Sigh.

I'm trying my hardest here to not get my hopes up, to not obsess, to not overthink and overplan and get caught up in the whole thing.  I'm trying not to let it consume everything, I'm trying not to plan my life around this thing.  But it's not working...

...because he held my hand.

Holding hands is pretty much my favourite thing in the world.  Above kisses, and hugs, and cuddling, and being in their arms, and having funny conversations and tickling other people...I simply want to hold hands.  In today's society, people can flirt, kiss, dance, grind, fuck, and break hearts in less than 12 hours.  We can do so many things without really meaning it.  And I'm not naive to think holding hands always means something, but...it kind of does.

There's a certain amount of intimacy in holding hands. Of offering a connection to someone that doesn't cross certain boundaries, that can simultaneously calm you down and make your heart skip all at once.  Holding hands is physical without being exploitative or lewd, it's being public without too much, it's being an extension of someone and letting yourself connect.

So yeah...he held my hand.

It was bad enough when he let me walk 8 blocks with my arm tucked into his.  It's not the same, but it was nice to know that he was steadying me and that he's considerate enough to not just ditch me or push me away or tense up and be awkward about it.  It was...natural. And nice.

So then when we were dancing, I just thought...that's fine.  We're both a bit drunk, this is what you do in a crowded bar that's groovin' all around you and bumpin' some fine 90's jams - you grind it out.  You dance, you attach your hips, you hold his arm while he holds you're waist.  My heart skipped a few beats when he did pull me into him and he put his cheek on top of my head and we just spun in a slow circle for a minute or so, but I can blow by that.  I'm sensible enough to offer it up as drunkenness, as wanting to feel like you're circled in someone's arms.  I even managed to calm it down and offer up rationale when he moved in front of me and grabbed my arms and wrapping them around him and pulled me up against his back, shimmying down my front and holding my hands and not even letting go to spin around and pull me into him again and that feeling I got that he just didn't want me to let go of him.

And the first time he grabbed my hands, I managed to move it all out of my head.  That it was part of the dancing, that it was part of the drunkenness, that it was just to keep us dancing together.  That was it.

But then he had to intertwine our fingers. And keep holding on, even when we stopped dancing.  And even when we would break apart or dance with our two other friends, he'd still come back to me and take my hand(s) again.  And he'd hold my hand as we walked through the bar, and he'd take my hand in his and interlace our fingers and hold it against his chest and smile down at me and my heart would explode.


I don't know what he meant by any of it, if there was anything there at all.  Maybe it was all him being drunk and he just does that.

But holding hands is one of my favourite things in the world.

And he held my hand.

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Why're You Smiling Friday

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One of the radio station morning shows here has a segment called "Why Are You Smiling Friday," and I find that I really like listening to it.  You can't help but smile along with everyone, especially when its a 10 year old kid calling in saying he's smiling because he's going to school and he loves math.  Or when this little girl said she was getting to go to a friend's house and play dolls.

So, because I've had a shit-tacular week, and I'm either hungover or just badly reacting to lots of alcohol + no sleep, I figured I may as well do mine, too!

Why I'm Smiling This Friday

1. The sun is out. It's been a particularly rainy season (for San Diego...), and it is glorious having it back to it's 80* weather.
2. I love my new scarf.
3. I have a super awesome moleskin notebook and it makes me feel old and wise.  Even though all I do is whine about drama and my life in it.
4. Last night started out weird and pretty bummy what with our plans getting screwed up since Eden was closed, but it turned out really fun.  I got to see a friend I haven't seen in awhile and go to some really chill bars.
5. I got to see one of the boys I'm crushin' on.  And while it's not a crush that will actually lead to something, and it's a pretty pointless thing...I can't stop smiling.
6. Dancing. Lots of dancing. Which I'm always down with, but this was particularly a stand out because...Crush (I've got to figure out a better code name for him...where's my 13-year-old-self when I need her?) isn't exactly the best dancer, and he gets incredibly awkward about it when he's really sober. So...let's just say he was not sober. And it was hilarious and adorable and awesome and dirty and naughty and YEAH I SAID IT.
7. Ashley sandwich. That was a rough ride.
8. I seriously have one of the best friend's ever. Kathy's been in my life for 12 years now, but every day it gets more and more evident how much of a rock she is and how amazing and beautiful she is.  She listens and advises and helps me.  And in return, she lets me ask and be her friend. It's one of those friendships that has meaning, and I sincerely hope I never take it for granted.
9. It's kind of nice to feel giddy. Even though I'm fairly certain my heart is going to break eventually, it's still a fuzzy feeling knowing that there's someone I'm excited about.
10. I have legitimate plans this weekend.  Nothing crazy, but some good times with good people. Hurrah!

Happy Weekend, all!

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I organized today.

I don't mean clean. I organized.  And it's not normally a bad thing.  It's never really a bad thing, in a way.

But it kind of is with me.

As I always allude to, my first and second year of college was...terrible.  Horrible.  Enough where I don't really talk about it with anyone - I cry, I get angry, I get frustrated.  So I avoid it and I don't talk about it (what's that? That's not healthy?  Hmm...) but I always allude to it because I can't help how much it affected my life.

People used to make fun of how "OCD" I was in college.  My roommate first year told me she thought she was living with a crazy person the first month we were in the dorms because I was such a neat freak.

And it's true, I was a freak about it.  My pictures on my walls were spaced completely evenly and uniformly. And I mean exactly even. And symmetrically.  I had roughly 48 photos on my wall when I began college, and they were organized in exact 6 rows, 8 columns, 2.5 inches between, above and below each of them.  I used a fucking ruler.

It didn't stop there.  I had to have certain numbers of pens/pencils in the cup on my desk. My laptop had to be dead center of my keyboard slide, despite the fact I didn't even use a keyboard on it. Books had to be in height order.  Photos on my dresser were in height order, then by colour. My hairbrush was always in the same spot, with 5 bobby pins, 2 big hair ties and 3 little ones to the left of it. I can't even tell you how bad my jewelry box became and how crazy I was about keeping everything organized.  Even my food drawer had a certain order to it, and I could always tell when someone took anything from it or the candy drawer we had below our tv.

As my life took a spiral downward, my obsessions climbed higher and higher.  Second year was worse; my pictures had diminished since the people I thought were worth something had too - but the evenness and symmetry remained. My calendar was still kept to the upper left, 3 inches from the top and sides. I insisted that the sleep time on my alarm clock had to be at 22 minutes; any more or less would fuck up my sleeping pattern and I wouldn't be able to sleep. My backpack had to be on my desk chair when I went to sleep. I bought the same foods, the same exact amounts each grocery trip, because each item had specific places in my cupboards and in the fridge, and I couldn't add or detract from it. I rarely shopped because my closet was organized just so and each shirt had a specific hanger and a specific spot.  If I did buy a shirt for work, I'd toss another one because I couldn't have it be any more than it was.

It got to the point where I was convinced I could only fall asleep a certain way: on my stomach, head pointed to the left facing the wall, left arm above my head on top of my pillows (always had 2), right arm tucked underneath the pillows, right leg bent, left leg straight.

None of these things had consequences if I didn't do it or keep to it though. Even as I was doing it all, I knew it was pointless.  I never felt like someone would die if my pencil wasn't to the left of my paper. The world wouldn't crumble, life wouldn't stop, no one I cared about would suddenly fall ill. These things I did weren't rituals, and they didn't really impede my life. I think the reason none of my roommates really thought much of it is because I didn't have a schedule I HAD to necessarily keep to.  Things could adjust around other people or their lives.  If a roommate put her peanut butter on the top shelf where my butter usually went, then I'd just put the butter a shelf down in the same spot and a new regular spot would emerge. Oddly, I was flexible in my obsessions.

Some people cut to control. Others become destructive. Some work out, some take it out on their bodies or their food intake because it's a way to control.

I organize.

It wasn't about needing things to be just so, it was the feeling of being able to control where things went. Of where items belonged, of controlling what seemed and felt normal to me.  The world is a shitstorm around me, everything is crumbling to pieces and imploding around me--but you know what? I can still put five pencils in a cup, and it feels good and looks symmetrical.  So that's one point for me and my life.

I didn't realize this at the time, of course.  Only in retrospect when my life started to get better and the obsessions diminished did I figure out what it all meant.  I still like things to be organized, don't get me wrong - symmetry and the aesthetic of it is still something I love. I like to have my DVDs in ABC order, and my books are still organized by height order, hardcover vs. softcover, by colour and genre and classics vs. contemporary.  But things are messy now, and my clothes aren't perfectly folded, and my receipts aren't in perfect order.


Today, though...I organized again.  Like a madwoman.  My bathroom is perfectly in order, with all my beauty products in height order, and nailpolishes in colour order.  And I put all the groceries away because I wanted to put all the green vegetables in the bottom crisper and line up the cheeses in the cheese drawer, and I put the chip bags by order of how the family will probably eat them.  I lined up the shampoo bottles in my shower to be the exact same.

I've been feeling it for a few weeks now - that feeling of needing to run. Of being scared, and trapped, and useless, and worthless, and not good enough, and alone, and lonely.  I'm starting to feel like second fiddle, like everyone's constant backup, like the Plan B to everyone's "well my plans got canceled so sure I'll hang out with you."  The "sure I'll see what's up and if I have nothing to do I'll join you" girl.  The dependable one, the one who's always there, the one no one notices until they need something done.

It's the same feeling of hanging in mid-air, of being suspended in time, like I'm just waiting for something to come along and jerk me out of this horrible, raw place.  And no matter how much I try to infer change, to take my own life into my own hands and make something of it...I can't.  I'm too scared to face whatever is it that's holding me back, I'm too terrified to confront what's blocking me.

And so I want to run. And when I want to run, I let things get out of control.

And so I organize.

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