Figuring Out Pain

The Neurologist is sitting behind her computer screen and her desk. She says seriously, "You have a really big bulge, and then on top of that, you have degenerative disc disease, which means you'll have episodes of pain your entire adult life. So, our goal is to treat those episodes of pain as best as we can. That's why I was hoping physical therapy would help you."

To explain my pain took an unusually long amount of time, answering all of the Neurologist's questions, and then filling in as needed. I even said at one point, "I don't know if this is clinically significant..." After all, logic assumes that the more you complain about pain (in different areas) the less seriously a doctor may consider that pain to be. For instance, I have lower abdominal pain from god-knows-what (probably endometriosis). Then I have nerve pain, which the Neurologist identified as being possibly "restless leg syndrome" or peripheral neuropathy, she doesn't know which. She says that usually peripheral neuropathy starts in the hands and feet, and works from there--but I don't have pain in my hands and feet. The burning, stinging sensation is typically down my thighs and arms, in the morning and in the evening, and made worse by showering (why, no one really knows). Then, I have the nerve pain that is clearly from my back. I can say so confidently because I've dealt with it before (about late 2007).

Most of the time, the pain is manageable. Only rarely is it so severe that it stops my whole day. Physical therapy has helped, I can do all sorts of things that I couldn't do before--like hike or lift weights. Despite the major increase in exercise, my weight bounces around, losing and gaining back the same five pounds.

One article in the news recently noted that people with mood disorders are more likely to be prescribed opioids than the general population (38% compared to just 8%). Why, no one could really explain. One thing I do know, that is sort of self-evident: chronic pain makes depression worse, and I'm fairly sure that depression makes chronic pain worse.

I went down that spiral, and then I attempted suicide on August 20, 2008 with a bunch of Norco and more Tylenol.

Wild Hearts, Part II

"Our relationship would be unsustainable for myriad reasons, he said, and loving me would be like adopting an old dog and waiting for it to die."

--"I Fell in Love With My Friend With Benefits" by Sian Ferguson, The Washington Post

Wild Hearts

"By the time this man started becoming a regular feature in my life, I had already loved myself too much to let unrequited love bother me. I realized that I could love someone without needing them to commit to me."

--"I Fell in Love With My Friend With Benefits" by Sian Ferguson, The Washington Post

Why I Can't Wait For Summer Semester to be Over

"I still think you should go to the Dean of Students, this is not the experience you're paying money for," my mother tells me this morning.

At the community college, I don't think there's a Dean of Student Affairs, but the equivalent might be just going to his Division Chair and complaining. I'm hesitant to do so because my chemistry professor hasn't done anything overtly sexist or racist, and he hasn't aggressively shamed anyone in class, at least not in front of the other students (although how he treats his own kids, who are taking the course, is a borderline case). Yes, he's grumpy, and yes, he gets irritated when you ask questions (so, guess what? I've stopped asking questions), and yes, he makes it obvious that the last thing he wanted to do this summer was teach basic, high school-level chemistry for either high school students (of which there's a few) or slacker community college students of varying ages (there are two other classmates who are roughly my age).

The second day of class he got me aside in a private room, and told me what a shitty job I did on my lab from the previous day. He accused me of "running out" on my lab partner, and doing shitty math on my experiment, and then not showing any work (or calculations for this shitty math). "If you have a partner, you can't just run out on them," he told me. Okay, so, I figured my lab partner was smart enough to do the problems in the conclusion. Was that an error on my part? I supposed so. Instead, he's allowed me to just do the experiments by myself.

During lecture once, I asked him how you can calculate atomic radius when we don't know the location of the electrons at any given moment, we only know probability density. He told me that to answer that question was beyond the scope of the class, and it would only further confuse me. The chemistry professor doesn't exactly foster a love for chemistry when he assumes that everyone is too stupid to really investigate some of the nuances of the subject. He treats other students the same, it isn't personal, it's not about me as an individual.

The good news is: all of this material is review. I took chemistry in high school, and then I know I've attempted it at least once at the University (when I was a freshman, my second quarter, I took chemistry, and was in the class until the last few weeks of the term, I was maintaining a C, but was told by the Advisor to drop anyway because of my mental state at the time). So, I don't really need the chemistry professor to hold my hand, which is good news, because most of the time, I don't understand him in lecture since he goes through the material so quickly, and his analogies don't make any sense to me (who knows if they make since to anyone else). Last class period, I asked him if he would review the even problems in the book with me on Monday, as a way to prepare for the midterm, which is on Tuesday. He told me he didn't have the answers, and then walked off. Like, fuck you, study on your own. 

I've tried several times to make small talk with him, and his responses vary from being irritated (again) to merely amusing me with an answer. The vast majority of professors I've ever had liked me, and I, in turn, liked them. All of the professors in the English Division at the community college have been wonderful, from the extraordinary English instructor to my charming poetry professor to the kind and considering Engl 201B professor.

The chemistry professor though said on the first day of the class that this semester was as difficult for him as it was for us. That sometimes he didn't want to stand up there and lecture for hours (okay, that's probably true for most professors at some point in their career). He doesn't even pretend that he has a love of teaching. It's more like, I can't believe I get paid to teach this dull shit. 

With the competition being so high for any professor position (including even part time), especially tenure-track, there's really no reason to have a shitty instructor for your chemistry class. There are too many people, more qualified and better suited for the job. They're out there, they have student debt, and they just want to teach because they have an affinity for it. Better they get the job than some bitter asshole.

No Slut Shaming and Other Truisms

Normally, the voices I hear (called auditory hallucinations) don't comment on my romantic relationships. They are usually fixated on me killing myself or telling me that I'm going to die.

This morning, I hear a voice who said, "You need to just let him go."

I woke up this morning feeling like shit--hurt and ashamed, and knowing there isn't much I can do. You see, last night, I called Morpheus because my father told me he was buying tickets to see this very famous country western singer, and he wanted to know how many to buy. I told my father that just before he mentioned going to the concert, I had TXT-messaged a friend, asking him if he wanted to go (that would be Morpheus).

So, I decided to call Morpheus just one last time if he wanted to go with us. Regrettably, I was intoxicated, a little mixture of Norco, a muscle relaxer, and a glass of wine (I ended up falling asleep around nine pm) since starting weight training, my back and muscles have really begun to hurt after my workout.

For whatever reason, he answered, saying, "This is [Morpheus]."

"Hi, it's [Jae]."

"Oh, hey, I just stepped out of the shower, literally I'm dripping."

"I called just to ask you if you wanted to go with me to the [famous country singer] concert, I figured you might be going with your friends." I don't care for country music made after the late 1990's.

He told me, yes, he was going with other friends, that they had been planning on it for a very long time. He also said, "Hey? Can I call you back?"

"Yeah, whenever you want to."

"Okay, I will call you back." He hangs up.

But I left out the most important part of the conversation. In response to that exchange, I left him a voicemail message this morning that I feel is appropriate and rational, considering the circumstances:

"So, when we were talking yesterday, you mentioned, 'She will be here any minute,' using the pronoun 'she.' And you didn't call me back. 

"I don't know if this is fair to you, but it's how I feel. I didn't want you to see this woman because that time could be spent with just the two of us. I feel like I'm always in last place when it comes to how you manage your time. First, it was [the ex-Wife], now it's undisclosed twenty-something's. I'm always last, and it's something I can't deal with. It hurts me. And I don't know if I can realistically be your friend because I'm jealous. Not because of whether you're having sex or not having sex, but I'm jealous that your attention is on other women, and I feel like more should be rationed towards me now that you're newly single. 

"I can't be in your life because I can't handle feeling like I don't matter to you. And I wish I didn't care who you spent your time with, but I do care. I wish it was me.

"I'm sorry that I can't be there for you more. I'm sorry I want something from you that you just won't give. And I want you to know that I want you to be happy with someone, whomever she may be. 

"It hurts me, and I feel like I deserve better than how you treat me, even if it was just coming from a male friend of mine. I deserve to have people in my life whom want to spend time with me because they see how valuable I am. You don't show me that I'm valuable to you. You don't treat me like I'm special to you. I am special, and my friends are special to me.

"I use to feel like I wanted you in my life no matter what the capacity, but I see now that that's not an option anymore. I need to set healthy boundaries that I want. I have to do what's right for me." I hang up (the reason why I have direct quotes of the message is because I wrote it down before I said it).

Intellectually, I don't even believe in monogamy because I've seen too many people who are profoundly unhappy being in an exclusive relationship, whether married or not. Many of these people find others whom they love but are unable to be with because they are married or otherwise unemotionally available. As I've said before, I don't know if there is a cure for this. But more people have to accept that you are going to love, fall in love with multiple people throughout your lifetime (at least, the odds say you will), and how to you respect those desires or wishes and not be an asshole?

I'm not disregarding the attraction of having at least one secure relationship outside of your family which becomes a new part of your family. People thrive with this, which may explain why life expectancy and health is better for people whom are married. People may thrive in this situation even if they are not particularly thrilled with their relationship. Even if they wish for something or someone more. We make compromises.

I guess I was surprised that I found myself jealous about whatever Morpheus is doing (or who he's doing). It's not fair of me to slut shame anyone because it goes against my beliefs, and as the LSU Professor so astutely said the last time we met, I've "slept with a bunch of men." So, slut shaming another slut? No exactly fair. I believe that people should experience as much or as little of sex as they want. That wanting to sleep with a bunch of people isn't in and of itself unhealthy. In fact, sleeping with different people helps you realize what you want from a sexually relationship, and definitely what you don't want (since you're more likely to find the latter than the former).

But I'm jealous anyway. Do I want a monogamous relationship with someone? I really can't answer that question because I just don't really know. I know that I would never want my partner "to settle" with me, I would never want a partner who committed to me, but was madly in love with someone else, whom he designated as being less "socially appropriate." We all live in the kingdom of our fears and insecurities (I've written about this before). How do we find happiness within ourselves enough to trust that someone else will love us and want to be with us? How do we see that there's something worth loving to begin with?

My avoidance of relationships really comes down to only one thing. I know for a short while (like most people), I can probably be charming and attractive, but I rarely see any good I could do in a relationship in the following months or even years because of my illness. I'm a ticking time bomb. It's not a matter of if, but when I will become seriously ill again. My psychiatric disorder could kill even the best relationship.

I can't even honestly say that if Morpheus called my bluff, and told me he wanted to commit to me that this would somehow make me happy (for the short term, I'm sure it would). But he doesn't understand my illness, not at all, and how would he react if it came in between the two of us?

To Finish PeeWee

Mom just arrived home from work, and I had just finished hiking for an hour and a half.

I'm standing in the back yard when I say, "Every day I think about putting a bag over that dog's head."

The Sick Part

"The sick part is you wanted me to fall in love with you," I tell him.

He's only a few feet away, but he buries his head in between his arms, and doesn't respond.

Maturity and Regrets

Being that I live with my parents, they know whenever I'm not home, although my mother never asks me directly what I am doing (my father often in the early morning asks me what I have planned for the day, and I can't figure out if that remark is fairly innocent, a bit just to make conversation, or if he is reconfirming that if he needs me, I will be there). Despite this, if I'm leaving in the evening to go somewhere, I tell them so that if I don't come home before midnight, they know to send the sheriffs after me.

Upon returning from a date with a professional dog walker, Mom gives her comments on why I've remained single after all these years, despite the multitude of men who have circled around me. She told me that I lacked maturity to appreciate or understand other's points of view. That I was so afraid of being judged (true), that I judged first (she's referring to the quick exit I made after the professor from the University accused me through a question of being physically violent).

Truth be told, my mother married quickly after her first divorce (my parents were hitched after about eight months of living together) when she was young at twenty-one years old, and has been with the same man since, so what the fuck does she know about dating? I feel like my mother just kind of fell into her current relationship because she had a few months old child who was without a proper father, and was heartbroken, the classic rebound relationship which for reasons no one knows, turned out to be relatively successful. As Dad mentioned a few weeks back, he managed to control his affinity for punching holes in walls, and settled down appropriately (at least from his point of view). Of course, my parent's marriage has quieted over the years, becoming less heated, and more accepting. We should always be so lucky. In other words, my parents learned to get along, it wasn't innate, and it required years of hardy practice.

How do some couples stop having the same argument over and over again, and move on? And how do other couples get stuck in the same pattern, and then file for divorce? I don't think there's any magic formula because if there was, it would be the best selling nonfiction book of all time, like Men Are From Mars on steroids. Then everyone who's married would get it, and peacefully protest in private for a resolution that made sense.

Of course, I'm naturally picky, at least as far as my romantic partners go, and that has only increased with age while at the same time, not very discerning about who I fuck.  I don't think it's news to anyone that people frequently get into boyfriend/girlfriend relationships with the direct intent that it's not going to last in the long term, but it's a way of biding time until someone better comes along. I've tried not to do this, although I've know frequently long before the event occurs that the pairing will end. In that sense, I haven't been picky enough.

A person could argue that with that attitude, I will spend my days alone until Jesus comes back. I've never been one to look back over my life, and wish that I hadn't broken up with someone. In the end, it's always seemed right for everyone. The only possible exception to this is the fact that I wish I spent more time with Morpheus, but that doesn't necessarily translate into wishing we never ended our relationship because frankly, despite pauses and months of unacknowledged crisis, we've never stopped. We're ongoing.

But, then, I have my regrets for other reasons.

Working Memory

"Several mental illnesses, including schizophrenia and depression, are associated with decreased functioning of prefrontal cortex, which can be revealed via neuroimaging. For the same reason, these illnesses are also associated with decreased working memory ability. Interestingly, for schizophrenic patients, this deficit appears more marked in visual rather than verbal working memory tasks. In childhood, working memory deficits are linked to difficulties in attention, reading and language."

--Scientific American, "Working Memory: How You Keep Things 'In Mind' Over the Short Term," by: Alex Burmester

The United States of Xanax

Sexual hedonism no longer offers escape; it’s now filtered through the stress of Tinder. “If someone rejects you, there’s no, ‘Well, maybe there just wasn’t chemistry …,’” Jacob Geers, a 22-year-old in New York who works in digital sales, said. “It’s like you’re afraid that through the app you’ll finally look into the mirror and realize that you’re butt ugly,” he added.

--"Prozac Nation is Now the United States of Xanax," by: Alex Williams, The New York Times

Made Me a Feminist, Part II

"In America, a woman’s body seemed to belong to everybody but herself. Her sexuality belonged to her husband, her opinion of herself belonged to her social circles, and her uterus belonged to the government. She was supposed to be a mother and a lover and a career woman (at a fraction of the pay) while remaining perpetually youthful and slim. In America, important men were desirable. Important women had to be desirable."

--"America Made Me a Feminist" by: PAULINA PORIZKOVA, The New York Times

Made Me a Feminist

"As high school approached, the boys wanted to kiss us and touch us, and the girls became a group of benevolent queens dispensing favors. The more the boys wanted us, the more powerful we became. When a girl chose to bestow her favors, the lucky boy was envied and celebrated. Slut shaming? What’s a slut?"

--"America Made Me a Feminist" by PAULINA PORIZKOVA, The New York Times

Conversations in the Dark

"I showed him the TXT-messages, and he said he's never seen them before," I tell the LSU Professor as we're both sitting at the cafe. He just returned from Europe, a six week trip. 

"I won't tell you my opinion then."

"I know he's lying. I'm not a complete dumbass."

"I wouldn't call you a 'dumbass.' "

But you were thinking it, which is just as bad.

When People Are Incompetent

"The problem is that when people are incompetent, not only do they reach wrong conclusions and make unfortunate choices but, also, they are robbed of the ability to realize their mistakes."

--by: Kate Fehlhaber, Quartz, "Studies Find High Achievers Underestimate Their Talents, While Underachievers Overestimate Theirs"

The Push

Morpheus talked about guilt, but he never said exactly what he was guilty of, just talked about responsibility weighing on him. He went on and on about his little girl, number three, who is now seven. He wants to be there for her until she at least goes away to college. At the same time, he looks at me, and says, "You don't have any kids...you're not married..." What is holding you back? He seemed to be asking.

"I'm not sure what else I should be doing," I say. "I mean, I was full time for Spring Semester, I'm taking one summer class, and then I'm full time again in the fall."

"You've been talking about school for years. You need to either finish or move on," he tells me. "You can find a job without it."

For the most part, when it comes to finance and money in general, Morpheus has a Ph.D., and I'm still stuck in the second grade. Granted, I know how to balance a checkbook, I know how to go online and pay bills, but besides that and AP Econ senior year of high school, I'm completely clueless.

"I feel like we spend all this time talking about us, and not enough time talking about you. I just want to see you blossom," Morpheus says.

"I think you can do much better than me/ After all the lies that I made you believe"

--Hinder, "Better Than Me"

Morpheus over the phone describes the other women in his life, "They want to get to know me...but I don't want to get to know them."

"By the Way, I Made it Through Today"

--"Second Chance" by Shinedown

We're still standing the kitchen, and I've noticed that most of the time, I have my arms crossed like I'm trying to hide myself.

"When I do something wrong, you need to tell me," he says to me.

I figured I was great about this. On my phone, I show him a series of TXT-messages that I sent him which added fuel to the fire. He responds, "I never saw those." I tell him how important it was for him to attend the literary journal reading of the community college, that some of my friends were there, and members of faculty, and of course, my parents.

A little while later, he tells me, "I'm sorry," looking forlorned.

"If you only knew/ I'm hanging by a thread/ The web I spin for you"

--"If You Only Knew" by Shinedown

Honestly, I don't know what the right thing is to say. When someone goes through a divorce, you'd think that he/she would want to be reminded that this is an opportunity for personal growth, and another chance at happiness--but what if that's not what he's feeling? You don't want to discount the merit of those feelings. "I'll bet you a hundred dollars right now that you will find someone and you will fall in love, and then your attitude will shift," I tell him. "Because that's what happens to people."

He puts dishes in the sink, and without looking at me, says, "That just goes to show how little you know about me."

I feel a smoldering kind of anger coming from him. "Well, at least be open to the possibility."

He finally looks up at me. "Okay, I can be open to the possibility."

"I'll Follow You Down"

--Shinedown

"I miss you, and I care about you," Morpheus tells me.

He's lost weight, but I don't mention it because I don't want to seem critical about his body. He's still the most handsome man on the planet to me, but he appears to be a little weary and troubled.

Morpheus kept shoving one of the tacos towards me, telling me, "Eat this. I don't want to eat by myself."

"There is no way you can manipulate me into eating that," I respond. I push it back.

I watch as he gingerly bites into the taco, never making a mess. He eats like he goes out to restaurants often for his meals. It reminds me of my mother who commented that my table manners were excellent because for most of my young life, I ate my meals away from home. For her birthday, we went to an expensive Italian place, and the bill was over $200. She whispered to me during, "Take smaller bites!" For my birthday, we went to a less expensive Italian restaurant, which both Mom and Dad said was just as good as the previous place. While I was eating my pasta, Mom whispered to me again, scolding, "Eat smaller bites!" One of the bad things about being an adult offspring and living with your parents is the fact that they still boss you around like you're twelve.

"Where is that sassiness you had as a dancer?" He asks me. "Now, I'm not saying you should go back to stripping, but confidence is sexy."

"A lot of that has to do with my illness," I respond. "They put me on a medication that the biggest side effect was weight gain. So, I gained a lot of weight, and now, I'm working out an hour and a half a day to lose it." There's no fucking way I'd ever strip without losing fifty pounds. And even then, I'd want to be smaller. "I've been in and out of hospitals multiple times per year for years. You can't do that and hold down a job or go to school or be in a relationship." I can't tell what he's thinking by the way he's looking at me. I know that he doesn't understand--so few people do. But having a serious mental illness is like being gutted. You lose the essence of you. Who you are without the disease. All the things you're capable of becoming. You lose sight of the future, and believe it will never come, you will only be destined to repeat this same, horrible day over and over again into eternity.

Fortune Cookies

One day your mother will ask you how the writing’s going, and you will say, “Fine,” and she’ll pause and say, “Maybe you should consider teaching.”

One day you will lose all interest in Gertrude Stein and say so belligerently after you get too drunk at a literary party, where everyone has been published except for you.

--"Fortune Cookies," The New Yorker, by: Iris Smyles

"I'll never let you down even if I could"

--Three Doors Down, "When I'm Gone"

"You know now that I have a problem being alone," Morpheus tells me over the phone.

"There's secrets in this life that I can't hide"

--Three Doors Down, "When I'm Gone"

 We're in the kitchen, and we've been talking for a while. Despite reassurances that he would be able to keep the house, it's in 30-day escrow. He tells me again that he has good memories of us here.

"I feel numb, and it scares me...Sometimes I don't even leave the house because I don't want to deal with people, I don't want the attention," he explains to me.

I understand the feeling. I spent years never seeing my friends, lounging around the house, depressed and lonely but unable to interact with anyone because it was so exhausting. People take effort and time and sincerity, and when you're depressed, you only have room for one, yourself. You don't have the energy to keep someone else happy or entertained because you can't even bring delight to your own mind.

"Right Me When I'm Wrong"

--Three Doors Down, "When I'm Gone"

"Are you writing this down?" He asks me as he's rambling towards his car, walking along a frontage road parallel to the freeway.

"No, but I will later," I reply seriously.

At some point in the conversation, which was filled with self-obsession, he says, "I feel like jumping off the pier."

I pause, and I'm thinking of all the things to say, what are the appropriate words? How do you get someone to back off the ledge? "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, why?"

"Are you suicidal?"

"No! I just thought it might be refreshing."

"Okay, I'm going to get you. I'm five miles from where you are."

"Everything I am and everything in me /Wants to be the one you wanted me to be"

--Three Doors Down, "When I'm Gone"

On Friday, my case manager took me to a restaurant for dessert because my case was closing, and this would be the last time we see each other for a while. During our conversation, she asked me, "What are your short term goals?"

"I'm going to have sex," I say confidently. "No, really, I need to get back out there." I need to distract myself from Morpheus, make it appear like I'm actually moving on.

"So Hold Me When I'm Here"

--"When I'm Gone" by Three Doors Down

"I will tell you, I do not like that man," Dad says.

"I think you should withhold judgment until you meet him," I say, instantly feeling like I should defend Morpheus by naming all his wonderful qualities.

"I have no interest in ever meeting him," he continues, looking away from me.

"If you haven't figured out by now that that man is a user, then you are an idiot," Mom adds to the conversation.

"You were just making ugly faces because Dad criticized him." It's strange how his name hasn't been spoken.

"I agree with him, but I would be open to meeting him."

"So Please Stop Explaining/Don't Tell Me Cause It Hurts"

--No Doubt

"In life, there's no always, there's no never," he argues.

He's talking in generalities, but I feel as if he's just referring to romantic love, how you can't guarantee how someone (including yourself) will feel in five years, ten years, twenty years. "I'm pretty sure I'll always love you..."

He insists that this isn't true.

I put my head in my arms, and say, "Of course! You don't believe I love you to start, so why would you believe that I'll love you forever?"

"If I Could Turn Back the Pages of Time, I'd Rewrite Your Point of View...."

--No Doubt

Morpheus tells me that he is filled with self-loathing from morning until night, bearing down on him like a great weight with sharp edges and thick nails digging into the skin.

I sit in his kitchen, and explain to him that my therapist thinks that our relationship is not good for me. 

"Don't talk to your therapist about me," he winces.

"I'm sorry, but that's out of your jurisdiction. You can't tell me what I can talk to my therapist about. She and others think that you're using me. Are you using me?"

He acts like I've thrown a dagger. "No!"

Earlier, while he was wandering around drunk in a town about fifteen minutes from Yuppieville, one which I use to always go to for a drink because it's quieter and more solitary than drinking downtown Yuppieville, he accuses me of talking about him on Facebook.

"I never talk about you on Facebook," I say, at least not by name. For the record, I don't even think I've made any reference to him at all on Facebook. "You're having..." I want to say paranoid delusions, but I hold my tongue. He's just drunk, I tell myself.

"I open up, you ignore me..."

--No Doubt

Dad is standing in the hallway. I'm trying desperately to dress quickly so I can reach Morpheus' house before he falls asleep. I walk towards him, heading to the bathroom.

"Who's [Morpheus' first initial and last name]?" Dad says, pronouncing Morpheus' name correctly. He read it from the caller ID on the house phone.

"He's a friend. I'm going to make sure he gets home safely," I confess plainly.

"Yeah, but what's his first name?"

"[Morpheus]."

The little bits of blocks in his mind start to shift. "He isn't that married guy, is he?"

"Yes, but he's divorced now."

"That tells you something for sure," he says even though it's highly hypocritical. Dad left his first wife, divorced. "This is not a good idea."

I clean up in the bathroom, put on fresh clothes, and then as I'm heading out the door, Dad says, "Tell him if he hurts you, I'll kill him."

"Let's End It On This/Give Me One Last Kiss..."

--No Doubt

He keeps looking at me, like he always has, but he won't touch me. I didn't receive a hug upon walking into his house. Sometimes, he even blatantly stares.

As I'm walking out the front door with him slightly ahead of me, I say, "You know, I'm disappointed I didn't even get a kiss..."

He doesn't answer me.

Caring For the Obvious

"You know what the worse part is?" I tell Morpheus over the phone. "There is no one--no one--who would know to call me if something happened to you. No one."

"Why do you even care?"

"Can I state the obvious? Because I love you."

"Why do you love me? I've been nothing but a dick to you."

Safe Asleep

I keep telling him that I will pick him up, that I'm only five miles away, so he won't drive drunk. He insists that he's okay. Morpheus says that he wants some pizza, that he's starving--or maybe a burrito.

As I'm driving into town towards his house, I stop at two Mexican restaurants, and two Italian restaurants, and all are closed because of the late hour. The only business that is open is Burger King. I order him two tacos, and wait around in the fast food place. The people ordering before and after me look like they're either homeless or day laborers. One kid looks like he's drunk, hounding for a snack.

As I take the sack, and head towards my Mazda, I get a flashback of my previous life as a private dancer--the all night hours, the strange people I encountered, the risks that I inevitably take.

I'm driving to his house, and I'm listening to No Doubt, particularly "Don't Speak." The Tragic Kingdom album is arguably one of the very best that came from the '90's. The whole idea of meeting up with him begins to sound less and less appealing. I don't want to have this same argument I've been having with him, but I find it to be inevitable. Of course, we're going to fight about this. I tell myself that I'll just be there long enough to check to make sure he's safely home, and to deliver the tacos.

By the time I arrive, he's asleep on the couch, clutching his cellphone in one hand. I walk up to him, notice he's oddly dressed, and then touch his ankle. He opens his eyes, and no surprise appears on his face, like I'm there every morning when he wakes up, and there every night while he slumbers.

Wandering Lost and Alone

It's 9:42pm, and I'm sitting on my bed watching TV. I had a couple glasses of wine, had a couple guys from Bumble who wanted to see me, but I didn't want to see them. It seems so exhausting getting up, getting dressed up, putting on makeup, and on and on.

The phone is ringing, which means that it's either Morpheus, who I left a message with earlier, or something is wrong with my paternal grandmother (my maternal grandmother would never call even if she was dying).

Dad answers the phone. "Oh, okay..." He shows me the digital read out of the phone, and asks me if I know that number.

"Yes." I speak to the person over the phone. "Hello."

"Who is this?"

"I'm sorry," I'm a little stunned.

"Someone called me from this number...." he pauses. "Is this you?"

I don't know which "you" he's referring to. "It's me. It's [Jae]."

The phone hangs up. A few minutes later, he calls me again, and then proceeds to hang up--again.

Apparently, Morpheus is out wandering around my old stomping grounds, looking for his Mercedes, drunk. He keeps asking me if I'm okay.

"Well, in what way?" I respond. I tell him about the good things going on in my life, I'm doing well in school, I have great friends, etc. "But if you think I'm okay with what happened between us, then no, I'm not okay."

"Nothing happened between us," he says.

"Well, that's hurtful."

"No, that's not what I meant."

Surprise, Surprise (Do I Stay Angry?)

In an email, the LSU Professor wrote, "As your anger mellows with time, come back and read what you have here.  Remember your anger and choose if u wish to repeat it." He was talking about my anger towards Morpheus.

Do you really want to repeat it? Over and over again?

This afternoon, perhaps I was a little bored, I had just finished vacuuming the house, and doing some laundry, and cleaning the kitchen. I decided to go through the house phone's caller ID to see if I "missed anything important," i.e. a call from Morpheus. Of course, I never expected to find such a call because that would be crazy.

But apparently, he called me on May 21 at 8:20am. I didn't know until today. It happened to have been a Sunday, and although I don't remember that specific Sunday, I'm pretty sure I was in bed or just getting out of bed at that time.

More on Bumble

Then, there's the guy with the six-pack abs, and the really big dick (he showed it to me in a picture, hoping, I guess, that it will increase his odds to sleep with me--which it did).

What to do with him?

Also On Bumble

Also on Bumble:

Real estate agent talks and talks to me for a couple of days, and we had agreed to meet up Thursday evening (he picked the restaurant, which shows his taste).

About an hour before we were to get together, he sends me a message via Bumble (he doesn't even know my last name or have my phone number) that he can't make it because a client asked me to show some property in another town. He asked if we could meet up the next day.

I had already dressed, put on makeup and driven to the town he wanted to meet in (about forty-five minutes from my house). So, I send him this message back: "The answer is no. Go fuck yourself."

And this is the man who assured me that he was not a flake.

This Conversation is Officially Over, Part II

"Im not trying to be mean."

--the latest TXT-message from the lecturer from the University who I found on Bumble

This Conversation is Officially Over

"Question: have you ever physically hurt anyone you cared about?"

--TXT-message from a professor at the University who I found on Bumble

Usually, I wouldn't disclose my illness on the first date, but the guy did mention that his bipolar ex-girlfriend did try to kill him. "It wasn't her fault," he tells me. "It was her illness."

"Did I do or say something wrong?" He TXT-messages me after we got done meeting at the bar.

"No, you were great. But I'm wondering how you will take this bit of news."

"What?"

"I have schizoaffective disorder - bipolar type. If you don't know what that is, I can explain it to you."

"I know what it is...I figured before I met you."

What? Did my picture on my profile have the face of a bipolar woman? "Figured what?"

"Bipolar. Remember I grew up with a psychiatrist and almost have a PhD in neurology."

"Well, schizoaffective disorder is a little more complicated than just bipolar disorder...It includes elements of schizophrenia." You talk like a smart asshole, and I can talk down to you too. Ha.

"Ok...So what do you want..."

"I don't want anything. Just thought you should know because you have to determine if that's the kind of person you want in your life." Part of this doesn't settle well with me, but I say it anyway. It's like apologizing for something that isn't your fault just to ease someone else's conscience. People with mental illness deserve to be seen for the unique creatures they are. They have their strengths and their insights, and, let's face it, someone with bipolar disorder can be a lot of fun.

Then, he starts asking me if I take medication (yes!), and what do I take, you know personal questions that someone who you've just met once in your life should never ask because it's none of his fucking business. But anyway. I appease him.

Then, finally, the bomb: "Question: have you ever physically hurt anyone you cared about?"

For us educated folk, we know that people with mental illness are much more likely to be victims of violent crime than the perpetrators. But nevermind, because he almost has his Ph.D.

Then, he keeps sending me TXT-messages because I haven't come up with a good response (at least I haven't found a polite one).

"Will you answer??"

"Hello?????"

Finally, I decide: "This conversation is over. Thanks for the drinks."

So much for fucking an University professor (one of my fantasies).

His response: "Wow. So much for open communication."