I'm going to try this out. I'm not promising an entry every day. But I'll do my best to do all 30 entries. Here's the list:
Day 01 Something you hate about yourself.
Day 02 Something you love about yourself.
Day 03 Something you have to forgive yourself for.
Day 04 Something you have to forgive someone for.
Day 05 Something you hope to do in your life.
Day 06 Something you hope you never have to do.
Day 07 Someone who has made your life worth living for.
Day 08 Someone who made your life hell, or treated you like shit.
Day 09 Someone you didn’t want to let go, but just drifted.
Day 10 Someone you need to let go, or wish you didn’t know.
Day 11 Something people seem to compliment you the most on.
Day 12 Something you never get compliments on.
Day 13 A band or artist that has gotten you through some tough ass days. (write a letter.)
Day 14 A hero that has let you down. (letter)
Day 15 Something or someone you couldn’t live without, because you’ve tried living without it.
Day 16 Someone or something you definitely could live without.
Day 17 A book you’ve read that changed your views on something.
Day 18 Your views on gay marriage.
Day 19 What do you think of religion? Or what do you think of politics?
Day 20 Your views on drugs and alcohol.
Day 21 (scenario) Your best friend is in a car accident and you two got into a fight an hour before. What do you do?
Day 22 Something you wish you hadn’t done in your life.
Day 23 Something you wish you had done in your life.
Day 24 Make a playlist to someone, and explain why you chose all the songs. (Just post the titles and artists and letter)
Day 25 The reason you believe you’re still alive today.
Day 26 Have you ever thought about giving up on life? If so, when and why?
Day 27 What’s the best thing going for you right now?
Day 28 What if you were pregnant or got someone pregnant, what would you do?
Day 29 Something you hope to change about yourself. And why.
Day 30 A letter to yourself, tell yourself EVERYTHING you love about yourself.
Starting at the top, in five or ten minutes. (need to go grab my e-cigarette, some water, and cue up some music)
Thursday, March 10, 2011
Friday, March 4, 2011
Here Goes
I've been sitting and staring at the screen tonight and having trouble trying to figure out what to post.
Insomnia's a bitch. PMS is a bitch. The two of them together...oh God.
I was up till 6 am last night. Jeremy's a snorer. I am on occasion, but he is every night. It's not his fault - he had his face caved in by brass knuckles years ago, and as a result, he can't handle really spicy foods on a regular basis (messes with his sinuses), and he snores. Both the boys snore too. Most of the time I can sleep regardless, but one effect of PMS with me is that I have a very hard time falling asleep. So I pulled a clean blanket out of the dryer (love doing laundry, hate folding it), laid down on the couch, and tried to fall asleep. I finally succeeded, only to wake up at 9 am wondering why I only had one arm. I looked, and the other arm was there, but completely numb due to the fact that Jonah had gotten up at some point and crawled up next to me. Mom instincts kicked in while I was sleeping, and 3/4 of his 30-odd lbs was supported by my fully outstretched arm. The arm with nerve damage. I scooted him fully back onto the couch and tried to fall back asleep. At 10 am, I got 18 Twitter notifications, all heralded by my iPhone's least annoying text alert - the train whistle. I managed to doze back off again. Jeremy woke up shortly thereafter and sent me back to bed. I slept for a few more hours.
I got up, had some coffee, got dressed, cuddled the kids, had more coffee, then went to the cemetery to meet Joe (not J from Texas, and not Scotty-love's ex, but one of his best friends and a hell of an artist) so I could visit Scotty. It was cold, windy, gray, appropriate. I'm glad Joe was thinking ahead and brought a blanket to sit on. I had one in the back of the van, but I wouldn't have remembered it till I'd gotten to the site.
Scotty's way far away from the main gate. We hiked there. We sat on the blanket at the foot of the grave and talked about Scotty. I can't remember what I said, but I said something about Scotty and all of a sudden, I was surrounded in warmth. And let me remind you, it was freezing here. I had on two sweatshirts, a tee shirt, jeans, socks, and my Chucks, and I'd been shivering until that moment. I want to think it was a hug, like maybe he heard me and agreed with me. I hope so.
I hugged Joe when we left. He seems like a sweet kid, and I wish I had gotten to know him under different circumstances. For some reason, Scotty wanted to keep him to himself. I don't know why. I'm thinking about digging out the yarn left over from Scotty's Christmas scarf from 2009 and making Joe a similar one. Heart to heart, I think he'd appreciate the meaning behind the gesture.
I picked Diddy up from school, took him home, bought more smokes, then headed home. Then had to head out again shortly after for stuff for tacos. Then again after dinner for Benadryl because I'd forgotten it. Then when I got home, the PMS monster swallowed me whole.
I'm trying to keep it in check and remind myself that no one is entitled to anything in this world, but there's so much that I'm angry about. I'm angry that this area sucks - for every point you could give me saying it's a great place, I could match you with a negative one. Remember, I've spent the majority of my life here, I know it a hell of a lot better than a lot of people. I'm angry that I'm filled with questions that I don't have answers for. I'm angry at everyone who's ever let down or hurt any one of the people I love, and yes, on that list of piss-off my name is included. I'm not perfect. I try to learn from my mistakes and to not repeat them, which is more than most people do, so bite me if you don't like it. I'm angry that people can be so hateful. I'm angry at every arrogant asshole that can't pull their heads out of their own butt cracks and open their eyes and try to see through them with someone else's point of view. I'm angry for a moment every time I see something whiny about something stupid online, so I've been - and granted this may be unhealthy psychologically, but again, see my above statement of "bite me if you don't like it" - looking up stuff about Michigan ghost towns and shipwrecks and lighthouses. I've always been into certain history topics, and I've had a thing about lighthouses for some reason since I was about 4 months pregnant with Matthew, and there are a few ghost towns I'd love to check out, for the remnants of the old buildings. I'd love to go check out Sheldrake up in the UP, for example. Anyway, it keeps me off sites like FMyLife. I've wanted to smack everyone on there for the past 12 days. I don't want to fuel this anger, so I'm staying off it.
I've got the start of a poem kicking around in the back of my head. I haven't written anything but recipes, status updates, tweets, and Facebook notes for a long time, so we'll see if it actually turns out. If it does, I'll post it here. If not, you'll never hear about it again.
I guess that's about all I've got for tonight. Hopefully I can come up with something better tomorrow.
Tell your loved ones you love them, every chance you get. And if you get pissed at them, try seeing it through their eyes before you react. They might be wrong, but you might be too.
<3
Insomnia's a bitch. PMS is a bitch. The two of them together...oh God.
I was up till 6 am last night. Jeremy's a snorer. I am on occasion, but he is every night. It's not his fault - he had his face caved in by brass knuckles years ago, and as a result, he can't handle really spicy foods on a regular basis (messes with his sinuses), and he snores. Both the boys snore too. Most of the time I can sleep regardless, but one effect of PMS with me is that I have a very hard time falling asleep. So I pulled a clean blanket out of the dryer (love doing laundry, hate folding it), laid down on the couch, and tried to fall asleep. I finally succeeded, only to wake up at 9 am wondering why I only had one arm. I looked, and the other arm was there, but completely numb due to the fact that Jonah had gotten up at some point and crawled up next to me. Mom instincts kicked in while I was sleeping, and 3/4 of his 30-odd lbs was supported by my fully outstretched arm. The arm with nerve damage. I scooted him fully back onto the couch and tried to fall back asleep. At 10 am, I got 18 Twitter notifications, all heralded by my iPhone's least annoying text alert - the train whistle. I managed to doze back off again. Jeremy woke up shortly thereafter and sent me back to bed. I slept for a few more hours.
I got up, had some coffee, got dressed, cuddled the kids, had more coffee, then went to the cemetery to meet Joe (not J from Texas, and not Scotty-love's ex, but one of his best friends and a hell of an artist) so I could visit Scotty. It was cold, windy, gray, appropriate. I'm glad Joe was thinking ahead and brought a blanket to sit on. I had one in the back of the van, but I wouldn't have remembered it till I'd gotten to the site.
Scotty's way far away from the main gate. We hiked there. We sat on the blanket at the foot of the grave and talked about Scotty. I can't remember what I said, but I said something about Scotty and all of a sudden, I was surrounded in warmth. And let me remind you, it was freezing here. I had on two sweatshirts, a tee shirt, jeans, socks, and my Chucks, and I'd been shivering until that moment. I want to think it was a hug, like maybe he heard me and agreed with me. I hope so.
I hugged Joe when we left. He seems like a sweet kid, and I wish I had gotten to know him under different circumstances. For some reason, Scotty wanted to keep him to himself. I don't know why. I'm thinking about digging out the yarn left over from Scotty's Christmas scarf from 2009 and making Joe a similar one. Heart to heart, I think he'd appreciate the meaning behind the gesture.
I picked Diddy up from school, took him home, bought more smokes, then headed home. Then had to head out again shortly after for stuff for tacos. Then again after dinner for Benadryl because I'd forgotten it. Then when I got home, the PMS monster swallowed me whole.
I'm trying to keep it in check and remind myself that no one is entitled to anything in this world, but there's so much that I'm angry about. I'm angry that this area sucks - for every point you could give me saying it's a great place, I could match you with a negative one. Remember, I've spent the majority of my life here, I know it a hell of a lot better than a lot of people. I'm angry that I'm filled with questions that I don't have answers for. I'm angry at everyone who's ever let down or hurt any one of the people I love, and yes, on that list of piss-off my name is included. I'm not perfect. I try to learn from my mistakes and to not repeat them, which is more than most people do, so bite me if you don't like it. I'm angry that people can be so hateful. I'm angry at every arrogant asshole that can't pull their heads out of their own butt cracks and open their eyes and try to see through them with someone else's point of view. I'm angry for a moment every time I see something whiny about something stupid online, so I've been - and granted this may be unhealthy psychologically, but again, see my above statement of "bite me if you don't like it" - looking up stuff about Michigan ghost towns and shipwrecks and lighthouses. I've always been into certain history topics, and I've had a thing about lighthouses for some reason since I was about 4 months pregnant with Matthew, and there are a few ghost towns I'd love to check out, for the remnants of the old buildings. I'd love to go check out Sheldrake up in the UP, for example. Anyway, it keeps me off sites like FMyLife. I've wanted to smack everyone on there for the past 12 days. I don't want to fuel this anger, so I'm staying off it.
I've got the start of a poem kicking around in the back of my head. I haven't written anything but recipes, status updates, tweets, and Facebook notes for a long time, so we'll see if it actually turns out. If it does, I'll post it here. If not, you'll never hear about it again.
I guess that's about all I've got for tonight. Hopefully I can come up with something better tomorrow.
Tell your loved ones you love them, every chance you get. And if you get pissed at them, try seeing it through their eyes before you react. They might be wrong, but you might be too.
<3
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
Today so far
I haven't cried. It's been a decent day, more or less.
My awesome Valentine's day gift from Jeremy arrived via FedEx this afternoon. Here's a pic:
Those are our birthstones, and it's custom engraved with our names. Silver (I'm allergic to gold), and my birthstone actually changes colors from smoky gray to greenish to purple, depending on the angle and lighting. Kinda like me. Huh. Anyway, it's the perfect size and I totally love it. It was a nice thing and went a bit toward brightening up my day.
Still haven't heard back from the casino. I don't know if Rob's still interviewing people or not. I've got a game plan in my head if I don't get that job - I want the hell out of Emmet County. I don't know where to move to, for sure - I'd need to actually get Jeremy to sit and discuss it with me instead of him just going "oh, you'll get the job." Nothing's guaranteed in this life except the fact that it will end, and I'm just one of those people who want to have multiple options fully mapped out. It's an insecurity thing.
Here's the deal. Sage is my dream job. I love working there, but I can never seem to stay on long enough as seasonal to qualify for unemployment. If I get the position I applied for, fantastic. Believe me, I'll be stoked. I'll just need to start looking around for a bigger house in this area.
If I don't get it...there's really not much holding me to this county. There's a shortage of options job-wise in my career field. And I seriously suck at retail. I've tried it. Multiple times.
I have a few friends in Traverse City. Liberal area, good sized town, lots of restaurants I could cook out. Housing costs about the same. Ni and Lopp and Mat and Bee live down there, and it would be nice to have the group back together again. I miss those days. But then again, it wouldn't be the same. We've all grown up so much and come so far, and I think that little sliver of idealism in me would be disappointed that we weren't hanging out every day like we did back in '06.
Flint's another option. Well, Genesee County, rather. Flint area but not within city limits. Jeremy's got so much family down there, and Sherry would be able to see the boys so much easier if we were closer. There's a boatload of different restaurant options - the French Laundry in Fenton springs to mind - and housing is so much cheaper, while wages for someone with my experience remain about the same. Plus, since Jeremy's now a work-from-home dad, we won't have to worry about the childcare. The area's definitely more culturally diverse - that's the understatement of the year.
I've got a lot of great memories of P-town and Emmet County. But I've also got a lot of shitty ones. At times I feel like this place has chewed me up, spit me out, rinse and repeat. I guess it used to be a great place to raise kids, back in the day, but things have changed. Minor in possession charges are so freaking common because, the sad truth is that if you're awkward, not sports material, and your parents aren't rich...THERE'S NOTHING FOR YOU TO DO AS A TEEN. We used to sneak into the alley behind the old theater (now gone) to smoke and make out and drink. We'd hide in bushes down at the waterfront and drink wine coolers or beers that had been smuggled out of our parents' kitchens. Little one-shot bottles that we'd gotten someone older to buy for us from the Four Corner's Market on Mitchell and Division (also gone, now Plath's Smoked Meats). We'd run around and do stupid shit like this because there isn't anything like a rec center or a decent skate park (at least not when I was in high school, and I should have been class of 2000). In the summer, you can swim, tan, go to the beach, but in the winter? Takes money for skis or snowboards. Ice skating's fun, until your ankles give out on you, and in Northern Michigan, there's a period of time where it's cold as hell, and rainy, before the winter sports start up.
I don't want that for my kids. If I'm working at Sage, I'll have money to enroll them in soccer, their dad can do Boy Scouts with them if he decides that's what he wants to do. But if not....
I'm used to struggling. I've had to fight to get to where I am now, and I expect to be fighting for a while. That's life. Some people get everything handed to them, some people struggle. Due in part to my personality, the way I look (not the way I was born looking, I mean the short hair and the nose ring, etc - the way I'm comfortable looking), the career path I've taken, and other multiple choices along my path that have led me to where and who and what I am now, I'm one of those that has had to struggle. Experience shapes outlook, and while I certainly haven't had the roughest life, I've struggled more than enough to get to where I am today - which is good, but not where I want to stop.
I want to keep blogging, about food, food I create and food I make under the tutelage of a chef - a good chef, one who has passion and creativity and fire, all the things that I have to offer, and one who can recognize that in me. Chef Rob certainly meets all those things, but whether I'm to end up at Sage is as yet unknown.
I don't want my kids to have to struggle. I don't want them staying on Medicaid because that's the only option and the only way I can get them to the doctor and dentist. I certainly don't want to hand them everything on a silver platter, I want them to know that anything worth having is worth working for, but I want them to know the taste of good grass fed beef, free range chicken, the kinds of food I can't afford to buy. I don't want them to be mocked for wearing hand me downs. I'm not going to drop crazy money on brand name clothes they'll outgrow in a minute, but I want them to have a few brand name things. Does that make sense? I'm not going to outfit them in Calvin Klein, but I wouldn't mind getting them Converse All-Stars. As an example.
There's a lot of fear here too. I'm not ashamed to admit that. I'm scared that if I stay in Northern MI, and I don't get on at Sage, I'm going to end up flipping burgers somewhere for minimum wage, we'll be stuck in a permanent rut of debt and falling behind and going back on food stamps and only catching up bills at tax time only to fall behind again a month later, the phone getting shut off, the gas getting shut off, help from DHS....it's soul killing. When you have pride, and you have to go to DHS to get money to get your electricity turned back on, it kills you a little on the inside.
If I don't get on at Sage, I think a town with more job options and lower housing costs would not only help us stay out of debt, help me give these two boys everything and every damn opportunity I want to give them, but ironically, would also let me take them to see my parents more often. More money = safer vehicle and more gas money for more trips.
That's the rational reason. The irrational one? I hear Scotty telling me "have an adventure. Every day."
So there's a lot to think about, and I'm working my way through it. It hinges so much on the casino right now. If I don't get on, and if Jeremy's amenable to moving, the next step will be picking up some job to pay the bills and slaving away at it whether I hate it or not, and socking away money to help fund a move.
If he doesn't want to move...I don't know. I really don't.
Because without that job, I can't see much point in sticking around in a town that doesn't want me.
My awesome Valentine's day gift from Jeremy arrived via FedEx this afternoon. Here's a pic:
Those are our birthstones, and it's custom engraved with our names. Silver (I'm allergic to gold), and my birthstone actually changes colors from smoky gray to greenish to purple, depending on the angle and lighting. Kinda like me. Huh. Anyway, it's the perfect size and I totally love it. It was a nice thing and went a bit toward brightening up my day.
Still haven't heard back from the casino. I don't know if Rob's still interviewing people or not. I've got a game plan in my head if I don't get that job - I want the hell out of Emmet County. I don't know where to move to, for sure - I'd need to actually get Jeremy to sit and discuss it with me instead of him just going "oh, you'll get the job." Nothing's guaranteed in this life except the fact that it will end, and I'm just one of those people who want to have multiple options fully mapped out. It's an insecurity thing.
Here's the deal. Sage is my dream job. I love working there, but I can never seem to stay on long enough as seasonal to qualify for unemployment. If I get the position I applied for, fantastic. Believe me, I'll be stoked. I'll just need to start looking around for a bigger house in this area.
If I don't get it...there's really not much holding me to this county. There's a shortage of options job-wise in my career field. And I seriously suck at retail. I've tried it. Multiple times.
I have a few friends in Traverse City. Liberal area, good sized town, lots of restaurants I could cook out. Housing costs about the same. Ni and Lopp and Mat and Bee live down there, and it would be nice to have the group back together again. I miss those days. But then again, it wouldn't be the same. We've all grown up so much and come so far, and I think that little sliver of idealism in me would be disappointed that we weren't hanging out every day like we did back in '06.
Flint's another option. Well, Genesee County, rather. Flint area but not within city limits. Jeremy's got so much family down there, and Sherry would be able to see the boys so much easier if we were closer. There's a boatload of different restaurant options - the French Laundry in Fenton springs to mind - and housing is so much cheaper, while wages for someone with my experience remain about the same. Plus, since Jeremy's now a work-from-home dad, we won't have to worry about the childcare. The area's definitely more culturally diverse - that's the understatement of the year.
I've got a lot of great memories of P-town and Emmet County. But I've also got a lot of shitty ones. At times I feel like this place has chewed me up, spit me out, rinse and repeat. I guess it used to be a great place to raise kids, back in the day, but things have changed. Minor in possession charges are so freaking common because, the sad truth is that if you're awkward, not sports material, and your parents aren't rich...THERE'S NOTHING FOR YOU TO DO AS A TEEN. We used to sneak into the alley behind the old theater (now gone) to smoke and make out and drink. We'd hide in bushes down at the waterfront and drink wine coolers or beers that had been smuggled out of our parents' kitchens. Little one-shot bottles that we'd gotten someone older to buy for us from the Four Corner's Market on Mitchell and Division (also gone, now Plath's Smoked Meats). We'd run around and do stupid shit like this because there isn't anything like a rec center or a decent skate park (at least not when I was in high school, and I should have been class of 2000). In the summer, you can swim, tan, go to the beach, but in the winter? Takes money for skis or snowboards. Ice skating's fun, until your ankles give out on you, and in Northern Michigan, there's a period of time where it's cold as hell, and rainy, before the winter sports start up.
I don't want that for my kids. If I'm working at Sage, I'll have money to enroll them in soccer, their dad can do Boy Scouts with them if he decides that's what he wants to do. But if not....
I'm used to struggling. I've had to fight to get to where I am now, and I expect to be fighting for a while. That's life. Some people get everything handed to them, some people struggle. Due in part to my personality, the way I look (not the way I was born looking, I mean the short hair and the nose ring, etc - the way I'm comfortable looking), the career path I've taken, and other multiple choices along my path that have led me to where and who and what I am now, I'm one of those that has had to struggle. Experience shapes outlook, and while I certainly haven't had the roughest life, I've struggled more than enough to get to where I am today - which is good, but not where I want to stop.
I want to keep blogging, about food, food I create and food I make under the tutelage of a chef - a good chef, one who has passion and creativity and fire, all the things that I have to offer, and one who can recognize that in me. Chef Rob certainly meets all those things, but whether I'm to end up at Sage is as yet unknown.
I don't want my kids to have to struggle. I don't want them staying on Medicaid because that's the only option and the only way I can get them to the doctor and dentist. I certainly don't want to hand them everything on a silver platter, I want them to know that anything worth having is worth working for, but I want them to know the taste of good grass fed beef, free range chicken, the kinds of food I can't afford to buy. I don't want them to be mocked for wearing hand me downs. I'm not going to drop crazy money on brand name clothes they'll outgrow in a minute, but I want them to have a few brand name things. Does that make sense? I'm not going to outfit them in Calvin Klein, but I wouldn't mind getting them Converse All-Stars. As an example.
There's a lot of fear here too. I'm not ashamed to admit that. I'm scared that if I stay in Northern MI, and I don't get on at Sage, I'm going to end up flipping burgers somewhere for minimum wage, we'll be stuck in a permanent rut of debt and falling behind and going back on food stamps and only catching up bills at tax time only to fall behind again a month later, the phone getting shut off, the gas getting shut off, help from DHS....it's soul killing. When you have pride, and you have to go to DHS to get money to get your electricity turned back on, it kills you a little on the inside.
If I don't get on at Sage, I think a town with more job options and lower housing costs would not only help us stay out of debt, help me give these two boys everything and every damn opportunity I want to give them, but ironically, would also let me take them to see my parents more often. More money = safer vehicle and more gas money for more trips.
That's the rational reason. The irrational one? I hear Scotty telling me "have an adventure. Every day."
So there's a lot to think about, and I'm working my way through it. It hinges so much on the casino right now. If I don't get on, and if Jeremy's amenable to moving, the next step will be picking up some job to pay the bills and slaving away at it whether I hate it or not, and socking away money to help fund a move.
If he doesn't want to move...I don't know. I really don't.
Because without that job, I can't see much point in sticking around in a town that doesn't want me.
"Life's Only Life With You In This Song"
"Life's only life with you in this song." - Flogging Molly
"The sun is gone, but I have a light." - Nirvana
"That last kiss I'll cherish, until we meet again. Time makes it harder, I wish I could remember. But I'll keep your memory, you'll visit me in my sleep. My darlin', who knew?" - Pink
There's so many more quotes I could post.
It's been nine days since my brother Scotty was taken from us. I'm not going to say "taken by the Lord" or "gone to his reward" or anything like that, for reasons I'll illustrate in a moment. I'm coming out of the shock phase. I'm angry, I hurt. I don't cry every time I see his picture anymore - maybe once out of every three times. I get a boulder in my throat every day when his Facebook account automatically posts his horoscope to my news feed, but, it's not making me lose it completely. I'm crying at random, but I'm coming to terms with it. I think. I don't know.
It would have been difficult no matter which sibling I lost, since obviously the stupid fucking universe (there's the anger) saw fit to subtract another member of our family for whatever stupid reason. It hurt when we lost Grandma and Grandpa and Aunt Cheryl. Terribly. The thing is, though, that they had all been sick for a while. Grandma battled Alzheimer's for years before it took her. Grandpa just got sick with one thing after another. Aunt Cheryl had lymphoma. She rallied after my dad's heroic donation of stem cells, but it came back. I guess what I'm trying to say is that, while it was horrible and sad, there was more advance warning, I suppose.
And yeah, I just re-read what I've typed so far, and it sounds horribly selfish to me, but I am going to try not to care. I'm so far out to sea on how to cope with this, I'm attempting to blog through my grief, and all I can do is write what I know and what's in my heart. So feel free to click away. I'm sorry if this comes off badly. That being said....
Scotty's loss hit me in a way that Grandma and Grandpa and Aunt Cheryl's did not. It was so sudden. I heard he was in the hospital at 9 pm Saturday, and he was gone at 3 pm Sunday. He'd had stomach flu, and a headache for almost a week, which he posted about on Facebook, but no cancer or anything like that. He was such a vibrant guy. I've said this so many times to so many people, but he was literally my sunshine. He automatically saw the ideal version of who you were, everything you'd be in a perfect world, and somehow without putting you on a pedestal, that's just who you were to him. He came into our lives at a time when I was in a very dark place and just brightened it up, and I love him for that (yes, love - that is something that will never be put into the past tense) just as I love him for his love of us all, for his seeing so much more than any other guy his age would, for his open arms and heart and smile and oh shit, I really didn't want to start crying while I was writing this, but here I go.
I've had trouble with depression since I was fairly young - pre-puberty. I had a rough start and a shitty run with a shitty public school that made me literally hate everything about myself. Things got a little bit better when Concord opened in 1994 and I transferred there, but you can't automatically undo the damage of years and years of what I privately refer to as societal abuse. I was on a few different antidepressants, I tried my luck with self medication through poetry, drugs, alcohol, cigarettes, and talks with the few people I called friends. It was so hard for me not to believe that everyone was laughing at me behind my back. I was convinced that it was all one giant set-up - it had happened to me before. I left P-town and moved to the UP, and strangely, that helped a little bit. I dropped a lot of the angry teenager fat, grew my hair out, and learned how to fake confidence. I took a lot of the steps towards who I am today.
I came back home to P-town. Emmet County has some sort of weird magnetic pull over me - no matter how many times or how far I run, it always pulls me back. I dropped out of high school. I went to work in food service, further shaping me as an adult. That underlying paranoia was still there though. Always there.
I wonder if you, reading this, can understand that. I didn't come into the world loathing myself, my dark hair, my thick build, hazel eyes, round butt, small chest. I was a pretty confident little kid, up until my own personal hell began when I was 8 and did not let up. Four years might not seem like a long time, but the amount of damage it can do on a kid that age is fierce. Don't ever let anyone tell you otherwise. It's why I try to treat kids with as much respect as possible. I was smart - maybe too smart - and I always related better to adults. To this day, most of my friends are older than me. And to this day, I tend to back the losing team, because I was on it for so long. "The hero for the lost cause," like Green Day says. How long to undo four years, minus summer breaks, of daily torment at the hands of so-called peers? I don't know. I'm still clocking it.
I went back to school to get my diploma, still working food service. I also worked as a parapro at Concord, trying to figure out exactly what I wanted to do with my life. And that year was when Scotty came into our lives.
I've stated before how he drew me out, how it took me longer to warm up to him - and God, I'm still angry with myself for that, the missed opportunity, the fact that we could have been close for an extra month. But maybe me laying out my soul here can explain that a little better, and maybe by writing it out I can quit cursing myself for it.
I'll always be thankful for the time we had together. I just wish it could have been more. I don't give a shit about DNA or adoption papers or anything like that. He was my brother. As much as Travis is my brother. Who cares who gave birth to you? It's what is in your heart that counts, and he called me sister. That's all I need.
It's been hell. It's going to be hell for a lot longer, I expect. But at the same time, what I learned from Scotty has made it easier.
He stood by me, no matter how bad I fucked up. He helped me to know that I could actually let people in, no matter how much it freaked me out to do so, and while some of them might not be worth it, I could always learn from it, and there would also be people who were worth it.
He got me to shed my external armor of giant wide leg pants, yellow work boots, and mens' XL shirts, and start wearing jeans that fit and shirts that fit too, sneakers and such. He got me to look around at the world instead of always looking inward, and he was a master at getting me out of my own head.
I've pulled inside myself pretty hard since last Sunday. I couldn't help it. I felt like someone had carved out my heart and tried to feed it to me. My kids were freaked out. They couldn't understand why Mommy kept crying. Matthew wouldn't get more than six feet away from me, kept petting my head, and Jonah wouldn't leave my lap. I couldn't leave the house. I had people texting me and Facebooking me to see if I was okay - thank you Betina, Lopp, and Pepe - and I replied through this fucking haze of burnt smoggy pain. I wanted to try to comfort everyone else who loved him, and there were so many people who did, but I just did not have it in me. Nor did I want to be comforted. I just wanted to be left alone with my pain, but at the same time I so greatly appreciated everyone who cared enough to reach out. Sound conflicted? Sorry, that's just the best I could explain it.
I'm not the only one who's lost someone so dear when they were so young. I know that intellectually, and maybe someday that fact will help, but the cold hard truth is that when it happens to you, it feels like you're the only one.
So now, I'm angry. I'm angry that he wasn't back here in Petoskey. I'm angry that he had a headache for so many days and no one made him go into the ER. The autopsy results aren't back yet, so who's to say if it would have helped? But again, who's to say it wouldn't have. I'm angry that he's gone. I still want to fight something, anything. I can't really believe in any kind of God right now. If God is love like everyone keeps saying, and if God wants his message of love spread, then he's a fucking dumbass dipshit for taking someone who spread more love in 24 years than most of his so-called messengers do in a normal lifetime. If God is love, Scotty was the embodiment of that, and now he's gone, and it's not fucking fair. I want to find all those jerks from Westboro Baptist Church and rip their faces from their skulls. I want to find every gay-basher and stomp the shit out of them in my purple Doc Martens. The irrational part of me really just wants to make someone completely hateful hurt as bad as I do. But I know that Scotty wouldn't have wanted that, and so I won't. I'll do what he wanted for me. I'll take care of my little family, and keep in touch better with my bigger family. And I'll keep writing, because these outpourings of what may seem like melodramatic grief are helping to keep me sane, to keep me together. And I'll try to be happy again. I've started laughing again over the past few days, and I've sang a little.
As far as the faith thing, maybe it will resolve, and maybe I won't. I'm not a Christian. I'm not a Catholic. I wear this St. Bridget's medallion as a reminder of my Irish heritage, not for any sort of religious belief. I created my own belief system out of bits and pieces of what felt right, what my heart said, stole concepts like karma and such. I'd dearly love to believe in reincarnation right now. I believe that dreams can give warnings about things that are soon to happen, that they can send messages from your subconscious that you're too preoccupied to pick up otherwise, and that under certain circumstances, they can allow your soon to be departed loved ones to say goodbye. I believe in ghosts - I've seen them. And I believe in the concept of guardian angels. I know Grandpa and Matt and Corey are keeping an eye on me when they can. I draw a lot of my beliefs from the Odawa way of life, just because that's what I grew up around and what I was exposed to most. I smoke a cigarette when I pray because my prayers are usually directed toward an indistinct force that guides the universe, and the smoke can carry my words with it. I believe that love is a fearsome and wonderful force, capable of miracles, and capable of great destruction at the same time. And I used to believe that everyone's life followed a pattern laid out for them at birth, and that when they were having "good luck," they were just following along with that pattern. There's patterns in everything, if you look close enough.
So will this crisis of faith resolve itself? I don't know. Scotty's death will never make sense to me. Even if these autopsy reports turn up some underlying condition, the overall thing is that it will never make sense. People have had cancer and been told they were terminal, and still survived and managed to go into remission and live for a while. A story in my family is that my aunt's husband was given six months to live when I was six months old, due to leukemia. He's still going strong - he actually outlived my aunt. I could cite hundreds of other examples, but I'm not going to. The point is, if the universe made any sense, if there were any compassion in it, Scotty would still be here. The end.
I'm so very fucking lucky. I've got the hopes of getting my dream job. I've got my health. I've got a lot of people who love me and whom I love in return, and they're the rope I'm clutching to help draw me back out of this black stormy sea of depression. It's treacherous. It's warm, and it's comfortable, because I spent so much of my life there. But I can't go back. I can't do it. I have these two little boys, who most definitely are not angels, but who are wonderful, happy loving little guys, and I can't let my depression scar them. I won't. I've always been good at fighting for other people, and now I guess I'm going to have to fight for myself, so that I don't go under the third time. And like I said, it's lightening up a bit. I'm starting to rally. I can hear him in my head, cheering me on, which makes it hurt worse, but hurt less at the same time, if you can understand that. I can't.
I have the necklace I was planning to give him as a belated Christmas gift when he came home for a visit in the spring. His dear friend Joe is taking me to see him either Thursday or Friday. I'll take the necklace with me. I'll tell him how much I love him again. And maybe it will help make this a little easier and a little less crippling. Or not. Either way, I'll survive.
But god, does it fucking hurt.
"The sun is gone, but I have a light." - Nirvana
"That last kiss I'll cherish, until we meet again. Time makes it harder, I wish I could remember. But I'll keep your memory, you'll visit me in my sleep. My darlin', who knew?" - Pink
There's so many more quotes I could post.
It's been nine days since my brother Scotty was taken from us. I'm not going to say "taken by the Lord" or "gone to his reward" or anything like that, for reasons I'll illustrate in a moment. I'm coming out of the shock phase. I'm angry, I hurt. I don't cry every time I see his picture anymore - maybe once out of every three times. I get a boulder in my throat every day when his Facebook account automatically posts his horoscope to my news feed, but, it's not making me lose it completely. I'm crying at random, but I'm coming to terms with it. I think. I don't know.
It would have been difficult no matter which sibling I lost, since obviously the stupid fucking universe (there's the anger) saw fit to subtract another member of our family for whatever stupid reason. It hurt when we lost Grandma and Grandpa and Aunt Cheryl. Terribly. The thing is, though, that they had all been sick for a while. Grandma battled Alzheimer's for years before it took her. Grandpa just got sick with one thing after another. Aunt Cheryl had lymphoma. She rallied after my dad's heroic donation of stem cells, but it came back. I guess what I'm trying to say is that, while it was horrible and sad, there was more advance warning, I suppose.
And yeah, I just re-read what I've typed so far, and it sounds horribly selfish to me, but I am going to try not to care. I'm so far out to sea on how to cope with this, I'm attempting to blog through my grief, and all I can do is write what I know and what's in my heart. So feel free to click away. I'm sorry if this comes off badly. That being said....
Scotty's loss hit me in a way that Grandma and Grandpa and Aunt Cheryl's did not. It was so sudden. I heard he was in the hospital at 9 pm Saturday, and he was gone at 3 pm Sunday. He'd had stomach flu, and a headache for almost a week, which he posted about on Facebook, but no cancer or anything like that. He was such a vibrant guy. I've said this so many times to so many people, but he was literally my sunshine. He automatically saw the ideal version of who you were, everything you'd be in a perfect world, and somehow without putting you on a pedestal, that's just who you were to him. He came into our lives at a time when I was in a very dark place and just brightened it up, and I love him for that (yes, love - that is something that will never be put into the past tense) just as I love him for his love of us all, for his seeing so much more than any other guy his age would, for his open arms and heart and smile and oh shit, I really didn't want to start crying while I was writing this, but here I go.
I've had trouble with depression since I was fairly young - pre-puberty. I had a rough start and a shitty run with a shitty public school that made me literally hate everything about myself. Things got a little bit better when Concord opened in 1994 and I transferred there, but you can't automatically undo the damage of years and years of what I privately refer to as societal abuse. I was on a few different antidepressants, I tried my luck with self medication through poetry, drugs, alcohol, cigarettes, and talks with the few people I called friends. It was so hard for me not to believe that everyone was laughing at me behind my back. I was convinced that it was all one giant set-up - it had happened to me before. I left P-town and moved to the UP, and strangely, that helped a little bit. I dropped a lot of the angry teenager fat, grew my hair out, and learned how to fake confidence. I took a lot of the steps towards who I am today.
I came back home to P-town. Emmet County has some sort of weird magnetic pull over me - no matter how many times or how far I run, it always pulls me back. I dropped out of high school. I went to work in food service, further shaping me as an adult. That underlying paranoia was still there though. Always there.
I wonder if you, reading this, can understand that. I didn't come into the world loathing myself, my dark hair, my thick build, hazel eyes, round butt, small chest. I was a pretty confident little kid, up until my own personal hell began when I was 8 and did not let up. Four years might not seem like a long time, but the amount of damage it can do on a kid that age is fierce. Don't ever let anyone tell you otherwise. It's why I try to treat kids with as much respect as possible. I was smart - maybe too smart - and I always related better to adults. To this day, most of my friends are older than me. And to this day, I tend to back the losing team, because I was on it for so long. "The hero for the lost cause," like Green Day says. How long to undo four years, minus summer breaks, of daily torment at the hands of so-called peers? I don't know. I'm still clocking it.
I went back to school to get my diploma, still working food service. I also worked as a parapro at Concord, trying to figure out exactly what I wanted to do with my life. And that year was when Scotty came into our lives.
I've stated before how he drew me out, how it took me longer to warm up to him - and God, I'm still angry with myself for that, the missed opportunity, the fact that we could have been close for an extra month. But maybe me laying out my soul here can explain that a little better, and maybe by writing it out I can quit cursing myself for it.
I'll always be thankful for the time we had together. I just wish it could have been more. I don't give a shit about DNA or adoption papers or anything like that. He was my brother. As much as Travis is my brother. Who cares who gave birth to you? It's what is in your heart that counts, and he called me sister. That's all I need.
It's been hell. It's going to be hell for a lot longer, I expect. But at the same time, what I learned from Scotty has made it easier.
He stood by me, no matter how bad I fucked up. He helped me to know that I could actually let people in, no matter how much it freaked me out to do so, and while some of them might not be worth it, I could always learn from it, and there would also be people who were worth it.
He got me to shed my external armor of giant wide leg pants, yellow work boots, and mens' XL shirts, and start wearing jeans that fit and shirts that fit too, sneakers and such. He got me to look around at the world instead of always looking inward, and he was a master at getting me out of my own head.
I've pulled inside myself pretty hard since last Sunday. I couldn't help it. I felt like someone had carved out my heart and tried to feed it to me. My kids were freaked out. They couldn't understand why Mommy kept crying. Matthew wouldn't get more than six feet away from me, kept petting my head, and Jonah wouldn't leave my lap. I couldn't leave the house. I had people texting me and Facebooking me to see if I was okay - thank you Betina, Lopp, and Pepe - and I replied through this fucking haze of burnt smoggy pain. I wanted to try to comfort everyone else who loved him, and there were so many people who did, but I just did not have it in me. Nor did I want to be comforted. I just wanted to be left alone with my pain, but at the same time I so greatly appreciated everyone who cared enough to reach out. Sound conflicted? Sorry, that's just the best I could explain it.
I'm not the only one who's lost someone so dear when they were so young. I know that intellectually, and maybe someday that fact will help, but the cold hard truth is that when it happens to you, it feels like you're the only one.
So now, I'm angry. I'm angry that he wasn't back here in Petoskey. I'm angry that he had a headache for so many days and no one made him go into the ER. The autopsy results aren't back yet, so who's to say if it would have helped? But again, who's to say it wouldn't have. I'm angry that he's gone. I still want to fight something, anything. I can't really believe in any kind of God right now. If God is love like everyone keeps saying, and if God wants his message of love spread, then he's a fucking dumbass dipshit for taking someone who spread more love in 24 years than most of his so-called messengers do in a normal lifetime. If God is love, Scotty was the embodiment of that, and now he's gone, and it's not fucking fair. I want to find all those jerks from Westboro Baptist Church and rip their faces from their skulls. I want to find every gay-basher and stomp the shit out of them in my purple Doc Martens. The irrational part of me really just wants to make someone completely hateful hurt as bad as I do. But I know that Scotty wouldn't have wanted that, and so I won't. I'll do what he wanted for me. I'll take care of my little family, and keep in touch better with my bigger family. And I'll keep writing, because these outpourings of what may seem like melodramatic grief are helping to keep me sane, to keep me together. And I'll try to be happy again. I've started laughing again over the past few days, and I've sang a little.
As far as the faith thing, maybe it will resolve, and maybe I won't. I'm not a Christian. I'm not a Catholic. I wear this St. Bridget's medallion as a reminder of my Irish heritage, not for any sort of religious belief. I created my own belief system out of bits and pieces of what felt right, what my heart said, stole concepts like karma and such. I'd dearly love to believe in reincarnation right now. I believe that dreams can give warnings about things that are soon to happen, that they can send messages from your subconscious that you're too preoccupied to pick up otherwise, and that under certain circumstances, they can allow your soon to be departed loved ones to say goodbye. I believe in ghosts - I've seen them. And I believe in the concept of guardian angels. I know Grandpa and Matt and Corey are keeping an eye on me when they can. I draw a lot of my beliefs from the Odawa way of life, just because that's what I grew up around and what I was exposed to most. I smoke a cigarette when I pray because my prayers are usually directed toward an indistinct force that guides the universe, and the smoke can carry my words with it. I believe that love is a fearsome and wonderful force, capable of miracles, and capable of great destruction at the same time. And I used to believe that everyone's life followed a pattern laid out for them at birth, and that when they were having "good luck," they were just following along with that pattern. There's patterns in everything, if you look close enough.
So will this crisis of faith resolve itself? I don't know. Scotty's death will never make sense to me. Even if these autopsy reports turn up some underlying condition, the overall thing is that it will never make sense. People have had cancer and been told they were terminal, and still survived and managed to go into remission and live for a while. A story in my family is that my aunt's husband was given six months to live when I was six months old, due to leukemia. He's still going strong - he actually outlived my aunt. I could cite hundreds of other examples, but I'm not going to. The point is, if the universe made any sense, if there were any compassion in it, Scotty would still be here. The end.
I'm so very fucking lucky. I've got the hopes of getting my dream job. I've got my health. I've got a lot of people who love me and whom I love in return, and they're the rope I'm clutching to help draw me back out of this black stormy sea of depression. It's treacherous. It's warm, and it's comfortable, because I spent so much of my life there. But I can't go back. I can't do it. I have these two little boys, who most definitely are not angels, but who are wonderful, happy loving little guys, and I can't let my depression scar them. I won't. I've always been good at fighting for other people, and now I guess I'm going to have to fight for myself, so that I don't go under the third time. And like I said, it's lightening up a bit. I'm starting to rally. I can hear him in my head, cheering me on, which makes it hurt worse, but hurt less at the same time, if you can understand that. I can't.
I have the necklace I was planning to give him as a belated Christmas gift when he came home for a visit in the spring. His dear friend Joe is taking me to see him either Thursday or Friday. I'll take the necklace with me. I'll tell him how much I love him again. And maybe it will help make this a little easier and a little less crippling. Or not. Either way, I'll survive.
But god, does it fucking hurt.
Saturday, February 26, 2011
Addendum to the earlier entry entitled me
(and yes, I know I can edit my posts. I think this can stand alone though)
I want to apologize. Grief is a selfish thing, I think. Like I repeatedly said, I've been in my own head a lot this week. I realize that other things are happening in the big wide world. I just can't seem to make myself care about them.
I'm pretty introspective by nature, and this has seemed to intensify that tendency.
People mourn in different ways. They have paid mourners over in Israel, I'm told. I read that once upon a time, it was the custom in a different country for a man's widow to set herself on fire and leap onto his funeral pyre. Some people block out the fact that it never happened. Some people get all aggressive and verbally attack anyone who doesn't offer condolences to their liking. Some people re-invent the deceased as someone completely different than who they were in life, ignore what their wishes were for their services, and accept condolences that belonged to someone else. *cough cough*
Me? This is my blog. To paraphrase Anthony Bourdain, "I cook, I write." Scotty had a tendency towards other artists. My food is my art. My writing is my art.
I am writing my way through my grief. It's selfish, but it's what I have to do. We all have our own ways of grieving, and mine is writing letters to my brother, analyzing what's going on in my head and putting it down here. If it helps someone else in the same situation, that's great. I think that that would make Scotty happy, and would be just the kind of thing he'd want to see happen. But as of this moment in time, 3:26 am, February 26'th, 2011, it's for me. So I can work through this and get back to being the mom, cook, daughter, lover that I was a week ago. Because for now, all I am is pain, regret, and a woman who has lost someone so dear that words cannot define it.
I want to apologize. Grief is a selfish thing, I think. Like I repeatedly said, I've been in my own head a lot this week. I realize that other things are happening in the big wide world. I just can't seem to make myself care about them.
I'm pretty introspective by nature, and this has seemed to intensify that tendency.
People mourn in different ways. They have paid mourners over in Israel, I'm told. I read that once upon a time, it was the custom in a different country for a man's widow to set herself on fire and leap onto his funeral pyre. Some people block out the fact that it never happened. Some people get all aggressive and verbally attack anyone who doesn't offer condolences to their liking. Some people re-invent the deceased as someone completely different than who they were in life, ignore what their wishes were for their services, and accept condolences that belonged to someone else. *cough cough*
Me? This is my blog. To paraphrase Anthony Bourdain, "I cook, I write." Scotty had a tendency towards other artists. My food is my art. My writing is my art.
I am writing my way through my grief. It's selfish, but it's what I have to do. We all have our own ways of grieving, and mine is writing letters to my brother, analyzing what's going on in my head and putting it down here. If it helps someone else in the same situation, that's great. I think that that would make Scotty happy, and would be just the kind of thing he'd want to see happen. But as of this moment in time, 3:26 am, February 26'th, 2011, it's for me. So I can work through this and get back to being the mom, cook, daughter, lover that I was a week ago. Because for now, all I am is pain, regret, and a woman who has lost someone so dear that words cannot define it.
Me
I posted the following today as a comment to my "mother-in-law" (Jeremy and I are not married, but we have been together nearly five years, therefore I regard her as my mother in law. I consider his family my family, just as he considers my family his.)
I posted my blog entry "They Call It Life" as a note on Facebook. I received several comments. MIL's most recent was
I posted my blog entry "They Call It Life" as a note on Facebook. I received several comments. MIL's most recent was
"Megan , sweetheart I KNOW the pain you are feeling, and I can honestly say that as losing a brother myself, the pain and emptiness is something that unless you have been through it, people truly do not understand. This is beautiful what you... wrote, but the world is not crappy honey, it is what you make in your OWN life and in YOUR world...that is what life is about, counting your blessings ever single day and making your world , your babies Jeremy, and family and friends the best you can cuz that is what life is !!! Cherishing the fact that you wake up everyday with those blessings because of losing Scottie now you KNOW it can all be gone in a New York minute as the song goes !!! I LOVE YOU"
My response:
"Sherry, I love you too. Here's the thing. My world, the one I live in and move in daily, is a good one. It's lost a lot of its color and sunshine, but it is still one full of love and one that most people would envy.
The world at large thoug...h, the one on the evening news and the one you go into when you leave the house alone, is a crappy place. Bigots, gay-bashers, genocide, neglect. The number of assholes far outnumbers the number of good people. Granted, I've always tended toward pessimism - experience shapes outlook, and while my home life was good my experiences outside the home were awful, to say the least. Losing Scott hasn't done much for that, and I had a long talk with Jeremy about it last night, and my resulting doubts that there is any sort of order to the universe.
I believe in love. I'm lucky to have so much of it in my life, and to have your son and our children and your family, which I consider my family as well.
But I also have a lot of questions, and a lot of anger. Dealing with the death of my grandparents was hard, but it was easier because they had lived long lives, and they had both been sick for a while. Losing Scott was like a baseball bat to the head in a dark alley. I have a tendency to brood on things, and it is going to take me a long time to work through this, so please be patient.
I love you."
The world at large thoug...h, the one on the evening news and the one you go into when you leave the house alone, is a crappy place. Bigots, gay-bashers, genocide, neglect. The number of assholes far outnumbers the number of good people. Granted, I've always tended toward pessimism - experience shapes outlook, and while my home life was good my experiences outside the home were awful, to say the least. Losing Scott hasn't done much for that, and I had a long talk with Jeremy about it last night, and my resulting doubts that there is any sort of order to the universe.
I believe in love. I'm lucky to have so much of it in my life, and to have your son and our children and your family, which I consider my family as well.
But I also have a lot of questions, and a lot of anger. Dealing with the death of my grandparents was hard, but it was easier because they had lived long lives, and they had both been sick for a while. Losing Scott was like a baseball bat to the head in a dark alley. I have a tendency to brood on things, and it is going to take me a long time to work through this, so please be patient.
I love you."
So, with that being said, here are my thoughts tonight.
Scotty's viewing was at Stone Funeral Home today. I chose not to go. I have my reasons, the two biggest of which being that #1, everything that his biological father is doing funeral wise went against Scotty's wishes, and so I opted to do something Scotty would have approved of - I went to my sister's house with Jeremy and the boys, I cooked dinner with Jeni, and watched the cousins play. #2: I want to remember Scotty the way he was the last time I saw him. As I've stated, his arm was tight around my shoulders, he kept rubbing the top of my head with his hand because he liked the way my hair felt, and he stooped down (he was more than a foot taller than me) to rub his cheek against mine. Both Scotty and I are - were - sensual people in that we love things like the feel of a bristly cheek against a smooth one, or a hand petting a head. It's just one of our things. Plus, I had long hair for a very long time, and when I had Jeni buzz my hair all off, Scotty saw the pics and described me as looking like an angry Tinkerbell. I find the description apropos.
I've been stuck in my own head a lot since this happened. I still feel like I was attacked with a tire iron in a dark alley - the shock and pain are that great. I'm angry. Very angry. I want to find everyone who ever used the words "homo," "queer," or "faggot" in my presence and stomp the shit out of them. I want to beat the hell out of Scotty's biological dad for treating him like shit, for not realizing the precious gift that he had in his son, and for the abuse that Scotty told me he received at that man's hands. I want to go gay-basher-bashing, if that makes sense. I want to set things on fire and watch them burn, beat the hell out of a weight bag at the gym, scream and tear my hair out and rage and kick things and punch walls until I collapse.
There are a lot of strange things about me. I'm an odd person, and I've never made any secret of that fact. I'm the world's pickiest eater. I am quite comfortable with staying up till 4 am and waking up at 1 pm. I dye my hair random colors, live in my blue jeans, and drink coffee before bed to relax. Scotty was the only person who never questioned one of my peccadillos.
Before we got to the point where we decided we were family, I was having an awful day. I fake like I'm confident. I'm good at that. But my self esteem is horrible. I hate my boobs, my round ass, my thick legs, etc. I pissed and moaned about it to him for a while, and then Scotty just shook his head and said, "I'm not friends with unattractive people."
So many memories of him, and they're still not enough. Ugh. I have to get back to my point.
I've been thinking and thinking and thinking since I found out that he'd been rushed to the hospital. My personal belief structure is odd, like me. I've tried Christianity, and it didn't work. Do I believe in a higher power? That's up for debate. Am I an atheist? No. For a long time, my god was love. Just love. That's all there is to that. I believed that everyone's life had a pattern to it, that "bad luck" was just your unknowingly deviating from the pattern that you were supposed to follow. And I believed that everything happened for a reason.
I don't buy it anymore. I don't believe in a Christian god. First off, anyone that would condemn someone to hell for their sexual preference sure as shit isn't "all about love" as the propaganda would have us believe.
Second, a god that is "all about love" wouldn't have taken my brother. You've seen my Facebook notes and my posts. You can go to facebook and search "Scott Alan Dixon." Pick the profile of the good-looking guy with dark hair and blue eyes. Read his wall. Scotty was love, hence me always referring to him as Scotty-love. He was non-judgmental. He loved life, he loved people. He brought color and light and life and joy and love into the world. If the whole mission of Christianity is to spread god's love, and god creates the souls that reside within us, why in the motherfucking hell would he take a person who did nothing but spread love? If I believed in a higher power, it would resemble my brother. Joyful, artistic, beautiful voice, and accepting of people, regardless of their faults and foibles.
Part of me would really like to think that there's a heaven, because it would mean that I'd get to be with Scotty again at some point. I really would. Shit, I'd love it. I wish I could believe it, I really do, as much as I'd love to believe that there was a plan behind all this, some sort of reasoning that will make sense to me and to everyone he left behind at some point. But there's not.
The universe is a bitch. There's nothing logical. What happens is random. There's no sense or order to it.
Life is fragile, right? If someone as beautiful as you can be snatched away in a minute, doesn't that tell us something? That we need to say what we mean instead of second-guessing ourselves, tell our loved ones that we love them more often? Laugh at the antics our children get up to, take the chance and ask that person you've been crushing on for forever out on a date?
This world is a shitty place. I stand by that statement. While misogyny,misandry, bigotry, homophobia, racism, sexism, all those negative -isms exist, it will be. While war occurs, it will be. Anytime someone kills another person because they don't like how they look or who they're fucking, it will be.
But here's the thing. We can be what Scotty wanted us to be. Instead of raging because you're stuck in traffic, sing along with the radio, or talk to your kids in the back seat. Let people go ahead of you in line. Try something new. Try to put aside any convictions you have that gays are going to hell, that all people of middle eastern descent are terrorists, that children born out of wedlock are automatically condemned, that multiracial relationships are wrong. Let go of your paranoia and replace it with trust in your fellow man. If someone ranks you out, let it go and smile at them.
Like I said, I have a lot of anger right now. It's me. I'm an angry little Irish midget; I have a reputation for being too stubborn, and while my temper is better than it was, it's still pretty fierce. I'm going to try to let it go.
Stand up for what you believe, but don't be an asshole about it.
Try to create something.
Try to make this world more beautiful. It's a crappy place, but it can be improved.
Whether you knew Scotty-love or not, honor his memory, please.
And Scotty-love, darlin' boy, I know you're reading this, and I can just see you putting your hands up and saying "whoa, whoa, WHOA, melodrama much?" But this is what it is. You've always known I was a pessimist, but for you, I'm going to try to see that glass as half full. I love you, kiddo.Always.
PS. I would just like to clarify one point: I am practicing what I say here. I am doing my best to honor his memory by helping to pass his message of love wherever I go. That being said, anyone says ANYTHING negative about gay people around me, they're getting fucked up. And I'll be wearing my purple Doc Martens while I do the stomping.
Friday, February 25, 2011
Recipe
This is not your standard gnocchi, which is generally made with potatoes. This uses ricotta, preferably homemade (it's simple, it's easy, it requires a minimum of effort, and the flavor is incredible). The flavor, to me, is like ravioli filling without the pasta exterior. This takes about a half hour to put together, but is so delicious. I made it for dinner tonight, and I wanted to share. It's good with tomato sauce, or even with herbed butter (I like basil butter, with a tiny dash of lemon juice and a light dusting of cinnamon).
Ricotta Gnocchi:
2 cups whole-milk ricotta (1 pound) (if you are making your own, 1 lb of ricotta = 1 gallon of whole milk. Or, 1/2 gallon whole milk and 1/2 gallon of heavy cream, if you want the richer flavor that it will provide)
2 large eggs, scrambled
2 cups grated parmesan cheese
1 1/2 cups all-purpose flour, plus more for dusting.
Line a colander with paper towels. Place the ricotta in the colander, cover with more towels, and press down until most of the excess moisture has been wicked away.
In a large bowl, scramble the eggs.
Fill a large stock pot with salted water (I use enough salt to fit in my palm when I make a fist, and I have small hands), and bring to a rolling boil.
Mix the dry ricotta into the eggs. Fold in the parmesan cheese.
Add flour, 1/4 cup at a time, mixing after each addition. (I recommend using your hands for this, so that you can check the dough's consistency.) You're looking for it to feel something like cookie dough, rather than bread dough. Taste the dough, then add salt and pepper to your own taste.
Divide the dough into three parts. Dust your counter or workspace with flour, then roll each part out into a long rope about 1 1/2" in diameter. Use a butter knife or pastry cutter to cut the rope into thumb-width pieces.
Use a slotted or perforated spoon to lower the gnocchi into the boiling water, a few at a time. You don't want to crowd the pot, because it will lower the water's temperature and possibly cause the gnocchi to get glued to each other. Cook them for three or four minutes - about two minutes after they float to the surface (you may have to stir them) is a good indicator. Use the spoon to remove them to a colander to drain. Be sure to bring the water back to a boil, adding more water as needed, before cooking each batch.
Sauce and serve immediately.
Ricotta Gnocchi:
Line a colander with paper towels. Place the ricotta in the colander, cover with more towels, and press down until most of the excess moisture has been wicked away.
In a large bowl, scramble the eggs.
Fill a large stock pot with salted water (I use enough salt to fit in my palm when I make a fist, and I have small hands), and bring to a rolling boil.
Mix the dry ricotta into the eggs. Fold in the parmesan cheese.
Add flour, 1/4 cup at a time, mixing after each addition. (I recommend using your hands for this, so that you can check the dough's consistency.) You're looking for it to feel something like cookie dough, rather than bread dough. Taste the dough, then add salt and pepper to your own taste.
Divide the dough into three parts. Dust your counter or workspace with flour, then roll each part out into a long rope about 1 1/2" in diameter. Use a butter knife or pastry cutter to cut the rope into thumb-width pieces.
Use a slotted or perforated spoon to lower the gnocchi into the boiling water, a few at a time. You don't want to crowd the pot, because it will lower the water's temperature and possibly cause the gnocchi to get glued to each other. Cook them for three or four minutes - about two minutes after they float to the surface (you may have to stir them) is a good indicator. Use the spoon to remove them to a colander to drain. Be sure to bring the water back to a boil, adding more water as needed, before cooking each batch.
Sauce and serve immediately.
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