Blecchhh. Tell me about it, Banksy.

Dear Ether,

4 days of rain the forecast.  Yep.  Dark days ahead.  As you know, I suffer from terrible seasonal affective disorder and the dark, wet skies aren’t going to make things pleasant.  These are the days that I wonder what the point of being in “sunny California” is?  Yeah, yeah.  I know I can’t have good weather all year round, but when it rains here, I find this place to have very few endearing qualities.  

When it starts to hit heavy, I tend to put on Bach, light a candle and stay under the covers.  But, I have a serious deadline for a huge feature due on Monday.  The feature is on a subject that’s–well–let’s just say it isn’t rocket science.  Yet, it requires a ton of accurate research and pressure and when you can’t stand the subject you’re writing about, it becomes utter agony. This, coupled with the weather is gonna be a toughie to pull off.

I’ll try not to be a miserable git.  I can’t promise the happiest of posts, but hopefully you guys will act as a nice break from the monotony of writing about a certain brand of shoes that are anything but glamorous.   In fact, I’d like to give this article the “boot.”  

To all my fellow Jewish friends, Hanukkah starts tomorrow!  Awwww, how lovely.  So, for those of you who get there before I do (living in a different time zone) spin a dreidel for me and eat a tasty latke!  

Not much to this entry.  Just wanted to check in and let you know I still had a pulse.  I’m exhausted from doing research and speaking to “experts” about vacuous things.  I’m hoping my next assignment will be a nice reward–a piece with some depth to make up for this moronic topic.  Hey, you win some, you lose some.  For example, my book feature comes out this Sunday.  Can’t wait!  I wrote over 2,500 words and reviewed 14 books (hey, I got attached and couldn’t choose!). My Editor told me 3 books would be cut (sniffle).  I wait with SERIOUS angst to see which ones got sliced (again, major attachment issues).  After the bad boy is published I’ll tell you what books I recommended (really fab and unique stuff that is tick list worthy for gifts!).  

A more boisterous post tomorrow I hope.

YAWWWWN! STREEEETCH!  (I think I just felt my Quasimodo lump snap!) 

Time to hit the hay a bit early.  Guten Nacht gang.  I begin early tomorrow (and you KNOW how much I love to rise and shine).

PS: Sorry I haven’t Tweeted in a while.  Will be back on form once this fucking piece is done!  I’m also trying my best with comments.  Do be patient…please

Dedicatedly yours,

—One of 365

All I did was sit on a bench................

Dear Ethers,

At 8 years old I was kidnapped from a school by an old man.  This is a true story.  For 7 hours I was alone with him in his apartment.  There was nothing sinister.  He was simply lonely.  

I had been playing soccer since I was 4 years old at Fairfax High School in Los Angeles.  Anyone could come and watch our games.  There were many soccer fields set up at once for all the events going on over the weekends and with so many kids, there was chaos. 

It was half time and my mom, who was team-captain, was handing out Gatorade and apple slices to hyper players.  Sitting on an aluminum bench scraped with graffiti sat this innocent looking gentleman.  I remember exactly what he looked like to this day.  He was wearing khakis, argyle socks, black sneakers, a sky-blue lightweight sweater with a white shirt underneath and a flat cap.  He wore heavy rimmed glasses.  He beckoned me over and asked me about the game.  I thought he was someone’s grandfather so I tried to be polite.  I plunked down next to him and after a few more questions was itching to go back to my teammates and gossip.  As I started to get up this feeble man suddenly had a strong grip.  He told me that he wanted to show me something at his house.  I told him I couldn’t go because I was in the middle of a game.  He started to pull me.  When I called out my mother’s name she couldn’t hear me.  When I tried again, he covered my mouth.

He kept pulling me until he pushed me into the front seat of a very old Buick.  He locked the doors and said he only wanted to talk to me for a few hours and then he’d bring me back.  I was hysterically crying.  I could see my mom’s black hair in the distance, her head bent over handing out cups to kids.  I wondered when she would notice I was missing.  

His apartment was in a retirement home only a block from the school.  It was a swirl of oranges and browns with a lot of stripes and plaids thrown in.  His rug was the color of pea soup.  I remember because I sat on it without budging for hours.  The strange thing is he simply turned on the TV and watched, commenting on a joke or a line every so often.  I recall never feeling threatened for my life, just missing my parents and feeling chilly because I was in shorts and a T-shirt from my uniform.  

He never offered me food or showed me the bathroom.  But he was very protective of the phone and the door.   He wasn’t a complete fool.  I kept asking him if we could go back to the school.  I asked him whose grandpa he was (I still didn’t understand he had nothing to do with my team).  I looked around to see if he had any pictures of family.  There were none.  Everything was so tidy.  

I was patient.  Incredibly patient.  And he was very quiet.  I was so confused.  Time just kept ticking away. 

And then there was terrible rapping on the door.  

“Police, open up NOW!” 

My captor did not budge.  I did not budge. 

The door was knocked off its hinges and there were a handful of cops who grabbed me by my shirt and hair and pulled me off the floor.  They carried me downstairs in a rush to my parents who were white as ghosts and held me with all of their might.  That was the first time I had seen my dad cry.  A female police officer asked me if I had been touched, and I said no.  They took me to the doctor anyway.  It was humiliating.  

The man never explained to anyone why he took ME specifically or why he took anyone at all.  He had no record and was not senile.  He was given a restraining order.  

From then on my mom never let me out of her sight anywhere.  Eventually she let up when I got older, but she watched me like a hawk.  She said she failed me as a mother and would have killed herself if anything had happened to me.  She later told me that the hours I was gone she had collected sleeping pills and was going to take them with a huge slug of alcohol if I had been found dead.  She, to this day, says she has never been closer to death in her life (and Ethers, she has had a life-threatening illness……..I’ll write about that one day).  

I’ve had many weird and wonderful things happen to me in my life.  I know the man who kidnapped me is long dead.  But I’ll always wonder what those lost hours spent between us meant.  Why they happened and what their significance was.  He could have stolen everything, I’m so lucky he just got away with 420 minutes. 

Dedicatedly yours, 

—One of 365

This is Freud's room recreated in his home on Hampstead, North London. You can clearly see the famous couch many heads perched on during sessions. Though I do not lie on a couch when I go to therapy, the couch represents the center of the room. The most important piece of furniture. It is where the patient collects their thoughts, discusses and learns. I have always held my sessions as a special place for me to escape. A womb-like arena (not as beautiful as Freud's) that allows me to be open and honest without any judgement. On Thursday, my womb will be invaded by English gent. My name will be spoken many times. But I shall not be there. I have many mixed emotions--loss of trust, fear, anger--even hope. And I know that this womb is not just mine---many bodies enter it. But, none of them have ever spoken my name without me being present. I wonder how many "Freudian Slips" will occur on Thursday?

Dear Ether,

English gent has stolen Dr. W. Yep, it is official.  MY therapist and MY partner have now booted me out of the loop. Okay.  I’ll tell you the whole story, but here’s the irony. YOU GUYS are now my only source of therapy for the moment (well, at least until next Tuesday) and what’s even worse:  I’M footing the bill!!!!  

English gent and I have been going to therapy together for about 6 sessions now because our relationship has been in a really terrible rut of late.  He blames me for bringing him to Los Angeles and to this concrete grave of misery and I am angry at him for so many reasons, all you have to do is hit the sidebar under “English gent” or “Love” and you can read why.  It was my idea we start therapy because I felt that we needed a mediator–someone who could be in the middle and help us through our discussions (which normally end  in him walking out of a room needing a cigarette or me diving under the duvet crying and dreaming of the life I thought I should have had).  Dr. W took to the English gent (and to be fair, the old therapist has a soft spot for me too) and really wanted to help us.  So one session turned into many and we started to really open up.  But English gent was getting angry.  He felt that it was well and good that we spoke about our feelings in our sessions, but that nothing happened outside the 45 minutes that changed anything in reality.  He said today was his LAST session with Dr. W.  Now of course I was infuriated.  I felt really trapped and frustrated.  If English gent stopped going to see Dr. W, then what?  I mean, we obviously couldn’t handle this relationship problem on our own and we don’t have any other confidants, so what were we going to do?  

I slept until 2pm today, that’s how gutted I was.

3pm rolls around and with my face sullen and sombre we take our seats on the couch in Dr. W’s office.  English gent talks about how angry he is with me.  That I don’t act as a woman should when I expect him to act as a man should (this might be a good point—but his version of acting like a “woman should” is doing laundry, cooking, cleaning….you get my drift…..and as long as he has known me…..that just IS NOT me…….so I was really fucked off…….and my idea of what a “MAN” should be is having money to support himself, having good enough credit to have a fucking credit card for Christ’s sake, being able to drive and not have me chauffeur him around, buy me a thing or two every so often…….but no…….he is  a stinking baby who still calls his mother “Mumma” in Russian.  Kill me).  Then he goes on to say that I’m unsupportive of his work.  Ethers, he sits in the office all day doing work for his business abroad as a freelancer and makes it very clear he doesn’t want to be disturbed.  He is on English time so he drinks Red Bull’s 5 times a day (which are like $2 a pop, chugs coffee after coffee like it’s water and smokes at least a pack a day…have I mentioned he is up until 5am most nights?)  We never go anywhere together because I can’t pay for both of us.  We are stuck in this house and are ironically so far apart is is pathetic.  I’ll leave it up to your imagination to wonder what our sex life is like (he is 27–you’d think he’d be rearing to go—and truthfully, I haven’t been less interested since before puberty, anyway).  It’s dire straits.  It’s always a threat of, “I have a return ticket back to England, why don’t I just go?” Or I say, “This isn’t working anymore, but I don’t know what to do because I don’t want to lose you in my life and I know if we end like this and you fly back to London, I’ll never see you again.”  Ethers, am I bound to grow old with a man who I bicker with?  Where we’re just angry companions, but stuck together because we care for each other from memories and a feeling of family?  And if he goes, I know I will always wonder if I lost the great love of my life because we went through a bad patch and maybe couldn’t work through it.  I mean, no one is gonna be happy in their late 20’s living with parents with no money, no license, no visa, no job (the list can go on).  And me!  You guys know I am dying for that golden ticket.  And soon, that will fade and stop shining and I’ll just be and ugly old hag that no one will want—then that will be the final nail in my coffin.  

So why do we stay together?  Why is the question he and I have been asking for almost a decade.  And we come up with so many pros and so many cons.  Our great times and our hideous times toughing it out.  No one knows either of us better than we know each other.  We are too afraid to let go.  I know many of you would say it’s like a plaster/Band-Aid.  Rip it off fast and it hurts less.  No. No.  I can’t even imagine the idea of unveiling the wound that the bandage shows underneath.  The last look in his eyes before he boarded the plane with no return ticket.  The last time I’d smell his neck.  The smell of his body on the sheets when I returned home from that agonizing drive.  The few gifts he gave me.  The albums full of memories.  8 YEARS OF MY LIFE SHARED WITH HIM.  Every reference of my 20’s with HIM.  Help me Ethers.  But please, don’t tell me yet to leave him.  Please?  Can you try to be constructive?  Can we go into salvation mode 1st?  I beg you out of desperation.

I’ve lost track of where I was.  Right. So. I cannot make it to our twice weekly session the second time being this Thursday, because I have a meeting and then an event to cover.  So what did Dr. W suggest?  That English get come sans me.  I was shocked.  He is MY therapist. The guy I pay.  The man I introduced English gent to.  And now THEY are going to have a pow-wow about ME behind my back?  Yes, yes, yes.  I know.  This will be all fine and dandy.  He’ll get to say his piece and Dr. W might coach him and this is only to help.  But I feel so vulnerable.  As I chauffeur him to that session, I wonder, how many times will my name be mentioned and what will be said?  And the truth is I have NO right to ask.

I wish I was free.  That I could be 21, just out of school and fresh.  I wish this was the beginning.  That I had more time.  That I hadn’t made so many mistakes and hadn’t given into love so fast and hard.  Some of us do it easier than others.  I’m a sucker.  I’ll keep you updated, as you guys are now my clearest and cleanest form of therapy.  Thank you for listening.  I just wish I wasn’t sitting here with my face full of tears and the tops of my hand wet with the drippings of the falling droplets all over them.  What a mess—in so many way—what a giant mess.

Dedicatedly yours,

—One of 365