, , , , , , , , , ,


Reflection from March 23rd, 2008 @ Age 26


It’s funny how I love butter and all, but when I start thinking about how it’s really just animal lard—really the whole story changes, just like that.


I keep thinking about the difference between losing a brother and losing a lover.  What helps me most is to look at how I would feel losing John, versus how John would feel losing Kara.  The situation is different since Kara is married with babies—whereas Dave was just finishing up his graduate degree and single and had tried to get into contact with me the year prior to his death, almost to the day.  The difference is the possibility that Dave could have been waiting, could have had me in mind—could have missed me.  I really don’t know what he thought or felt, obviously, but I do think after he gave his number to Stacey to relay to me—I do wonder if he waited for a call.  I wonder if he expected a call, and I wonder if he was disappointed there was no call.

I hate thinking that I might have caused him the pain of disappointment now.  Thing is, after everything that had happened between us, after the pain I suffered from his letting me go—it would have taken a grand gesture to get me back.  Nothing less.  And I’m really not all that sure Dave was capable of a grand gesture.  I think he grew up feeling entitled and I think perhaps he expected I would fall all over him—but I knew deep down that he knew that’s not who I was, that’s not who I am.  He knew I was not like the rest.  It was that ego of his, his great expectations that drove the spike deep down between us.  I hate to admit it, but I really do think our socioeconomic differences had a large impact upon our situation.  With all my heart I do.  But with all my heart I love him still, too.

Anyways, I think there’s no comparison between losing a brother and losing a lover.  The relationships are just so different in nature, there’s absolutely no comparison.  I don’t think one is any worse than the other or vice versa, they’re just apples and oranges.  I do not know why I continue to ponder the difference.

I’ve been thinking too lately, about how being perpetually broke throughout my life has effected my ability to define myself.  I think I’ve done pretty well as far as my fashion sense goes.  I’ve always purveyed my moods through my clothing and I did win the best dressed award my senior year in high school too.  (And I was nominated for best looking…it was so flattering!  I didn’t even know that people knew my name!)  Anyways, so much of the time people describe their hobbies as shopping, or skiing, or laying around on the beach or I don’t know.  My point is, the options are severely limited when you have no money with which to engage in that which you love, or that which you’d like to have tried.  For instance, I love shopping and riding/jumping horses, so I do wonder if I can say that those are hobbies of mine—when I haven’t done either for such a very long time.  I just don’t know.


Sometimes I really can see the beauty in continued persistence and renewed hope through the truly mundane times in life.  As I sit here and listen to Led Zeppelin, ironing and sewing buttons back on shit all in the morning sun—I can see the beauty.  Today I can see the beauty.

I’m ironing the skirt today that I’m going to wear to Dave’s grave.  I eagerly await my trip and the preparations have quite clearly, already begun.

I feel really nervous, really anxious to call my old friend Kara from high school.  I’m not exactly sure why, but I’m pretty sure the uncertainty and awkwardness of it all are the main reasons.  I’m hereby making it a goal though, to call Kara this week—by Saturday’s end of this week.  So, it’ll be an interesting week then no doubt, as I’m going for coffee with male nurse Thursday (blecchhh!), I have Friday off work to spend with Andy and Rachel and Brycey, and I will call Kara somewhere in there and I have a $40 hour long massage on Saturday!  Hoorah!  Thanks to Judy who got the coupon for me…it’s such a great deal!  Anyways, I’m hereby setting myself the goal of calling Karbear by the end of the week.  And really Maris you love her still, and I’m sure she still loves you and it’s just been a really long time but it’ll be okay.  You will be okay and as you haven’t talked with her in so long, there will be plenty to talk about.  There…see!  All better!  Now go forth and be brave!


You know, I just want to take a moment to convey the extreme dislike I have for Brad Pitt.  I know people just love him and think he’s so good looking and blah blah blah—I will give you that he’s a good actor, because he is.  But what I really can’t stand is his chameleon-like personality, when it comes to whatever particular woman happens to be in his life at any given moment.  What I hate first of all, is how he physically changes his look to match his girlfriends.  Gwyneth Paltrow—bleached blonde, Jennifer Anniston—dirty water blonde, Angelina Jolie—brunette; and the clothes follow.

Then, what I hate also, is that it seems to happen that Pitt always starts dating these women when they are really really famous—when they’re at the peak of their careers.  But then, when things begin to die down, baby boy Pitt loses interest and starts looking for the next best thing.  And, what really pisses me off is that I often felt the same way about Dave.  The most difficult part of it, though, is that I really do believe Dave had almost come around full circle.  He was so close, at 24—only three or four more years and he’d of come full circle.  And then, my fairytale would have come true.  Nevermind, that’s stupid and I don’t know why I still dream of fairytales.  Sometimes I really don’t even know why I dream on.  How long, tell me, can unsubstantiated hope persist?  To what depth does my heart have to splinter until I come round full circle?


You know, it’s really hard to read through my journals and come upon these unbelievably detailed erotic daydreams or recounts of actual circumstance.  They always fall during manic phases too…I’m starting to see the patterns and I’ll tell ya, when they say people in manic phases are sexually promiscuous, they aren’t kiddin’.  I almost really want to just delete them entirely but I think at the same time, it’s really necessary to leave them in because it really paints an accurate picture of what it’s like to live with mania.  As bad as it is for me to read about it—it was infinitely more difficult to live with.  All that time I was suffering, and no one could help me.


God, I just looked at a picture of Dave and I realized I need to get over this—because the only relationship I ever had with Dave was over a decade ago.  It’s been so long and I feel so ashamed of having all these strong feelings for Dave still.  I just don’t know what to do with myself is the problem.  I don’t know how to just let go.


My mood’s fallen severely this afternoon.  I feel like this book is a stupid idea, and that my feelings for Dave are completely out of the proportion in which they should be.  I feel really embarrassed too, for having gotten this star on my left foot—although I still think it’s sexy as hell.  I just can’t understand why Dave meant, means—so much to me.  Never have been able to figure that out; never will now.  I’m continuously baffled by the conflict though.  It marinates in the back of my mind—he runs through all other thought, always there, always on my mind.