I'm going to do it anyway. I ran four miles today and did 75 minutes of incredibly challenging yoga. Then, I sat in the hot tub at home for a while and drank. I am now exhausted, dehydrated, a bit lonely and ready to cause some trouble . . . most likely for myself.

We're not all composed, well-behaved creatures. Some of us are still chugging along trying to find our place even at 37. I don't know who I am going to turn out to be or how the road getting there will work out, but I do know that right now I'm going on gut instinct alone and that's going to have to be enough. Smoking, drinking, swearing, probably fighting will all have their part to play, but more than anything I have sheer force of will because I am nothing if not perpetually in motion. I might be going the wrong direction, but I'm always trying to get somewhere. Tonight I may only find the toilet bowl, but one day maybe my luck will change or maybe not. It won't stop me from moving, or rather stumbling, forward.

Bottom of the Bucket List

Everyone seems to have some sort of a bucket list. A laundry list of wonderful, adventurous things they want to do or places they want to see before they die. Well, I have one too and it is full of the requisite wonders and pipe dreams. That one is fine, but definitely not making my life any better. So let's make a new list. A list of bottom feeder activities that people do not and should not aspire to, but that might turn things around for me in opposite world. Let's list the top things that no one in their right mind would normally aspire to accomplish or try. Let's create a "bottom of the bucket" list.

Number one on my list is to take up smoking. I've been toying with it a while. For one thing, I'd love to lose five pounds and if I can replace half the food I shove in my face with fags (I suppose both the British and the American translation applies here) then maybe that will be possible. For another, smoking is cool. I don't care what you say. Any director who has ever lit a black and white film from the 40's knows smoking can instantly transform a scene and make anyone look cool. Brando, Hepburn (both Kate and Audrey), and Bogie I want to be you and make love to you simultaneously whenever I watch you smoke in a film.

I know people will gripe about cancer and addiction, well let me assure you I am not worried. I doubt I will ever smoke enough to cause legitimate concern for cancer. For that matter, I could just as easily develop cancer from the artificial sweetener in my beloved Diet Coke. Cancer sucks. I've lost family members to it, I have friends currently suffering from it, but lung cancer is probably the least of my worries at this point.  As for the addiction factor, I'm not really a substance addiction type person. I've been addicted to a few people, as a teen I was definitely addicted to drama, no doubt I am addicted to mashed potatoes and good vegan chocolate and more than once in my life I've worried that I am addicted to sex, but cigarettes? Nope. Not even a blip on the map.

I am a lifelong non-smoker, but that does not mean I've never smoked before. I enjoy it. I enjoy the act of lighting up, of holding it, cocking my head to the side to take a drag and turning away slightly from whomever I'm speaking with to blow it out. I love the act. I kind of hate the taste and the staining of teeth and fingernails. Smoking used to be elegant and associated with the privileged class. These days it's more trailer than transforming. Today, A-list actresses do not publicly promote the fact that they smoke. Smoking is more a dirty little secret than a status symbol, so say goodbye to the Hepburn-esque glamour of a cigarette holder or blue blood party with gold and silver cigarette cases, these days a smoking habit is more likely accompanied by a wife beater tank.

Today, as soon as I finish this blog and the bottle of vinho verde I am currently savoring on the patio of my favorite local market/bar I am buying my first pack of smokes. Despite having bummed them in the past, I've never purchased a cigarette on my own. American Spirit makes a line of organic fags and also light menthols which seem appealing. I like menthols. It's a smoke and a breath mint in one. I do so appreciate a multi-tasker. The Common Market, which is a supremely awesome corner market that offers cash and carry beer and wine or a place to drink it in-house, a deli, and other normal corner store conveniences, sells single cigarettes "so you don't have to commit" I was told by the semi-hot chick that works here. I am going to shop the single cigarette aisle like it's my job and hopefully one of my finds will make an impression.

Smoke 'em if you've got 'em and if you don't, go fucking buy some. Everyone knows smoking is cool.

Day One: Staring Down the Toilet of My Life

I am on day three of a nasty headache. I've tried the chiropractor, massage, masturbation, self-medicating, sleeping pills, ice packs, heat therapy, and comfort food. Nothing is working. So, on the eve of starting a new job as a server in a pub (yes, at 37 with a useless degree in English Lit and soon to start grad school this is the best I can do) I've decided there is nothing left but to try the worst possible option: I'm going to get stinking drunk.

Drink one:
First drink is an okay pinot grigio. It goes down easily enough, tasting mostly of water and fruit. I am simultaneously creating this blog at the bar of my favorite dive while an enthusiastic guy next to me will not stop talking. He mentions jokingly that I will likely want to punch him in the face at some point which I laughingly deny.

Upon completion of drink one, the guy beside me has not shut up despite my polite requests that he leave me be to drink and write. I have tried being nice, joking, and sarcasm; Now I am onto the blatantly rude track. He's not getting it. "Remember how we joked about me wanting to punch you in the face," I say, "well I'm nearly there." He laughs and continues talking. I pick up my laptop, wine and purse and move around the bar to the other side, far away from said jackass. Two minutes later my wine glass is magically refilled with compliments from my previous seatmate. Now I feel bad, but only briefly.

Drink Two:
Given my current financial circumstances of not being gainfully employed I can't really afford to go out drinking so tonight's experiment is partially to see if I can get drunk funded by the generosity of others. This second glass of wine tastes worse than the first, but since it's free I'm drinking sans complaints.

Taking longer than expected to go down. This might be due to the fact that I have not eaten so am a bit buzzed, an effect that is likely exacerbated by the antihistamine I took an hour ago to combat the headache. Right now, I'm slightly nauseous, slightly buzzed. Looking forward to drink three . . . wait, how the hell am I getting home? Fuck.

Drink three:
Switching to beer. I seriously want a whiskey, but am mindful of the fact that I have a headache and have to work at a busy bar tomorrow night. Still, not thrilled that my first day at willful self-destruction is actually being tempered with self-control. Then again, I have years of experience with the headaches and after three days of pain another seems even too far over the edge for me. Maybe I'm not ready for full-on downward spiral. A cold Pacifico in hand, I tilt it back and let go.

An interesting thing about being at a bar with a laptop is that it is impetus for many discussions with other bar patrons. One such gentleman, a tall ginger in an ill fitting kelly green polo shirt and conservatively side-parted hair calls me a coward for pursuing the downward spiral aspect. A fresh perspective. Is giving up on your life and pursuit of success and happiness a coward's path? It seems the opposite to me. I've never found quitting to be all that easy, it requires real action as opposed to staying the course and doing the expected. I appreciate the input of a stranger and told him so with one finger. Ginger out.

Drink four:
After being called a coward and failing miserably at having any more of my drinks bought by the locals, I retire to the living room where a lovely single malt awaits. My head still hurts, my house is a mess and the cats are insistently meowing. Still, I will persevere and drink my scotch until I pass out. Not an eventful first night, but it is a starting point. I'm either a coward or the pioneer of a new type self-destruction I tell the cats. This could be brilliant. I'm getting a bad rap for trying something new. People are so short-sighted.

Alas, drink four is a bust. I'm already drunk and losing the battle against an overwhelming urge for pizza. The grocery supplies microwaveable pizzas and two danish. None of these are vegan and yet it does not stop me. Driving home drunker than I should be after three drinks and way beyond the legal limit I devour the first danish in the car, licking cheese filling and sickenly sweet glaze off my fingers. I eat the rest, settle on the sofa and suddenly know it's all coming back up. It's not the first time I've thrown up after drinking, it is after all, the savior of many almost hangovers. Though, given my food intake this is also now a foray into bulimia. On one hand it is the ultimate in self-destruction, on the other, the definition of self-preservation. I am drinking, eating, vomiting and yet avoiding a hangover, weight gain, and vegan remorse. It all evens out, but there are no winners.

It's late now and the first day is a bust. I feel no wiser, no worse, no better. Just the same girl only out some cash and feeling a failure for an experiment gone bust. Then again, maybe that's a win. If the goal is self-destruction and the path leads to failure . . . well, maybe it's a success?

My head still hurts, more meds and its bed for me. Day one, over and done.

Time to Take the Leap

Last year I conducted an online blogging experiment. I wrote every day for an entire year about whatever was on my mind or happening in my life. It was a sort of public journal intended to hold me accountable for the status of my life and the choices I've made. Unfortunately, what I discovered at the end of the experiment was quite different than what I intended to find out. In the end, my 365 day journey taught me that I am a self-indulgent and self-preserving bitch and sadly, I'm not all that willing to change. It was a rough year all around. I was dealing with marital problems, another move to a new city, and the deployment of my husband to Iraq. Every day was a balance of fear, dread, panic, and denial.

Whatever choices I made turned out to be the wrong ones and life today is somewhere between a giant step backward and a suicidal leap. I have decided that my intended pursuit of the righteous and happy path ended in misery so this time around I'm following the low road in the hopes that it will unintentionally raise me up where I want to be. It's the law of opposites or the George Costanza theory, whichever you prefer. So today makes the beginning of a new 365 days, a year of wrong choices, purposeful self-destruction, and a spectacular downward spiral. This is Ame: Self-Destructed and it is time to make that final, disastrous leap from the ledge and see if I can, in fact, learn to fly.