The Jennie Blog

I’ve Haven’t Blogged in a Minute, So Here...

Because it is painfully rare for me to have a moment completely alone (or it has been for the past five days), I feel compelled to talk to myself through my blog. There is no one demanding my time and attention. My presence isn’t being commanded at any conference sessions. No one is calling my name. I am completely alone, except for the always welcomed presence of Chewy and Magic. And I love it this way. 

The past week has been a hyper-paced whirlwind of neurological sessions and statistics. I was in Nashville at an MS conference, completely immersed in disease and disability. My “handlers” maintain a frantic pace of conference coverage, demanding, in many cases, quantity over quality—always more, more, more. More meetings with pharmaceutical reps to secure (and sometimes PLEAD for) funding. More on-camera interviews. More patient advocacy receptions. More attendance of topic-centered sessions. Always more. I have the energy to keep up...at least for now. 

But I know that this may not always be so. 

This is true for everyone, but seems even more of a sinister statement of fact for me. I attended a session about Mitochondria and their roles in fueling cell energy, and how imperative their work is for MS patients. I still don’t have a firm grasp on the extent of their functionality, but I do know that their performance is integral to my sustained ability to walk. Or think. Or function. Without getting overly technical, shit got real this week. 

So, listen. It’s not as though I’ve been in perpetual denial of my MS, per se. I try not to think about it too often because, realistically speaking, what can I do about it? Outside of taking care of myself and dutifully sustaining my disease-modifying therapy of natalizamab infusions, there’s not a damn thing I can do. It is not at all hyperbolic to say that it’s gonna do what it wants, and it can take my abilities at any time. I’ve experienced it with the optic neuritis that I had in 2013, when my eyes couldn’t focus or process color fully. Or in 2008 when I had nauseating vertigo and felt drunk for an entire week. Or at disease onset, when my hand frequently curled into a claw-like position BY ITSELF. Or when I feel like some sadistic motherfucker has a voodoo doll and is constantly stabbing me with rusty nails. Living with MS is like living in a damn funhouse, except that there’s absolutely no “fun” involved...it’s fucking horrifying sometimes. And sometimes ignorance is bliss when it comes to the inner mechanism of disease; sometimes it’s better to just not know, because it’s not as scary that way.

And yeah, I know how lucky I am that I can walk. I’m grateful for the abilities that I have and blah, blah, blah. I don’t take one second of my independence for granted, but the uncertainty is hard sometimes, ya know? I’m also sick of being told by the MS community that I have no credibility because I “look so good”...that I don’t know how it feels to have a disability. What is outwardly visible is like the tip of the iceberg—there’s so much going on under the water, so much that’s invisible. But I know. It’s always there. 

So now, in the placid tranquility of my home, where Chewy and Magic are snuggling with me and i’m doing mundane tasks like laundry and article editing, I’m grateful for the quiet. For the peaceful solace that I get from listening to the birds chirp outside my window. For not having to talk to anyone or listen to anyone else talk at me. For the ability to talk to myself via blog post. And especially for the abilities that I have. 

New Gloves By Next Sunday

I have a ton of shit to do today. Like, a suffocating, inordinate, inhuman amount…and yet, here I am at the dodgy Northside Crazy Mocha, drinking very average coffee and breaking my teeth on just-barely “fresh” biscotti. The wi-fi isn’t working (is anyone here else experiencing this problem?) and there’s a woman at the next table who’s sipping on a smoothie as though it were a baby bottle. I need to go home where I know that the wi-fi actually works, so that I can get some work done.

But instead, I’m blogging because I’ve signed up for a sewing class. (This all makes sense. Just trust me.)

I’m on a Sophie Kinsella kick. I’ve been reading all of her books voraciously. She’s like a crack habit that I can’t quit. Sophie’s books do nothing for me intellectually; her work is like chocolate—not very nutritionally sound, but GOD, I LOVE TO CONSUME IT. I don’t actually have to work when I read her stuff. She’s like a vacation from the rigor of my daily routine that I desperately need. So that leads me to WHY I need such a vacation in the first place: my daily/weekly routine is rigorous and exhausting. And yet, I press on and act like it’s normal. I mean, most people have three jobs, right? It’s entirely unremarkable to work two consecutive 14-hour days every single week with one day off (and I still work from home on those days).

Don’t misunderstand—I’m not complaining. I just don’t think it’s normal. I think I’m obsessed with money.

I impulsively signed up for a sewing class at the library. I have NO earthly clue as to how to even sew on a button, but according to the kind lady who offered this class to me, I’ll be able to sew a pair of mittens by 3:00pm next Sunday (umm, ok…). I’m actually looking forward to this because I’m about as undomestic as they come. I was also grateful that I actually have Sunday afternoons free to take a class, just because I feel like it. Why hadn’t I done something like this sooner?  And not just a sewing class, but an anything class. When hadn’t I looked in the conversational Italian or French classes, or yoga?

The answer was clear: because I’ve worked almost every day for the past decade, I’d given up a huge part of my life. I’m obsessed with making money, and that has taken precedence over absolutely everything. I cannot be without money and I hate not being able to afford the things that I want to buy. It’s so satisfying to know that I can buy that coffee every morning or those shoes that I want or that new video game system (not that I have a significant amount of time to actually enjoy these things)…I can buy them if/when I want, and I don’t have to worry about living on Ramen Noodles until my next paycheck. HOWEVER, the brief periods of unemployment that I’ve experiencing were hell on Earth because I didn’t work. I hate not working or making money. I go absolutely crazy. So maybe it’s a matter of striking a balance to treat my workaholic self. Or maybe it’s allowing myself to not have a breakdown on days that I’m not making money. I guess I don’t really know what the answer is, because perhaps the problem has not been fully defined.

But at least I’ll be rocking new gloves, that I’ve made myself, by Sunday at 3:00.

Little Girl Blue

Quick flashback: 2016. I'm sitting in the Oxford Centre Starbucks, nursing an Americano as though it were a whiskey ginger ale (and ardently wishing it were so). I'm staring dejectedly out the window, watching the passersby wistfully and wondering if they had a cloud of stress that was a oppressive as mine seemed to be. I'm working in the Frick Building and I REALLY don't want to return to my office. I hate the work I'm doing; it's dreadfully unfulfilling and exasperatingly stressful. I'm also reeling from recent personal troubles that have necessitated a relocation to the city. I'm preparing for a new life and I am terrified The only stability that life afforded me at that time was granted in the form of Chewy and Magic, and my job at the law firm...a position that I absolutely loathed. The stress sat like a cancer in the pit of my stomach and I carried with me, even after I left the office for the day. I constantly worried about meeting deadlines and making mistakes in my haste to finish the endless cycle of soul sucking projects that I hated. So I sat in the Starbucks and wondered what life had in store for me, and I desperately hoped that I wouldn't have to remain at a job that was so, so terrible. But I saw no way out. 

Fast forward to 2018. I'm now sitting at the same table in this same Starbucks, feeling 100% happier and optimistic. I have overcome many of the personal challenges that had been laid down before me. I've experience numerous setbacks, primarily regarding my multiple sclerosis, but I've managed to endure a new treatment that has, quite honestly, made me feel better physically and emotionally than I have in years...maybe ever. I was, thankfully and mercifully, fired from the law firm. It was truly the best thing that could have happened to me. My ego and pride aside, being fired was fantastic, as I accepted a part time job as a counselor at an abortion clinic (the very same place in which I'd had my own abortion years ago). I'm not sure that I would have been brave enough to accept a part time position, had I still been employed at the firm. I just don't believe that I would have allowed myself to take a part time job that would have required me to supplement my income, yet again, with Bux. But since I'd lost my full time job (and Unemployment wasn't going to last forever, right??), I had nothing to lose. And I gained EVERYTHING.

My job at the clinic has become my life's work; it's the dream job that I'd always wanted, but never realized it. I cannot imagine doing anything else. It's dangerous work...I have to endure protesters that have the propensity to become violent. We are visited routinely by the FBI. We have drills for bombings and mass shootings, events that have occurred in other clinics, including ours in the past. BUT I feel proud of my work every single day. I'm on the front lines, working for and with strong, courageous women to fight for reproductive justice, especially for the disadvantaged. I've always wanted to become the woman that I am today. There are still so many other things I want to accomplish, but this sense of purpose means everything. I no longer tolerate people who bring negative energy to my life. Everyone in my circle brings something positive and meaningful to my existence...or they aren't in my circle. I've also realized that I was working far too hard on some of my relationships, allowing myself to be treated as merely an option, when I should have been a priority, because I deserve to be one. I've recognized the people who don't follow through with promises and regard them wearily. I have NO difficulty with ridding my life of those who aren't deserving, which is something that had been particularly problematic for me in the past. I don't tolerate disappointment.

I guess I'm not quite where I'd like to be, as I still have great many personal goals to achieve...but thank GOD I'm not where I was. I have plans. :)

 

2018...You’re Doing Great, Sweetie

This year has been complete shit, and we’re a solid 28 days in. My third roomie abandoned ship, so it’s now just me, LD, and my gatos (who have taken LD’s last name in addition to mine in an adorable and petulant act of solidarity). Mannykins peaced out because he fell in love with his Pacific Coast doppelgänger, which is completely blissful for him. LD and I, however, are respectively shitting ourselves, as we’re terrified of being screwed every way from next Sunday. 

So now we’re in the process of selling his abandoned belongings at “Burlington,” as we’ve dubbed his revolting cave of a “bedroom.” It’s completely disgusting in there. Trash crowds the floor, accompanied by discarded clothes and stolen Starbucks syrup bottles. Welcome to the 1502. I can’t live with two roomies ever again. Manny’s abrupt departure has sent LD and me into a depression that was punctuated by a rage that we both felt to our bones. We trusted him. We loved him. He stole from me and broke the lease seven month prematurely. He lied to us repeatedly. We feel like this is a breakup. I’m so, so deeply saddened. But two are better than three, and LD and I have plans. (She IS my heterosexual life partner!) I have so much garbage that’s being thrown at me right now... but I’ll get through it. I always do.

“I don’t know what’s right and what’s real anymore...and I don’t know how I’m meant to feel anymore...and when do you think it will all become clear? Because I’m being taken over by the fear...”

#GSD

It's 2018 and I'm still using Typepad and I STILL haven't any plan or intention to alter that. I'm beginning this year with obstinance and defiance. I intend to continue to be a badass warrior with an extreme literary bent. The "bent," however, probably needs to become a little bendier, as I haven't been writing regularly; I've barely been writing at all, actually. I had convinced myself that my voice had been weakened by my terrible, soul-sucking job at the law firm. It took me over a year to stop habitually labeling my writing (and my personality traits) as "hyperbolic." I had some sort of weird block and couldn't bring myself to write, and the little that I did compose felt...contrived and stale. 

And that brings me to today, New Years Day, 2018. Overall, 2017 wasn't a terrible year. I did experience a few losses that had pervasive impacts on my emotional state, but thankfully, I also strengthened many of my newer friendships. I finally feel more established in all of my jobs. I feel stable...which brings me to my resolutions. I hope to continue the stability, but I become bored with the minutia of life very quickly. This means that I may need to make some moves.

1.) Return to WRITING. Write at least one blog post per month. Get back into freelancing and sell 2 articles this year.

2.) My book reading has become atrocious in terms of volume and frequency. Read a book every month, from start to finish.

3.) Do something about my lack of spiritually. I consider myself to be agnostic at this point, but I miss the regime of going to church and taking time for spiritual growth. I need to find a way to foster my spirit without feeling incongruent. I'm not quite sure what that even means. 

4.) Permanence. Roots, but without a total disconnection from transience. This one's a bit formless, but I'm very hopeful that it will manifest in a life-altering way this year. We shall see.

I began this year with a new hair color and a new sense of badassery. I plan to make shit happen this year. #GSD (Get Shit Done.)

She Was An American Girl (In Paris)

I’m in Paris. I’m happier than any human being has any right to be. This is my first night of many on this 18-day voyage. Paris is lovely, though the elements have been unreasonably formidable. Do you want to know what I’m doing right now?? I’m sipping red wine, listening to Rosemary Clooney, and gazing down at the Parisian street beneath me, watching the natives do their thing. I’m also very creepily delving into voyeurism ala Hitchcock style, watching the inhabitants of the apartments across the street. I’m giving them all names and wondering about their sex lives. 

Is Clooney just stringing together Italian words because “Mambo Italiano” makes NO goddamn sense??

Today I arrived here with broken dreams of Paris and sheepish ideals. But at least I had espresso. I visited Starbucks because it’s familiar and it’s American (and I get a discount), which is very comforting in a culture that intimidates me. I can speak enough French to be understood, but I can’t understand the response...so I just look ridiculous. I’ve been saving my “good French” for an appropriate situation. I have no idea what that means. So all English it is! Maybe I can pass as British or Canadian, as Americans are HATED here. I haven’t had to deal with extreme anti-American sentiment since W’s administration, but here we are. 

So I guess I once held the childish ideal that the love of my life would take me to Paris. And again, it has been revealed that my own greatest love is myself. I’m slightly disappointed because of my penchant for romance, but maybe that will still happen. Or it won’t. Romance fades, but real love doesn’t. Maybe that has yet to reveal itself. Until then, I’m entirely happy with my family and my circle. I’m a warrior and will continue to fight...and those who can’t take it have helpfully removed themselves. So here’s to Paris. Here’s to the beauty the awaits just outside my window. 

Here’s to YOU, Paris. 

She Was An American Girl (In Paris)

I’m in Paris. I’m happier than any human being has any right to be. This is my first night of many on this 18-day voyage. Paris is lovely, though the elements have been unreasonably formidable. Do you want to know what I’m doing right now?? I’m sipping red wine, listening to Rosemary Clooney, and gazing down at the Parisian street beneath me, watching the natives do their thing. I’m also very creepily delving into voyeurism ala Hitchcock style, watching the inhabitants of the apartments across the street. I’m giving them all names and wondering about their sex lives. 

Is Clooney just stringing together Italian words because “Mambo Italiano” makes NO goddamn sense??

Today I arrived here with broken dreams of Paris and sheepish ideals. But at least I had espresso. I visited Starbucks because it’s familiar and it’s American (and I get a discount), which is very comforting in a culture that intimidates me. I can speak enough French to be understood, but I can’t understand the response...so I just look ridiculous. I’ve been saving my “good French” for an appropriate situation. I have no idea what that means. So all English it is! Maybe I can pass as British or Canadian, as Americans are HATED here. I haven’t had to deal with extreme anti-American sentiment since W’s administration, but here we are. 

So I guess I once held the childish ideal that the love of my life would take me to Paris. And again, it has been revealed that my own greatest love is myself. I’m slightly disappointed because of my penchant for romance, but maybe that will still happen. Or it won’t. Romance fades, but real love doesn’t. Maybe that has yet to reveal itself. Until then, I’m entirely happy with my family and my circle. I’m a warrior and will continue to fight...and those who can’t take it have helpfully removed themselves. So here’s to Paris. Here’s to the beauty the awaits just outside my window. 

Here’s to YOU, Paris. 

Both Sides Now

"I've looked at life from both sides now

From win and lose and still somehow

It's life's illusions I recall

I really don't know life at all."

 

Joni Mitchell's Van Gogh-esque portrait on the cover of her Both Sides Now album simultaneously shatters my heart, even as it fills it to its brim. I listened to the title song while I was editing some material; I hadn't planned to have an introspective, weepy evening. Judy Collins' version juxtaposed a chirpy melody with Mitchell's somber, raw lyrics. It was unexpected, and it assailed me. I immediately listened to Mitchell's sobering version, in which she is masterfully in command of the emotional force that she unleashes through her sage and yet, oh-so-melancholy lyrics. I ugly-sobbed in my bed.

The past few years have been a challenge. They've been filled with incessant transience, which I both love and despise. I crave, I absolutely yearn for, stability...sometimes. And then I have weeks like this one, in which I've had brief encounters with old lovers, and my wild heart can't imagine settling down for an instant. I look longingly at women who have partners and children and families, and I ache for it...sometimes. And then I realize how very fortunate I am that I can fly freely, that I'm barely an adult in so many ways. I wonder what it would feel like to have someone who loves me enough to tolerate my capriciousness and my infuriating fluctuations of mood, which can change by the minute sometimes. I have so much emotion, I can barely hold it all. And I just wish that someone could understand, because I can't. I feel like I've looked at life, and love, from both sides, now. I've bathed in the beautiful intoxication and sobbed from the decimating pain. I'm still working through the trauma and basking in the glow, and I still don't know what to make of it.

I guess I really don't know life at all.

 

The Word Pit

Can we just take a second to mourn the fact that I'm STILL using Typepad? This blog is 10 years young and it is quite precarious, indeed...I'm actually terrified that the Typepad powers-that-be will decide to lock me out of my own blog at any moment. This site is like an embattled and decaying house that probably should have been condemned ages ago, but for the enigmatic grace of the internet gods, it stubbornly remains standing. 

This blog began as an online diary on Vox, of all places. Back in the dark ages of 2007, the year of my beloved word pit's genesis, Vox was a friendly neighborhood of a glitteringly garish, Vegas-type milieu of personal blogs that were penned by English majors/grads, desperate for any sort of publication. And I was one of 'em. My neighbors/fellow bloggers were helpful and the site was aesthetically appealing, albeit rudimentary. (Read: pretty, but basic AF). Vox then "shut down" and my blog was involuntarily exported to Typepad in 2009, where it obviously remains today. I've made several attempts at finding a more '2010 and beyond" platform; I hate all of them. My fear of having to learn code has deterred me from pursuing other sites. (And YES, I KNOW that this fear is petty and completely irrational, but that's pretty much my Tinder profile description, right?? I probably don't have to learn code--I'm too nervous to move my blog out of Bedrock.) Typepad isn't that bad, I guess. I mean, at least it isn't Word Press.

Here's to year 11 of the Jennie Blog, which I may or may not rename as "The Word Pit: Where Prose Goes to Die." It's catchy and I'm buying the domain. Cheers, bitches.

Dare My Wild Heart

Here I am again, a frequent guest with a wickedly wild heart in the Heartbreak Hotel. Yet again. My latest love affair (or whatever it was) has left me utterly decimated. I'm actually considering a not-so-glamorous return to taking my antidepressants following a seven-year absence, though I absolutely despise them. 

 

It's painful. So, so painful. Ladona, who is very aware of my situation in all of its salacious entirety, stroked my hair one night as I sobbed into her shoulder. "Jen-Jen, you really loved him, didn't you?"

 

Indeed, I did. I do. The relationship was hardly egalitarian, or at least it wasn't supposed to be. He was cast in a prominent position in my life during one of my darkest moments. He protected me from the cold nature of the system when I needed something, anything, to help me cope with my spectacular failures. I was still grappling with the loss of my Little Star and the knowledge that I would need to relocate my entire existence from my comfortable suburban townhouse to the chaos of the city. It was a terrifying time, full of incessant upheaval. I completely lacked any sort of stability...except for him. I fell devastatingly hard; the passion that we had was breathtaking. 

 

This, like most things that I love most in my pitiful existence, proved to be tragically transient. He became tired of me, and I watched helplessly as our meetings became less frequent and our communication, which was once daily, became weekly at most and half-hearted.

 

There was nothing I could do. I tried my hardest to beguile him when we were together, but he became increasingly distant. He was becoming bored or tired of me. And when the interaction became rare and I saw that he was gently trying to nudge me out of his life, I pushed him away in an effort to preserve my own pride and dignity. 

 

I've been absolutely heartbroken ever since. 

 

I walk down the street, desperately trying to choke down the lump that is omnipresent in my throat, praying that I can make it home before I break down. I just can't handle the fact that yet ANOTHER person has left me. I've turned the anger about it squarely on myself. Maybe if I hadn't been so damned "Jen;" capricious, passionate, emotional, terrible...maybe if I wasn't so fucking crazy, maybe people would stop leaving me. When I'm not enough, I'm just too much. The anger and helplessness have me trapped in a dark prison of my own neurotic construction. I feel self destructive and wild and yet, so very depressed. This leads me back to seeking the antidepressants as a means to easing the hurt, a way to grasp for shelter from the pain. It's isn't fair that three consecutive men have used me and thrown me aside like a used sex toy. Like I don't fucking matter, like I'm less than a goddamn person that they could never fit into their pristine little lives.  

 

I was a mistake (as usual); the hyprocite will, no doubt, exile me from his mind. He'll return to being a "good," "respected" citizen. And I'll continue to be the audacious, temperamental, wild haired abortionist writer with an irreverent comment about everything that is placed into my orbit. Except that my heart is even harder, and indelibly scarred. 

 

 

But I guess it doesn't matter now...I just wanted you to know.