How many have watched the tide come in on New Year's Eve?

Dear Ether,

I don’t know if people were more afraid of me last night or if I was more afraid of them.  But, gladly, we all ended up keeping our equal distance.  

It was 4am.  I was bundled up in a coat, my long hair wild having been unraveled from a bun. I was wearing trousers with bright gold shoe booties.  My make-up was smeared around the eyes which were very wet from constant crying.  

I sat overlooking the Pacific Ocean in Santa Monica, about a 20-minute car ride for me, watching the dark water.  The pier stayed lit up for partygoers.  The lights of the Ferris wheel reflected off of the tide. 

It was 2010.  The new decade.  

Was it last night?  Or, this morning? 

Everyone was asleep by then. Earlier, it had been a very pedestrian evening.  I usually come home for Christmas and New Year’s, so I’m used to being in California this time of year.  My family doesn’t do much.  We go for a very nice meal, come home, sit by a fire, and then watch the ball drop on T.V. from Times Square.    

But this time it was different.  This time, I felt trapped.  I felt a big pillow smothering me over my face the whole evening.  2010=my 3^rd decade on this planet, and what the hell was going on with my life?  I don’t want to get into it—many of you know the fine print.  But, I certainly didn’t feel like clinking glasses and signing “Auld Lang Syne.”  Every year when the clock strikes 12, I close my eyes and I swear THIS year will be different.  That things will change.  But they never do.  The only thing that happens is that I get into a bigger bind and I age.  And the people around me age.  That ball is actually like the hands of time reminding me that yet another year has passed………and none of my dreams have come true. 

When I went to hug everyone as the fireworks went off in the background on television, I saw the look of fear and sadness in their eyes.  Maybe it was my skewed and negative imagination.  Big Apple Beauty’s age suddenly betrayed her, as did her loneliness.  Bachelor One of 365 gave me a stiff squeeze and I saw in his eyes a vacancy of a man who has yet to have found love.  My mother held me too tightly.  A sickly woman, she grasped me like it was her last celebration, and I saw desperation in her glare.  My father, the man I’ll always love but will never please, hugged me but stared at me with discontent and confusion.  And then there was English gent.  His once almond shaped and welcoming green eyes looked downcast and defeated.  Yes, he was my New Year’s Eve Kiss—but I felt like our lips simply grazed skin. 

We all parted, Big Apple Beauty asking for an anti-anxiety pill to help her sleep because she couldn’t stop crying.  English gent passing out in his office.  My folks meandering into their own room and Bachelor One of 365, my dear brother, off to yet another party, in hopes of finding that soul mate.  

I sat on my bed, hugged my dog and cried into his fur, threw up in the bathroom and suddenly felt claustrophobic.  I needed freedom.  I kept seeing the Thames lit up and the London Eye spewing fireworks from the news that evening—I wanted to see the water.  I drove in absolute silence to Santa Monica.  I kept hearing my mother’s voice warning me as a kid saying that only drunks drive on the road on New Years Eve.  I didn’t care.  I was in a trance.  As mentioned above, I was still in my clothes from dinner.  I looked wild.  The wind was fierce and I couldn’t light a cigarette.  I gnawed at my fingernails.  I purposely didn’t take a mobile.  I didn’t want to be reached……and I figured if they noticed the car missing, they’d known I’d gone out.  I wanted to be in a bubble.  

I looked back on my year.  Mr. X and how fucked up that had been.  My mess with English gent and all those years now on the line.  My 20’s almost over—and what did I have to show for any of it?  My relationships with people and how sour they’d gone.  Bolting from one place to another and never being happy.  London.  How I slept half my life away.  I looked at all the people holding hands or friends elated to be together on this night.  And here I was on a park bench in stupid gold boots and purse that could have paid a month’s rent somewhere.  

I sat for about an hour.  I couldn’t bring myself to watch the sunrise.  Too romantic.  Wasn’t there for that reason.  And, sorry Ethers, I came to no conclusions.  I stood up, my hair whipping me in the face, smoothed out my coat, took a deep breath, and walked back to my car where I mechanically drove back home.  

The house was still.  My dog greeted me with a stretch, but also with a pleading to sleep.  I walked up the steps, entered my hovel of a room, dumped all of my clothes in a heap on the floor and realized that the bench I had just occupied and vacated meant nothing.  It was as if I was never there.  And, I suppose I feel that often about my impact on the past 29 years of my life.  That I’ve sat on many benches and it wouldn’t have mattered either way if I’d been there or not.  And the people I love who are in pain and agony, who feel lost and scared…….they too have sat on many benches and stared at the sea and it could have been just as well had they never arrived.  

I got into my duvet coffin, the 2010 version I suppose, curled into the fetal position, dog warm at my feet, and wake today……..like any other day……….

I have no resolutions.  I have no dreams or expectations.  I’m just a girl who sits watching the ocean endlessly ebb and flow and life reflect off of it. 

Dedicatedly yours, 

—One of 365

"Aiutare"

Dear Ether, 

I don’t like to speak to anyone in Dr. W’s (my psychiatrist) waiting room.  I specifically arrive 10 minutes early before each session to gather my thoughts.  To collect myself and think about what I’d like to cover that day.  Unfortunately, he shares office space with other doctors, so I often have to sit with other patients. Everyone tends to mind their own business.  The crackly stereo plays classical music from the public radio station.  Eyes tend to stare down at laps. 

But every Thursday, whilst waiting for my 1:15 appointment, I’m always left alone with an Italian woman.  She’s in her late 30’s.  Severe black hair in a chignon.  Badly painted lips in a brick red. A dowdy outfit.  I know as soon as she walks in, flicks the button to let her therapist know she’s arrived, she’s going to begin conversing with me.  She doesn’t seem to notice my body language, my monosyllabic answers.  She often repeats the same things in a very heavy accent. 

“Ciao.  You look GORGEOUS. Always so stylish.  Oh, I wish I was like you.” Let’s just say I don’t wear my Sunday’s finest when I attend therapy, so I think she says this as an opening line to everyone.  I always smile, nod my head, thank her, and look down.  She continues.  “This week, so bad.  I am unwell.  SO unwell.  I drove 1 hour to get here and cried the whole way.  I think something is poor with my medicine.”  This is when she starts to cry—some more, I presume.  Now, I’m not in the best state either, and I don’t know how to deal with her.  She’s a total stranger, and I don’t know if she’s schizophrenic or has some other mental illness.  I attempt to calm her.  Ask her about Italy.  But she has a one-track mind.  She sometimes reaches to grab my hand.  I don’t like this at all.  Now I know this seems so cruel and cold.  But, I can’t stand being touched by strangers.  I’m also slightly scared of her.  She continues, “Please.  Help me?  You look like you can help me.”  I tell her, as I do every week, that I too am here because I have troubles and that I wish I could do something for her.  Then, like snapping out of some trance, she begins to overly compliment me about some item of my outfit again.  

Finally Dr. W. fetches me, and her eyes follow me as I leave.  I’ve told him about her.  He says he’ll speak with her doctor.  But nothing ever changes.  This has gone on for almost a year. 

On December 10^th—my Thursday appointment, as per usual, I walk in to see Dr. W.  I finally have peace as the Italian woman (I do not know her name) does not show.  What relief.  Maybe she has gone home for Christmas.  Dr. W. fetches me, I smile and crack a joke saying that the “Princepessa” has allowed me to think for once with her absence.  That I have some good things to chat about today.  Without any emotion, he tells me that she had actually hanged herself the previous week.  No one had found her for a few days.  She had no friends.  It was the smell which had alerted people of her death.  I nod my head up and down–eyes blinking, taking it in.   “You know, I spent a year with that woman.  1 day a week for 10 minutes.  She always asked for help .  And each time she annoyed me.  I’m sure that’s how she everyone treated her. And, I know I couldn’t have changed her fate, but maybe I could have made 10 minutes of her day a bit happier.” 

I guess, through my selfish behavior, I got my wish.  I no longer had to speak with anyone in the waiting room.  But gathering my thoughts in the waiting room—forget it.  All I’ll be picturing each Thursday–for a while at least–is a woman with raven colored hair, bloody colored lipstick and alabaster skin dangling from the ceiling.  What would 10 minutes have been out of 52 weeks?  Less than an hour?  Shame on me.  

Dedicatedly yours,

—One of 365

Taking life one step at a time? Or, like the ebb and the flow, eventually the waves have to end up crashing somewhere, right?

Dear Ether,

I have so much I want to say to you.  So much.  I feel like I’m always such a downer.  

I look at other blogs and they are so cheerful and full of hope and happiness.  I try to be like that.  Fun.  Witty.  Chic.  But some nights like tonight, my black cloud comes out.  That’s the breaks with a diary blog where I post daily.

I’m really lonely.  I’m really scared.  And no matter what advice anyone gives me I seem resilient to ever let it penetrate and work to ease my pain.

I have a feature due on Friday.  All I want to do is duvet dive.  

I dream of what I could have been had I felt better about myself when I was younger.  I wonder what my life would be like now if I had left England and English gent behind?  I was only supposed to be there a semester abroad–not 9 years.  Why did I have to be greedy?  Why couldn’t I have had my lovely moment and left it beautiful?

I’m sorry Ethers, but I feel rather light-headed and my stomach is a bit sick.  I just wanted to write something.  Be vital.  

Hey.  Ebb and flow.  Tomorrow could be a sassy post about fashion or another dreary entry about life.  I can’t make you any promises.  I write how I feel on the day or in the moment.  Right now, I don’t feel so good.  

It’s Sunday night at 8:24pm in Los Angeles.  My room is dim.  I’m wearing a hoodie with strawberries on it from Primp, no-name drawstring pajama bottoms in charcoal gray, I’m barefoot, my hair is messy but tied back and in my ears are vintage emerald and diamond studs.  Thought that’d make me seem more human.

Now it is 8:27.

I’m going to go to sleep.  My mind is too busy to concentrate on reading.  

Was this a pointless post?

Why the fuck do I feel so lightheaded?  

Now it is 8:30.

Ebb and flow, right?

Dedicatedly yours, 

—One of 365

A Bad Dream? Or What Was To Come?

Dear Ether,

Tick. Tick. Tick. 

His breath is calm and steady.  He is asleep.  I lay there too.  My back is turned and I am fully awake.  The room is dark except for the street light coming through the slits in the blinds.  The orange glow cracking through dances every time the wind blows making a projected light show on the bare wall.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

I leave for the States in 1 week.  I don’t know if I’ll get into a Master’s program and receive a student visa.  If I don’t, I never see him again.  I don’t think I’ve ever loved anyone like I love English gent.  

He shuffles slightly.  The bed shakes.  

Tick. Tick. Tick.

God this is unpleasant.  This time I brought my own pillow (if you recall Ethers, his idea of a pillow was a flattened, gray “creature”) but the mattress is old and I can feel the springs.  And his bedding is so shabby I’m freezing.  

It’s the kind of “in love” that I’m in that it’s almost like an obsession.  If I lose him I’ll wonder what would have been?  I’m already in agony when he’s away for the weekend to see his parents.  This is unhealthy.  He’s only 20.  He won’t risk anything for me.  Oh London. My London. I’ll miss you.  I’m going back to where I’m from–ironically, IT’S so foreign now.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

The blind wildly whips itself against the pane making the room too bright.  The bed is making me nauseous.  I’m SO uncomfortable.  I can’t stop thinking.  I’m incredibly tired and I can’t sleep.  I just won’t get on the plane.  Yeah.  That’s it.  That’s the solution.  The blind goes wild again.  The silhouettes from the street reflect on the wall in fast flashes.  It makes me jumpy.

They say try counting backwards.  That makes you tired and occupies your mind.  99, 98, 97….

Tick. Tick. Tick.

I jump out of bed and take the ticking beast, wrap a towel from the floor around it and place it outside the room.  CAN YOU GET A NEW FUCKING ALARM CLOCK, CHRIST!

He sits up in bed and stares at me.  I’m downing a bottle of water and he lights a cigarette.  

Finally, the room is silent.

Dedicatedly yours, 

—One of 365

I just don't know how many more beat downs I can take. I sometimes don't even go into hysterics anymore but go into a quiet place and stare and just leak---sort of like this picture. Life, people---they are so cruel. But why? If we all are hurt by others and hate it, why do we perpetuate it?

Dear Ether,

Let me preface this entry with the fact that this post is more of a rant and a spew than my normal writing.  It’s a bit stream of consciousness and slightly all-over-the-place.  I needed a forum to explode so with that in mind, forgive some of the speed bumps ahead.  But as usual, your support and comments always make a difference and I look forward to hearing your opinions. X

Hollywood is a whole different beast to London—especially journalistically.  The red carpet here is filled with angry and competitive reporters who have formed a clique and don’t appreciate the new girl on the block.  I happen to represent a really good title and these other girls don’t—they are working for tabloids—and that is exactly the way they behave: cheap and tacky. 

On Thursday I had a journalists nightmare.  My Editor and I spoke on the phone and she told me rumors had spread that I was piggybacking off of other journalists interviews on the carpet, asking for celebs details on the carpet and pushing PR’s for goodie bags—all NOT TRUE.  It was humiliating, hurtful, mean and so spiteful.  I thought I was doing a really good job and was actually calling my Ed to ask for more responsibility and then she dropped this on me.  She was really supportive and said that these people have done this to many of her reporters in the past.  That they want your job and that this is a small, incestuous town.  But the worst thing is, I DIDN’T DO ANY OF IT.  And what was particularly embarrassing was that it wasn’t only my Editor that new about it but other important people on the magazine as well. 

I don’t know who would take the time to make up stories about me, call the magazine and try and get me in trouble.  And my Editor told me it was several people!  I thought it was so mean and petty and cruel.  I know there’s no crying in show business—but I began to because I was gutted that I had worked so hard and that no matter how hard I defended myself, this was still going to reign in the back of my co-workers minds.  And—because I didn’t know who ratted on me, I can’t protect myself next time I go out there so I feel very paranoid.  I’m normally quite boisterous on the carpet—I’m afraid I’m going to be in a shell.

This happening,  and the drink being drugged,  MR. X, and my lovely shoe gal (but her awful name dropping friends)—I just can’t stand it anymore.  I need out.  But where am I going to go?  I have no more connections in the magazine biz in London which is a shame because I love writing that style (and frankly, I think it might be the wrong field for me—the women can be so harsh and I tend to have a thin skin).  I’m going to be 30, on no ladder, with no friends, no flat, and a broken net because of the damage done by staying with my family in Los Angeles.  And my relationship with English gent is a mess too.  

Is there something wrong with me? Why don’t I fit in anywhere?  Why are people making up lies about me?  Why are people so callous?  And frankly, my idea of a good night is not standing on a red carpet with a bunch of other cut-throat journalists who are fame hungry.  I couldn’t give a rat’s ass if a person is a celeb or not, I just want to do my job.  Please don’t think I’m not grateful to be working.  I AM.  I am damned lucky in this recession to be given this opportunity to work with a top magazine.  It’s not the magazine I’m angry with, it’s the people who are my secret enemies—people who don’t even have the balls to show me their face and approach me if they have a problem.  In short: pussies.

I want to write.  Thank god I have One of 365.  But I’m not a little kid anymore.  I’m a grown-up (can’t believe it) and I need a career.  I want to come home tired, but at least proud of my day.  I don’t want phone calls from Editors telling me some bitches called about me with lies.  I felt like I was 17 again and it was High School and I was being reprimanded by the principal.  I feel past that. 

If I move back to London, I suppose it’s back to flat-hunting on The Gumtree, temping or freelancing, and trying to remember who I cut ties with and who I can call for help. It’ll still be rainy, and people will still slam into me at the Tube station and I’ll stick out because I’m American.  And If I move to NYC, all my savings will be eaten up because of the recession.  And when I lived there, people were just as bitchy as they were in Los Angeles. 

Anyway, this is what I wrote in my defense to the accusations (and please remember, my Ed was really supportive).  There have been edit’s of course to protect identities. 

Dear XXXX,

1. I have NEVER piggybacked on ANYONE’S interview.  This is a cruel, made-up lie that someone is either extremely paranoid about or just wanted to sock it to me.  I always write XXXX  if I “group interview” and have never stolen a quote from another reporter.  I have been a victim of being piggybacked and have never been petty enough to report this.  Shame on whomever spat out this B.S. 

2. When I worked in London I received gifts bags daily.  They ranged from Burberry handbags and opulent hampers from Fortnum and Mason to gift vouchers to Harvey Nichols for 500 pounds.  I received beauty products that were worth more than some people’s car payment’s and was flown out to lush spas. I most certainly would NEVER have been chomping at the bit for (excuse me) the “rubbish” gift bags they give in Los Angeles which consist of take-away menus, bottled water and maybe a hand-lotion.  Again, that is a ridiculous and cruel rumor someone made up to humiliate me and make me seem petty. 

3. Finally, as for the e-mail exchange.  There are 2 incidents where this happened.  I forgot to tell XXXX about the 2nd.  The first was with XXXXX who I had met the night before and then met again coincidentally the next night in a row at the XXXX gala.  She and I got chatting and it turns out she and I have a mutual friend (my college roommate from XXXX in XXX).  We exchanged e-mails.  The second XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX. 

So that folks, is my defense.  I hope this never happens again—but of course, I don’t know who my hunter is so I’m out there as fresh and easy prey.  That’s L.A. for you.  I’ve known it since I was a conscious human being—this city isn’t me.  I mean, as grown-up women, we still lie and tattle on each-other? C ‘mon! Shaking Julie Robert’s hand isn’t that important to me if the price is humiliation and degradation.  At the end of the day I’m a writer, not a star-fucker. 

Dedicatedly Yours,

—One of 365