I Just Know I'm Impossible

I am other-less. Utterly. Other-less. Significant or not. No others. None at all.

And it has been that way for years. Years. I sound so old. I feel so old. My life is so old.

I can't find a way to reach people. To make them think that I'm worth reaching for, or more likely, to make them think that I'm worth catching. Worth waiting around for. Worth calling up at night. Worth spending emotional capital on. Worth being in a room with. Worth being with.

And on the one hand I find this surprising. I really am telling the truth when I say I'm brilliant and witty and funny and charming. I really am telling the truth when I say I'm likable, noticeable, unique and strange. I really am telling the truth when I say there are things about me that seem so innately special that someone, somewhere would want them. Really. I don't think I'm wrong about that.

Of course on the other hand, this isn't surprising at all. I really am telling the truth when I say I'm sick and terrible and depressing and sad. I really am telling the truth when I say I'm ugly, dark, twisted and hopeless. I really am telling the truth when I say that there are things about me that are so dark and so broken that everyone, everywhere is absolutely terrified of them. Really, I don't think I'm wrong about that either.

But I look around me, at the myriad of types of people, and I think to myself, how is it possible that all these people, all these types, all these flaws, all these sparks, have managed to find someone to love them? How can all of them done this thing that I find impossible? How can I really be that different? How can I really be that wrong?

I don't know. I have thoughts on the matter, but in the end, I don't know.

Part of me understands that I'm not right for relationships, that I'm not right for people, that I'm just not part of that club. And that's OK. Part of me thinks. Part of me might think.

But I miss the contact. I miss feeling like someone cared. I miss the smell of someone else in my bed. I miss their skin. I miss their lips. I miss their tongue. I miss someone wanting to hug me when they see me. A real hug. That vibrates a little. Not the perfunctory kind. The kind with the words "supposed to" hung in the air around them.

I ache. My chest aches. My soul aches waiting for someone to understand this with me.

But it is so far from here to there. Such a jagged and rocky path with impassible obstacles. Impossible to find without a map and a compass and a guide and a llama.

So the place is too far. Or I'm not worth going there for. Or people don't even know it exists. Or they get eaten by bears on the way. Or llamas are too scarce. I don't know. I just know I'm alone. I just know I'm lonely. I just know I'm tired. I just know that I'm devastated thinking about a life where no one inspires me to write poetry.

Back

Huzah, I have returned.

I apologize for the unscheduled silence but much has been happening in this tiny burble of mine and it has prevented me from doing much word creation. Much of anything at all, it so blatantly seems.

If you haven't kept up, or if I haven't gotten around to saying it yet, I rather got kicked out of my country. Or I suppose, more properly, I rather got kicked out of your country. They didn't actually escort me to the border they simply escorted me out the next time I tried to enter. Polite, really, considering some of their other options.

This would have only been a big deal, and not enormous had it not been for the fact that everything I owned, including my two cats was in the country. The border guards didn't seem to care about this and assumed I had friends that would take care of the situation. I tried to explain to them that I was a bitch, and had no friends, but they were unmoved, I suspect being very acquainted with bitches themselves.

So I ended up in hell which looked strikingly like my mother's guest room, Murphy beds being a sure sign of the horned one. I tried to get work and I tried to get back and I tried to talk to anyone who I even remotely thought could help me to no avail. Nope. Locked out. Knuckles firmly wrapped. Move along; nothing to see here.

[FYI: if you ever do find yourself reject from the US, there are actually steps you can take, but it's a bit more complicated if you're a Canadian because you never really apply for a visa in the first place, which means they didn't reject it, which means you can't object to their rejection. This point seems to confuse people at consulates, borders, and immigration.]

In the end the border official told me I had to be out of the country for six months before I could return and arguing that point would take longer than six months, so really, it was time to move along.

So I tried to figure out what I was going to do with myself, if I wasn't going to work where I used to live. I tried getting work but this economy isn't the best for that sort of thing and negotiations broke down with the one offer I did have. This was simply due to unprofessionalism on the part of the prospective employer which really only solidified why I shouldn't be working there.

So someone suggested, rather vehemently, school. And after trying to get into several programs for January I landed on taking some first-year writing courses at a local college. (And by local, I mean moving back to where I used to live in Canada, did I mention that?) And getting student loans. And generally dropping out of IT for a while.

And being a writer.

Being a writer. I have wanted to "be a writer" for years. I have been told that I am a writer. I write things. Lots of things. Lots of the time. Big things. Little things. Things. Written. Lots.

But naturally I rejected that moniker having never studied writing or literature nor having a job in that field. But I think I'm ready at this point to take it on. Writer. I am one who writes. And love it.

This means having to sell my work and that's going to be painful and slow but I'm going to work at it and see my name somewhere in print, or online, or at the very least on a button. I'll do technical writing and humorous writing and educational writing and pretty much any other kind of writing that will pay the bills while I shop my novel from place to place. And grow and become an even better writer. It really does sound like a dream.

But I've spent the last three weeks running around like a rudderless bunny (all bunnies being rudderless and running very fast in all directions) getting into school, getting an apartment, setting up services, working on a contract, and getting my things from another country.

And now it's time to breathe. I'm in a new home, with the same cats, and the boxes are starting to disappear a little at a time. And civilization known as the internet and cable TV have finally made it to my door. It's amazing how many things I read and look up in a day that I completely take for granted in an always-on, always-there world. Information junkies need their junk. I need my facts. I'm hungry without them.

So basically I'm back. I can't seem to find the graphomania of the bad-ol-days, but I am going to write every day whether it's here or not. And just see how it goes. To have a business card. That says "Writer" on it.

Bailey's: Bringing countries together

Since being disallowed entry to the country where I was living, things haven’t been going terribly well for me, and hence the lack of verbiage. It’s not so much that I didn’t want to write as much as I was either too busy being on hold with “customer service” or I simply had no brain space left with which to write. Writing takes up space. In your head and on your laptop. And lately, I just haven’t had any to give.

And really, it’s just bad thing after bad thing to write about anyway. There’s my brother’s birthday lunch where he had to leave, with our recovering alcoholic father twice to get high, the arguments with the mother, and how I don’t know how I’m going to pay rent next month. Nothing very cheery, really. Nothing I want to linger over, really. Nothing I think that even makes up good writing, really.

It has been a series of failures for me as of late. Laid off. Kicked out of country. Job offer pulled at the last minute. Can’t get into an MBA program. Can’t get into any writing courses at the university. The dishwasher in my new apartment looks like it was designed by dinosaurs, that sort of thing. Nothing that “creates a positive, fulfilling personal narrative” as one of my friends would say.

But today, after much paperwork, and an hour of discussion, I managed to wrangle my way into the country for 7 days to pack my things, and I cannot tell you how grateful I feel. I’ve been waiting for something good to happen, and this is it. Getting let back in to pack. That’s the good thing. That’s what I’ve been waiting for.

Most people wouldn’t be too excited to pack up their apartment. Most people wouldn’t be too thankful to be on a cold, dark three-hour ferry ride. But I am not most people. Putting my own things into boxes is pretty much the best gift I could get at this point in the day.

There is still too much to do. Still too many people to talk to. But at least I’ll get to do it myself. And for this I am entirely grateful.

See, I am a very private person. Very, very private. I don’t like people in my space. And I don’t like people touching my things. I don’t like landlords popping by. I don’t like people being nosy. This is mine, and you can’t see it, and you can’t have it.

But this is oddly very different than writing about a life. Writing about my life. However small. However bleak. When I write about what’s in all the cracks and crevices, it’s OK for all to see. Maybe because I get the choice of how to present it. Probably because I get the choice of how to present it. And I only shine a light in some of the corners in the dark. Some of the things you don’t know. Some of the things you’ll never know.

And so the idea of someone, even someone I love, going through everything I own, just makes me sick. I don’t want people to know how messy and discombobulated I am. That’s my little secret. That fact is not for public consumption. Or even single-person consumption. It’s a just-for-me secret. Like wearing a Superman costume under my clothes. But of course it’s more like a SuperMessyMan costume. If there were such a thing. Which there wouldn’t be because Supermessyman wouldn’t be able to find it under the pile of clothes on his bedroom floor.

But I got lucky, the US border guard was reasonable, and when presented with lots of supporting documentation he agreed to let me into the country for 7 days. This might be the first time in the history of the world anyone has said this: thank-you US border guards.

And so now I drinking coco and Bailey’s and eagerly awaiting arrival in my ex-resident city and my ex-resident apartment. And the coco and Bailey’s is helping me to forget how cold it is in here. And helping me to ignore the enormous packing job I have ahead of me. And helping me just to smile at this little success, which I hope will be in a series of other successes.

Ah Bailey’s, is there nothing you cannot do?