Don't Stop 'Til You Get Enough

V and I spent hours on the phone last night. It harkened back to sleepovers we'd have at her house when we'd stay up all night, lights on, sprawled out on her twin bed, planning our futures, figuring out our careers, talking about history and religion and homeless people and AIDS and racism and everything under the sun. This time it was about whether we'd be okay. It is one thing to be young and have your whole life ahead of you. The sky was the limit back then. We had all of the problems of the world solved back then. We didn't have any of our own. Or at least when we'd have these marathon conversations our problems seemed miniscule compared to the big world around us and the big futures ahead of us. Things feel a little bit different to us now. Our problems no longer feel miniscule compared to the big world around us. On Sunday the four of us had brunch together at A.'s house (which turned into A. and I playing skeeball at a bar in Williamsburg until 2AM). Champagne abounded and we got suckered in to going to a football party in the neighborhood. There, we were told you can't watch football without jello shots. Ok. And as BE smoked cigarettes and mingled, the conversation between A., V., and I turned serious. I guess it was my fault. I wondered aloud whether we'd be okay. I don't even know what I meant when I said that. V. responded immediately by saying, "you guys will but I don't know about me." Let's get one thing straight here, V. is one of the strongest people I know. She came here from Brazil when we were in kindergarten. I remember her determined walk as she came in to the classroom, green eyes open wide as she was led by the hand of the ESL teacher. She learned English, she became our friend, she became a Physician Assistant. She works at NYU/Bellevue. She kicked ass in P.A. school and she got her first choice hospital and loves her job. It speaks volumes about her determination and tenacity that she knew what she wanted, fought for it and got it. That's a lot more than I can say for myself. So for her to be so doubtful about her prospects was amazing.

But what she was referring to was the whole kit-n-caboodle. The one thing that's missing. The one thing she had up until a month ago. Fig, her ex-boyfriend. She thought she was on a path and now she is facing the unknown. And now in that area she has to start over. Obviously that's easier said than done. It's hard to open yourself up to someone new when you've been hurt. It's hard to adjust to a new set of circumstances, a new routine. It sucks to miss someone and hate them at the same time. It's confusing to think of yourself as a victim when you never have. It's weird to be alone when you're used to a partner. It's easy to focus on that big, gaping hole in your life, the bullet-hole in your heart despite whatever other great stuff you have in your life. She is in the throes of it.

Two years after my life was destroyed, my wounds have healed nicely. And I feel like I have all the answers V needs about why things like this happen and how to deal with it and what helps and what doesn't help and how long it takes and how to let go of the negativity and how to let go of the responsibility you feel for it and the confusion and the anger and the sadness and hopelessness and fill up the loss and wake up every morning and get in the shower and go to work. But she has to go through it herself. It sucks. I keep telling her that she'll be okay. That as time goes on she'll gain perspective. As time goes on she'll realize that despite all the love in the world and the amazing relationship they had and her best efforts, it takes two and one wanted out. She has to accept that. That's a tough pill to swallow. We are taught that if we work hard and do our best we will succeed. Well she did that and she lost him anyway. How do you go back in there with someone new and open your heart and love like you've never been hurt knowing what she now knows; that there are no guarantees. No matter what you do for the relationship and for your partner, there are no guarantees; sometimes you lose him anyway. Relationships are fifty-fifty. You don't have full control over the entity that is your relationship. You only have control over your part. You have to take a leap of faith when you're in a relationship and trust that they feel the way they say they feel and that their whole heart is with yours. But sometimes you lose. And not because you were blind to blaring problems but because they decided to change paths and travel without you. And that hurts.

Then to the slippery slope part. Once you start seeing yourself as a failure, as a victim, as unlucky, as a loser, as not-okay, these feelings infiltrate the rest of you. It's hard to compartmentalize those feelings and leave them in that one relationship. Suddenly you feel unnattractive, you don't get joy out of your job in the same way or care that you are actually good at it. Suddenly you stop trying because you feel like it's all hopeless, your whole life. Nothing good is going to happen for you. You lost. Game over. It's a done deal.

And that is fucking tragic. It's ridiculous and tragic that we take this one thing and magnify it and make it who we are. I was published for the first time weeks after Illinois and I broke-up, a lifelong dream and I didn't care. I let Illinois be the leech sucking out any joy or pride I could feel about myself. It was easier to allow him to do that. It was hard to stand up and feel happy and excited and stare at my name and read my article over and over again and plan my next one. It was much easier to mope and cry and get drunk and eat and feel bad about myself.

I want V. to know that she will be okay. Don't fall into the traps I fell into. Compartmentalize. This does not define you. This isn't a sign about who you are and what lies ahead. This doesn't mean it's over for you. This wasn't your one chance. And you didn't fuck it up. It just didn't work out. Okay is relative. I am loving life again. If you look at my life right now maybe you wouldn't think it was that great. I am 30 years old and I don't have a fancy job or a fancy ring. But I have myself back and part of that is another leap of faith, believing that I will always be okay, no longer waiting for the other shoe to drop. And that is more meaningful than any of that other crap. When I do have the fancy job and the fancy ring it will be with the right fancy boy because I am smarter now and I am stronger now and I don't take shit or settle now. I am finally me. And V will be over here with me sooner than she thinks. It's hard to believe; I know, but a little bit of patience and acceptance and indulgence with yourself and your journey goes a long way.

What I Am

My friend ML hates when people ask him how work is. He thinks that if you are actually his friend than you should be asking about something a little more substantive a little more personal, not about what he does all day; that's just his job, it isn't who he is. My sister takes ML's position a step further and considers it a deal-breaker when people either ask her what she does or how work is. Again, she does it all day, so when she's not there, she'd like some reprieve. Additionally, it doesn't define who she is, there are other layers and levels and colors to her besides her 9-5. Being a lawyer, I agree with them. There are so many ideas people have about you once you say you are a lawyer. And I don't want to be prejudged and categorized before you get to know me. I don't believe I fit in to any of the stereotypes about what or who a lawyer is. Anyway, in my 5 year career as a lawyer, only while I was at the criminal defense firm did I even remotely feel proud of what I was doing and feel comfortable fielding questions about why I did it and what if I knew the person was guilty and how can you visit people in prison and aren't you scared of your clients etc. Before and since I have used my expertise at deflection to dissuade others from asking me follow-up questions about what I do. I don't know what to say. And I don't want to be prejudged by something that I only do for the money and not for love. I can barely bear what I do for money so for that to be the first thing you find out about me would cause a tragic misunderstanding about who you think I am.


And now it is even worse. As I try to phase out of the law towards my true love, words, what do I say. How to answer the question in a clean and neat yet honest way. When people ask, "what do you do," or, "how is work," they don't want my spiel. They want a simple answer without any of the confusion, fear and passion inherent in mine. What will they think of me when I say I want to leave the law in favor of the written word. Will they think my decision is based upon 'failure' in the law? Will they think I am not 'tough' enough to handle a career as a lawyer, that I am too 'soft?' Will they blow me off as someone completely unrealistic or lazy or worse as some kind of dilettante for wanting to become an artist when I have the skills for a 'real' career? Do I even have to say that I was a lawyer or still practice while I wait for my ship to come in? It is an important question because I write every day and I am writing not only for pleasure but in hopes of it becoming what I do for money. Writing is what I do as much as practicing law, one has my heart and the other pays my bills.


A and I were just talking about this. We met these two cute doctor dudes at a party we went to last night I thought their being doctors came up naturally in conversation (refreshing for a change) and A thought they purposely threw it in. Either way, it got us to talking about how we hate being asked. We are both in career limbo and career limbo is hard to explain and makes for weird pauses and awkward conversation shifts. I said that I hate people who talk about their career to validate themselves and how I am much more interested in the real person behind the job. She accused me of being a sore loser and said that if I was doing what I loved, I'd want to talk about it and welcome the scrutiny and wouldn't mind if people defined me by it. I wonder if she's right. Is the answer that simple?


I don't think so. I have always characterized myself as three-dimensional. This was my constant refrain in law school, to the chagrin of my father when during my last semester of finals, I trained for a marathon. There are so many ingredients to me and one or the other may be dominant depending on my mood so to drum off a quick answer like, lawyer or writer seems to leave a lot of me out. And the recipient of the answer will undoubtedly fill in those blanks with whatever sum the stereotypes based on my physical appearance and my chosen answer make.

I object.

I don't want to be defined in a word. Isn't there another question we can ask each other when we meet or meet up? Isn't there something that won't take you back to the hell of your day at work once you are out meeting friends for happy hour or something that will present the real you when you meet someone new? I want someone's essence I want to know what makes them get up in the morning and I want to know their quirks. My sister tells this story about a dinner party she had at her house when she and her friends all realized that none knew what they others did for work; they had a vague idea, they knew eachother's industries but that's about it. I think that's great I'd rather know others and be known for the little things.

No one ever wants the job of waking up V in the morning. She's bitchy and rambles on in Portuguese. AC sleeps like a dead person, on her back, hair splayed out on the pillow and doesn't move the entire night BE doesn't like sharing cigarettes. My sister thinks pizza is a snack and hates hot drinks. S laughingly lowballs herself by characterizing her interests as reality tv and giving head. There a million of these I could go on. Next time someone asks me what I do I will tell them that I am on constant pursuit for the best chimichanga in New York, I hate short stories, I love long books, Kir Royales, root vegetables, and I am a non-snoozer.

Beautifully Broken

When Illinois and I broke up I hated how people bashed him. He's not a bad person. He didn't do anything wrong. He was just being himself using the tools life taught him. Those tools did not soothe me or save me when I needed him; they weren't the right tools for me. But that is just happenstance. Clearly, he is able to give Mrs. Illinois what she needs. Unfortunately, what he had wasn't what I needed and I guess I wasn't giving him what he needed either so he bowed out. As much as it sucked for both of us and destroyed both of us for a time; what else were we to do. When people demonized him, it never made me feel better. It made me feel bad for him because he is not a bad person. He's a good person. He's just not the right person for me. That's not a reason to hate him or call him all of the bad names my camp has called him.

Truth be told, I loved Illinois. And Illinois loved me. Our whole relationship took me out of my life into this magical world we created together. It was so easy to be swept up by him. After hanging out a few times at the bar we first met we finally went on our first real date. It was at Raymond's in Williamsburg. He ordered a Polish beer and not to be outdone, I ordered one as well. We talked about disgusting injuries we had had and grossed each other out while he mixed his corn into his mashed potatoes. After dinner, we rented Ocean's 11 and went to his best friend's house(who was away) to watch it. Once we arrived there, Illinois put on Billie Holiday and poured me a glass of red wine. Talk about a, "you had me at hello," moment. We talked easily and had a lot to say to one another. After the movie, we had sex for the first time. After the sex, we were lying on the couch talking and laughing. He wanted to know my last name so he could tell his father that he met a nice girl named Briana _______. I laughed wondering aloud how long we could see each other without inadvertently learning each other's last names. Meanwhile, at the video store, I had snuck a peak at his driver's license and saw his last name. But I didn't tell him. I like the idea of us not knowing each other's last names wanted to play along. Somewhere before 5:00am, as much as I wanted to stay over, I told him I had to go home. I had to work the next day, the Wednesday before Thanksgiving, at the wine store and was scheduled to work a 12-hour shift. He drove me home as it started to snow as dawn was breaking. The entire day at work I was floating. The hours passed in a blur of running down to the basement stock room to get boxes and cases, out for coffee, ringing up sales, getting lunch, changing the register tape, wrapping bottles that were to be gifts, running down to the champagne room, calling the boys downstairs to bring up deliveries that were being picked up, and finally closing the register, sweeping the floors, locking up and walking home – still floating. My feet never touched the ground that entire day. It was beautiful.

Eating out with Illinois was an adventure. There is no one more fun to go out to eat with. Little things like ordering more than one drink with dinner took me out of my box of random rules I had created for myself or I had grown up with going out to dinner with my parents who'd have a one drink limit at a restaurant and I'd always finish my chocolate milk before the meal came and they would not let me ever get a second. Suddenly, I could get two drinks or three or four. He had also been on his own since he was 18 and had lived in New Orleans and moved to New York on his own. His independance was alluring. Despite not having gone to college or not having a traditional job or lifestyle, in a lot of ways he was more grown-up than me or my male peers.

Illinois taught me two really important things. Actually he probably taught me a lot more than that. Some of the things I don't want to remember right now. I will save them for my next relationship. But two of them are important tools for my every day life. He used to say whenever I was really upset or really happy that, "it's just life," which serves me well now. I hated hearing that then. I hated it because if I was upset about something, hearing someone say that it was just life and life is like that made me feel very unvalidated. I wanted sympathy not what felt like a brush off. When I was really excited about something I didn't want to hear it either; I wanted someone to be happy for me. But now it has a different meaning.

It is just life. When I get reactions about mine or about my style or about my blog or about choices I've made or about things that have happened to me, I want to say, It's just life. What's to react to. What's to judge. Just because I am open about mine in this blog doesn't mean that mine is the only one that's been messy. Everyone's is. They just don't own up to it. But they should remember that nothing they've felt or thought or done is good or bad; it's just life. It happens. You don't live a certain number of years with nothing happening to you, without making any choices that in restrospect may not have been your best. You don't live a certain number of years without getting hurt or without being scared or without hurting someone else. It isn't a numbers game; it's not a competition. It's just life. It isn't worth living without any of that. That's what makes us interesting and unique and smart and strong. That's what makes us all patchwork quilts. That's what makes us non-linear no matter how hard we want to stay on track, on a certain path, going forward in a certain direction. We can't help but take detours, even when we don't intend to. So I hate getting these judgements. Because there is nothing to judge. It's just life. It's just life. And mine being out there while others hide theirs doesn't make mine more real. It just makes me more honest. Their secrets, their truths still exist, whether they want to own up to them or not. Illinois taught me that. And I took that with me. It's made it easier for me to accept myself and be myself.

Illinois' other constant refrain was, "it's only money." Hearing that made me feel loved and made anything material seem unimportant; which it is. Of course it added fuel to my over-spending fire but while others agonize about student loan debt, I don't. It's just money. And we can make more. And we will make more. Money isn't everything and doesn't mean anything. Personally, I spend what I make whether I am living on the $405/week I make when I am unemployed or weeks like last week when I took home $1800 (usually it's a lot less than that). Obviously, I am always crying poor because I always am but it isn't something that keeps me up nights. I am a breathing, walking, living being and money is just paper. And life is so much more than that. I don't get pleasure from money. I get pleasure from my people, my challenges, my successes, my victories, a good night's sleep, the illusory "best" meat samosa that I can't seem to find and a million other things. Money is a concept; it's not real, you can't touch it and feel it and sleep with it and it will never make you laugh.

So demonizing Illinois doesn't work for me. He didn't do anything wrong. He just didn't want to be with me anymore. He is honest, guileless, never has an ulteriour motive and while timing might not be his strong point, the fact that he doesn't think before he confesses or unloads demonstrates how guiless and honest he is. He isn't a bad person. He just isn't the person for me. And I am not the person for him. And that's okay.

Selfish

I meant to write something about fear a long time ago. Back when BE gave me that beautiful book of that beautiful Maya Angelou poem. But I never did. I got side-tracked. I think I got good side-tracked. I think I got LG sidetracked. Either way, here it is. My intention then was to write about the three times in my life I've been afraid. Was it three? The first time being when I was raped. I don't think I had ever felt fear until then. And the fear wasn't during. The fear came after. The fear came when he was lying asleep on one side of me and Brooklyn was passed out on the other side of me; Brooklyn who I had kicked and punched to no avail, Brooklyn who didn't rescue me when I needed to be rescued. And I never need to be rescued. We were in the basement of Brooklyn's parents' house and I ran upstairs to the main floor and then I ran up further, to the second floor and got into Brooklyn's childhood bed, the bottom bunk and tried to sleep. I couldn't sleep. My heart wouldn't stop pounding. Whenever I closed my eyes I felt hot breath on my face and heard his voice and felt his body and worse, heard him coming up the stairs. I wanted Brooklyn to rescue me. I called the basement line from the upstairs phone in Brooklyn's old room saying something like, "I left; come and get me when you wake up." I didn't want to say where I was yet I wanted him to come upstairs and sleep with me, hold me, keep me safe, comfort me, tell me I was okay even though I wasn't. Eventually he did come upstairs concerned and curious as to why I was there and not downstairs with them. I just asked if he was still in the house. He was. So I didn't say anything then. I was too scared.

The second time was 9/11. I am not going to tell that story and not for the reasons you probably think.

The third time was the blind date I went on with 'Kiss-It Nick,' (you finally got a real name out of me) to separate him from all of my other Nicks, well not my Nicks but the other Nicks I know. It was a blind date set up by a girl I met in Mexico last year. She had worked with him in London and he moved to their New York office. We started out on email. He gave such great email that I called AC and S between emails to exclaim at how good his were and to assure my banterous replies were on par with his. I had never had to do that before. I was way impressed and way excited meet him in person. It was the first time I had ever gone on a blind date and been excited about it. It was the first time I had been excited in general being weeks after my grandmother died and the day after a Thanksgiving where I felt no thanks. The email was incredible foreplay. I agonized over what to wear and ultimately spent $300 on a new outfit (that I promptly returned after the date, those clothes were bad karma). Fast forward to the date. We met for drinks. I arrived early, another first as I am notoriously late. As soon as he walked in I knew I would never could never sleep with him. But I decided to have fun anyway and make the best of a situation which I knew would never go beyond that night. We drank a lot. Whenever I go out with a guy I invariably drink him drink for drink and didn't disappoint that night. We went to Bond Street for dinner and had a blast. Conversation was hilarious and he couldn't have been more fun. The food was amazing and the drinks kept coming. In the elevator going down to pick up our coats and leave Bond Street he kissed me. I let him. I figured it was the least I could do. He suggested getting some more drinks at 60 Thompson. Okay. Why not. At a certain point, I knew I needed to go home. He agreed home was a good idea. Only as soon as we got outside he wanted us to go to his home. Knowing that was not even a remote possibility despite his urgings and bragging about how great he would make me feel and what he wanted to do to me and how long he could do it for, I hailed a cab. He picked me up and put me into an alley against a wall. One hand went straight between the buttons of my coat under the waistband of my skirt under my tights and you know the rest. The other hand was keeping me against wall. Then he took his hand from under my skirt and licked his fingers. He told me how good I tasted and reiterated what he wanted to do and good he was at it. I shuddered. I couldn't move and knew that he was drunk and sharp movements and a lot of screaming wouldn't get me far. The cabbie who I prayed would exit the cab in outrage and rip Kiss-It Nick off me finally left. I eventually talked myself into freedom and we were back on the street, walking towards the Chase bank ATM on Prince Street. He said he needed money. Once we got in there, he took off his pants and told me to, "Kiss It!" Hence his name. I took my chance and made a run for it. I got in a cab and went to my sister's house. First I got in bed with her. Then I got into RC's bed; he was in Nashville for Thanksgiving. Again I wanted to feel safe. I didn't tell my sister what happened until months later. I was sick of people feeling sorry for me. I was sick of being the one that all the bad things happen to. I was happy that my sister finally could finally think that my life was turning around. So I went to RC's bed to cry and be scared and feel safe in his room in his smell around his stuff. He had scooped me up out of the apartment I shared with Illinois and taken me away to safety that fateful November night a year before. Maybe just being in his bed would make me feel safe this November night.

I am not a fearful person. I am kind of a daredevil. I run in bad neighborhoods. I dove off the high diving board before I could really swim. I snuck out of my parents' house as a teenager regularly to smoke weed at 1:00am on school nights; one time even driving around in a stolen car. Not that I am the biggest badass or anything but I don't scare easily. I am more of a 'bring it on,' kind of person. I know I know, reader I know; I have become a big cry-baby in recent months being sick and everything. It really, really cramps my style and the whole mortality thing is just mind-blowing in a bad way.

So my life has become smaller and more controlled and I have been careful and aware and safe and here I am with all of these self-imposed rules that I never had before. I realize that they are because I am once again scared. I am scared even now that I appear to be somewhat stable. I am scared that if I stop being so vigilant and careful that I will go back to where I was.

The problem is that it's a slippery slope (the lawyer terminology sneaks in sometimes; I hate it too) and being vigilant has spread to every area of my being, not just making sure I take my drugs and check in with myself regarding being hydrated or tired etc. It is sneaking in to me being vigilant with myself emotionally. I am very clear on the fact that I like my life the way it is, exactly the way it is. Sans boyfriend. And I know why. I don't want to deal with the crap that a boyfriend brings. I don't want to compromise my emotional state. I don't want to be vulnerable. I am vulnerable enough. I don't want someone to once again destroy me when I've rebuild when the new version is bigger and better and stronger than the old and I want to keep it that way. I am scared I will get swept away again. And I want my feet to remain planted.

The last night I spent with 31 was August 5, which was my last night before I knew I was sick and he never asks how I am or has acknowledged that I was/am sick. It's weird that not only am I not offended that he didn't keep up with me and want to make sure I was/am okay but I am relieved. Even if he had put himself out there just as a friend (we have been friends since I was 21), I'd have fallen in love with him. He probably sensed that and didn't want it. And I surely didn't want to fall in love on top of what was already going on in my body. It's like that Seinfeld episode when George shows up at this woman's brother's/father's/uncle's (?) funeral so he can become the boyfriend and endear himself to her and her family. That shit really works. I was thrilled when LG told me he was in love with someone else so would only be able to do something casual with me. It kept things safe. It put walls around what I could feel. It gave me no room to fall in love. Perfect. My life and my progress would not be all for naught. Victory. No risk in losing any of me to either of them. So where that leaves me is an untenable place. I want dinner and sex from a guy. I got the emotional stuff handled, friends and family take care of me; I take care of me. This is the worst kind of fear because it isn't reactionary or directly traceable to something specific. Who could rescue me from this? It's infiltrated me. I am infected. I am diseased in every way one could be diseased. Emerald city. Briana's reality show. Trazedone infused dreams. Working all nighters and not knowing what day it is. Going to the wrong agency this morning and then going to the right one and getting off on the wrong floor. Exchanging emails with three taurus boys simultaneously for a couple of hours this evening. (Taurus men are my nemesis). Being me is a full time job that I have finally mastered. Being with me is probably like working for minimum wage with no benefits. But I can do it. So why fix it if it ain't broke by bringing someone else into the mix who will surely just mess everything up?

I Fought The Law

The gig I have been working at for four months ended on Friday. It was the perfect gig for many reasons. You could work as much or as little as you wanted. You could make your own hours; you could work nights instead of days or take off weekdays in favor of weekends or work all seven days if you needed the cash. Additionally, because we contract attorneys had our own floor at the firm it got rowdy sometimes, often at night when we had every innapropriate work conversation from who we'd sleep with for a million dollars to politics and religion and sex and marriage and children. Nothing was out of bounds. Most importantly, the minimal supervision enabled me ample time to pursue my real passions, online shopping and my fledgling writing career.

So why did I have absolutely no emotion when I got the call every temp dreads on Saturday morning. You'd think I.'d be in a panic about money, about having nothing lined up, about not having paid my December rent, health insurance or student loan -- the three biggies, let alone the $345(?) I owe C, the $145 I owe BE and the $160(?) I owe A. And then I have to eat. My savings is completely depleted. I had saved almost $3000, a minor miracle (let's be serious, a major miracle) but between my vacation, the $1000 I spent on my birthday bonanza and all of the out-of-pocket medical expenses, I am broke as a joke.

But I didn't care when I got that call. I felt right. It seemed timely. I hadn't been itching to leave and would have been fine staying because it was so comfortable but I was fine going too. It could be my newfound ability to welcome bad news and unfortunate circumstances with open arms and hold it close to me like a long lost loved one. Or it may be this buoyant feeling that I have sometimes that feels like a butterfly's wings spreading and flying in my heart uplifting me from this earth to the bigger and better things I really want to be doing.

I had this feeling after I quit Legal Aid. Like something divine was going to take place and swoop me out of my mundane life. I wanted to write back then too. I started writing but but I always had one foot in the safety zone of the law. I interviewed half-heartedly while dreaming of a better more fulfilling life and really believing I would have it. Only I didn't know how or what or when it was going to manifest itself. I just knew it was. If I had had an idea of how to make it happen or what it really was I was seeking or meant to be doing, I would have done it but it is hard to fight when you're not completely sure what to fight for and only know what you don't want. Being young, and brainwashed and insecure and pressured doesn't help matters. So, I allowed Illinois to be that thing. He was sure about me and that was good enough. It was alluring and seductive to have someone tell me they I was great and they were sure about me when I wasn't sure about myself. It made life easier for me not to rack my brain when maybe he was the divine change that I had been anticipating. So he swept me completely off my feet and saved me from discovering that it wasn't my time yet. He both obscured my dreams and clarified them. He took me away from myself and enabled me to fuse back together and find myself in a place of awareness, confidence and determination that I never would have had but for him.

I allowed him to do what I allowed every full time legal job to do. They wanted me and I didn..'t know if I wanted them or not but panic and fear is a bitch and what if I don't get an opportunity like this again and everyone is telling me I should take this so I probably should. The end result is that I broke two two-year committments with full time jobs I had that I took more for safety and security than love and passion. The only committment I made without reservation was my committment to work at the criminal defense firm. I never would have been motivated to follow that dream and achieve that goal if I hadn't been losing Illinois and trying to carve out a new existence for myself. And as a criminal defense lawyer, I was finally able to do all of the writing that I had dreamed about and was finally stimulated by my work. Then there was all of the stuff I hadn't anticipated that made the job completely intolerable, like how I was treated. That became a vicious cycle because I internalized it and believed it and was in a constant state of panic because I was the scapegoat whenever anything went wrong and when things went well, I received no credit despite the fact that I had found the seminal case and written the winning motion.

So what's my point. My point is that maybe it is finally time. Maybe it's like when you have nothing; no safety net left, no distraction of a boyfriend / boy that adores you, no employer coveting you with benefits and paid vacation; you actually have to put yourself out there and find your secret reserve tank filled with what makes you happiest, your secret dream tank and use that to drive your car.

With this all in mind, I am slowly coming out of the closet as a writer. I am starting to say out loud that I want to phase out of the law. I am starting give people my blog site and implore then to read it and give me criticism and suggestion. I am starting to make my dream come true, even if it never gets beyond this blog, at least I will know I took steps in the direction I have always been scared to go. I am starting to fight for myself. I am starting to fight for what I want instead of consistently getting sucked in to what I don't want just because it appears safe and smart and appears to want me (another illusion because if any of these boys or employers really knew me, they wouldn't want me; they'd see how wrong I am for the job). I want myself now and don't need the validation anymore because I finally understand that my dreams and goals are important and aren't going to just happen on their own while I am working at some job I hate. I also know that there is no easy way out and allowing myself to get sucked into a relationship or a permanent job for the wrong reasons once again would be a mistake. I have no temptation right now to test my newfound focus. There is no cute brown eyed boy swooning after me, waiting in the wings to sweep me off my feet (although when I got my tarot cards read at that open bar thing the other night I was told that love is all around me, I am just not aware of it) and no high-paying mindless job eagerly recruiting me. So until then, I will travel along using my dream tank to fuel me on my journey.

So the answer to why I had no emotion when I left the last gig is because I finally have some faith in myself. And maybe I've finally learned that no one can make this dream come true but me. There is no other answer, no other way; and I know that nothing else will make me happy; nothing else will make me free. Unfortunately, I am not one of those people who just needs a 9-5 and a hot meal to be happy. Or a movie every Friday night. I wish I was that easy. Instead I must create the divine out of the mundane.

Dear Momma

Did I ever want to marry Illinois? No. He had commitment issues. He had authority issues. He had family issues. He didn't know how to love. He didn't know how to listen. He was scared of his feelings. He didn't know how to cope. He couldn't see a good opportunity if it hit him in the face. And now none of that is my problem. I no longer have to worry about being pregnant and working my ass off somewhere I don't even like with the knowledge that my boyfriend, rather, my fianc é is at home playing video games or out playing golf when he should be playing house. Meanwhile, he is the one that put the relationship on the fast track. It wasn't my idea for us to move in together. And I didn't ask myself to marry him. Then he decided he didn't want something that serious anymore. He is entitled but his timing couldn't have been worse. I had just lost two babies, twins, weeks before and it was the Tuesday of my second week back at work. It wasn't like I had wanted things to get 'that serious.' But there we were, in a very scary serious place. And he had the ability to leave. Since it was my body that made everything 'that serious,' that meant leaving me.

With the first baby, I was at work. It was a Monday morning in October, a few weeks after my 28th birthday. I went to the bathroom and noticed that there was blood everywhere. I called my OB/GYN. She told me to get the emergency room STAT. I obliged. There was no need. I wasn't seen by a doctor until seven hours later. I called my mom, my dad and my sister while rushing to the hospital to see if someone could meet me there (my brother was upstate at school). No one was available. And then I waited. And I waited. And I waited. Eventually, my mom called me back and she rushed over.

Finally I was put in one of the few single rooms connected to the emergency room. My legs were in stirrups and there was a steady flow of various medical professionals exiting and entering the room. An administrative type came in to get my pedigree, a phlebotomist attached an IV and make an extra port, the on staff doctor checked me to assure that I was stable, and eventually an ob/gyn visited to check on the pregnancy.

An hour or so later, I was wheeled up to the maternity ward for a sonogram. That was where the already scary, untenable position I was in reached new levels of horror. I am strapped into a bed in a dark room. I am barely covered. I am shivering. I am scared. My legs are in stirrups. My belly is bare. The doctor comes in and rubs K-Y jelly on my stomach. Then he inserts the device into me and moves it around. I am sore because more hands and tools than I care to recall have already been up there checking for irregularities. The doctor won't make eye contact with me while he looks at the screen above me to my right. The screen facing me is off. I start to cry. Why is my screen turned off? I ask the doctor to turn it on. He is looking at his so intently. I want to see what he sees. I need to know what is going on. He ignores me. My cries get louder. I implore him to turn my TV on. He tells me my TV is broken. I call him a liar. Does he not understand how much I need to see. He stares at his screen with wonder. What is he looking at? What does he see? What is going on? He tells me I am pregnant with twins. I am happy and shocked and I exhale and a tear rolls out of my eye. What a beautiful miracle. Then he tells me that one has no heartbeat and he is not sure about the other one but he is not optimistic. Is this what they call bedside manner these days?

I am inconsolable.

I get out of the bed and ask for my clothes and put them back on in the hallway because I don't want to be in the cold, dark room with the broken TV and the bad news. I get dressed while medical professionals rush by me. They don't see me and I don't see them. I am in my own world; my own nightmare. They don't notice me until I try to leave the area. They say I need to be wheeled down the way I was taken up. I don't know why the need to obey protocol now. My body has stopped doing what it is supposed to do. What would being wheeled downstairs in a wheelchair protect. The damage is done. It's too late. My heart is broken but that is not a health risk. I have already lost a baby. Can I go find my mother? No one is coming for me and all I want is to see my mother and get out of the hospital. I ask if I can leave on my own. They tell me I cannot and call again for someone to wheel me down.

Could anything be worse than being in the semi-darkness after getting dressed in front of various medical professionals rushing back and forth past me seemingly not seeing me after being teased and tortured by the doctor after spending almost 12 hours in the hospital after getting the most awful news imaginable knowing my mother is downstairs and doesn't know any of this and I need to see her. I have been working so hard. Doesn't that mean anything? I don't deserve this. I have been working so hard. I spent the summer working until after 11:00pm most nights. I spent the summer working until after 11:00pm most nights on crutches after my knee injury. I spent the summer working until after 11:00pm most nights knowing my boyfriend was watching television all day. I spent the summer working until after 11:00pm most nights missing my boyfriend and my friends and my family. I have spent my pregnancy being so tired. I have spent my pregnancy wishing things could have been different. I have spent my pregnancy wishing my boyfriend would help me. I have spent my pregnancy wishing the pressure to make money and carry this child/children didn't rest completely on me.

I don't understand.

Finally I am picked up from the maternity ward I am and wheeled back down to the emergency room. There I must wait more - this time to be formally discharged. I must be seen by another doctor and fill out more paperwork. I am on a bed with wheels among other beds with wheels in shock crying feeling the loss of twins, an honor I wasn't even aware I had been entrusted with until that moment. I am feeling the loss of a baby that I had only known about for two months. How did two months change my life so much? Should I have hope that the second one might live? Should I give up? The doctor told me not to keep my hopes up. But how can I just give up? I want it so badly. I have never wanted anything so much. I cry. I am in shock and I cry.

Suddenly I see the double doors barrel open. A small, determined figure makes her way through the crowded ER, eyes darting left and right, looking. Her eyes lock on to mine. She sees me from across the room. It is my mother. Her brown eyes send me a beacon of strength because I know she understands. She is the first person I have seen here all day who understands and acknowledges the horror of the situation. And all it takes is for her to look at me. Her eyes say everything I need to hear. As she gets closer my cries get louder. I don't want to say what I have to say. I don't know if I can say what I have to say. She comes over to me and sits on my bed and I look at her and I cry, "I lost it." She starts to cry too. I still need to get discharged. We can't leave yet. All I want is to leave the emergency room and the hospital with my mom and turn back the clock. I want to go back to her house with her and be a kid again so she can tell me that everything is going to be alright. So I will actually believe her. But she can't. And I can't. This will never go away. These memories will haunt me forever. And whenever I think of this day I will cry. And I will think of it often, if not every day. People tell me things happen for a reason. I look for the silver lining. There isn't one. I bemoan my own body for failing to do the one thing it was made to do. I have to decide that this was a dress rehearsal. Now I know what I want. And I will know it when I see it. This guy wasn't for me. His kids weren't for me. My babies and my Mr. Right are out there somewhere waiting for me. All I have to do is find them.

Thank you for rescuing me that day. Happy 60th Birthday.

Green Eyes

Lately every time I go to yoga there is a first timer. The instructor gives the spiel about Bikram, "your main goal is to stay in the room for the full 90 minutes, don't compare yourself to the people in the front row, they've been doing this for a long time, find a spot where you can see yourself in the mirror and look into your own eyes, etc." and then they usually regale the newbie with an anecdote about their first class. Tricia, the owner of Bikram Yoga Lower East Side says, "I learned immediately, no pants and no mascara." I have heard others say that they couldn't touch their toes the first time. Or that they spent most of the class lying on the mat or that they were in love immediately after that first class.

None of these stories resonate with me at all. I realized why yesterday when I was in yoga listening to the spiel. When I took my first class it was at the urging of my sister. She had been 'urging' me for awhile and I had a million reasons why I didn't want to do it. The heat. I faint easily. I get dizzy. I get light-headed. Yoga isn't real exercise. 90 minutes is a long time to do anything. The heat will make my muscles so loose I will injure myself and be unable to really exercize, i.e., run. But I finally went. I went because I was sick of my life and all of the stale ingredients I had been subsisting on. I needed a new splash of flavor. My sister instructed me to wear as little as possible. I wore a baggy t-shirt and running shorts. I was in the third row on the right side of the room one person away from the heater.

Yes it was hard. Yes I couldn't do all of the postures the way the people in the front row were. Yes I was overdressed. Yes it was hot. No I didn't sit out for any postures. Yes I couldn't wait for it to be over. But what struck me the most about my first time, what framed my class for me was nothing to do with the intracacies or nuances of Bikram yoga; it was staring at myself in the mirror for 90 minutes. I had never done that before. I was living in an apartment without a full length mirror. In fact, I've never had one before. And in March when I was hating life and felt stagnant and felt like I was out of breath running uphill in the rain, fog so thick, I couldn't see the top of the mountain and had stopped believing the mountain did have a top, to see myself in the mirror was scary. I kept taking peeks and would wince every time. I hated what I saw and couldn't reconcile it with pictures of myself from law school or a year or so before when I was happy and smiling and positive; seeing myself was devastating. It is impossible suppress unhappiness and stagnancy and disappointment while staring yourself down in the mirror.

So I walked out of my first Bikram yoga class not feeling love or hate for Bikram yoga. I walked out feeling like, whoa, that was too intense for me. I need to go back to the safety of denial where I eat, drink and smoke away my feelings because my life sucks and there is nothing I can do to change it because I have been trying so hard and everything I do is wrong yada yada yada yada.

I remember thinking, "[w]hen did I get to this annoying bitter ungreatful place? I am sick of myself. I can only wonder how others must feel. How much attention / recognition do I need? So I didn't get the OC. So at work they don't fawn over me and tell me how great I am all the time. So I'm not skinny. So I can't save money. So my student loan is back in forebearance and I can't seem to motivate to find a place to live. Why do I need so much to be happy? Why isn't this enough? Is it really so different than what everyone else has? But everyone else makes it look so easy and it isn't easy for me. It isn't easy to watch these skinny girls waltzing into yoga with all the time in the world while I arrive but for the grace of God because I left no time and it takes me until the last savasana to get close to where they are when they arrive. Have I ever been like this before? Have I ever been so unhappy with myself and my life? I've never given it much thought and you know why? I always believed that things would work themselves out and would be alright. I don't believe anymore. I feel like it is what it is and I have to be the catalyst for my own change in my own life except all the yoga in the world won't do that. Nor will all the writing or eating or drinking or OC stalking or talking about or altering grandma's clothes to not dropping one ball during all of the juggling I do at work which I get no credit for and I still don't have an apartment to move into. Talk about feeling doors slamming in my face and no possibility and no access to reality and the outside world; that's what I feel like. I am sick of making excuses for why things don't work out and patting myself on the back half-heartedly because someone should be. Why can't someone else do it? Why couldn't the OC like me or take a risk for me? Why can't I seem to make any impact in life. No matter what I do, nothing changes. Nothing changes. Life stays exactly the same. I do yoga instead of run. I write at night instead of binge-eat / drink and watch television. I am in the city instead of Brooklyn. But I feel exactly the same. I am running in place. I feel like a spectator instead of a player. I am writing about what others are doing. It isn't me. I used to be in the moment. I used to be a player. I used to be a contender. Now I am an invisible observer to others' lives. I don't know how to live mine. K said I take the lion's share of blame for everything that goes wrong. She asked me why I don't blame her for any of these feelings. It's not her fault. It would feel like I was copping out to blame her for this. She's doing her best and she has effected a lot of change but there are certain fundamental aspects of me that seem beyond change. It's like this experience has turned me into this closed person who will never take any kind of risk again and I will just live in my head because it's so much safer. It is. But there is no reward there. There is no recognition there. So what do I have to do? I don't even know how. I am so pissed at V and BE for not coming to the farewell party at Grandma's apartment; I needed them. I do my best not to feel and then I still have the ability to get hurt. I have lost all ability to open myself up in moving on. This new world was was cool when it was Emerald City but it's not Emerald City anymore. It's old York."

But looking in the mirror enabled me to make some changes and face who I was and what I wanted. I told the OC how I felt because I didn't want to risk miscommunication. I had never made my feelings important before. I have never even allowed myself to know my feelings before. As much as I always want the guy first, it's a predator type thing. I notice him and I want to get him to notice me and like me. But more to win at a game or to assure myself that I still have it, whatever it is. I never actually like the other person as a person, they are more like a well wrapped present. I never have any clue what is inside. With the OC I believed I did. No one supported my decision to just tell him I feel. That surprised me. People do so many crazy things for love. People kill for love, people move across the world for love, people give up inheritances for love, yet my plan seemed to shock people. They couldn't understand it. You are just going to tell him? Just like that? How are you going to do it? What are you going to say? How sure of an affirmative response are you? That's it? You should wait. Once I pled my case, I got a few takers. I have played enough games. I have eased my way in so slowly and seemingly effortlessly that I have become an indispensable friend to get a guy. I have made myself appeared desired by many other guys to peak a guy's interest. I have staged run-ins based on a careful recollection of his schedule so he sees me when he is unguarded and I am unexpected so make it feel like fate. I don't want to play anymore. Obviously I always like the guy I am angling for but there is always sport involved for me. Can I pull this off. I love a good challenge. It makes me feel like I have the upper hand once we become involved. I want none of that this time. I don't want to trick someone into liking me. I know it sounds incredibly corny, but I wanted to know that he liked me for me, not for who I pretended to be. I wanted the foundation of this one to be honesty instead of trickery. And being the daredevil I am, never shying away from a good challenge, the challenge became true honesty. His reaction wasn't my issue.

Facing that challenge was a victory that enabled me to look at myself in the mirror and see a contender; see someone who goes after what she wants and doesn't wait around whining the whole time for it to just come to her, just because she's Briana. More women should be so honest. More women should not wait for a Tuesday call for a Friday night or feign stupidity or ignorance or disinterest. Where does that get you? And why put all that work into someone you aren't allowed to be yourself around because if you were yourself, he might not like you because you are too real, too intense, too alive, too intimidating because you have passion and intelligence and might be more self possessed than he is and you know, you can't have that. But as a result of that game, you never get to really know this guy because you never get to see how he actually responds to the real you. And why are you fighting so hard for someone you don't know and may actually not even like. So there you have it. Women should not follow the rules. Women should not approach dating like they are learning to drive a car or put together a bookshelf. There are not instructions. Use your own judgment. Ask your friends' advice. But only take their advice if it feels right. Trust yourself. Trust your instinct. Don't play games. You will never win because the concept of playing a game in love means that you are not being your real self so any wins or losses have nothing to do with who you really are so by definition they do not count. Don't count them when counting your score.

That's how I am trying to live my life now. And I don't just mean in the love department. I actually check my bank balance instead of hoping for the best when writing my rent check that it won't bounce and I weigh myself too. Most importantly, I am always in the front row in yoga staring these green eyes down.

It's The End of the World as We Know It (And I Feel Fine)

I am in the acceptance phase.

I think I am at least. We'll see. Still some trepidation around getting used to feeling okay and getting comfortable here but despite all that I am starting to.

I don't know how much of of this is me and how much is my body and the drugs doing their thing. I felt myself getting the beginnings of a sore throat on Tuesday night. I went home. I downed some OJ. I took probiotics for my intestinal health. I closed my windows, threw on some sweats, went to bed and hoped for the best. Wednesday morning I had planned on going spinning. I didn't. Instead I slept until I woke up, took a long hot shower and dressed warmly. I came to work armed with peppermint tea bags and Classic India Spice tea bags and drank a ton of grapefruit juice. I brought my yoga stuff but made myself promise that I wouldn't go unless I felt positively normal. Ultimately, I didn't go to yoga; I was a good girl. I ended up at home at a reasonable hour last night and again went straight to bed. Today I feel normal. I made it go away.

Being on chemotherapy means my immune system is compromised. So I have to be vigilant. Whenever I feel the stirrings of anything abnormal I must act immediately or I will end up miserable or worse, back in the emergency room - double miserable. That is my new life. I managed to fight off whatever started growing inside me on Tuesday. I won this time. Thus the acceptance. I will accept it if I can master it. I don't expect to ever fully be able to control it but if I can get the basic rules down I will be fine.

The rules are pretty simple. I have been hearing them for years from my father. I just never bothered to heed them before. I thought I was tougher, stronger and smarter than the rules. The rules are "pay attention" and "don't burn the candle on both ends." My lifestyle up until now was in direct opposition to those rules. As much as I was constructive and did some positive things in my life, I always managed to overload my life with more than my father thought was necessary. Was it necessary to have two boyfriends, train for a marathon and study for finals while maintaining a bustling social life? Probably not. And that was when it wasn't about my health. That was when it was merely about me securing a future. Now the stakes are higher. Poetic justice is a bitch isn't it.

But I am realizing that there is room for me to carve out a normal Briana-like existence in this new world. I just came back from an open bar at Lord & Taylor (where the BOSE headphones / get drunk caper just got pulled off with crazy finesse) where I had two vodka tonics, three martinis and a glass of champagne. I am bombed. I am not supposed to drink. And I am at work! Even more Briana-like. It feels pretty fucking good. I can still do this. I can still be me. Sometimes. Sometimes I can still be me. I just need to keep a careful watch on this health of mine and keep my eyes wide open all the time. Sorry I couldn't resist. But that's not so bad. So I have to leave early sometimes. So I can't always do what I say I'm going to do. So food doesn't have the same cache as it used to. So what. I can do this. I can. I can be me and I can be here on this island with this new language and follow these new rules. It's all about acceptance; not surrender. I am not giving up. I still hope every day that I am going to wake up and I am going to be in remission forever and that life is going to be back to what it was when I could stay out all night and run 20 miles the next day but I realize that I am 30-years old now and probably couldn't do that anyway. It's okay. I can definitely accept that.

The funniest mantra of my father's was when he'd tell me over and over again that the secret to success and prosperity was to be the 'long distance runner.' And look what I did; I became a long distance runner. Go figure.