Philotic Web

dear bob,


f*** f*** f*** f*** f*** f*** f*** f*** f***.

dear bob,

i stuck my head back into a thread because i was reconsidering, after tonight's events, whether or not i ought to just suck it up and go back to posting there just to make myself feel better, and screw everyone else and whatever they want to think about it.

then i realized that it's gone so far beyond just pointless drama, and now it's just a mockery that no longer resembles anything it originally started out as. nice. at least i've gone from rage to total and utter disappointment. on the up side, that's a much calmer place to be, even if it sucks just as much.

november 29th is coming up so fast, no matter how hard i try to ignore it, and for two totally unrelated reasons that happen to have their anniversary on that day, november 29th, 2006 is going to be the absolute WORST day of my entire life.

teach me how to stop time, bob.

Dear Bob,

I hate groups. People in groups are never as pleasant as people out of groups. My social anxiety hits the damn roof when I have to facillitate groups. (The irony that I was the TA for the Group Methods class last spring is, well, high.) Given that next semester my fieldwork emphasis is on group counseling, I have realized this is something I need to work on. So, I met with my fieldwork supervisor individually. I've actually considered entering therapy to work on the issues I have around anxiety and groups (although not to the point of actually scheduling an appointment.) I know I'm covering a group on December 1, so I've been busy mentally prepping myself for that date.

One of our therapists is out sick. Guess who gets to cover CD Process group at 2:00 today?

ACK!!!!

I was preparing for December 1st as my trial run. Not now!

Well, maybe it won't be so bad. Maybe.

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Well I survived.

Good.

Ellis and Beck would congratulate me and tell me I should spend more time feeling attacked, embarrassed, nervous, and ineffective. That way I can get desensitized to it.

dear bob,

i just had the. best. most. perfect. five hours i've had in a really, really, really, REALLY long time.

on the tail end of the worst day i've had in, well, every day is the worst day. so today was just the norm, i guess.

but the last five hours... i think this is what i live for. five absolutely perfect hours once every year. and they're never ever perfect in the way i dream they'll be. but still perfect. absofuckinglutely perfect.


i went to barnes and noble immediately after work because i was afraid to go back to my apartment because i knew my roommate was annoyed with me.

i got coffee and i picked out three books. and i read 'em all. 3 in 4 hours. in the perfect accidental order. first, Birds of America by Lorrie Moore for the overwhleming sadness and piercing beauty and truth and depression that is my life and her writing and the whole world. next, Breakfast at Tiffany's by Truman Capote, because i've never read it and Kirsten has always made me want to, just by the quotes in her sig and her palpable love for it, and it was so fitting and disillusioned and grand and lovely and was the perfect transition between Moore and the last book, Dry by Augusten Burroughs, which i had to read after finishing Running With Scissors and which was so painstaking and hilarious and tragic and i laughed aloud, unhesitantly, in public, i laughed loudly and unabashedly upwards of twelve times because i only started counting after the first few times when i realized that i was going to be laughing, a joyful, cynical, pure and deep laughter, an awful lot throughout the course of the rest of it.

and i went down the stairs when the alarm rang for the closing bell and i realized at the bottom floor that somewhere along the line my metro card had fallen out of my pocket and i turned to head back upstairs to search for it and a delightful, distinguished, grandfatherly gentleman who had occupied the table beside mine for quite some time was on my heels, holding it out to me, and said that he noticed it beneath my chair after i had left, and said that he loved my laugh when he returned it to me.

and then i rode the subway and got onto a car and listened to my ipod and made faces at my own reflection in the winow and didn't care what anyone thought about it, and heard my name called, somehow, over the music and MATT D'ANGELIS, whom i haven't physically seen or spoken to since i was 14 years old, but who was an IMMENSE part of my early adolecence, and whose complete name i have stolen for my most personally sentimental (and privately significant) short story, was standing there, and we were those people who reunite on the new york city subway after years and we hugged and screamed and gossiped as fast as we could about everyone we used to be intimate friends with, in that Frog Hospital way that you can only be so obsessively intimate with people in your reckless, fast-forward youth, and he asked me if i still act, and i said no, and he clucked at me and scolded me and told me that, though he is pleased about my writing and wants to read some and wishes me success, he deeply regrets the loss of one of the fiercest theatrical talents he's ever known. which was a compliment FAR beyond my station, and nothing that i ever did to earn from him or anyone else.

and we talked and talked and he lives two blocks away from me and i'm seeing him this weekend, seeing all of us five star kids (because when we pooled our knowledge we learned that we're practically ALL here in the same city) and that is beautiful and lovely and it is so vital and reaffirming somehow to see and be remembered by people who knew you once when you were young and begining and hadn't yet become what you'd be, but were simply on the edge, on the precipice of all that possibility and promise that life claims to have, and i acknowledged this other self i haven't been in so very many years, and can never really be again, but i smiled at her, and she smiled back and it's nice to share a room with her again after so many years of ducking and slamming doors in each other's faces.

and then, when i thought the night must surely end now, because there is only so much magic that can be done in the world at once, i came home and there was a love letter waiting for me from dan, my soul-mate. and i don't mean love letter in the romantic sense or the platonic sense or the any sense. i jsut mean a love letter in the absolute purest possible sense. three handwritten pages from my darling, darling dan without one word of reproach in them, although i've neglected him shamefully. it was beautiful and brilliant an the inscription on the back of the envelope "derek and katrina will find a way to like it" which obviously means nothing to anyone reading this, but it shouldn't as it's in soul-mate code, would have been MORE than enough, more than i ever, ever, ever could have asked for in this moment, and yet there was a three page love letter waiting inside that same envelope.


i feel infinite.

Dear bob,

My night is better just from that. I can go and sleep happily.

Dear Bob,

Returning from a movie full of pointless violence to read that was sheer beauty. Thank you.

*Is glad beyond words to read a glad Young Val post*

*and is fiercely happy to be connected in any way with it*

Now and then I feel a kinda li'l bit worthwhile, after all.

(Very glad you liked the book.)

Dear Bob,

I want my uncle home. He's lost and cold and in some forest somewhere and it's been three nights as of tonight and he's 85. I'm scared. I want him to be safe.

Dear Bob,

Today I felt the urge to read the Bible. Not in a "I need to connect with God" kind of way. Just because I regularly read "Blogging the Bible" on Slate and wanted to check out the beginning of the first book of Kings for myself. Anyways, what I read is not the point.

I've had this particular Bible since I was fourteen. It's an NRSV that my grandfather John gave me for my confirmation, with instructions to read Ecclisiastes. I appreciate that book more as I've grown older than I did at fourteen, I must say.

I went through an interesting phase at the end of high school. I'd been very religious through most of my upbringing. Moreso than my family. Moreso than my friends. And, unsurprisingly given the community I grew up in, I ended up getting hooked into a "non-denominational" charismatic Bible study youth group. My best friend's family was really into that type of religion, especially her father. So was she. Although, she had more of a fight with religion than I did. I was religious as a sort of constant, and she was more of a rollercoaster ride. Her aunt's house was where the bible study youth group met.

I don't know exactly what to say about that time in my life. I was lonely and innocent and self-destructive. I underlined things in my Bible dutifully and wrote little notes to myself that I kept in there.

My 8th grade choir teacher and his wife were part of the whole charismatic community. Lovely people. He's the pastor of the church where, last I heard, my best friend and her family attended.

Time passes by.

Through a variety of circumstances, I'm no longer connected with my best friend or her family or that faith community. Not even by the bonds of old friendship. I'd be humiliated to meet some of those people. The last time I saw them was a bit humiliating. Having someone who always hugged you and cared about you and asked about what you were doing pretty well pretend you weren't there was hard. Having no control over what had been and what was being said was also hard.

It's not been a separation that I've had a lot of anger over, really. Surprisingly. I defend their faith, beliefs, etc, even though in a lot of ways they are antithetical to my own. I'm respectful because of that past. And because of the important part they used to play in my life. It is not going to far to say that it saved my life.

So.

Today.

Miles of pain and understanding and bewilderment away, I look at that old Bible and a note falls out. A couple of 'em. One that I wrote, and one that my old choir teacher's wife wrote to me. About declaring the word to the enemy when I was feeling condemned. Along with their address.

And I just felt so much.

Anger.

Hurt.

Sadness.

Embarrassment.

So I threw it away. Crumpled it and threw it away, that I'd kept so long for the nostalgia.

It wasn't enough.

I put it in a metal mixing bowl and set it out on the porch and set fire to it and watched it burn and stirred up the ashes and sent them down the sink.

I'm a nostalgia packrat.

I've never done anything like that before.

And I know it's silly, but I'm starting to feel free from something.

I'm not exactly sure what.

Maybe free from trying to please them. Free from trying to relive that time of my life and get it right.

I don't know.

That city and the people in it are my past. They don't deserve the room in my apartment, in my memory, in my Bible.

I have a life to get on with.

Dear Bob,

I managed to hurt my wrist playing the cymbals. But playing the hell out of Pirates of the Carribean was totally worth it.

OH! AND WE MIGHT BE BOWL ELIGIBLE! We beat East Carolina 18-17 with a last 3 seconds of the game field goal. So awesome.

Bob,

Uncle John is still missing.

Ali, I am so sorry. I hope he's okay, and they find him soon. *HUGS* If there's anything I can do, tell me.

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Dear Bob,

Tell P_G that she may have all the supercookies that she wants. No headstands required.


-Helen

Kelly, it's obvious that hearing about your happiness brings much joy to so many of us. *hug*


And Starlooker, I can relate to many of the feelings you expressed over the unfortunate experience you went through years ago. My similar experience is much more recent and sort of still continuing and it's so hard to keep it from having an impact on my faith but i'm trying. Be proud that you took the step you did to move on in some small way. I hope to be able to take steps like that myself. *hug* to you too...

Hey Bob,

I feel like absolute s***...

Dear Bob,

I will not let strangers define my mood. I will not take this to heart.

Lather, Rinse, Repeat.

bob, i am having a hard time remembering why i do this to myself.

why i have this sense of inner drive. sense to want to live, to push on.

sometimes i feel like it should all fall apart.




i hate this feeling. i hate it when i'm melancholy. because i post and feel so dramatic and in the morning everything is fine and i feel stupid for ever thinking this way and it doesn't make sense to me any more.

i know i should just go to sleep and forget about today...

Dear Bob,

Yesterday when I got to the airpport, I was supposed to fly home through Philly. I didn't feel like braving that airport alone, so I decided to try to get on the flight directly to Pittsburgh. I plucked up some courage and went to talk to the old lady strangers I figured would be at the counter.

Well.

There were no old ladies, but there was a youngish man. I walked up to him and before I said anything, he told me, "No," with a chuckle that meant he thought he was being cute. He first told me that I couldn't change flights because I had checked baggage but then he pressed a lot of buttons and my suitcase magically changed flights.

Then he said, "Usually there is a twenty-five dollar charge."

I set twenty-five dollars on the counter.

"No, I said usually. Keep your money," and a smile.

Uh, Bob?

Yikes.

Then at Panera tonight the pretty college-student looking lady who took my order of a small latte gave me a large latte and a very yummy shortbread cookie dipped in chocolate. She said, "Just for you, cutie." And winked.

And winked!

I think that the world is playing a practical joke on me, because no one ever does that sort of thing for me. I am not beautiful enough for that. I don't even wear makeup or jewelry aside from my two rings or anything other than comfortable clothes. You hear about those girls who never have to buy their own drinks and things. I am not one of them! I am not beautiful, and I do not like being mocked like this.

In better news, I am finally back and sitting in my candlelit kitchen, roasting marshmallows on a fondue fork over a tea light.

I love home.

Dear Bob,

I'm having a very hard time being motivated about anything right now but Thanksgiving Break.

I want to go home.

I don't want to go to class tomorrow. I really don't want to go to class Tuesday.

I don't want to do the last Numerical Methods and Statistics homework of the year. I don't want to do any more work on my cellular engineering project or my stats project. I don't want to build the prototype for my design project. All of these things are due in the next 3 weeks.

I want to go home for Thanksgiving and come back for the Rice v. SMU football game. I want Rice to win! I want Rice to go to a Bowl Game because that would be so awesome. I want to get to go to a bowl game as part of the band. I would like for the SMU game to be an easy win... rather than a heart stopper like the East Carolina game was.

I also would like for my wrist to stop hurting. In playing Pirates of the Caribbean on the field during halftime on Saturday I did something painful to my right wrist. And it's sucky.

Well, to bed!

dear bob,

the inevitable crash after my perfect five hours. today was ecent as far as days go. but then, there was the evening, and right now, i'm hurting so much that i've gone absolutely numb with it.

Dear Bob,

f*** this s***.

Bob,

i feel like i can't trust myself when it comes to deciding what i can handle. i'm scared of being too easy on myself and not pushing hard enough, when i don't feel good. and going back to slacking from meetings and stuff too much. but i don't know how to find the balance. like today, I feel really crappy so i didn't go in service. but i don't know if that's okay. should i have pushed and suffered through it? I don't have to. i have no reason to MAKE myself. i really, truly don't feel good. but i'm so scared of going overboard and taking it too easy. i don't want to be a wimp. but i really do feel miserable today. i don't know why i feel like i have to convince myself. well, i can at least try to be productive while i'm home...do some laundry or something. here goes nothing.

Dear Bob,

They found him today.

He wasn't far from his car, so my mum says she's not sure how they missed him. She called before even she had any details, but said because of the location we're hoping it was a stroke or heart attack and not exposure or hunger. It's not much to hope for, but I'd rather something quick that would have happened anyway to something avoidable and drawn-out.

I miss him.

I hope I can make it to the funeral.

*hugs Ali*

Ali, I am so sorry. *HUGS*

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*so many hugs*

I am so unspeakably sorry, Ali. My thoughts are with you and your family.

Bob,
I have no motivation. I can't even find the motivation to read threads, to post, to talk. I need motivation in my life. I need to make something of myself. I want my life to have an impact.
I need help.

*hugs Ali lots*

*hugs Ali*

*hugs Ali*

*hugs Ali*