Why I Was Such A Bitch Last Night

It's amazing how much a person can change from day to day, moment to moment, just inside their own head.  We can learn new things that completely change our understandings, beliefs, and outlooks.  Medications can mess with our emotions in terrifying and mind-bending ways.  And our moods can send us from one extreme to another at any given moment.  No man can enter the same river twice, for he is never the same man.  The same is true for this girl.

I was a pretty big bitch last night, and while I maintain my embarrassment over the whole thing, I still want to vent what helped put me there.

Yesterday, my mom found some pictures.  The one that happened to be on top of the thick pile was of me and my brother, him 14 or 15 years old and me 12.  I'm now 25 and it has been about two years since he told me via text message that he never wanted to see or hear from me again.  Seeing me with my arms around his neck... there's no proper way to explain it.

I was already upset from feeling isolated from my friends.  My closest chick friend is allowing her entire life to be dictated by a selfish boyfriend, and I see her but a couple of times a month now.  With these feelings fresh in my heart, I decided to let myself cry hard for a while as my mom was talking on the phone in the other room.  After a while, she had stopped talking and I had gotten to the point that I needed a tissue, so I went into the kitchen to fetch some.

"Oh, your sister just called and her boyfriend proposed."  My mom was lying on the couch as she casually launched into an explanation of their romantic dinner and how he presented her with a bouquet of roses and dropped down on one knee.  I was happy... but in a very hollow, anti-climactic way.  Again, it is hard to explain.  It was like I desperately WANTED to be happy, excited, jumping up and down... but there was no sentimentality of being told by my mom like she was telling me about bumping into an old friend at the grocery store.  She didn't seem to think anything of it when I quietly walked away again.

I cried some more. Hard. The pain was something like nothing I had felt since I had my heart broken for the first time.  A moment I had looked forward to my whole life felt like it had been taken away.  But not only that... did my sister not want to tell me herself?  Did it not occur to her that I would want to hear it in her own, tear-strained voice?  I know she moved across an ocean from me, but no matter what... I would have wanted to feel like I was a part of this time in her life. Like she wanted me to be excited with her.  But I didn't register.... I realize this is all childish, selfish thinking and I should be happy for her and of course she wasn't thinking about me... but if I had gotten engaged, I wouldn't have been able to wait until I could tell her.  I would want a moment with each and every one of my friends (which now feels like zero) to tell them personally, face to face. I would want my sister to be a part of that time of my life.

My brother got married for the third time this year.  I've never met that girl. I didn't know when the wedding was going to be, but I expected that.

I used to think, perhaps optimistically, that having much of my family (my brother and my dad) turn their backs on me didn't make me less likely to trust people or more likely to think everyone would leave me... it made me see everybody, relative or not, as somebody just as close to me as family.  But I guess I was giving myself too much credit.  I still want my family to be closer to me than they are, than they ever may be again.  I want people to want to include me the way I want to include them.  As much as I'd like to be a martyr for my friends and family, to give my heart and my time in any way and expect nothing back... I apparently do feel entitled to something in return.  I am still not good enough to give without expectations.

I am a selfish giver, and to be that way is nothing but pain.

My mom caught me crying and I explained to her what had happened from my perspective and how much it had hurt me.  As with just about any time I actually decide to share my feelings, I felt guilt.  Especially when she herself was crying later, apologizing for what had happened and blaming herself.  I assured her that I knew I was being childish and selfish for being upset and begged her not to worry about it.  I wish I had better mastery of keeping things to myself since they so often pass.

Life is full of perceived injustices, I feel like of all people I should know that.  I've suffered all kinds, real and imaginary.  I want to brush things off and keep going, to not let bad feelings change who I am for any amount of time. I wish I could truly let go of myself and just live for other people, being content to be out of the way when necessary or wanted.  It's just hard when I want so badly for other people to be in my life, and when "everyone I know goes away in the end."

Infinite Capacity

I find it so baffling and gorgeous how any person is so stupid and so smart at the same time.  It's like we really are all children.  We have such a great capacity for learning and growth so far beyond ourselves... but we only have that capacity by lacking. 

It has been a while since I've blogged, and the humiliation of recording thoughts is coming back to me in a rush. Nobody is really reading this compared to others (even my own past blogs), but every page view can feel like another person who now thinks I'm an idiot. But then, that can be any interaction: any slip up can blemish an impression irreparably if the viewer is judgmental enough.  Written word is just more permanent.  We can edit and delete and pretend other intentions, but there the words sit.

Have you ever looked back on an old homework assignment, or an old AOL Instant Messenger chat you saved to Notepad when you were in high school?  Is your Myspace profile still up?  Those feelings of embarrassment can happen in the moment it takes to hit a Publish or Update button. That is how quickly we can learn. That is also how stupid we are (I am). Did my comedic palette really skyrocket past butt jokes so quickly that I no longer want to even be associated by some hypothetical stranger who is probably eating a Snickers while wearing underwear they bought because they didn't want to do laundry?

I convince myself "yes" and launch into a new phase to feel ashamed of in five... four... three....

The New Golden Rule

Something that I've noticed about people my age is that everybody seems to subscribe to this new rule of treating people how they "ask" to be treated.

"Be cool to me and I'll be cool to you."
"... but I'll stand up for myself if I have to!"
"I don't take shit from anybody."

All varieties of phrases that suggest that if this person isn't treating you well, it's because of something you did yourself and it is out of their control.

Our parents told us, "Treat others the way you would like to be treated."

We responded, "Treat others the way I think they are treating me."

I see a lot of problems with this. To me, it seems less a natural sense of justice and more a decision of laziness.  People who I've heard say things like those I listed above seem to think they are just being logical and fair.  Every action gets an equal reaction.  But it also happens to be a lot easier to let somebody's attitude effect yours than to keep your cool, and a lot harder to treat people well when you plain just don't like them.  Make up a transgression a person made against you and you have a blank check to be intolerant and show them the door (or passive-aggressive sass).

This attitude also gives a lot of power to the holder.  Suddenly we have the right to interpret another human's actions, and there's no requirement to give the benefit of the doubt.  If somebody treats you badly because they had a moment where they were low or did not know how they were coming off, you have authority to assume the worst and perpetuate negativity by being an ass to them.  "You don't know me!"  yet you think you know them?

For me, the most basic flaw is a humanitarian one. If you treat people how they ask to be treated, you are going to keep people down who need lifting back up. "Sluts" are often that way because the world at large has treated them as such from the start. People who are hurting are often prickly and defensive because they have been taught to distrust and fear. Treating everybody the same, and well at that truly puts everyone on an even field and empowers everyone. Yes, we will be let down and disappointed at every turn, but at least we give someone a chance instead of shutting them down before they start.

The Golden Rule still seems to be a good shortcut to being a decent human being.  Barring any mental illness or masochistic tendencies, most people tend to want to be treated with respect and kindness. It's not a perfect system because no person is perfect, but it seems simpler to me, and I'm finding simplicity more and more attractive (and elusive) with time.

People are always on Facebook spouting the kind of personal philosophies you'd hear grunted by a cocky reality show contestant.  I am not ready for the real world to feel like The Real World.

Kicker of Dicks

My first years of schooling were spent at a Christian private school. Since that is the only place where even prepubescent six year olds can feel sexually repressed, every day at recess all the boys in my class would chase me around the playground and try to kiss me. With my puffy, orange Troll doll hair and come-hither buck teeth, I really should have done more to cover myself and dissuade them from their assaults. Cursed as I was with my Kebler-elfish good looks, the majority of outdoor recesses were spent in constant fear of the boys simultaneously deciding to drop whatever they were doing and tail me mercilessly to kiss me with their Kool-Aid stained faces.

There was actually a day when I was able to peacefully play with another girl and one of the boys actually walked over and asked me, "Are we all playing Chase today?"

I really wish somebody had told me sooner that it was OPTIONAL. Up to that point I thought my only options were to run like hell or have the weird kid with the lisp stick his tongue in my mouth. When a recess supervisor advised me simply not to run, that it would take the fun out of it, I was pretty convinced she just had a big, stupid face. I hadn't been running when I won the game of Hot Potato at Ben's birthday party and all the boys dogpiled on me and Jacob kissed my face. No, that bitch didn't know shit.

So not yet knowing "Chase" was not mandatory and with the recess lady clearly not on my side, I spent my recesses like a ninja in patent leather Mary Janes. I was ever listening for the stillness that preceded the start of a Chase, ever watchful for the change in a boy's eye that signaled he had me in his sights (a skill that would become much more important and terrifying later in life). And one fateful day, I was able to escape.

Or so I thought for a beautiful, fleeting moment....

Jared was a horrible child. He had a big, wet mouth that always hung open and he smelled like Play-Doh. One time, I hit my head really hard on a rearview mirror because our teacher thought it would be cool to weave a line of over twenty excited children between parked cars. While I stood stunned with stars and tears in my eyes, Jared was pointing and laughing, making all the other kids turn and watch me try not to cry. He was a rotten, cootie-infested sociopath.

Anyway, for some reason there was a recess day where we were permitted to play outside, but only in the parking lot.  I remember the sun had a horrible glare and when it combined with the horrid, neon kaleidoscope of chalk drawings on the pavement it created a suitably eerie climate for what was about to happen.  In fact, all I remember about that recess was the environment and the moment.

That moment.

Somehow a game of Chase had been initiated, and I was apparently very much off my game because icky, sticky Jared had me locked in his arms.  He didn't have his hands buckled in the same clumsy, untrained way most boys usually would have, so I was in a particularly effective bind.  Even though I was wearing a dress and tights, I threw modesty to the wind and worked my knee up through his grip, maxing out his arm-span and breaking his hold.

Feeling very pleased with my clever escape, I allowed myself a smug glimpse over my shoulder as I bolted away from Jared.  And this is a mental picture I will never forget.

Jared's face made a series of expressions that probably took the span of three seconds, but in my mind's eye they play over the course of minutes.  First was the initial look of disappointment and surprise that he had lost his catch; next, a bitter, childish anger that erupted in the ugliest scowl his fat, shiny mouth could muster; then, a light bulb flickered feebly over his stupid head; and then the slow, creeping smirk of the Grinch unfolded on that same face whose stupidity I really can't emphasize enough.

Finally, his face contorted into a scream as his hands flew to the crotch of his pants.

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAUUUUUUGH!  ELIZABETH KICKED ME IN MY PENIS!"

And that's the last I remember of recess that day.  "Penis" hanging in the air, damning me to embarrassment and the beginning of a life of boys trying to jack it up.  I was always a well-behaved little girl; I was too smart for temper tantrums, too shy to sass off, and too afraid of repercussion to kick anybody in the dick... again.  Unfortunately for my record, I had kicked my brother in the crotch a time or two, but had received such a fearsome lecture that my days of recreational crotch-kicking were over.

This was not the last I would hear of Jared's penis.  He echoed his lie to every ear that could hear, time and time again.  And each time, "penis" got an extra special emphasis.  By speaking of an (imagined) injury, he had written himself a golden ticket to say "penis" in a school where saying "butt" could get you sent to the principal's office for a spanking.  He spent days interrupting all my conversations with other kids by cramming his face in my face, yelling about his penis.  (This would prove to be good preparation for bar culture that I would encounter later in life.)  Sometimes I would try to stammer that I didn't kick him in the penis, but usually I just fought silent tears.  If there is one thing a child learns in Christian school... well, it's that sex is bad, but if there's anything OTHER one thing a child learns in Christian school, it's that SIN will get you thrown straight into Hell.  Everyone thought I was lying about kicking Jared's penis, so every lie was a brick in the pathway to Hell.

At some point in the days-long montage of penis-kicking accusation, I was even pulled out of class to talk to the assistant principal.  She made sure to knock on the door right in the middle of a class so that is was maximally disruptive and every eye in the room would be watching my walk of shame out into the hallway.  And she didn't take me to her office or any other room, just sat me down on the floor in the hallway right outside my classroom.  We sat "Indian style," facing each other, tears silently streaming down my face as she gave me a stern lecture about how "kicking a boy in the crotch" is a very serious thing, and that I should have only done it if I was in real danger.  I would learn years later that Jared's mom had actually claimed to my mom that Jared had seen a doctor for internal penile injuries from my fabled kick, but was of course unable to procure any medical documents as proof.

But my favorite point that has ever been made to me about this story was from a guy friend who, upon hearing this story from me as adults, pointed out Jared's misdirected concern.

"If you had kicked him in the crotch, it's not his dick he would have been hurting over."

Perhaps Jared simply did not have a name for his balls yet.  After all, we were both being schooled in an environment where saying "shut up", "butt", or "sex" were offenses that got you struck by strangers with your parents' full permission. In fact, I'm pretty sure that whole ordeal was how I found out boys had different parts at all!  But it's clear to me that Jared was angry at having been bested and couldn't let that blow to his ego go without punishment.

Of all the kids in my class, Jared really deserved a good, hard kick in the dick. Maybe he knew it and that was how the lie began.  Somewhere deep in his subconscious, long before that fateful day at recess, a voice inside him was telling him that he was asking for it.

Jared... if somehow I embellished this story and I really did kick your penis and caused lasting penile damage, I'm still not sorry. Kicks to the dick are character building.

Tough boots.