To-kill-ya more - February 13, 2009
I have this therapist. She's really something. I'm so depressed I can't get out of bed and sleep through an appointment, and she calls me to see where I am. I don't call her back, she'll come to my house. I do something stupid, she says, "Erin, that's stupid," not "Erin you're stupid." I'm not doing what she needs me to do to make the therapy work, and she says, "Erin, I need you to help me with this," not "Erin I need you to stop being [this, that, and the other cleverly deprecating expletive]" She's very fair, and very good at what she does. She's the shit, frankly.
She keeps saying this thing to me, "Erin, how are you still alive?" And I go, "What do you mean?"
Over the few months we've been working together, I've been thinking about that. What does she mean by that? My life's not been that crazy. Has it?
Some times I think we're born into something, and it can be dysfunctional as hell, and without logic or reason, and because it is all we know, we consider it the epicenter of normalcy. We do what we have to do, initially, to survive inside of it, and that becomes a pattern of behavior that's, to put it frankly, fuckin' insane. Then we're operating out of insanity, and so that's just what we do. It's all we know. Insanity.
Here's what I do: move. Fast, impulsive, get-the-fuck-out, barreling. I barrel through life. I used to hear that from my mother a lot, "Erin, quit barreling through the living room." I have this gargantuan pelvis and a dearth of grace, and I barrel, this way and that, careening through rooms, across sidewalks, smacking my hipbones off tables, fences, poles, etc. with great abandon. If the flesh between my skin and hips hadn't been robbed off all feeling during a doozy of a fall sometime in '92, it would ache nonstop. I just blasted my right hip into a chair at the coffee shop. Everybody looked up, and there I was, bent over a chair with my hand under a half-capsized paper cup, drops of milky coffee running down my forearm. Hi everyone. I'm Erin. I barrel.
And it's not just movement. It's driving. It's running. It's drinking. It's the physical moving about the country; I just moved into my fifteenth apartment.
So what's wrong with that (?), I think. Is it something more than free-spiritedness? Surely its not.
But yeah, it is. It's wrong. It's wild, uncontrolled living. It's slow suicide. When I think of the things I've survived--alcohol poisonings, drunken falls, sober falls, starvation, crashes on bikes, crashes in cars, drug abuse, violent relationships with sociopaths and multiple suicide attempts--I wonder how it is that I've gotten this far in life--not physically, like my therapist does--but spiritually? How am I possibly intact? What kind of person seduces death like this and honest-to-God, truly, deeply BELIEVES they're just "free spirited?" How little attention have I been paying to reality?
These thoughts didn't come to me out of therapy. You would think they would, but they didn't.
It snowed in the desert last week, irrationally (I'm telling you, this place is kooky). The pines and yuccas and cacti iced over, and the pink vagina became even pinker with its coating of snow; a pastel pink, you could say. The pink of baby shower wrapping paper.
I came home to a Tarantula at my door. He was sitting on the "L" portion of my "Welcome" mat, and there was a dusting of snow on his back. He seemed to be trying to warm himself by hanging out on the other side of the sliding glass door that leads into my current, fifteenth kitchen. "Hi there, buddy," I said, like I say to any animal I see because I love animals.
He looked cold, and that made me sad. I didn't want him to be cold, and so, without first thinking of the consequences, I put my palm out and scuttled him onto it with my other hand. A giant, poisonous spider. I held him there in my palms, warming him up and cooing at him as if he were a kitten, until I kind of came-to and the reality of the situation--there is a giant, poisonous spider in your palms--became rather difficult to ignore.
I put him down again. He was fine. Didn't throw him or anything, but who does this? Who sees a giant, poisonous spider on their doorstep and says, "Oh, he must be cold; I'll pick him up?"
That's not right, and it never has been.
Posted by The Bunny at 2:09 PM
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I think a lot of people wonder how they are still alive. Personally, I've survived walking the streets of Scranton, PA at 3 years-old by myself, rollerskating down a hill towards a 50-foot drop only to stop a centimeter from falling, alcohol poisoning, drug overdose, car crashes, physically abusive men, verbally abusive relatives, and a slew of instances of being somewhere that, if found, I would be shot on site. My therapist thinks I have a God complex because I keep getting into these situations without consequence. She doesn't realize what an emotional mess I really am.
Posted by: Caitlin at February 13, 2009 04:13 PM
Hmmm...it's always the darker, destructive view when that's the side of the mind one finds themselves standing on. If you're first thought was that the little hombre was cold, even if you see suicide in retrospect, it also underscores your innate ability to offer empathy and reach out your hand. I've known many good people who struggle along the bumpy ride through the mind, and some of them are incredibly empathetic and generous. For these people, knowing you're a bit broken makes you want to help other living beings through their own challenges. As much as your pondering is self-analytical, part of your action transcended the struggle of self. Engaging in something that might be dangerous but is of helpful intent can be seen as the epitome of selflessness, and selfless suicide is typically quite revered and deemed the ultimate in honor and compassion.
Not that you don't have real issues with it all. You do. We do. There's just something important to be said for people who can feel like a shit hole and still have it in them to offer much needed help to another.
I also had the impression that tarantulas are a hollywood creation and not particularly vicious or poisonous.
Posted by: Joe at February 13, 2009 05:02 PM
That made me tear up, and I am terrified of poisonous spiders. You are such a gentle soul. I hope you find the peace you are looking for. I have been to the area where it sounds like you are, and there is something powerful there. Magnets? Whatever. It's real.
Posted by: Jess at February 13, 2009 08:28 PM
I love you Erin, or at least your writing. I don't know if it's the inherent vulnerability, the self-examination before you blindly buy into some "guru's" self-improvement plan, or just the "magical" nature of your mind, but truly; I love you--in the least creepy way possible.
Posted by: Adam at February 13, 2009 11:49 PM
How are you still alive? When probability exceeds random chance, this indicates an intervention of some sort. Divine intervention I would say. I was not religious when I was younger and I still don't think of myself as "religious" today. However, when I put together all of my random chances of narrowly avoiding death, I should be dead too. I dare say there must be some greater purpose of my life yet to fulfill, and thus, I feel the same applies to you as well. This can open all kinds of new thoughts and ideas to explore...
Posted by: ncgreg231 at February 14, 2009 05:56 AM
for years my father has said that my lust for tattoos and piercings was a form of self mutilation. I argued the point with him, telling him i just prefer to wear my art over hanging it on a wall, that my tats and piercings weren't just a fad, that I was unique in the way i express myself. Besides, how can something with an end result of beauty and intrigue be so bad? I'm not cutting myself, yanno?
Turns out he's right. I used the tattoo artist's chair, the feel of the needle pistoning in and out of my skin at a rapid speed, the flash pain of a piercing to cover up the root of my problems.
I'm not fixed, by any means, but I'm no longer as broken as I used to be.
A lot of it had to do with moving--my first big move out of my home state, my comfort zone, the soul-sucking environment I'd desperately needed to flee for years.
Like you, I am finding myself in my new place. New friends, renewed career path, new loves, new interests. Little by little I am becoming functional again. Or for the first time. I'm not sure it matters.
Taking the steps to 'fix what's broken' is huge in and of itself. Coming out on the other end fairly unscathed? That's just more reason to continue to fight.
Posted by: judi at February 14, 2009 07:22 AM
Everything about you is right. Absolutely nothing wrong. I see a lot of myself in you and it's taken me so long get a little self-acceptance. It's wonderful you picked up that spider. I probably would have done the same. Love you, Bunny.
Posted by: melissa at February 14, 2009 12:45 PM
on a lighter note from the rest of the comments, i half-expected you to make a joke about the spider covering the L in welcome to make it so it says "WE COME". as in, "there is lots of sex and masturbation at this apartment, and we come. it's what we do."
and i know this is the wrong section but way to ream that idiot a few posts down
Posted by: aaron at February 14, 2009 01:10 PM
I do, Bunny. You said "who does this" and I do, all of it, too, the wild and barrelling life, the warming up spiders, the whole thing. When I got to the end of your post, when you write "who does this" I suddenly got these completely unexpected tears in my eyes because it was like reading about the way I have felt inside, like reading about me. So what if that sounds corny and stupid, I don't give a fuck, it's true. Jesus, Erin, turns out we've got more in common than I'd imagined. We're definitely birds of a feather, that's for sure.
Posted by: Snowblood at February 15, 2009 01:01 PM
Oh. My. God. i cried reading this. I know its not very manly and whatever other horse shit people may think but you have no idea how much better I feel after reading that. You pretty much summed up my life the only thing is i don't have a large pelvis. You have no idea the oddness I felt while reading this every thing down to the abusive relationships to the constant moving. Wow just wow. Thank you for making me realize that others face this shit head on. I started therapy a while ago and it was from these exact feelings. Thank you so much I know I am rambling but, seriously thank you.
Posted by: jay at February 15, 2009 10:40 PM
You are beauty.
Posted by: Wayland at February 16, 2009 03:08 AM
I'm still relatively young and haven't had the chance to move around a lot yet. I've already transferred from one college on the west coast to another on the east coast and am considering another transfer; I am constantly itching to keep packing up and moving. This desire usually sinks in when I just settle in and people get to know me. But for some reason, I don't like being places where I can't constantly start over. The thing is, I don't have drug problems or eating disorders or excessive party habits. I care too much about every stupid little thing that I've become boring. I almost want to be in your position. You've learned from it.
I want your therapist - sounds like you've got a good one.
Posted by: CarmenSandiego at February 19, 2009 07:13 PM
It's both scary and kind of comforting when you know you've come far enough to actually contemplate how you're still alive. I think it means a good deal of progress. A lot of people never cycle out of crisis mode in the first place.
And to CarmenSandiego: do you ever get the urge to leave because you're afraid everyone else will eventually find out you're boring/a failure/a fake? That's the most sense I can make out of my wanderlust.
Today is a thinking day...
Posted by: Social ![[TypeKey Profile Page]](http://www.thebunnyblog.com/nav-commenters.gif)
at February 27, 2009 12:04 PM
'Hi everyone. I'm Erin. I barrel.'
-- i dig it...
on a somewhat serious note... just because you barrel doesn't mean it's wrong... only if you want it to be...
take anyone that's accomplished something in life only to die early from the way they lived... (feel free to insert an actual person)... does that mean their life was wrong? does it mean they weren't happy?... who fucking knows...
just don't dwell on what other people deem as wrong... hell... barreling could be right for all 'we' know...
Posted by: jtarin at March 12, 2009 12:01 PM
To Social: I think I get the urge to keep moving because I get bored, I get sick of people. And while I may be boring (I'm hoping I'm boring due to the fact that I don't really like the people I'm surrounded by and don't want to interact), I don't see how I'm a fake or a failure considering my list of accomplishments is quite long. Maybe it's just a quarter-life crisis.
Bunny, you are painfully honest. Do you hold down constant friends? I find that part of the reason I get the itch to move is because I've shared something I shouldn't have, made myself look weak or insecure or lonely. It has become increasingly hard to make and hold new friends with the fact that I usually want to be someplace else. How do you find and hold on to the ones who will be there regardless?
I like what jtarin said, that barreling doesn't necessarily have to be a bad thing.
Posted by: CarmenSandiego at March 17, 2009 02:53 AM
