My Morbid Mind

Back in the days when I claimed to be a psychology major (or maybe it was in a high school psych class... both are now far enough removed from my consciousness that they're barely distinguishable), I remember learning about the nature of morbid thoughts.

- It is common for children to have the vengeful thought, "If I died, they'd be sorry they did this to me." (in which "this" could refer to being punished, not being allowed to eat ice cream instead of dinner, having to go to bed on time, taking another person's side in an argument, etc.)
- It is common for people who feel undervalued to think, "If I died, they'd see just how valuable I really am."
- It is common for people with low self-esteem to think, "If I were dead, it wouldn't even matter."


My morbid thought isn't on that list.

Mine is more like...

"Maybe it'd be better for me to die young. Because when you die young, they talk about how great you were and how you had so much potential. They assume you would've achieved so much. It's better than dying after a life where your so-called "potential" led to nothing. Maybe I'd be less of a disappointment to everyone if I died sooner rather than later."


Don't worry. I'm not suicidal. And this thought doesn't last long when it comes. But I feel like it's something that I can't say out loud to anyone. And it was weighing on me tonight.

So thank you, internet, for once again providing me a therapeutic outlet where I can vent my inner demons. I love you.



May you make the most of your life.

~A~


P.S. Merry Christmas Eve

Autobiographical Autopsy

It's interesting how all your plans can change in a matter of seconds.

I was going to write a journal entry about friendship. Or love. Or little adventures.

I was going to tell you about my last Advanced Monologue class. Or finding out that my most recent ex-boyfriend already has a new girlfriend. Or how I saw "Dewey Cox and the Hard Walkers" (a.k.a. John C. Reilly in character for the movie Walk Hard) on their "Cox Across America Tour". I was going to write about seeing Edward Albee being interviewed by Richard Christensen. Or hanging out with two of my high school friends, and then going to a party filled with fringe-friends from my college days. Or the complications of my upcoming vacation.

I had a lot to write about, and it was going to be a light, airy, happy entry.

But then I was hit by a car.

Yes. Literally.

You know my theory that traffic stops for me because I'm cute? Turns out that it doesn't work when it's icy.

Last night, around 11:40pm, a friend and I were walking to a drugstore to get some munchies after dancing like mad-women at a party (a party at which we were pretty much the only ones dancing... but we had fun). As we were crossing the street, and the flashing red hand was telling us to speed-it-up-a-little, I saw a car approaching us. It was making a left-hand turn into the lane we were crossing. He saw us and smiled, so I didn't have that instinct to get out of the way in the split-second that I realized that our paths would cross. But the car couldn't stop because of the ice-covered road. We were both thrown up onto the hood before I knew what was happening.

My friend got the brunt of the hit, as she was walking on the outside. We were both in the air at some point, and the next thing I knew, I was face-down on the pavement.

My lower back broke the side-view mirror of the car. As some of you may know, I have back problems. Specifically with my lower back. I have an over-curvature of my spine front-to-back (lordosis), which has proven to be quite painful in the past. I also have an extremely mild case of scoliosis (an S-curve, side-to-side). And anything that touches my back in the wrong spot, even lightly, causes me to tense up because I'm so used to pain in certain areas. Actually, my back has been pretty good for the last three years or so. But there have been times when I couldn't be hugged without pain. Times when my spine was locked and I had difficulty walking. Times when I couldn't open a door for myself. So a side-view mirror to the back really wasn't the best thing for me.

Don't worry, we're both fine. Miraculously, we both got out of the whole thing relatively unscathed. She called me this morning to say that she's a little loopy (probably a result of the drinking she did last night, not the accident), but she doesn't have a mark on her. I gave myself a once-over in the mirror, just to check. Aside from a heart-shaped dark purple bruise on my bum (which looks a bit like a tattoo, and seems like a fun thing to get inked in the future. I think that of all the bruises I have ever gotten, this one is my favorite), I don't have any scrapes, scratches, or other visible injuries. Thank God for layers upon layers of thick bubble-wrap winter clothing. My back hurts quite a bit, but that's not unusual for me, so I can handle it. My neck hurts (which really isn't shocking). My knee hurts (I don't remember it hurting yesterday... must be a delayed reaction). But other than that, I'm oh-bee-kay-bee. Very lucky.

There were about five witnesses who stopped, helped, and freaked out on our behalf, asking if we needed an ambulance (they were all male, and a few of them extremely attractive, which I think helped calm us down... all that beauty... *sigh*). One of them stayed all through the police report and asked that we call him in the morning to let him know that we were alright. I just called and got his voicemail a few minutes ago.

It turns out, the driver of the car that hit us (a foreign food-delivery guy, who is terrified that he's going to lose his job... poor guy... really wasn't his fault, and he was very nice) was trying to make a left-hand turn when a bus cut through the intersection on the yellow light, preventing him from either turning or being able to see us. So then he was in the middle of the intersection on a yellow light as it was about to switch to red, and had to turn. And he saw us, hit his breaks, and couldn't stop. Really nice guy. He actually drove my friend and I home after the police report had been filled out. My friend told him that if his employer gives him any trouble, that she'd be happy to vouch for the fact that it wasn't his fault.

I can't help but wonder about what could've happened... My autonomous mind automatically turns toward an autobiographical autopsy. (sorry... wrapped up in wordplay... hope someone out there understands/enjoys my little joke).

What if my blog entries had stopped? What if I didn't return e-mails or facebook posts? What if the people who only know me from the internet never heard from me again? If I had amnesia, if I were in a coma, if I had died... they'd never have any more than assumptions and theories. They'd probably never have access to facts. It's a little unsettling to think about.

I sent a friend request to a former classmate of mine on facebook several months ago. I found out less than 24 hours later that he had died. And that friend request will forever be left as pending. It's haunting. I actually had a crush on him in third grade. And the boy I had a crush on in second grade has also died. I occasionally wonder if I should warn the boys I was crushing on in fourth and fifth grade, as I might be cursed or something, but I'm sure it's just a coincidence and that they'll be fine. No use worrying them over nothing.

Here's a weird quirk about me... You know how they say that in near-death experiences, your life flashes before your eyes? Didn't happen for me. In fact, I had this strange feeling like the whole accident was a dream as it was occurring. Maybe I had dreamt something similar and was experiencing deja vu? But even in the process of being struck, I wasn't really scared. It didn't seem real. And though I know that I could've been killed (did I mention that there was traffic in the other lane coming right at us as we laid in the street?), I wasn't any more terrified than I would've been if someone had come up and shoved me from behind. I think I was more frightened after the event than during it, although I'm not entirely certain as to why. Shock or something.

I'm thrilled that I'm not dead, by the way. It would be wholly depressing to die right now. I haven't accomplished very much. And I'm not really working on anything exciting. I'm just sort of floating until the next project comes my way. So really, it would be a horrible time to die if only because it's NOT a horrible time to die. When I die, I want it to inconvenience people (that's a sort of Wilde-esque thought, isn't it?). I want them to scramble to make the show go on. I want them to wonder how they'll ever replace me. And right now? My death would be a tragedy, of course, as I'm young and vibrant and have potential. But things would keep moving without me.

The only thing that would stop is this blog. And my unfinished novel. At least that. People will take the 147 unpolished pages off of my computer, read them, and imagine how great my novel could've been if only I had been able to take the time to edit and complete it. And their imaginations will create something far more impressive than I ever could've achieved. These things I write are, at present, my only unfinished work. They are the compositions written by my own hand. They are, to dissect the word, my autographs (heh... that one wasn't intentional... promise I'll stop).

Perhaps that's part of why I write. Theatre, my greatest love, is by its very nature a fleeting art. Once a production is over, it's over. Attempting to record it is not much more successful in its preservation than catching lightning in a bottle. Something seems a little more permanent about the written word. Maybe I'm attempting to grasp at the straws of immortality. (Tangent: I often wonder if that's part of the reason some people have children... In some cases, the children they produce are their greatest contributions to society, far surpassing anything else they create.) But really, I'm not all that worried about immortality. I'm not obsessed with fame (although I wouldn't mind a taste of it every now and again).

I don't care much about how long I'm remembered after I die. More important to me is that I'm remembered while I live.


May you find a way to make your life worth living (and remembering),

~A~


P.S. No man is truly invincible until he stops fearing death.

P.P.S. It has come to my attention that, for some reason, several of the pictures I put on posts in November have inexplicably disappeared. I'm not going to bother fixing any of the images. Too much work. I'm just going to ignore it and hope that it stops happening.

ETA P.P.P.S. I have taken a picture of my posterior for posterity, but it will not be going online.

Fateful Birthdays

I’m sitting at my computer drinking Jolly Ranchers (Midori & cranberry, my new signature drink) out of a waxy paper cup. I don’t believe I’ve ever had the desire to drink alone before, but it seemed like a good occasion.

Today is my birthday. As of 7:33am, I will have completed my 23rd trip around the sun.

I’ve always rather liked my birthday. 10-25. A dime and a quarter. Seems sort of perfect. And 1984 is a fun year to have been born, as I enjoy leap years and prophetic literature.

I love that I was born in autumn. It’s by far my favorite time of year. It’s such a festive season. Colored leaves are like nature’s confetti. They’re beautiful while still in the trees, and when they begin to drop it’s almost like a constant fall of rain (and I’ve mentioned how much I love rain). I find it to be simultaneously calming and exciting. I want to cocoon myself in a big pile of leaves. If I weren’t in a city, I’d grab a rake right this very minute.

My birthstone is Opal (although the “alternative” is Rose Tourmaline. And the closest to my birthstone that I’ve ever received as a gift was Rose Quartz. That’s a pity, as I rather like opals). My birth flower is either Camellia, Cosmos, or Calendula (marigold), depending on where you look. I was born in the Chinese Zodiac year of the Rat.

I share a birthday with Adam Pascal (the original Roger in “RENT”), Barbara Cook (another Broadway star), Pablo Picasso, Georges Bizet, Michael Boatman (I only know who he is because I was addicted to Celebrity Mole... and I’m not ashamed of that), Helen Reddy (she is woman, hear her roar), Ciara (yick), and Conchita Campbell (the girl who plays Maia, the clairvoyant child, on The 4400).

And here’s something interesting. I was born on the same day (and in the same year) as two people I met in college. All three of us ended up in the extremely tiny theatre department of a very small Catholic women’s college. That’s the kind of coincidence that could tempt you to trust in horoscopes.

Now, generally, I don’t believe in horoscopes or the zodiac (what’s the difference? I honestly don’t know what those words actually mean). First of all, I’m fairly certain that they’re against my religion (“Thou shalt have no other Gods before me” and all that). Second, I think that there are more than twelve different types of people in the world. Additionally, they seem vague, and mine was always wrong, anyway. I’m not a good example of what a typical Scorpio should be. But a few years ago, I learned a little more about the Zodiac, and now the time has come to revisit the new concept I was introduced to…

Cusps.

I’m not really a Scorpio at all. I’m on the cusp between Libra and Scorpio, which is apparently a completely separate sign. We’re called Scorlibrans (or Librium Leepio), and our sign is known as The Cusp of Drama and Criticism. That title alone sounds pretty dead on like me, doesn’t it? We’re also dubbed “The Indecisive Assassin”. Yup, me to a tee.

Here are some quick descriptive words about people who fall on this cusp:
- Aesthetic
- Alluring
- Artistic
- Charismatic
- Compelling
- Critical (while maintaining a sense of personal infallibility)
- Culturally Aware
- Deep-Feeling
- Diplomatic (and they have skill for seeing all sides of any situation)
- Exhibitionistic
- Honest
- Imaginative
- Indecisive (“with the head guiding and the heart denying, or vice versa”)
- Insightful
- Manipulative
- Passionate
- Procrastinating (with a tendency “to delay things or mull them over for so long that it proves to be costly”)
- Sensuous
- Stubborn
- Talkative
- Theatrical

And a few things that people on this cusp are NOT:
- Confident
- Decisive
- Laid-back
- Secure

Likes:
- Abstract Reasoning
- Approval (they have a need to be well-liked)
- Arts (art, music, literature, theatre)
- Peace and harmony
- Preaching (and they are willing to speak on almost any subject)
- Truth
- Well-Developed Thoughts

Dislikes:
- Generalizations
- Lacking control
- People who equate sexuality with sensuality

Now, as I said, I’m hesitant to put any stock into these things… But nevertheless, I feel the need to share with you a couple more of the eerily spot-on descriptions of someone born within my little stretch of time (October 19-25).

“… tensions and disappointments of life can at times prove too much for them, such that they retreat into isolation.” (Someone obviously wrote this down after observing me for a month.)

“There may also be ailments of the back, kidneys, and stomach.” (In case you’re unaware, I have diagnosed medical problems with my back and stomach.)

Every piece of cusp-related information I’ve just shared with you is something that I believe applies to me. Crazy coincidence? Or destiny?

Take what you will from that. Moving on.

My birthday takes on a different significance as I age than I thought it would. I don’t feel old, but yet I feel that I am one step closer to death.

What I am about to admit is something I’ve only shared with a handful of people in my life, but in the spirit of birthday honesty, I’m going to share it with you.

When I was younger, I had some sort of prophetic recurring dream that I would die at the age of 27. I don’t generally believe in signs, but I’ve had dreams that paralleled reality before, so I can’t ignore this. I have a hard time imaging that I’ll live to see 30 (which might have something to do with why I’ve talked myself out of wanting children or marriage, but that’s a can of worms that I don’t intend to open right now).

Twenty-seven seems to be a famous age for deaths. Especially for musicians. Janis Joplin, Jimi Hendrix, Jim Morrison (The Doors), Kurt Cobain (Nirvana), Brian Jones (The Rolling Stones), Robert Johnson (blues musician), Gram Parsons (The Byrds), Al Wilson (Canned Heat) and Peter Ham (Badfinger) all died at 27. Nick Drake died at 26, and Tim Buckley at 28, so I guess they’re honorable mentions. If I were a famous musician, I’d say my fate was sealed.

As it is, I’m neither famous, nor a musician, so maybe I’m wrong.

I’m not really upset about the idea of dying at 27. Around eighth grade (10 years ago, when I had the dreams), I just sort of accepted it to be true. Actually, believing I’d die at 27 made me less worried about dying sooner. It’s a strange, backward sort of logic, but it helped me at the time.

From about the age of 7 to the age of 13 I was terrified of death. I was afraid to go to sleep at night because I was so convinced that I wouldn’t wake up in the morning (hmmm… I may have just unlocked the root of my insomnia… Thank you, alcohol. Perhaps I should drink while typing more often… I may have just found a way to get through NaNoWriMo).

It got pretty bad the summer after fourth grade, when my Omama (grandmother) died. Death became real in a way that it never had before. Tangible. Terrifying.

I had a major breakthrough at a Chenille Sisters concert (a group that my parents were groupies of… My parents are awesome) later that year. They sang a cover of “What a Wonderful World”, and I started crying. I realized that the world was a beautiful place, and that I was missing out on it if I was always living in fear. (Yes, this was a revelation I had at the age of 9. I swear. I was a strange child.) I’ve had a great affinity for that song ever since. (I actually had a similarly affecting experience in college involving the song “Here Comes the Sun”. I have deep love of that one as well.)

Anyway, I’m not as afraid of death now. If I live longer, that’s tremendously good. If I was right all along and I now have fewer than 5 years left, I’m okay with that. Sorry for being morbid, but I needed to get that off my chest.

Twenty-two was an eventful year. I adjusted to city life. I worked on a couple of shows. I took a couple of classes. I went through a couple of boyfriends. I got a job. I got a promotion. I moved into my very own apartment. It was a year of metamorphosis, to be sure. There were a lot of ups and downs, but I reached the end of it (gracefully, I hope) and I'm still standing.

Twenty-three isn’t very exciting (it's two years before being allowed to rent a car... and, um... in the title of a horror movie starring Jim Carrey), but I suppose that happens more as you age. At the end of the year, you’re another year older. That’s all you can say for your life after twenty-one. I guess what twenty-three really represents is another chance. A whole year's worth of time to do better than I did this past year.

I feel like this would be a good time for me to make resolutions of some sort. Why wait for the new year? Actually, this IS a new year… Unfortunately, I can’t think of anything to resolve to do at the moment. And the alcohol is beginning to cloud me a little (I think I’m on my fourth since beginning to type this entry… Hopefully this isn’t full of typos by the time I’m done).

I think it’s time for me to go to bed. After all, it’s 2:30am and I have to leave my apartment at 7:45am. And then I have a full day of work. And then a full night of partying.

May every birthday be a new beginning for you.

Much love,

~A~


P.S. Isla Fisher and Sascha Baron Cohen’s baby was born. Early reports said that it was a boy named either Satchel or Sadler James. Luckily, this is not the case. They had a baby girl, and have named her Olive. Not perfect, but the least of the evils.

P.P.S. “Here Comes the Sun” just started playing on my iTunes. Perfect. :)