WHOA. Hidden Dangers.

I freaked out the other night. Like, freaked out in a way that I have only done one other time in my life. I had an emotional breakdown.

These things never happen to me. Wait, no no no. I never LET these things happen to me. If I feel negative, or have a bad experience I usually push my emotions about it away. Word to the wise: This will not do. Not at all.

They don't go away. Ever. Even if you learn to deal with the things that shape you as a person, they never go away. I went through six months of therapy after me and the ex-husband split, and during that time I was able to start learning how to get in touch with those deep dark places within, and hopefully help some of that shit come out into the light. It was really hard, and even though I was trying to be as open as I could in those sessions, I knew I was editing. I knew it as I sat there and cried harder than I have cried in my life, and that is a scary feeling. It is scary knowing that you aren't going nearly as deep as you should, but even at that depth there is such terror and fear. It was intense, and almost overwhelming.

Well, those very deep things that I can hardly look in the face started to surface within me the other night. It was after a conversation with my sister, and as soon as I put down the phone, I felt something burbling up. But instead of dealing with what was coming up in me (abandonment, rejection, fear) I pushed it away and started acting out. And I starting acting out on a person in my life that I know loves me very very much. Someone who I've been able to share more of myself than with any other person in my life, except for mey lifetime best friend. And I hurt this person. And I hurt me. And I kept going. I was out of control.

Now I'm out of town on business, trying to be focused while at the same time trying to pay attention to what is happening inside of me. I've gotten so good at pushing negative things away—so very good that, a week after my dad died, I was right back at work and acting like normal. God, I have buried so much shit. And my failed marriage is one more victim, along with the countless number of friends and family members that I've pushed away or just dropped.

I think it is time for me to do the hard work.

I must admit: I'm scared shitless right now.

Saturn has motherfucking returned.

A Call to Arms

Sorry for my serious absence folks. I have been on my ass all week with a sickness, and today (Friday) is my first day back to work all week. So yeah.

But more importantly: a good friend has been diagnosed with acute leukemia. I have never met her in person, but have spent time over the last year getting to know her through the internet. I say this so that everyone reading it will, perhaps for one moment, turn their attention and energy to her. Please send your thoughts, meditations, and prayers to her and her family during this incredibly difficult time. And if you live in the Richmond, VA area, please get on the bone marrow donor registry. In fact, wherever you live, go out today and donate blood or sign up for the national bone marrow donor list. Consider it a gift to the world. But at the very least, send your good energy to my friend. She, her husband, and her 2 year old son will certainly appreciate it.

Thanks guys.

Horrible Accidents and Gnarly Scars: A Tour of My Body

I love a good scar story. For many reasons, but a) there is usually a visual aid, and b) the pride with which people tell these stories of pain, stupidity, or sheer dumb luck. Because, let's face it, no one tries to mutilate themselves (and when I say no one, I am not including those sycophantic leaders of tomorrow(i.e. unfortunate teenagers) that cut each other because they are so emo, and I also don't include anyone who gets off on pain. Because that is not in the realm of normalcy).

Anyhoo, love me a good scar story, so in order to get the ball rolling, I'll tell you my best.

• Middle finger, right hand, age 2.

So I'm two years old, and hanging at the mall with my mom. She is at the top of the escalator, probably fighting with bio-dad, and I have somehow wandered to the bottom of the escalators. I look between the moving stairs, and there is the awesome green light, that in my 2 year old brain I recognize as Jello. (Everyone loves J-E-L-L-O!) So I stick my little hand between the stairs, promptly almost ripping my entire finger apart. By the time my mom pries my little hand from the escalator, I have mercifully blacked out and my finger is dangling away from the bone, which luckily, wasn't broken. I just had to have my finger stitched back on, and now I have a Frankenstein-style scar. Rockin'.

• Upper left thigh, age 11.

I'm playing with our then-canine pal, Fluffy, (my brother named her) in the backyard of our quaint little home. I jump onto the wooden swing (you know the type; it's a bench with long woode slats) and Fluffy jumps up beside me. I jump off and turn around, expecting her to jump off after me, and she has somehow gotten her little back leg stuck between the wooden slats of the swing, and is hanging there, yelping in extreme pain. Horrified and scared, I run over to free her from the evil swing, and she reaches over and clamps her jaws around the top of my leg, causing me to start screaming at the same pitch of her yelping. My dad runs from the garage to free us both, take me to the doctor, and Fluffy to the vet. Sad ending: Fluffy never came near me again, and ran away about three weeks after that. I was so so so sad. :(

• Right ankle, age 16.

I played soccer through middle school and high school, and in high school, our team was damn good. (Won State Champ two years running.) During practice, a particularly nasty girl on my team (we were scrimmaging) slide-tackled me, and foot got stuck in a small hole on the field. My foot stayed there, and my body went forward. I ripped every tendon and ligament in my ankle, and was on crutches for the rest of the season. Stupid bitch. She's lucky that I didn't need surgery. I almost did, but I begged out of it. Fuck some damn surgery, you know?

• Left gluteus muscle, small scars on upper left thigh, age 20.

This is the one scar that I wish I didn't have, mainly because it affects how I look in a bikini (which isn't half bad). Me and my college buds (Craige Dorm effin' rules) went to a friend's evergreen tree farm in the mountains for Labor Day weekend. Lots of drinking and driving ATVs (of which I am a pro; I've been driving them since I was 10 on my grandparent's farm). The cabin is on top of a small mountain, with a long, winding gravel driveway that leads to the road. A few of my friends were leaving, and I was teaching my friend Ali how to drive the ATV. With me sitting on the back. Wearing flip-flops. With a beer in my hand. A combination that I have come to realize would not affect the outcome whatsoever (except for the flipflop part). So Ali and I decide it would be a grand time to chase our friends at top speed down this steep, rocky, cut-into-the-side-of-the-mountain driveway. Coming around the first turn, I can already tell that Ali isn't cutting sharply enough, and as I'm starting to tell him as much, he screams, "OH SHIRT!!! HOLD ON!!"
Our right front tire catches the edge of the road, and we flip off the drive and careen down the mountain. Luckily, after the second flip, I was thrown off, and after the third, Ali made it off. But when the ATV landed the first time, it landed directly on my ass, bounced, and kept going. Being that I can't move, Ali attempts to carry me up the mountain. We make is to a field, and I have to walk the rest of the way to the cabin. My flipflops, of course, flew off, and we have to trek through briars and brambles. My feet looked like I had run through razorblades. We get back to the cabin, where everyone else is blindly drunk, and for the first time I look down at my legs. I was wearing shorts. Protruding from my left leg was over 15 sticks. I pulled them all out, except one, which when I pulled it out it broke right beneath the skin and stayed inside my leg.*
Luckily, I had not damaged my pelvic gurdle (with the weight of the ATV crashing onto me, it should, by all rights, have crushed my bones to powder), however, it completely severed my left gluteus muscle, causing interal bleeding, etc.
But I made it out alive.

There have been other occasions of serious proportions, but after the ATV accident, everything pales in comparison. So give me your worst people. I love this "shirt".


*Oh, the stick was buried so deeply, the doctor thought I was lying. I insisted he cut the fucker out, or I would goddamn well do it myself, right there. After digging 4 inches into my leg, he found it. It was shaped like the barb on a fishhook. I still have it at home.
There was nothing, on the other hand, that he could do for my ass. So now I sport a highly fashionable and well-earned dent that goes entirely across my left ass cheek. Hot, I know. My husband calls it my handle.

Steven Spielberg: Fuck You

This is insane. I really thought I was the only one. Apparently not.

I have been traumatized by E.T. No, not that horrendous TV show dedicated to giving celebrities their daily blowjobs (although, as an adult, that shit truly is TERRIFYING). No, I'm talking about the Steven Spielberg movie from 1982 with the little brown alien that everyone thinks is so fucking cute. Yeah, that E.T.

I was a mere 2 years old when that movie came out, and one of my parents (probably my mom. bless her heart) took me to the theater to see it. Now, a 2 year old in a theater is bad enough, but if you remember that opening scene, (the one with the scary guys with flashlights and guns and the aliens with their creepy fingers and spaceship and then that little fucking alien running through the forest with the most horrible shriek I have ever heard!!!) then you know that it is pretty intense for a normal person, much less a 2 year old.

Let's just say I didn't stop screaming until my mom got me home. Seriously.

I had never seen the entire movie until this past December 31. Seriously.

Even seeing that creepy-ass face on a cereal box was too much for me, up until about a year ago. Seriously.

I had recurring nightmares about E.T. until I was 25. SERIOUSLY.

E.T. and me: not cool.

So, today I'm procrastinating and reading Pajiba, and I start looking at the comment thread (awesome way to pass the time, dudes) and the first motherfucking comment is this guy saying he was scared of E.T. Wow, I think, I've never heard of anyone else being scared of that. People (especially my FAMILY, assholos) always used to make fun of me (read:torture me) about this particular phobia (despite the fact that my brother used to have nightmares about ranch dressing, ha!) and for the longest time I really thought that I had some repressed childhood memory attached to E.T. that manifested itself in the form of terror.

Apparently, there is an entire generation of us that are scarred by the most lovable alien ever to be created for the silver screen. Spielburg, I'm forwarding my therapy bills to you. And I suggest that everyone else do the same. Motherfucker.

I mean, I'm sorry but THIS:










NOT CUTE.

If I saw something like that poking its face around a door, I'd either a. run away screaming or b. try to fight it and then run away screaming.

Or, at least I would have a year ago.

My husband took me to see this movie, all the way through for the first time, on December 31, 2006. Yep, just 8.5 months ago. It was playing at our local brew 'n view, and we were super bored, so we ate some mushrooms and went to see the movie.

And you know what? E.T. was a good movie. I was really surprised. After a lifetime of unexplainable terror, a crushing sensation in my chest just hearing those two little letters, a jump of fright in my stomach when inadvertently seeing its image, I was able to watch the movie and enjoy it.

But sometimes when the moon is just right, and my imagination decides to take hold of my brain functions, I can still hear the scritchscratch coming from the darkened bathroom and know that He's there, waiting for me.

GAH!!!!!!