Tales

By: Catherine Alemán

[mentalarts]

Touch (fragment)

He looks me in the eyes and holds the gaze longer than I'm expecting. Its a distraction as he wraps his arm around my waist and pulls me closer against him. I say nothing, and instead melt against him, feeling the warmth of our bodies radiate between us. My heat is beating like the wings of a hummingbird and his cheeks suddenly flush in an unexpectedly adorable way. His hands move underneath my coat and meet the thin layer of clothes underneath. You could go further...I think to myself, but he stops at just the right moment, pulling me closer still by the placement of his hands on my lower back. He exhales sharply and mumbles something about how late it is. I rest my hands on his chest and look up at him. He's tall in a way I find comforting - he envelops me and I like it. I like it more when he rests his forehead on mine and gives me one last squeeze against him. I wrap my arms around his neck and stand on my tip-toes to reach him. "It is pretty late," I say, mostly to fill the silence between us.

[mentalarts]

Slippery

Everything changes too fast. Who lets go that quickly? Why do I say so much? (I still don't take it back)

[mentalarts]

work-in-progress

I pull off my shirt and notice the soft way my body curves in the space between my breasts and hips - the curve along my side, down my rib cage to my pelvic bone. A tattoo here and there. Symbols of meaning...and nothing...and everything in-between, from a life that still feels young. I have stretch marks from weight gain and loss, "growth spurts" my mother would say. I have scars from teenage experimenting, general clumsiness, a bad case of the chicken pox, and piercings since closed. My thighs betray me. The lithe little ones I always wanted never seemed fit for me, but they're strong and with the right hands on them, with the right person between them, they're alive. Fuck, with the right touch everything comes alive and my body makes sense. And I want to make sense.

[mentalarts]

Muffin My Girl

[mentalarts]

Burn

I see the fire and, ignoring all of my evolutionarily-ingrained instincts, I want to touch it. This always ends the same way. I've got the scars to prove it and yet, my appetite is still set for destruction with the sole intent of living through it. I want it all. I want the chaos and commotion. I want the rough edges. I want something I can touch and hold onto. I want truth, not a show. Give me the darkness and the ugly. Give me what you think is unlovable. Tell me the worst thing you've ever done. I'll still be there, burned and teary - I'll stand next to you when no one else will. That's my role. I know my place. The difference between you and I, though? I mean it.

[mentalarts]

When I can't sleep...

I look in the mirror and I see dark circles that look like craters under my green eyes, frizzy hair that creates a halo outlining my round face, and pimples that have decided to cover my jawline and chin. I look tired. I feel tired. Worth is not based on outside validation, but it helps - temporarily. I have the tools and resources to build self-confidence, but it's not often been reinforced by anyone else (yes, read that as "by men"). Dating is a series of stumbles during which walls are erected and armor is acquired - no one survives unscathed and everyone has something they fight for or against. I have my own baggage, my own ugly pieces, but no one has ever seen those parts - I never get that far. I keep my eye on the exits at all times, afraid of getting stuck, of being left. It hurts less if you leave first - so one foot is out the door, my hand is on the doorknob...and I don't give you the honor of being referred to by name. Unless I've decided I'm in. Once I'm in, I'm all in. I am loyal to a fault. I've never been in love. I've never felt pretty. Sometimes I wonder if the two are related. Maybe if I were just pretty...? I want everyone to like me but I often let people treat me like shit as a result. My voice has recently become louder on the subject. I'm afraid that someone might one day notice that I'm not supposed to be here or have what I have. I worry that maybe my insecurities are evident from space, or at least across the room, before I've even said a word. I try too hard to explain myself. I talk too much. I keep looking to feel like I'm understood, to be sure that I'm okay. I might be getting closer on my own. Moving back to California has changed my life. Words cannot describe how much. I write on the same subjects all the time because I can't nail it. I circle around and pull my punches. I'm not brave enough yet. When I am brave, it's a feeling of (misplaced?) confidence that either leaves me elated or in a ball of tears. I'm never not proud of the moments I feel brave in, regardless of the outcome. My poor heart on the other hand gets beaten up quite a lot. I don't know what's next. I kind of like it, but it's also really scary. I hope one day I'm not alone in it. I want to be optimistic but it's easier to do it for others than myself. I've always said I didn't want certain things because I assumed I couldn't have those things - even though I can see everyone else with them. If I lower my expectations, maybe I won't be sad later. It's managed heartbreak. I need to go to sleep but I don't want to give in to the sleepiness. I'm nothing if not stubborn, but it's too late now. Sleepy wins...this round.

[mentalarts]

For a monday

For every little hurt that created a big hurt - I'm okay. For every time I was told I wasn't good enough. "You don't look so good in skirts..." "Why don't you wear your hair down/up?" "Maybe if you looked like you cared a little on the outside..." "You're the girl that you're just friends with..." "No one is ever going to love you, you're not pretty, no one will want you." For that time when I was 7 when a boy in my class threw a fit when someone told him I liked him (and it wasn't even true). For every no I have ever hoped could've been a yes. For the girl who struggles to get out of bed and go to work. For every day that feels like a Monday... Saturday is coming...but, I guess, it all has to start somewhere. So...I keep going...

[mentalarts]

right now

I'm standing against the doors on BART and my back hurts. Every time we start or stop I shift my footing, trying to stay upright but unsure each time that I'm not going to create a domino effect of falls by tumbling against the person in front of me. My thoughts are haphazard. I'm saying a lot right now but, as usual, it comes out awkwardly and I retreat instead of moving forward where I should because sometimes I need to dip my toe in the water to ease the anxiety enough to dive in. Who am I kidding - I'm either all in or completely gone. My Irish exit is top-notch. You won't notice I'm gone, I just leave. You'll realize it later, but it'll be too late. I cried on the train on Monday. Also, slipped in the rain on Mason. I touched a wet San Francisco street and cut my knee on the sidewalk cover, so, I'm probably going to die of San Francisco street bacteria. I spent today with exhausting panic attacks. It felt like I closed my eyes last night and then suddenly it was morning. Where did my 7 hours go? I can't wait for this weekend. I have no plans but think some exploring is in order again. I actually look forward to days off now for more than just sleep (although, sleep will always be my first love). Fall is going to be good, I think. My moodiness aside, I think it's going to be something positive. Now, I just need to actually wake up rested!

[mentalarts]

Van Morrison On Vinyl

The sun is in his eyes and he's squinting to look at me but his overall handsomeness isn't even the least bit diminished by the furrowed brows and wrinkled nose. He's easily the most objectively handsome man here and for some reason he is voluntarily engaging with me. He's smart and quick - and it's off-putting in a perfectly pleasant way. He offers to buy me a drink, but I decline. We sit and talk about how we ended up in Seattle and what we do for work and I can feel him shifting closer to me at the bar. We both came here alone - me with a book, him with (presumably) just his disarming charm. He picked a sucker and I have no doubt that he knows this. We move to a booth and continue to talk, close and in hushed tones that require an intimate closeness to hear. From the outside, I suspect we must look like co-conspirators and I regret not wearing something that might be in some way reinforcing of this. "So, my girlfriend is out of town for the weekend," he says this quickly and awkwardly - the charm immediately gone. I push myself to the edge of the booth, far from him, and take a deep breath. "It's okay, we kind of have an open thing." I let a silence fall between us for a few beats because I'm honestly unsure how to respond. "We haven't had sex in awhile," he adds this without looking at me, "she won't even suck me off anymore" "Well, that seems like something the two of you should talk about," is all I add. "That doesn't mean you and I can't have fun together, though, does it?" "I can't have sex with someone who has a girlfriend and is 'kind of in an open thing.' What does that even mean? Either you are or you aren't. 'Kind of' doesn't really work here. Besides, I'm not into inserting myself into other people's relationships. Also, I hate that you're assuming I'd sleep with you." And then he looked into my eyes like I belonged in a romantic comedy and he wrapped his arm around me and kissed me and I let him. And, honestly, it felt good - for about a millisecond - before the guilt settled in and my brain re-entered the equation and I pushed him away. "Nope, no, no. So not cool. So, I am going to go. I think you have some serious stuff to deal with in your relationship but you otherwise seem very smart and funny and handsome and that kiss was nice but I can't. I won't. So, good night. Also, if you're going to cheat on your girlfriend and kiss girls after they tell you they're not cool with it, you're not a very nice person." And I left as he was still trying to convince me to stay with a mixture of beautiful words, a defense of open relationships (minus any mention of the "kind of" variety) and even the suggestion of listening to Van Morrison on vinyl. I'm a sucker, but I'm not fucking stupid. And, don't you dare bring Van into this.

[mentalarts]

Some Kind Of Clarity

The thing about me is that I do things but declare that I’m not doing the exact thing that I am doing because “of course, I know better” and I can intellectualize the hell out of the situation and hide in my words and (*deep breath*) sometimes I just don’t want to admit certain things.

In short, it can take me awhile to see what is right in front of me.

Even simpler: I’m stubborn.

Simpler even, I'm ridiculous.

I lived an impressive example of the confirmation bias - I (unconsciously) sought out the outside sources that would validate the internal terribleness I was already directing toward myself.

It was a self-fulfilling prophecy.

The concept of someone being kind to me - in any type of romantic context (“romantic” being used loosely because there was nothing romantic about any of these experiences) - was one that I didn’t expect because I didn’t feel that I deserved it. Every rejection was a confirmation that I didn’t deserve better and every disappointment was another tale to add to the developing narrative:

‘I suck. Everyone knows I suck. This is what I get.’

And that is what online dating gave me. My whole life I was invisible. Guys talked to me to talk to my friends. The interest was never romantic and I never pursued anything further because I just expected disappointment.

This time, though, I suddenly had an attention that I had never really had before - and it was available whenever I wanted it because it lived in my phone. I used the attention to distract myself. I knew what to say to hold their attention just a little bit longer, I was available (but not too available) to go out - and I hated the majority of it. I hated the game - and that’s exactly what it was…a game of how not to be alone for just a little while, even if the company made me feel worse and even if I’d argue that the very thing I was doing was not what I was doing (perspective and conscious intent are relative, you know).

Lonely and alone are very different - I was almost always lonely, just not always alone.

And so, it went like this: tell me why your ex is so much better. Tell me how I’d be prettier if I just “spent more time on [myself].” I’ll ignore that text and try not to cry in my apartment instead because I have no fucking idea what I’m doing and am afraid that you’re right - I’m not pretty, not smart, not funny, not kind enough. I’ll add on to your words because the thoughts are already in my head. I’ll even laugh at your lame attempts at a joke because I can’t stand the silence - and this behavior will be the only one I acknowledge as a sign that something is wrong because more things than this aren’t good and I’m not ready to look at it yet.

I filled my emptiness with more emptiness because it was easy. It was a click, a swipe, a message away.

I was empty and somehow finding ways to become more hollow. Experiences echoed through my empty body and I couldn’t escape. The distraction was now the main focus and it wasn’t what I wanted.

I want to say that I have some perfect sense of self now and that I’ve learned my lesson but it’s a process.

For now, I can see exactly what I was doing. It’s devastating to think of how tightly I clung to the negative. I do deserve more based merely on the fact that I am a person and inherently deserve a certain level of respect but that doesn’t mean that I don’t continue to do things that end up hurting only myself.

I see my flaws (in bright, neon colors with blaring sirens) but I’m also starting to see more than that. I’m making peace with who I am, with my limits and weaknesses, and I’m moving on. The echoes of the past persist but are becoming easier to overlook as the present is of a more pressing interest.

I’m not distracting myself away from everything. There are no games. It’s just me, as I am.

I’m present and ready for something different…even if I’m not sure what that might be. I’m not waiting. I’m not hiding.

I’m moving along…

[mentalarts]

I'm hilarious.

[mentalarts]

[mentalarts]

[mentalarts]

Eight Months And A Whole Lot of Tears

Eight months ago, I spent my first night in my Seattle apartment after a long day of driving, running around, unpacking, and melting.

I had a major panic attack in Target City, wiping big tears away as I tried to chose a toaster and bath mats, amidst the realization that I forgot something on another floor and would have to go back through the crowded store and elevators to find it. I’d save the full-on cry fest for the parking garage in my building when I got home and hit the wall - literally (with my car) and figuratively.

“What have I done?” I sobbed while my mom attempted to comfort me the way only a mother can.

I slept hard that night. I don’t know exactly how one sleeps hard - but I know I did it.

Flash forward 8 months - to April 14, 2015 - and I’m in my teenage bedroom in California trying to decide what I want to do next.

I was unhappy when I left 8 months ago. I left knowing this. I left knowing that this sadness was mine and would not magically get better just by moving.

Instead, the depression built - along with the panic and obsessive-compulsive disorder - and was made worse by my decision to discontinue my antidepressants in October because I felt like I had things under control.

The funny thing about this…I was probably feeling like I had things under control because of the medications’ effect on my neurotransmitters. Hindsight is 20/20 - even when you have the training and past experience to know better.

So now, I’m in my teenage bedroom feeling the same feelings I experienced when we first moved into this house. I didn’t realize how much I had forgotten about that time until it all came crashing back - a sudden wave that has left me out at sea, slowly finding my way back.

Treading water is tiring.

Admittedly, I’m not good at writing about the depression and anxiety. I feel like it sounds self-indulgent and too much like my teenage angst-ridden journal entries.

I’m writing about it because I want to be honest. I’m writing about it because I’ve been lying about how bad it’s been. I’m writing about it because I’m withdrawing and have been pushing everyone away and it hasn’t been a conscious intention.

To those still reading, I’m sorry. I’ve been a shitty friend as of late. I’m too stuck in my own head. I’ve been too negative and you all deserve better.

I don’t know how long I’m going to be in California. I wasn’t even planning on coming back right now, it just happened. I have some things to figure out. A weekend of painful loneliness and sobbing is a good indicator that you probably shouldn’t be alone in your apartment for awhile whilst trying to make major decisions though.

The Pristiq and fluvoxamine are being taken. I’m doing what I know I need to do to get better.

A lot can happen in 8 months and I’ll be back to Seattle in a week or two. I’ll get back to sleeping in that apartment alone - without feeling alone.

And, one day soon, I’ll feel good again.

[mentalarts]

Whatever Happened To A Boyfriend?

Life is not a fairy tale, there aren’t any meddling-yet-helpful fairy godmothers waiting around the corner to make your …

[mentalarts]

The Times, They Are A-Changing

I took a job thinking it would be temporary, a layover on my way to something better.  I thought ‘temporary’ meant a few months (3...at most).  Almost 8 months later, however, I’m stuck in the same position, more burned out than before, and more certain that I’m making the right choice in what I want to pursue than I have ever been before - even if it isn’t what I’m doing right now.

I took this job to move.  I moved to find my own way without the noise.  I moved and the depression and anxiety, the heavy mixture of genetic predispositions, followed.  I’ve been stuck in a weird dance without any music for cues.

But...

I’m starting to learn the steps...slowly.  I’m starting to make my own music to follow.  I’m starting to feel solid.  

And changes...

Oh...

Changes are a-coming.

[mentalarts]

Crisis of Faith (and other life hiccups)

When you have struggled with anxiety and depression your entire life and regularly seen a therapist since you were 15, you get used to the warning signs that things are getting unmanageable.  You recognize the signals and learn to admit that maybe you need to slow things down, that maybe your expectations are unrealistic, that maybe you need a little bit of help (and that maybe that help comes in the form of two little pills).

Sometimes you fight this.  Avoiding the obvious, pushing it away with distractions (music, reading, men...) until you reach the point where you can't ignore the enormous elephant in the room.  Amazingly, elephants can fill a room quite quickly and are notoriously difficult to live with and move around.  

I've been fighting it off for a long time, downplaying it, calling the elephant by other names (exhaustion, frustration, simply growing pains) but it's time that I openly admit that the elephant has moved in and seems to be enjoying sitting on my chest - pushing the air out of me and keeping me stuck where I am.

It's become worse over the past couple of months.  It started out manageable, I could laugh it off and promise to take my anti-depressants again, create all of the excuses I had for what I was feeling (I just moved, my job is stressful and I have no hours, I'm broke hahaha).  But now, I can't do that.  

I'm sleeping a lot.  I'm always tired.  I make plans each day, internally declaring that I'm going to go to the movies or hang out in a coffee shop and write and yet I end up in pajamas all day, napping and watching Netflix.  I've been on the verge of tears for the past few days.  I'm grumpy.  Distracted.  Spaced out.  I'm all of the things the depression and anxiety rev up and make front and center.

I'm Catherine on depression.  I'm Catherine on anxiety.  This all means that, right now, I'm not Catherine.  

I discontinued my Prozac and Lexapro in October, while I was at home visiting.  It wasn't a conscious decision and I had left the medicine at home and had every intention of resuming it when I returned to Seattle, and yet I didn't.  I'd lay in bed at night and think 'oh, I need to take my medicine...eh, I'll just take it tomorrow, I don't want to get up right now.'  Funny how quickly 'tomorrow' can turn into 4 months later.

I'm going back to California for a few days in March in order to see my psychiatrist and figure out what I need to do.  The medication I was on hadn't been working for awhile so a change was necessary anyway.  I'm working on finding a therapist here in Seattle.  I'm dragging my feet on it but it's my one goal for next week.

I'm having panic attacks again, their presence a consistent companion.  Thankfully, I've been here before and know the drill.  Deep breathing and an inner pep talk get me through (along with a killer soundtrack to help steer my focus elsewhere).

I'm being negative in a way I haven't been in a long time.  Everything feels personal.  Everything feels like a reinforcement of the idea that this is forever.  I know it isn't though - and I know because I've been through this before and I'll go through it again.  It's a part of me but it isn't all of me.

I moved knowing that things were going to be really hard and that it was likely that I'd have this struggle.  It's my genetic predisposition.  It's the baggage I bring into situations - carry-ons, not checked...they're always kind of there.

I've felt remarkably lonely since I moved.  I've tried to relieving this feeling with dating and men in general but that's just avoiding one thing and creating other situations that feel more lonely and more stressful.  I'm probably not in the best position to be in a relationship anyway.  Not like this.

I have this constant knot in my stomach right now.  It's a ball of emotion that signals the anxiety, when the panic is coming on, when the feelings are coming up.

I've thought a lot about just calling it on the Seattle move and returning to California but I'm not ready to leave yet.  Besides, the issue is within me, it's not place dependent.  It's just something that I need to sort through and I'm going to need to do it regardless of where I am.  

Things aren't as bad as they were when I was a teenager, but the grumpiness and impatience from that period has returned.  I apologize now for any slips on my part in regulating it, it's not directed towards anyone, it's just taken root while I've been lost in my thoughts.  I try to be very conscious of it but sometimes I lose track.

I'm going to be fine.  I've dealt with this exact same thing so many times in my life I have lost count.  I've lost years to this (where did my teenage years go?) but I know how to handle it now - and the biggest part of it for me is just being honest about where I'm at.  

This is where I'm at.  I'm at a crisis of faith.  I'm in the middle of an existential crisis, lost in chaotic thoughts.  I am angry about things not happening as fast as I'd like.  I've been angry that I haven't had the energy I want, that I haven't had the energy to write - this being the first time in a long time.  I'm tired.  I'm hurting.  I'm not feeling well.

But, I'm also feeling hopeful.  I've dealt with all of this before.  I know how strong I am.  I know I'll start feeling better soon.  I'm hoping my work situation changes soon.  I know that regardless, I'll be fine.  

I'm going to be okay.  

Things are just going to be hard for a little while longer - but I can manage.  There will be tears.  There will be moments of talking too loudly about things that don't matter.  There will be more bad choices in men.  There will be feelings of loneliness. 

...but these are all part of life anyway. 

Life sucks sometimes, but then it gets better.  

I'm ready.