Let me tell you what you feel like when you know you are ready to die. In fact, you feel like a burden to those around you. The funny text messages get no reply other than a playful one liner with a follow up, “Some of us here are at work.” It’s a smack across the face and has less effect than a terse reply. This, is why they amuse me or I them with my humor. Either way.

When you’re upset and borderline depressed, you sleep a lot. And when you wake up, the very first thought in your head is that you want to go back to bed. I slid through the last several months, not having to be anywhere, do anything, my job was to just be. The dark days were the worst. Waking up, I’d walk to my fridge, hope to will myself to go for a run, log on to the computer, do something productive. The starched light of the fridge hit me each morning like a storm cloud as I eyed the bottle of wine and retracted the creamer. Nine times out of ten I chose the coffee because I knew I had the option to choose wine. And that just means trouble. Mel Gibson trouble.

I went entire days without eating, dwindled down to 113 pounds and allowed food to become a commodity that kept me here.

I read the same page of verse a hundred times before realizing an hour had passed.

I rewound my life like a videocassette and saw things that made me weep, slices that make you pause, nothing that makes you want to play it forward.

I forgot to comb my hair and used the excuse, “I don’t want to go because I will have to shower.” As gross as that reply is, I used it more than once. Ask Agnes, Aparna, or Manfred, my favorite attorney’s, they won’t lie.

And then one day, when you make the decision you have enough energy to do this one, last monumental thing, there comes a peace. Suddenly you have a secret that makes you smile, that makes people say you look wonderful, although you feel like a shell – brittle and capable of cracking into a million pieces.

I remember that feeling, like I would break. Feeling lost and knowing I was looking for something unable to remember what it was. It’s like being drunk without with the fun. Pitiful really.

In short, I had set up shop in this mood. You, of all people should understand wanting to give up, when the ache is too great. When you miss your former self and the life you once knew…and the people in it. When you begin to Miss the past. Terribly. But instead, I feel myself fighting furiously, grasping for breath to succeed in the spaces I once failed.

This morning, I woke on the couch. My dinner had not set well in my stomach and I fell asleep with the television on. A perky brunette was stating with a smile, “convenience store robbery. As the robber was leaving the store he shot the man behind the counter three times in the head with his gun. The store clerk was pronounced dead at the scene. The robber is still on the loose. If you have any information about this incident, please call Crime Stoppers at. 713 – Blah – Blah.”

Click.

My friend’s Father died like that. A gun shot to the head. Actually…Christ…I have two friends whose Father’s died that way. Both, unrelated. And both victims of ruthless crimes.

They say there are moments that open up your life like a walnut cracked and change your point of view so that you never look at things the same way again. Before the answer forms in my head I realized it’s something I’ve always known, but never really understood. That’s when I realized, I’m alive. I was already dreading the day after waking up to a terse scene and because I have to be somewhere and I didn’t “feel like” being anywhere.

Then, my sister called.

At 7:40 am I walked down stairs and said to Ali, “I have no idea how I woke up with a bottle of Tabasco sauce in my purse.”

Then, I laughed, because I could

I thought it would be hard to convince her. I gathered up all my responses in an artillery force ready to aim. My premeditated ammunition was …well. Pointless.

Wednesday afternoon while I was tired at my desk

J:“I’m doing the Chicago Marathon in the fall. Will you do it with me?”
C: “I can’t do Chicago. Can we do one closer to here?” (Jersey)
J: “Let me look tonight and see when Philly, NYC, and the Baltimore ones are.”

Thursday Morning on my drive to work

C: “Hi, did you find out when they are?”
J: “Baltimore is October 10th, New York is the beginning of November and Philly is November 19th.”
C: “New York would allow time to train.”
J: “I have no desire to do New York. You are corralled in the freezing cold for hours before you run then you don’t start until 10 or eleven.”
C: “That’s why people say they’ve done it once. How’s the job going now that you’ve been there two weeks.”
J: “There is so much to learn. I’ve been waking up and going to bed with a headache. It’s college biochem all over again.”
C: “Well at least it’s Friday.”
J: “ Car, it’s Thursday.”

Enter screaming kid in the background,

C: “See how they all run together.”

Snort.

She was doing that thing we always do. Playing with words and turning them around to amuse ourselves. In one short sentence she summed up our conversation. The kids she was probably glaring at, our discussion of running, work, and that November is just around the corner.

C: “Reed! Give that back to your sister she’s been playing with it all morning.”
J: “You have to go I know.”
C: “So Philly.”
J: “Yeah, November 19th it’s settled.”
C: “K. Love ya.”

After all, we are sisters and the apple never fell more than an inch between us.

At twenty-nine one should be self sufficient and not need anyone to watch after them….or so you’d think.

I was two years old when my grandfather gave me the nick name Red Tornado. At five I could climb the trees in our back yard faster than any of the boys on the street and walk the branches as though they were my very own balance beam. My mother signed me up for gymnastics at six, “You need to spend that energy in a useful way Child.” At seven, I began making fun of my brothers for not being able to out run me and win Red Light Green Light. By the time I was ten I counted the steps on my way home from the bus stop till I could tear off my Catholic school uniform, throw on dungarees and make mud pies to use as oiling agents during the neighborhood kickball game. My Mother gave me the nick name Pig Pen at twelve and at thirteen, I discovered boys.

7th and 8th grade brought new beginnings of Friday night dances in the gym. We listened to Teen Spirit and Curt Kobaine whine about the misery of being a rock star. We danced thrashing our heads making fun of one another during a couples skate at the roller rink. I changed clothes in the car dawning items my parents would never let me out of the house wearing, “I don’t know who you think you’re working for tonight but you’re not going out dressed like that.” This command was easily over come by leaving a bag under a bush and changing in the car when a friend’s parent picked me up. After all, they were “The Cool” Parents.” How wrong I was.

“The Cool Parents” were the one’s who didn’t care, the one’s who were more self-centered and waded through motions of laying ground rules then allowed their teenage daughters to leave the house dressed like they were on the way to a photo shoot for Barely Legal Magazine.

At sixteen, I craved my parent’s friendship and misconstrued their tough love concept as over bearing and a clipping of my wings. I tested the temperature of our relations and never let the opportunity pass. If Trouble was to be had, I found it, flipped it around, and made a side show. At twenty – I came back to them. They spoke, I listened. At twenty-four I remembered my father as my basketball and soccer coach and my Mother giving me a perm for an Annie Look A Like Contest. She never argued with me when it was over about “changing out of this stupid dress.” At twenty-five my Father and I did a 180 mile bicycle ride from Houston to Austin together and at twenty-six I began confiding to my Mother about men.

At twenty-eight I realized they are my best friends.

And at twenty-nine I wonder why I continue to test them.

Perhaps…just perhaps having children is something like planting seeds in a garden. When you walk into a garden where daisys don’t grow, my favorite flower, one plants seeds hoping they will take root, orchrestrate good, take up enough space, light, walk in with enough beauty and simplicity that it keeps disappointment away.

Perhaps thats the love between a parent and child…even at twenty-nine or ninety-nine. No matter what the test, they seem to pass.

The real test lies in the spaces between where nothing is said and love is a constant.

Ever walked into a mirror and not realized you were walking into yourself at the time? A few years ago I was in Abercrombie and Fitch on a Friday afternoon babbling on the phone and stepped into a full length mirror sending the slap of body meets surface soaring through the store. The men my eyes were hitched on looked dead with amusement at one another,

Hot Guy 1: “Did you just see that?”
Hot Guy 2: “That was awesome.”

Backing away from the mirror while hiding my own giggle, I quickly left the store.

I’ve met several in my life and sensed this feeling of smacking into myself or a reflection of me I knew before taking in the experience. When I met my best friend from high school, Tiffany, we caught eyes at an afterschool club meeting instantly knowing we were bound by time and circumstance. Ronda and I met under estranged conditions, no man could come between us, our bond was instantaneous. Years before I met Soleil those close to me assumed we knew one another, “Ya know Soleil.”

J: “No, I’ve never met Soleil.”

And now my Mother says, “You’ve been friends with Soleil for a long time.” My only reply is, “Well, Mom…..its SO-lei.”

I answer as if there’s never been a question with all these ladies each time she brings this up. The friendship is bound in a time where hour glasses don’t’ exist. We see only wrinkles, laughter, tears, an ability to take the good, bad, and understand the other’s personalities while knowing their reactions prior to their performance.

I’ve been blessed, not in a holier than though way, in the past two years I’ve met several others I’ve felt this way about. Four, Kendra, Alison, Reagan, Wendi, I met through this silly web site. Kristina & Hillary through Soleil, Cathy & Darren by random chance at a (cough) “friends” house party, Kim walked into Cathy’s bridal shower – within two minutes we were friends…the same with Kim’s BFF Celeste, Britney & Aubrey through Hillary, and Aparna & Agnes I literally bumped into on the dance floor and quickly began sharing random jokes with about those around us. These are my closest gals; we’ll get to my guys later.

Alison and I discuss her Mother, loss of her Father, importance of friends,and everything in between. Ronda tells the story of her ex-husband and settling into Happy. Tiffany tells a story of her amazing son and ability to leave an abusive relationship, Soleil and I discuss her family & her (newly) finding Happy, Reagan discusses heartache & pushing past it, Cathy, Darren, & I talk about settling into their new life, Wendi & Hillary discuss being single and finding a belonging professionally, Britney and I ….well – we mostly make fun of Aubrey (kidding Aubs), Agnes and I joke about me being “The New Jessica Nick Lachey can’t get over.” Kendra, Aparna, Kim, Celeste and I discuss all of the above with some random stories involving pizza and “MIA” thrown in on the weekends next to happenstance…and Ashley.

Each of these ladies laid a path whether they know it or not, they are more than dynamic conversations. Sometimes it’s more about what’s not said, than the spoken word.

Maybe our brains aren’t hardwired to have all these experiences, but to walk through them with those around us.

To those i left out - it’s only because I’m tired and you already know.

All My Love.

Network Geek did what my hosting company screwed up. Many thanks Jim, my comments are now fixed

J: You home? I fell down and need you to help me with my back. Soleil, I think I need a helmet

S: Jesssssika – you need a bubble. You’re supposed to wait until after your benefits kick in to injure yourself.

You know how every now and then, you have a moment where your whole life stretches out ahead of you like a forked road, and even as you choose to take a step forward and take a gritty path of destruction you’ve got your eyes fixated on the other the entire time, certain you’re about to make a mistake. We make grand sweeping decisions that can affect our whole lives without even realizing it. Like scanning the newspaper headline at a red light, and therefore missing the rogue van that jumps the line of traffic and causes an accident. Entering a coffee shop on a whim and meeting the man you are to marry as he’s digging in his pocket for change, sharing a cab with strangers at 2:00 am because you’re to tired to debate about who was in line first, or realizing you know someone’s name before they say it. There are moments in life that take your breath away and those that cause you to taunt death. The strangers I shared a cab with Saturday night could have turned out to be bank robbers on the run, lucky for me, they aren’t and I’m sharing emails with one of them as I write this.

Fire and hope are connected, just so you know. The way the Greeks told it, Zeus put Prometheus and Epimetheus in charge of creating life on Earth. Epi made the animals, giving out bonuses like swiftness, strength, fur, and wings. By the time Prometheus was able to create man, all the best qualities had been given out. He settled with the ability to walk right and gave them logic as food for thought, and he gave them fire for warmth. Zeus became upset and took it away. Prometheus saw his pride and joy unable to cook, lit a torch from the sun and regiving him fire. Enraged Zeus gave man women creating Pandora and gave her a box she was forbidden to open. As we know from the clichéd phrase, Pandora’s curiosity got the best of her. Plagues, misery, and mischief flew from the box. She was lucky enough to shut it before HOPE escaped; it’s the only thing we have to fight the others with.

Ask anyone who has been out of a job, anyone who is walking through a disease, a cancer survivor. Ask any parent, athlete, or politician. They will all tell you it’s true. And hope that getting into cabs with perfect strangers won’t wind you up in a ditch.

There is hope in the human spirit, people are infinitely good it’s the fire we have to put out from time to time that’s troublesome.

I’m wavering on being my own guinea pig in this experiment of trying to figure out how much a human body can endure. Waiting for the moment I stop injuring myself, hoping it’s just around the corner. Sunday wasn’t supposed to end as it did, the part where I tumble head over feet one, two, three, four, five, six times down an escalator. FYI - whoever thought of moving stairs after a wine tasting should be taken out to pasture and put to sleep.

I took a hefty spill yesterday, not the type that allows you to pick yourself up, slap on a band aid, and carry on. No Mam! If you are going to fall down, you might as well fall down on your ass, scrape your back and look as though you were mauled by a tiger or as a friend said, “You look like you had sex with a cougar in a phone booth.”

Escalator + wine tasting + one red headed klutz = a full blown disaster.

This is my back. What you don’t see in the photo is the loss of skin on my arm, bruise on elbow, cut on my shoulder, and the hematoma on my leg.

Escalator - Ten Points

Klutz - Negative 50 Points

here’s to hoping I stop huting myself so often, or I at least get a better helmet.

On my run this morning I sweated and panted more than a dog on a leash. I ran and ran to run off last night’s celebration of signing an offer letter for a new job. The bum’s on the corner glared at me as they laid out the contents of their home. She, with a tooth or two missing, and he, with a stench that would keep the plague away, were making breakfast - it was then i realized these homeless people had more food on the corner than i’ve ever had at my house.

Riddle me that one.

And no, I’m not leaving Houston, new job is in H-town. Sorry guys, Vegas can’t handle me.

I’m moving today and working on a few different articles. One about Big Hawk and the hip hop scene here in town for a friends magazine. In the mean time, check out this little clip from Jason Mraz. I was hoping to find a video of him singing “Keep On Hoping” but can’t locate one. So go check out that song. And we’ll touch base in a bit

Have you ever seen a movie that ends with stills from the moments you’ve just witnessed? Orchestra music begins to play as the credits begin to roll with the names of well known and unknowns litter the screen. The effect is of distance. The moments you have just witnessed recede into a foreign tale while you drain into the routine of your life and long to retreat back to the movie. As the credits role the moment grows smaller, yet clearer, into something like a tale John Lennon wrote about.

I used to think that change was caused by being horizontal and not being able to get off the couch. In the way Amanda says, your mind wills the future to write the lines in your very own play. However, I’ve been standing upright over the last several months. Sure, I had the moments I wavered and questioned if I was suffering from vertigo or if the axis of Earth was off kilter, when in fact it was my life that has become unorganized. I need routine with the ability to break free of it and feel random, to be reckless when I deem it, and not deem it whenever I can. I need to be able to line things up efficiently and make lists of items to be accomplished on a daily basis. I need structure yet want nothing to do with it and to subconsciously dare myself to follow my Bohemian routes. . . And I guess that’s when the people in your life know you better than you thought you knew yourself. They want to tell you the truth about the world but, never will because they see the tear hiding behind a smile. I suppose it’s kind of like the way music rolls over your being, there are certain songs that take effect, bring you to your knees, and make you feel like you’re not alone in the world.

FYI: As much as I’d like to deny it, there are times in our lives we are built of glass while others are of stone.

I’m just hoping I end better than when I began. The last few months have brought more change, reflection, and compartmentalizing my belongings into corrugated boxes. “It’s just stuff,” my sister would say, “toss it. It’s not a child, a friend, or a relative. Stuff. Crap really.” I’m surrounded by childhood memories I’ve held on to. And have tossed the lot of them in the trash. Do I really need the binder of notes from the 7th grade? The photos of my niece and nephew I rarely get to see (AHEM JERSEY), have been packed to keep with me. Maybe that’s the golden ticket, all these items I’ve accumulated over the years have no real importance, but those things you can carry with you is what matters most.