A Family I Can Dance With

In the fall of my junior year of highschool, my dad hired me to bar tend at an fundraising event that he was coordinating the liquor sales for. This event was to be the culmination of some big hooha that the Tylerites were doing: raising money, playing golf, drinking a lot, all decked out in their finest. Sarah Brighton for the women, diamonds in gaudy gold, big hair and laughter, their daughters standing near by looking blaisee, there hair straight and shiny. The husbands of these beauties and debutants were clustered around their trucks, directly to my left, the bar and I perpendicular to the stage. They clustered around their giant looming proof of manhood, drinking whisky, smoking, discussing God knows what -- being female, I'd never actually entered their midst. Serving at the Laughing Dog, I'd had contact with groups of that sort -- pulled of the high way with their four-wheelers, back from the deer lease -- drinking, smoking, hunting, fishing, their conversations concerned with the enjoyable tasks at hand. That autumn night the conversations were probably the newly opened deer season and football, as they pushed the gravel around with their cowboy boots, or good shoes their wives had picked out. Their sons stood near by, tall and lanky with unruley hair, wearing similar pressed cotton button-shirts, stealing glances as the girls who continuely, yet purposely walked by.

As I was setting up my station I noticed my music theory teacher, Mr. G, dressed in typical cowboy fashion, only for the stage not real life. The check of his shirt was too wide, his hat too big, his fringe too shiney. Then I remembered: the entertainment for the evening was a Pasty Cline tribute. Supposedly, she was a dead ringer, having just finished a play under the same theme for the local civic theater. I invited Mr. G to have a drink. He declined -- you can't play the fiddle, it turns out, when you're drunk -- but said he'd stop by after his show.

Mr. G and I always had a pretty amicable relationship, stemming mutual respect and understanding, I suspect. Music theory was the last class I had Monday/Wednesday/Friday before I finished for the day at the blessed hour of 1:30. Mr. G taughts us music theory, but didn't kid himself that any of us were going to spend too much effort. By sheer lack of knowledge continum, elective status, and position in the school day, not a lot was going to get done. But he was a good guy, and was liberal with the free days, the "music appreciation" days and supported using his class as a study hall when need be. (One "music appreciation day" we'd been listening to Tom Petty when Mr. G comes out of his office, singing along boisterously -- 'let me get to the point, let's roll another joint. Turn the radio . . .' He suddenly realized what he was doing, froze, spun on his heels and disappeared into his office.) I didn't need study time though: I wanted to leave.

I spent the majority of the weekends of my senior year in Denton, Texas, home of the University of North Texas and Sean, my then love. That's a whole different bag of fish. the important point being I liked to leave straight from school if I could get off of work, therefore missing rush hour.

I walk into Mr. G's office, trying to be casual. Come on Mr. G: see me as a person, not a student. I don't want to be in this class today, neither do you, as is evident by your "music appreciation" day declaration while you grade papers in your office.
"Mr. Grinell. I''m going to Denton this weekend. I was going to leave after class, but since we're just listening to music, can I go now? I promise I'll listen to music in the car."
"Why are you going to Denton?" he asks, without turning to face me.
"To visit my boyfriend."
The chair spends around as Mr. Grinell spins in his chair, taking off his glasses. "Do your parents know?"
Oh no! Too far: he's seen me as a person but I forgot that he has a daughter who's my age. Crap.
"Yes, sir. They're fine with it. They've known Sean for years."
"Well, I certainly wouldn't let Amy drive three hours away for the weekend to visit her boyfriend. " he says as he straightens some papers, eyeing me over his glasses.
"Neither would I sir."
Silence. Shit. Shit. Too far Valdez, too far.
"But my parent's let me."
Mr. Grinell smiles. Puts down the papers, takes off his glasses, leans back in his chair. "No, I guess you're not Amy, are you." With a chuckle, "Yes, you can leave early. If you get caught on your way off campus -- I have no idea what you're doing."

I, of course, being silly, run around to the other side of the desk and hug him. Not only had he seen me as a person, but had even looked at me as daughter and still, STILL decided to trust and respect me. I was free.

So, here I am, catering this hoity-toity event, making some cash. Sean's working a mini-bar across the way. I'd told Mr. Grinell he could meet him later. My spot was perfect. The grand-stand stage faced a moderately rolling green, the other three sides of which were rimmed with towering oaks. Stage right was the University of Texas at Tyler building, on the steps of which the barbe-que catering was being served. Stage left was my bar, and the pathway leading to the cars and clandestine meetings in the Oaks. The lawn was strewn with tables and chair, votive candles, Tyler roses, invitations, raffle tickets, empty drink cups, forgotten plates of food, crumpled napkins. The older, more endowed couples were in the back, sitting sedately, as the younger couples danced in the front. Small children ran around, and the women really did sound like Patsy Cline. Mr. Grinell played the fiddle and I danced a bit behind my bar as I served drinks, drinking a bit myself, watching the people.

There was one women in particular. Tall, and trim, wearing just enough make-up for the ocassion. Her sandels were fashionable and cute but neither they nor her belt were Brighton. Nothing she wore seemed to have been stolen from her daughter. She laughed and danced,throwing her black hair back from her shoulders -- one white streak in the front. After a while, a tall cowboy joined her. Not cowboy in the active sense, but culturally. Tall and rugged, button down shirt, cowboy boots, tie, huge flashing smile, large hands, unruley hair, he danced close to her. Their intimacy obvious, they'd danced together many times before and would again, unconscious of any audience. After a while, a boy and a girl who favored them joined, unwillingly at first. The boy was a bit too old be hanging out with his parents being past puberty while the girl was on the other side of that adolescent dividing line, but there were puppies about so she wanted to be off as well. They seemed to want to ask a question, but before they could help it, then entire family was dancing. I could tell that they'd done this before, in their kitchen, on the back porch, in the car singing along. They spun and laughed, mother with son, father with daughter.

After the song, the kids ran off, and the couple approached my bar. Two Whiskey Cokes. I watched them dance the rest of the night, the whiskey taking effect, but not of their bearing or social dignity.

And then I realized: I want that when I get older.

I Wish I Had a Blazabago

"I said right out back, wherever I stop and pop the top, that where its at. "

Last Class
Jammin' to KDub
OMG OMG NYE OMG!!!!
Seriously, I might crap myself just THINKING about it

I love Keller. KDub. To quote Bryan, "I have come to understand the essence that is KDub. And it is good."

I'm now listening to the Blazabago ---> Cadillac from the March show at the Gypse Tea Room this past March. It was that live Keller show, Will's AIM support and the blingin' Lauren P. made for me last Christmas that pulled me through this paper.

And soon, soon I'll be in Paris, Amsterdam, Europe, sans work, sans school.

But for now, I'm hyper, listening repetatively to a Keller song, wishing against hope that I wasn't in class. I can make it -- then I get to go party on a boat on the Seine. Hooray!

I win life.

Step One

In Class
Oh Feminism.
17:23
Wednesday, December 7, 2005

Step One

When I was in middle school and I knew everyone. Whenever I think about it, flashed of laughter, gossip and always people people people leap to the forefront. It was the same in high school: cheerleading, theater, clubs, classes. It was glorious.

Then something happened. Someone who I knew turned on me for no reason in particular. She awoke one day and decided to forever change the course of my life. No only did I have to go to a new school, show my mother that I'm not the person she thought I was, but it was the beginning of my Head drama. I was forced to examine my life in the stark relief of what it had become -- new school, I knew no one -- and what it had been. And I was scared. Why should I make new friends when the last time around had been so fantastic?

All of those consequences have passed, each enriching me beyond belief. In fact, I wouldn't change it if I could. I am who I am today -- pretty fucking sweet -- because of that turmoil. I was forced to evaluate my life in the harshest terms and decide if society was wrong, or I. In my opinion, it was the former.

Why this train of thought? I realized last night that the remaining shred of suck from that is that I can do acquaintances, but I never fully engage, always on guard. Sure, once I get to know you a bit, you can't keep my heart closed. But until then, I'm weary. Very weary. Who knows: maybe that unknown person will have an attack of conscience one day and pull the floor out of my life yet again? I'm not sure I'd weather that well a second time around -- I've already learned those lessons.

But I'm not sure I like that. I want to feel comfortable around people I don't know. To not pre-judge people before I know to them to decide if they're worth my time and trust. I want to sparkle in the middle of a group again. I want to be surrounded by friends and laughter, joy and glee. To go to parties and not uncomfortably see people I don't know. I want to see friends I haven't made yet.

Is this not an option due to the overwhelming anxiety that grabs me by the throat? Or am I afraid? Afraid of the anxiety. Afraid of judgment. Afraid of betrayal.

Don't get me wrong: my life is filled with amazing people, laughter, love -- but all these people are time tested, true friends. It's making new ones that's hard.

At the same time, I've never been the type of person to get to know everyone, knowing everyone's business without any of my own, keeping everyone at a distance. I just had a much enlarged group of friends with a much richer diversity of closeness, intimacy, love and trust. Instead of not trusting everyone, I trusted until that proved me wrong. Now, I do the opposite. I don't have the time or inclination to be everyone's buddy -- it's true friendship I'm looking for.

Yet, there are times for acquaintances, times for idle chit chat. And that's what leaves me cold. That I can't do. I don't know what to say, and it's obvious that I don't care. Then I see the group of moderately known people shift and change, leaving me standing by, fighting panic.

Where did my ease with strangers go? When did I decide that I was only in the market for Friends, leaving all other forms of personal interaction at the wayside? Can I change this?

When I'm out, I have trouble making eye contact, don't strike up conversations most of the time. I'll just sit at home, drinking wine, clinging to my tried and true friends.

But then! Then something happens and all I want is people: the more unknown the better. Names, faces, sounds, sights blur as I rush to consume as much of life as possible. And I love it. I feel the light shining from me: I am glorious, I am loved.

Then the mania passes, and I'm stuck wanting to be blithely social without knowing where to start. How? How do I fight the anxiety --- and don't you dare say drugs -- while staying true to myself? What is this self I want to protect? What am I afraid of? If I was betrayed, what would they say, who would they tell?

That's not anywhere near coherent. But it's a start. This is something I want to change. Slowly so as to fight the anxiety, but let's remember that I am the master of my life. And I'm a pretty amazing master at that. I have faith in me, and faith in my ability to know where to draw the friendship line, where to fill in the blanks. Blitheness here I come. So, step one.

Dr. Steve

In Class
Bored! Shit son.
Have to Write a Paper Tonight
18:42
Tuesday, Decemeber 6, 2005

Dr. Steve

I remember when I first came to France: new faces, new places, new head, new meds. Looking for some help as I struggled to deal with it all while trying to maintain a grip on sanity, I turned to the medical profession. The lovely people at the Center pointed me in the direction of Dr. Steve, flourishing his perfectly polite letter of introduction.

I call him Dr. Steve because I can't pronouce his last name. He's too nice for me to ask, especially after our first session, and I'm too proud by far. He's a nice, gentle mannered man, dressed in button up shirts, subtle sweaters, comfortable shoes. He would sit across from me, nodding along as I ramble on about my life, clear eyes watching, seeing more then I first gave him credit for.

The first day, I had to explain "my condition" to him. He's a psychologist -- not a psychiatrist -- and told me point blank that he has no idea how to deal with me. I appreciated his honesty, and replied that I don't know how to deal with it either, but that it seems a good idea to have someone to talk to. That, that he can be.

And so, once a week I show up a few minutes late, he shakes my hand, and tells me to catch my breath before I begin. He could hear me clacking across the courtyard in my kitten heels, buzzing the door before I buzzed for him. His office is a room in an apartment, filled with books I'd love to read, and tasteful pillows probably supplied by Mrs. Steve, a comfy chair for me and for him. He keeps his appointments in a moleskin, preferes to be paid in cash, notices when I change my hair. I always ask him how he's doing. "Fine," he says, while giving me a look that says, "Not that it matters. This is about you."

And I talk to him. He doens't say much, but when he does, it floors me.

"You lost quite a lot by moving to Chicago, didn't you? You lost a lot of love: Sean, Adam. Is it worth it?"

"You like to think don't you? You enjoy the act of thinking?"

"Why do you like your teacher so much? You think she's like you?"

"Why is it that it interests you, and not the others? Are you that different? What does that mean?"

"Did he really love you then?"

"Would you parents be proud?"

"Do you think it's a matter of miscommunication between Jesse and you or are you purposely misleading? Or accidentally? Why not say no?"

"Why were you crying in the bathroom on Thanksgiving? Why not talk to someone? Why not leave?"

And he laughs. After several sessions, I learned his sense of humor, and hence forth strove to show him the ridiculousness of my life. When he laughed I felt a bit better about my life. If my doctor can laugh then so can I.

He gave me his home number, his cell phone number, his office number with the time old statement, "If you ever need to, feel free to call. Anytime." The only problem with that is, when exactly is it appropriate to call your doctor on the cell phone? Is it when the panic attack starts? When the edges of my vision go? When I lose the abilty to form complete coherent thoughts? How do you make that call? How do you interrupt someone's dinner to say, "So, umm. . I'm um. . " I'm what exactly? And if I did, what good what it do? But knowing that I could call -- that's enough.

Every time I sat down in my chair, after I took off my coat, I have a moment of life constriction -- suddenly I have to account for my last week. What do I talk about? But then I begin, and before I know it, I've run my mouth for an hour, going over the time, late for class: what I've been doing, where I'm going, my family, my friends, my hopes, dreams, future. Not my head. We never once, except for the first time, talked about my head -- he never once pointed to it as a reason for anything. For that, I am thankful.

And Dr. Steve laces his fingers together, nods gently, tells me to continue.

Today was our last session. He says next time I'm in Paris, I have to stop by. Have a good life. One last hand shake, one last troop down the dark flights of stairs, through three courtyards, two door ways, one cross walk towards the bus. Today, I walked home.

Did it help? Am I better for the time I spent with Dr. Steve? Possibly. Maybe not dramatically so, but I'm a lot more stable here. Is that because of him? Regardless, every week, I sat in his chair and evaluated my life, shared bits of myself with a virtual stranger, weeding out the good bits, looking for humor, insight. I often realized things I hadn't even thought of, new perspectives -- one that is not my own. And that's good for me.

Thank you Dr. Steve. Sorry I don't know your last name.

Deflated

Sometimes, I feel empty. Instead of becoming filled to bursting with emotion, joy, sadness, grief, accomplishment, security and hope I get nothing. It as if I were a child, watching with glee as someone fills a shiny red balloon for me. They fill it, and I'm filled with joy and sadness: soon it will be mine! But I know that just as quickly, it will lose it's magic, and slump to the floor behind the couch for my mom to find weeks later. They're about to hand it to me when it deflates, leaving a sad, wrinkled shell behind. And turns out they're now out of helium. Holding my husk of what would have been a child's dream, I have to walk away. Only now, I don't have my Dad's huge hand covering mine to make the loss less exquisite.

My mind sometimes makes the command decision to give me nothing in hopes of retaining a semblance of normality, as opposed to succumbing to the tumultuous hurricane of thoughts for fear of drowning. And I'm left without the not even a scrap of emotional honesty to wrap my life around.

I'm not sure what worse: an accidental emotional onslaught that leaves me shaky, confused, tears standing in my eyes, refuting the urge to crawl into a small dark quiet places or the sudden feeling of it all evaporating, flees leaving me reaching, thrusting for at least one of the feelings that grabbed at my brain mere moments before, even more empty and alone then before.