Tuesday July 28, 2009 at 9:39 am
The better life, part one
A couple weeks ago, I started drinking coffee for the first time. Strangely enough, it was right around the time I finished college, which is a good indication of why I slept through the majority of the last five years. It’s really no wonder I was so bitter that the town around me was in a constant state of drunkenness and was still able to make it to 8AM Lit Theory.
My grandfather drank it black, and nearly every Sunday, as I walked across the church basement with the little styrofoam cup, I would try a sip and regret it immediately. The other 12-year-olds were throwing it back like chocolate milk, like they did with the concoction of grape juice and Christ’s blood we were given an hour before, and I never understood how they could stomach either.
The reason I’m talking about coffee is because the day I had my first real cup of it was the morning after I had stayed at a birthday party until 3AM and needed to drive to Maryland an hour later. I had told a friend that if I ever needed a caffeine kick, I would chug Mountain Dew, as coffee had never really “worked for me.” That was my excuse. And he said, in some words, “Look idiot, the crap in the Mountain Dew that’s keeping you awake is the same crap in coffee,” and suddenly, it was like an abundance of knowledge was raining down on the world!
And that is my roundabout way of saying that I’m now more motivated to write than I’ve ever been, since I’m not anticipating having to pause between sentences to take a nap. I just need to become accustomed to washing away morning breath with a bottle of scotch and I’ll really be able to call myself a writer.
The subject of this post is one I’m breaking up into two or three parts, and the one thing I’ve always had to tread lightly with despite its huge impact on my life. I’ve vaguely referred to the situation before, glossing over my more gloomy posts and attributing them to “the ex-boyfriend who took his own life,” and then leaving it at that.
It’s a tricky thing to talk about. On one hand, I can attempt to be tongue-in-cheek about the situation (”the situation” being a more cautious way of saying, “my life”), but I’m not sure I have that license. If the depression were something I was going through, and not watching from the outside, I could see how it would be acceptable for me to harness those emotions and express them in any way I felt appropriate. However, there are aspects and perceptions that I had no part in, and therefore, it’s important that I keep the story limited to how I was affected, no matter how deeply, and not my speculations.
And there I go being vague again. Suffice it to say that this isn’t something I’ve brought up before with many friends, and the ones I have entrusted with it have reacted in such a way that was so insensitive I was driven to further hide any scraps of grief or helplessness that were constantly eating away at me.
So even though I’ve occasionally posted small pieces of this story, I’m finding that it’s necessary to start from the beginning. Because there is a story to be told.
A couple weeks ago, I started drinking coffee for the first time. Strangely enough, it was right around the time I finished college, which is a good indication of why I slept through the majority of the last five years. It’s really no wonder I was so bitter that the town around me was in a constant state of drunkenness and was still able to make it to 8AM Lit Theory.
My grandfather drank it black, and nearly every Sunday, as I walked across the church basement with the little styrofoam cup, I would try a sip and regret it immediately. The other 12-year-olds were throwing it back like chocolate milk, like they did with the concoction of grape juice and Christ’s blood we were given an hour before, and I never understood how they could stomach either.
The reason I’m talking about coffee is because the day I had my first real cup of it was the morning after I had stayed at a birthday party until 3AM and needed to drive to Maryland an hour later. I had told a friend that if I ever needed a caffeine kick, I would chug Mountain Dew, as coffee had never really “worked for me.” That was my excuse. And he said, in some words, “Look idiot, the crap in the Mountain Dew that’s keeping you awake is the same crap in coffee,” and suddenly, it was like an abundance of knowledge was raining down on the world!
And that is my roundabout way of saying that I’m now more motivated to write than I’ve ever been, since I’m not anticipating having to pause between sentences to take a nap. I just need to become accustomed to washing away morning breath with a bottle of scotch and I’ll really be able to call myself a writer.
The subject of this post is one I’m breaking up into two or three parts, and the one thing I’ve always had to tread lightly with despite its huge impact on my life. I’ve vaguely referred to the situation before, glossing over my more gloomy posts and attributing them to “the ex-boyfriend who took his own life,” and then leaving it at that.
It’s a tricky thing to talk about. On one hand, I can attempt to be tongue-in-cheek about the situation (”the situation” being a more cautious way of saying, “my life”), but I’m not sure I have that license. If the depression were something I was going through, and not watching from the outside, I could see how it would be acceptable for me to harness those emotions and express them in any way I felt appropriate. However, there are aspects and perceptions that I had no part in, and therefore, it’s important that I keep the story limited to how I was affected, no matter how deeply, and not my speculations.
And there I go being vague again. Suffice it to say that this isn’t something I’ve brought up before with many friends, and the ones I have entrusted with it have reacted in such a way that was so insensitive I was driven to further hide any scraps of grief or helplessness that were constantly eating away at me.
So even though I’ve occasionally posted small pieces of this story, I’m finding that it’s necessary to start from the beginning. Because there is a story to be told.
Rachel, the story you are being so careful about IS yours, all yours, because it affected you too. And it affected you in more than the obvious ways. You are a writer, so I am sure you spent hours trying to fathom just what the world looked like for your ex before he took his own life. That is probably why you want to write the story, to understand, not so much how it was for you, but how it was for him. That is the part that haunts us when someone we care about does the inexplicable. We may never understand, on some level we CAN’T understand, but that doesn’t mean we don’t spend maybe the rest of our lives trying to. As one writer to another (I’ve published four books, one of which was a novel loosely based on the short tragic life of my college boyfriend), I would just say if something keeps coming up for you, then wade right in, explore it from all angles, study all its facets, transform it into literature. Most of us write in an effort to understand something. It if affects you at all, it is your story, too.
Sharing is a good thing. Also, I must echo Angella — this is your story, too. Don’t shunt aside your right to feel things simply because it “wasn’t you.” It *was* you. It was everyone.
I’ve begun reading your blog, and am really enjoying it.
xoxo
V
We’re here to virtually hug you, mama
Listening intently to your story. I hope writing about it provides a little bit of healing as well!
I use my blog to air out my head; kinda like my evil mother did with clothing that had been tucked away in a dark closet on the floor of which mothballs were scattered. When I was very tiny, I remember putting one of those white balls in my mouth to see if the taste was a bad as the smell.
So, airing out a head before strangers, real strangers, is therapeutic…for me.
You are a gifted writer.
p.s.
The sleep trauma you described is something I have experienced 2 or 3 times over many years. There is a technical name for it, but it can scare the mothballs out of you. Once I realized that it is not some weird twist of a nightmare, it wasn’t as frightening. So you are normal…well, not entirely, but with sleep at least:)
I’m so sorry to hear that people have been so insensitive to your needs. Sadly those people abound but you are also surrounded by people both real and virtual who do care. When ever you feel the need to share, I can pretty much guarantee a hell of a lot of support in the blogosphere, that is for sure
Your writing is always thoughtful, introspective, and honest. I have no doubts that however you choose to tell this part of your story will have those same qualities.
We’re listening lady. Keep writing and we’ll keep reading.
What a great blog its so rare to find an interesting blog that is well designed and well written.
I’m so with J and Britt!
First of all, welcome to the coffee world. Don’t get yourself too hooked though. I swear that stuff’s like crack.
And as for the story? The nice thing about blogging is that it’s a place to express yourself to people you barely know. Oh wait. That doesn’t sound “nice” but it is because now you can share you story and regardless of how people react, you can either take their comments to heart or you can say, “screw you… you don’t know me!” The point is to get the story out.
There’s always a story to be told, my dear, even if only for yourself.
I’m never far. :)
most of the blogs I follow are fashion related but I am following you now. I love the honesty in your writing. It takes a lot of courage to share a story and i commend you for that :-)