I was talking to a lady in the audience before my show started one night, and somehow conversation turned to the subject of travel, and what a good thing it is to do if you can do it. I revealed that I had not done much of it myself. I've been as far north as Vancouver BC, as far south as San Diego, as far east as Lake Tahoe, and as far west as, well, the Pacific. She seemed surprised. A man of my age, stuck in his little Northwest box. And in all my 39 years I've moved twice, only to return to the home I grew up in. It's a small world, they say, but smaller for some than for others. And yet, I can't complain about it because I love this world I inhabit and the people with whom I share it.
I am often surprised by the people who I end up calling "friend". Often times, they're not like me at all, and it seems like it would be an oil and water type of thing. But there's different friends for different occasions. One guy I only have lunch with, and if I can do it four times a year I'm lucky, yet I consider him one of my "best" friends. Another guy I only work with creatively, so if I don't have a project, the "friendship" is in limbo, and when I hire him, it's like I'm trying to buy that friendship. Secretly, I just want to hang out with him. Would he call me a friend? I have no idea. Other friends offend me by posting anti-Christian propaganda on Facebook and it grieves me to look at it, but I also can't bear to block them because I like seeing what they're up to. Other friends, I crush on constantly but know I don't have a chance with. Other friends, I can't get involved in my interests, no matter how hard I try. My heart hurts when they don't see my show, but my head knows they're still my friends, and it's stupid to think otherwise.
I always feel like the default setting for most of my relationships with people (at least outside my family) is that I like them a lot more than they like me. So it makes sense that I'm the one who has to call or write. Sometimes it seems like I have to come up with some wild gimmick to get people's attention. "Spend an evening with me, and you could win a new car!" Okay, that's a slightly silly exaggeration but you get my point.
Yet once in a while, a person comes along who has some sort of interest in me, and I have no idea why, I don't know what I offer (it can't be physical), and of course my heart is so grateful I WANT to have a new car to give them, but I don't. Maybe I could write a song for them. But no, I haven't written songs in years. And what's the motive for this desire to give of myself? Will it ensure the indefinite continuation of the friendship? That doesn't seem likely.
I think the only conclusion that can be reached is that "it is what it is." People have to follow the path that their heart sets for them (unless they're answering to a higher calling) and my place in that path is just whatever it happens to be, no more, no less. But if they've touched my life is some meaningful (sometimes unexpected) way, I hope that I've done the same for them. Some kind of imprint.
Wednesday, June 27, 2012
Sunday, June 10, 2012
the reset button
"Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me." The worst thing is when you fool yourself. When you want something so badly, you'll do nearly anything to get it. Or you convince yourself that you can do something when you really can't. There's people who say, "Where there's a will, there's a way", but isn't that sometimes bullshit? And there are people who tell you to never stop dreaming, but there are some who should really just wake up for their own good. I've always been more of a dreamer than an achiever. I can talk a good game, especially to myself. Other people may not buy it, but I do. I believe what I'm dishing out, no matter how many people tell me I'm wrong.
There are two areas in my life where I have mainly fallen victim to this form of self-deception. One concerns matters of the heart, but I won't go into too much detail about that because I've already done so in a lot of previous posts. Long story short, if I like somebody, I convince myself that I can have a deep, meaningful, friendship with that person, regardless of how he (because it's always a he) feels about me. I mean, it may not be sexual, but we can be otherwise as close as two unrelated men can be. This is a lie. But the persuasive power of that lie is so strong it's nearly killed me more than once. That is, when I get the final rejection, the realization that my idea of "close intimate friendship" was just an illusion. Sometimes it takes years to figure it out.
The other area of this self-deception concerns my lifetime dream, which has been to own and operate my own theatre company. For many years, I've wanted this but it has seemed out of reach. That is because it WAS out of reach. Then one day, because somebody posts an announcement that their theater space is available for rent and at a lower price than everyone else, I got it in my head that "Maybe I can do this...maybe I can actually make this work." Of course I didn't have all the money I needed so I borrowed from my parents, thinking that since I was working, it wouldn't take too long to pay them back. This was last summer, 2011.
Well, I could not find a staff of people to work with, which meant that all the duties and responsibilities, including things I'm really not good at, like marketing and publicity, fell to me. Not only did I have to pay for everything (with loans of course), but I also had to DO everything that was possible for me to do. I mean, I couldn't act the roles and direct at the same time. I couldn't operate lights, but I operated sound. And I had to pay for services that I was not skilled enough to do myself like original music composition and photography and poster design.
The play, Mysterious Skin, didn't make any money; it lost quite a lot actually. Audiences were very small, because nobody had heard of Book of Dreams Productions and we got hardly any press at all. Some of what we did get just criticized us for being low-budget, labor-of-love people. So that put me thousands of dollars in debt and made me feel like my reputation was shot.
Then, several months later, I got the opportunity to do it again. Now, I need to clarify that my current show is a better play, better production values, better direction. I am truly satisfied with the product, but once again, we haven't had an audience. I mean we've had a couple of nights with 21 people at most, but more often, it's a lot less than that. And where there was little press for Mysterious Skin, there's been absolutely none for this show. And again, it's like nobody knows who we are and nobody cares.
You might wonder how I got the money to do this second production. Well, it's a long story and I won't go into too much detail, but the gist is that I ended up relying on huge contributions from family again, and the worst part of it is, by the time they realized they had to pay so much money, I was neck-deep in the project and it would have been extremely difficult to back out. None of this was my intention. I just never thought it through. I never wrote out the budget and crunched the numbers and figured out exactly how I was going to pull this off. I'm working, but I don't make enough to finance this. But somehow, I lied to myself, and convinced myself that I could pay for it on my own, that I would not have to ask for help. I think deep inside, I knew this was a lie, but I was so desperate to believe it, I refused to see the truth.
And the Portland theatre scene is a dog-eat-dog world. I haven't found a ton of friendly people full of goodwill and wanting to help the new guy in over his head. People pretty much just care about their own shit.
All this might sound like a giving-up speech, but it is not. Book of Dreams will continue, but there are a lot of things that I need to re-evaluate. Obviously, my parents can't bankroll my creative projects. Again, this was never my intention, but it just happened because I lied to myself. I have to be honest about where the money is going to come from. I have to become non-profit so that people can make tax-deductible donations to the company. I need to keep looking for a staff (or board, or whatever) because I'm not qualified to do EVERYTHING and make every decision on my own.
To have done these shows and not had an audience (I say that, although there's still 2 weekends left for Costa Rehab) feels like a failure, and I have certainly called myself that many times, but in reality, I think the better way to look at it is just a learning experience. I put the DREAM in front of everything else, in front of reality, in front of the people I love, so those people got hurt and lost money. It feels very much like a drug addiction. My mother actually told me that's what it seemed to her. I was addicted to the dream. But I didn't know how to carry it out in a responsible way. The ends have to justify the means. You have to have a plan. You have to be responsible. So I'm giving notice to myself. No more deception. No more putting the cart before the horse. There's a right way to do things. Pay back what you owe. Find smart people to help you activate your goals in a realistic way. And above all, be honest with yourself.
A do-over. A new beginning. Hitting the reset button. I don't know where things will go from here, but with God's grace, I will think before I act, and I will have peace of mind from now on.
There are two areas in my life where I have mainly fallen victim to this form of self-deception. One concerns matters of the heart, but I won't go into too much detail about that because I've already done so in a lot of previous posts. Long story short, if I like somebody, I convince myself that I can have a deep, meaningful, friendship with that person, regardless of how he (because it's always a he) feels about me. I mean, it may not be sexual, but we can be otherwise as close as two unrelated men can be. This is a lie. But the persuasive power of that lie is so strong it's nearly killed me more than once. That is, when I get the final rejection, the realization that my idea of "close intimate friendship" was just an illusion. Sometimes it takes years to figure it out.
The other area of this self-deception concerns my lifetime dream, which has been to own and operate my own theatre company. For many years, I've wanted this but it has seemed out of reach. That is because it WAS out of reach. Then one day, because somebody posts an announcement that their theater space is available for rent and at a lower price than everyone else, I got it in my head that "Maybe I can do this...maybe I can actually make this work." Of course I didn't have all the money I needed so I borrowed from my parents, thinking that since I was working, it wouldn't take too long to pay them back. This was last summer, 2011.
Well, I could not find a staff of people to work with, which meant that all the duties and responsibilities, including things I'm really not good at, like marketing and publicity, fell to me. Not only did I have to pay for everything (with loans of course), but I also had to DO everything that was possible for me to do. I mean, I couldn't act the roles and direct at the same time. I couldn't operate lights, but I operated sound. And I had to pay for services that I was not skilled enough to do myself like original music composition and photography and poster design.
The play, Mysterious Skin, didn't make any money; it lost quite a lot actually. Audiences were very small, because nobody had heard of Book of Dreams Productions and we got hardly any press at all. Some of what we did get just criticized us for being low-budget, labor-of-love people. So that put me thousands of dollars in debt and made me feel like my reputation was shot.
Then, several months later, I got the opportunity to do it again. Now, I need to clarify that my current show is a better play, better production values, better direction. I am truly satisfied with the product, but once again, we haven't had an audience. I mean we've had a couple of nights with 21 people at most, but more often, it's a lot less than that. And where there was little press for Mysterious Skin, there's been absolutely none for this show. And again, it's like nobody knows who we are and nobody cares.
You might wonder how I got the money to do this second production. Well, it's a long story and I won't go into too much detail, but the gist is that I ended up relying on huge contributions from family again, and the worst part of it is, by the time they realized they had to pay so much money, I was neck-deep in the project and it would have been extremely difficult to back out. None of this was my intention. I just never thought it through. I never wrote out the budget and crunched the numbers and figured out exactly how I was going to pull this off. I'm working, but I don't make enough to finance this. But somehow, I lied to myself, and convinced myself that I could pay for it on my own, that I would not have to ask for help. I think deep inside, I knew this was a lie, but I was so desperate to believe it, I refused to see the truth.
And the Portland theatre scene is a dog-eat-dog world. I haven't found a ton of friendly people full of goodwill and wanting to help the new guy in over his head. People pretty much just care about their own shit.
All this might sound like a giving-up speech, but it is not. Book of Dreams will continue, but there are a lot of things that I need to re-evaluate. Obviously, my parents can't bankroll my creative projects. Again, this was never my intention, but it just happened because I lied to myself. I have to be honest about where the money is going to come from. I have to become non-profit so that people can make tax-deductible donations to the company. I need to keep looking for a staff (or board, or whatever) because I'm not qualified to do EVERYTHING and make every decision on my own.
To have done these shows and not had an audience (I say that, although there's still 2 weekends left for Costa Rehab) feels like a failure, and I have certainly called myself that many times, but in reality, I think the better way to look at it is just a learning experience. I put the DREAM in front of everything else, in front of reality, in front of the people I love, so those people got hurt and lost money. It feels very much like a drug addiction. My mother actually told me that's what it seemed to her. I was addicted to the dream. But I didn't know how to carry it out in a responsible way. The ends have to justify the means. You have to have a plan. You have to be responsible. So I'm giving notice to myself. No more deception. No more putting the cart before the horse. There's a right way to do things. Pay back what you owe. Find smart people to help you activate your goals in a realistic way. And above all, be honest with yourself.
A do-over. A new beginning. Hitting the reset button. I don't know where things will go from here, but with God's grace, I will think before I act, and I will have peace of mind from now on.
Wednesday, June 6, 2012
I get so emotional, baby...
As usual, I have to qualify my blog title. There were 2 Whitney Houston songs that I liked, and "So emotional" wasn't one of them. But the title just applies so perfectly. [Do you want to know which ones I liked? They were both from her debut: "Saving all my love for you" and "The greatest love of all". Some of the words to the latter song will make me tear up if I'm in the mood. But other times I just remember the cheesy death scene of a so-called popular singer in a soap I used to watch during which she sang a rousing, melodramatic rendition of that song, and during that last high note, a chandelier falls on her and kills her, making me laugh hysterically.]
In the seemingly endless search for meaningful connections, I found myself writing to an inmate a few years ago. I had read a book about him, and I felt for him, and I was just drawn to send him a letter. He responded several weeks later, then I wrote back. A couple years go by, and I hear nothing. But I keep checking the PO box, and writing occasionally.
Well, finally, earlier this year, I heard back from him and he seemed eager to kick this correspondence into high gear. We exchange a couple of letters. Then there's silence again. It's been like 4 months. And I start to speculate about why he stopped writing. Is it the same reason he cited before, laziness and procrastination? Or is it that he doesn't want to continue writing?
The trouble is, I have realized I have feelings for him. It's not an ideal thing. Where he is, he's going to be for a long time. Even if he felt the same way about me that I do about him (I can't decide whether to tell him), it's not like we could have a "life" together. They don't even allow gays conjugal visits. But the real problem I'm facing is, if I tell him that I have feelings for him, will he get upset and stop writing altogether? I mean, I'm already wondering if I'm going to hear from him again. But confessing my feelings could be the nail in the coffin.
Once upon a time, when I was young, I was always too shy to express much of anything. Fear ruled my decision-making process when it came to revealing things like crushes, etc. Then something happened to me. I started listening to Smashing Pumpkins and it seemed like all their songs were about having to seize the moment and do what you need to do, and say what needs to be said. All of a sudden I became bold in the expression of my feelings. When I was in love with a guy, I told him. Even if he was straight. Of course, the results were usually disastrous. I went through several years of being hurt, devastated even, because I insisted on being open with people who didn't want to hear about it. And eventually, when I hit 30 or so, I reverted back to the way I used to be. I had just been hurt enough, and I couldn't take more rejection. I lapsed a couple of times between then and now, but for the most part, I keep my feelings to myself.
So I don't know if I want to risk what this inmate and I have, which is sort of small talk, banter, current events, etc. to let him know I want to go deeper. I can imagine sleepless nights, wondering if I was going to get another letter, and if that letter would be positive or negative. Is it worth the emotional strain for a relationship that is extremely limited and problematic at best? Can't I just be happy with what I have with the guy? It's not like he's going to be able to hold me in his arms at night, which is what I really want. Well, pretending feels kind of good.
In the seemingly endless search for meaningful connections, I found myself writing to an inmate a few years ago. I had read a book about him, and I felt for him, and I was just drawn to send him a letter. He responded several weeks later, then I wrote back. A couple years go by, and I hear nothing. But I keep checking the PO box, and writing occasionally.
Well, finally, earlier this year, I heard back from him and he seemed eager to kick this correspondence into high gear. We exchange a couple of letters. Then there's silence again. It's been like 4 months. And I start to speculate about why he stopped writing. Is it the same reason he cited before, laziness and procrastination? Or is it that he doesn't want to continue writing?
The trouble is, I have realized I have feelings for him. It's not an ideal thing. Where he is, he's going to be for a long time. Even if he felt the same way about me that I do about him (I can't decide whether to tell him), it's not like we could have a "life" together. They don't even allow gays conjugal visits. But the real problem I'm facing is, if I tell him that I have feelings for him, will he get upset and stop writing altogether? I mean, I'm already wondering if I'm going to hear from him again. But confessing my feelings could be the nail in the coffin.
Once upon a time, when I was young, I was always too shy to express much of anything. Fear ruled my decision-making process when it came to revealing things like crushes, etc. Then something happened to me. I started listening to Smashing Pumpkins and it seemed like all their songs were about having to seize the moment and do what you need to do, and say what needs to be said. All of a sudden I became bold in the expression of my feelings. When I was in love with a guy, I told him. Even if he was straight. Of course, the results were usually disastrous. I went through several years of being hurt, devastated even, because I insisted on being open with people who didn't want to hear about it. And eventually, when I hit 30 or so, I reverted back to the way I used to be. I had just been hurt enough, and I couldn't take more rejection. I lapsed a couple of times between then and now, but for the most part, I keep my feelings to myself.
So I don't know if I want to risk what this inmate and I have, which is sort of small talk, banter, current events, etc. to let him know I want to go deeper. I can imagine sleepless nights, wondering if I was going to get another letter, and if that letter would be positive or negative. Is it worth the emotional strain for a relationship that is extremely limited and problematic at best? Can't I just be happy with what I have with the guy? It's not like he's going to be able to hold me in his arms at night, which is what I really want. Well, pretending feels kind of good.
Monday, May 28, 2012
"Only if you're bleeding to death..."
Warning: This entry might fall into the "too much information" category for my more casual friends.
For many years now, I've struggled with an impulse control problem known as Compulsive Skin Picking. This happens when you have sensitive skin, which gets irritated easily, and then you scratch, and then it forms a scab. And then you pick the scab over and over again until it's kind of monstrous looking; it leaves a scar when it goes away. This is one of the reasons I can't have sex. (The other is I'm overweight.) I can't even wear shorts in the summer time because you just see this canvas of scabs for my legs. This disorder falls into a subcategory of OCD. There are support groups, but I've never gone to any.
About a week ago, just days before my new play, Costa Rehab was set to open, I got a pimple on my chest. I picked at it. It got worse. When it became painful, I went to the doctor (not my Primary Care Physician because he was on vacation) and he said just to use hot compresses and try to drain it. So that's what I did. My mom's friend had an old remedy that she used which involved pouring hot milk over bread and wrapping it around a cloth, and firmly pressing on the wound until it gets cold. I did this several times (I thought it would make a great song title, or photo essay, "Matt's Milky Poultice"), and also applied a topical cream recommended by the doctor.
Alas, it became time for my show to open and I was practically useless to my cast and crew because I was beside myself with pain, and I didn't have much in the way of pain meds to get through it. And we had an absolutely dismal opening weekend, with almost no one showing up, and that sort of added insult to my injury, but pain makes you care more about the injury.
But I got through opening weekend and ended up going to the emergency room today, because the thing didn't get better, it got worse. So I waited in the waiting room for over an hour. Then I waited in the exam room for over an hour, with a splitting headache on top of my burning chest abscess. Then the handsome doctor comes halfway through the door, but before even looking at me, he turns back to the hall to complete a conversation he'd been having with someone else: "They only do it if you're bleeding to death!" Then he entered and said hi, and told me what we would do.
Him and the nurses came and went several times, with huge time intervals in between. The thing got "numbed" with several little shots, then I waited some more, then the wound was dug into and prodded and squeezed like a MOFO, then I waited some more for it to be dressed by the nurse. I came away with an antibiotic and pain medication, but not the pain medication I wanted. Worst of all, I have to keep hot pressing and squeezing the bastard 3 times a day for the next couple days.
And the moral of the story is...Don't skin pick. Yeah right. Like anyone in the world knows how to stop doing the things that are bad for them!
For many years now, I've struggled with an impulse control problem known as Compulsive Skin Picking. This happens when you have sensitive skin, which gets irritated easily, and then you scratch, and then it forms a scab. And then you pick the scab over and over again until it's kind of monstrous looking; it leaves a scar when it goes away. This is one of the reasons I can't have sex. (The other is I'm overweight.) I can't even wear shorts in the summer time because you just see this canvas of scabs for my legs. This disorder falls into a subcategory of OCD. There are support groups, but I've never gone to any.
About a week ago, just days before my new play, Costa Rehab was set to open, I got a pimple on my chest. I picked at it. It got worse. When it became painful, I went to the doctor (not my Primary Care Physician because he was on vacation) and he said just to use hot compresses and try to drain it. So that's what I did. My mom's friend had an old remedy that she used which involved pouring hot milk over bread and wrapping it around a cloth, and firmly pressing on the wound until it gets cold. I did this several times (I thought it would make a great song title, or photo essay, "Matt's Milky Poultice"), and also applied a topical cream recommended by the doctor.
Alas, it became time for my show to open and I was practically useless to my cast and crew because I was beside myself with pain, and I didn't have much in the way of pain meds to get through it. And we had an absolutely dismal opening weekend, with almost no one showing up, and that sort of added insult to my injury, but pain makes you care more about the injury.
But I got through opening weekend and ended up going to the emergency room today, because the thing didn't get better, it got worse. So I waited in the waiting room for over an hour. Then I waited in the exam room for over an hour, with a splitting headache on top of my burning chest abscess. Then the handsome doctor comes halfway through the door, but before even looking at me, he turns back to the hall to complete a conversation he'd been having with someone else: "They only do it if you're bleeding to death!" Then he entered and said hi, and told me what we would do.
Him and the nurses came and went several times, with huge time intervals in between. The thing got "numbed" with several little shots, then I waited some more, then the wound was dug into and prodded and squeezed like a MOFO, then I waited some more for it to be dressed by the nurse. I came away with an antibiotic and pain medication, but not the pain medication I wanted. Worst of all, I have to keep hot pressing and squeezing the bastard 3 times a day for the next couple days.
And the moral of the story is...Don't skin pick. Yeah right. Like anyone in the world knows how to stop doing the things that are bad for them!
Wednesday, January 11, 2012
the accident blog, part 1
A few years ago I started this blog as kind of an ongoing discussion on modern Christian living. At times I have strayed from that somewhat, but I usually come back to it like the perpetual prodigal comes back to his Dad. And I make no apologies for saying that I think it's by God's grace and protection that I am here and in such good shape after what was really a very frightening and traumatic car accident.
It was a few days after Christmas, and we had some errands to run in Vancouver, as well as delivering a work load to my job site in NE Portland. My dad was driving in the red Prelude, and I was the passenger. A short ways behind us were my mother and her best friend Joy in Joy's pickup truck, as they too were headed to the Couve for the same errands we were. (The idea was to move some boxes of Joy's stuff from the garage of her uncle's house.) They started ahead of us, but somehow ended up behind; not sure how. Maybe they had to fuel up.
As we headed North on I-205, somewhere near the Killingsworth exit, it occurred to me that I'd like to text my friend Sarah to ask how she enjoyed her recent beach trip. I never got the chance to do that. As I was reaching for my cell phone (not looking out the car windows), we suddenly began to skid and swerve wildly as Dad was yelling something. My memory of all this is very sketchy. All I remember after the swerving around is that we were about to hit something, and I did have a moment to wonder how serious this was going to be, if it was going to be life-threatening. And somehow I knew we would roll, and in my perception that's just what we did, over to my side of the car, and then I blacked out.
Now here's the actual account, from my Dad and witnesses. As I was reaching for my phone, another driver apparently cut my dad off, trying to get into his lane. Dad tried to avoid hitting him, but lost control in the process. We hit the freeway's median, and actually bounced off of that, which propelled us towards the tires of a semi truck, which we did hit. Now this is where we say God was looking out for us because we could have so easily ended up underneath the semi truck instead of merely bumping into its tires. We're talking a second sooner, bouncing off that median and going under the truck probably would have killed us. And I guess we did not roll, only tilted on the two side wheels for a brief moment, according to witnesses. I think that because I had watched too much TV and movies, and I thought we would roll, that's just how I remembered it when I came to, later.
I woke up in the ambulance as they were asking my name and "Do you know where you are/what happened?" They cut off my shirt. I was pretty coherent for a moment, but then went out again. Woke up in the hospital. In the meantime my dad insisted on staying with the car because I didn't get paid unless I delivered my work to the work site, and my work was currently scattered all over the road. He did not realize that he had several small fractures himself and needed to be looked over.
When my mom and Joy passed us on the freeway, Mom did not realize it was us in trouble, but Joy had a terrible suspicion, keeping it to herself because she didn't want Mom to fall apart. Very soon after, Mom got a call from Dad and she nearly panicked on the spot, but Joy did a good job of calming her down, as they turned the car around and went back toward the accident site.
Meanwhile I was in the hospital getting scanned. I had an uncomfortable neck brace on; they were obviously worried about spinal damage. I was pretty alert at that point, and could easily answer all their questions. I should have been panicked and worried sick about my dad, and I don't know why I wasn't; I credit God with just giving me peace and helping me not to even think about that. I was informed I had a very large "goose egg" on my forehead (the size of a baseball, they would say later) and a gash. The technical word I was hearing was "hematoma", which is "a localized collection of blood outside the blood vessels,usually in liquid form within the tissue" [Wikipedia]. Scans revealed a subarachnoid hemorrhage, which is "bleeding into the subarachnoid space—the area between the arachnoid membrane and the pia mater surrounding the brain" [Wikipedia]. Also, my right arm was fairly bruised and uncomfortable. After I was scanned, they took me to the ICU, which became my home for the next day and half.
It is thought that my head injuries were caused by crashing into the passenger window, perhaps when the car was on its two side wheels, trying to roll, which would explain why I thought that it indeed did roll.
It was awhile before I saw Mom and Joy, then later my sister and brother-in-law Tim. I was informed that my brother Mark would be there the next day; he lives 2 hours away and has the sort of responsibilities (animals) that make it hard to leave on the spot. I was surprised to hear that my friends Dan and Sarah--those also happen to be the names of my closest cousins, oddly enough--came to see me and offer support, only to be told that they could not see me in the ICU. Hearing how upset and concerned they were about me really touched my heart. I thank God for letting me have such wonderful friends.
One friend who could in fact see me was our former associate Pastor Joseph, who is a wonderful friend and wonderful man who took quite a while praying for me and encouraging me. After that, he did the same to my family, including my dad. This meant so much to me, to us all.
I couldn't see my dad for quite a while because he had injuries of his own. Apparently, he was stubborn about getting checked though. Mom and Joy had to really twist his arm to get looked at by a doctor but when he finally relented, it was good because he was more banged up than he realized. But he is the kind of man who worries about everyone else first, and himself last. I am not surprised things went down that way.
During that day and the following day in ICU, I had a really wonderful nurse named Bridget who reminded me of an actress, but now I can't remember which actress she reminded me of. She was always lecturing me about food and drink choices...even though I could not have anything besides icky broth and Jello the first day. It was light-hearted ribbing, but I could tell she was really a health nut. I mean that in a good way. She actually made me think.
The one night I was in ICU, I was attended by a hot male nurse named Jason, who I don't think I instantly had a crush on (I had so many other things on my mind like trying to pee in a plastic jug while suffering from my long-term ailment of shy bladder), but in my memory, I have very warm feelings about him. Why can't there be a public nurse directory for this hospital? I want to drop him a note, maybe get a phone number as well.
I hated the thought of everyone having to leave at 10, even though I had Jason. But as it turned out I slept okay, in spite of constant interruptions to check my vital signs. The most annoying thing about being in ICU is they don't keep the privacy curtain shut unless you ask, and it's that much harder to piss in your plastic jug. The other really annoying thing was the noise. I mean, who knew hospitals were that loud? Even after they transferred me to a private room, it was still a racket in the halls outside, even in the middle of the night. I've had hospital stays before, with tonsils, kidney stones, and bleeding stomach ulcers, but I don't remember ever having such a feeling of being in a zoo.
The second day in the ICU was probably the hardest. At one point a doctor came in and smiled and shrugged, saying, "I don't know why you're in ICU", which was probably meant to make me feel better, but instead it just made me feel like I wasn't important. I felt ignored most of the time that day. And as I waited to be transferred to my private room, which took a LOT longer than any of us (me or my family or friends) had any idea, the privacy curtain was open, I kept paging for assistance and not getting any, and my bladder felt like it would explode. My family found out what room I was going to be in and waited for hours while I failed to show up. Finally, finally, finally, I was transferred, but that wait was bloody awful.
Then they transferred me to my private room and I have to say my mood got a lot better. The nurses there were really nice too but I can't remember their names. My family, including my sister-in-law Vickii, who was in town on business, showed up to greet me. They all helped me settle in and get comfortable before the night time waiting hours were finished. I got calls from my Grandpa Tom and my uncle Steve, which was great.
I had three friends come by to see me the next morning: Dan and David, roommates and friends from way back, came and stayed for like an hour. And my friend Holly who I've known since junior high came and stayed with me all day, until I was discharged. We ate hospital food together, and she bought me a bunch of stuff at the gift shop including a stuffed giraffe which I eventually named Enid.
Getting discharged turned out to be a fairly simple procedure. Dad had already been released the previous day with a cane which he has since, for the most part, not used. We thought he might get some braces for his back, but he didn't. As with him, I had to walk around the halls with a nurse to make sure I was not overly dizzy or disoriented. The pain in my head had died down quite a bit. I had passed all the mental acrobatics that they make head trauma victims do, like count back from 100 by 7s...You know, 100, 93, 86, etc...So Holly left as family arrived to take me home, and then I went home. It was New Year's Eve, and it felt so important to me to be home that night, except that I could not drink, and in fact I really did not feel like doing much at all. My original plans for that night did not come to fruition. We watched a Hugh Grant movie and had cheese fondue, a family tradition (the fondue, not Hugh Grant).
For some reason, I didn't come away with any prescriptions and over the next several days, my pain flared up quite badly. I ended up having to use ice packs. I also found out that my normal routine of sleeping flat made it worse, and so I learned to prop my head up, which is something I've never liked to do. Eventually I saw a doctor and got some pills, but there were several days of substantial discomfort. At this point now, as I write this, when I feel pain up there, I can't tell if it's just a regular headache, because there is a history of chronic headaches. And I usually take aspirin, but I can't right now in recovery because it's a blood thinner. As I write this, there is still an ugly bump on my head.
The other day, I went back to the hospital about said bump and a surgery was scheduled to drain the icky substance inside, thus getting rid of the bump. It was supposed to happen today, but there were problems with my insurance. More later as the saga continues...
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
Why it's important to answer emails...at least for me
In this age of go-go-g0, get-ahead-at-all-costs, busy-busy-busy, breakneck pace and thrill-seeking, vicariously-living video game escapism, it seems overly fussy, whiny, persnickety, and most of all pointless to ask people to pay you the respect of getting back to you when you call, email or text them. Don't I know they have a life? Don't I know they'll address whatever they think is important and ignore the rest? Don't I know that to not answer is in itself an answer, albeit a rude one?
I'm not self-righteous. I don't pretend to be kind and respectful at all times, though I generally try to be. I try to take other people's feelings into account. If I can't offer them what they want of me, I try to let them down gently. Like a sales associate who has to apologize for not carrying the latest model, I try to offer a viable alternative. "No, we can't sleep together, but we can be friends." And if that's not enough for them, I apologize, as if it's my fault. Just because I want them to feel okay. I hate it when people don't feel okay, because...I know very well what that feels like.
But I've kind of strayed from the topic here. That was an extreme example. When I was in junior high, people would come up to me and say, "Can I be your friend?" A nice thought, except that it wasn't serious. They were making fun of the fact that I had no friends, like it was the most hilarious fucking thing in the world. Since then, I always have tried to choose friends in the same way a person might choose what looks good on a menu. This has typically resulted in rejection.
Nowadays, the relationships I have seem so tenuous that I've been terrified to ask anything of anybody, afraid even to email them, cos in the back of my mind I've expected them to hit me back just to say, "Y'know, I don't really want to be friends anymore." Cos friends have left. People I thought would always stick by me have disappeared.
So when people ignore my attempts to reach out to them, I know their intention might not be rudeness or any similar thing. But it just feels like rejection to me. It feels like, "I don't like you, I don't respect you, I wish you would go away." Maybe I just need people to send me periodic reminders that I mean something to them to prevent me from feeling insecure. But that's too much to ask. I know it is.
Thursday, May 5, 2011
What I wish people knew about me
This is actually a Facebook note I thought I'd copy and put here.
Without boring everyone to tears, I'd like to say what one of the biggest struggles in my life has been, up to this point: making friends and keeping them. Now before you tune out, there is a reason I'm writing this. You see, for a long time I've suffered under the perception that in order to make friends (or hold onto them), I have to have some kind of gimmick. In other words, I didn't think people liked me just because I'm me, but only for what I could potentially offer them. So instead of asking people to coffee, I present projects to them. "Be in my show" or whatever. Now, understand, I don't invite you to "be in my show" if I don't admire your abilities in whatever area I'm asking you to be involved in. If I don't think you're a good actor, I don't ask you to act for me. But it's never just about wanting you to be involved in my project. In fact, that's really secondary.
In a similar sense, although I love the arts and am a creative person, I don't think I would do it were it not for the social component because, often times, being involved in a show has really been the only social life this shy and isolated person has known.
But it has occured to me that presenting projects to people is kind of like trying to buy friends. It's an excuse to hang out. It's a way for me to feel less lonely. Cos I guess in my gut I have not believed that if I said to most people, "let's get a drink" or "let's take in a movie", that they would say yes. The fear is I would find out that while they may think I'm okay to work with, that's the limit of their regard for me. So believing this notion, I just skipped the regular social stuff and accepted that I could only interact in a work or creative, artisitic context.
But what I just realized this very day, and what prompted me to write this note, is that you guys can't read my mind or know my motivations. So when I always come to you repeatedly saying, "Do this project", you might have the false perception that I only like you for your artistic talents and just want to use you for my own artistic or monetary gain. Like being friends with talented people somehow gets me notoriety or puts money in my pocket. Of course that is often not the truth at all. And it's not my motivation in the slightest. But if you don't know me, you might not know better than to think it.
For me it's all about relationships with people. Who do I like to spend time with? Whose talents do I admire? Who do I think might be able to appreciate something I could share, whether it be a unique artistic vision or just kind words occasionally? I'm always wanting to give, but it's amazing how people can believe you just want to take. I am disadvantaged in the sense that I don't drive. So if you are someone who gives me rides to places, after a while you might believe that I think of you only as a taxi service. Not so. If you invite me to lunch and I say, "I'm sorry but I'm broke", I am not fishing for you to offer to buy me lunch. Oh, I accept offers, to be sure, but it is with the intense hope that you realize that you can always come to me and ask for anything that you need because I value you more than you know.
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