Apparently, I only come back to my poor, neglected blog when I'm depressed

I feel disconnected from something that is inherently myself. Something in me pressed pause, but the rest of me kept going and now that piece of me is lost. I don’t know what to look for. Where did I go? Is this sense of displacement a sign that it’s time for me to turn inward, then outward again, and tell my story? That’s what an honest writer does: he turns himself inside out. And for public consumption, no less. I’ve always been hesitant to tell my story. I feel I won’t be truthful or project the lightheartedness years of perspective are supposed to have granted me. It all still feels so raw. The fights I had with my high school boyfriend about sex still aren’t humorous to me (well, most of them aren’t, but, in hindsight, fighting about fingering in a driveway after breaking up is sort of comical). God knows I don’t want to depress people, and by people I mean me, by rehashing my life then offering it up for judgment. So, I’m selfish – another sign that I’m meant to write. If I were also an alcoholic, there would be no dispute.

Clichéd New Yorker Sourness

Once when I was young and being a terrible little shit, my mother looked down at me and said disparagingly "I love you, but I don't always like you." This is how I feel about New York. I often chide people for making the mistake of treating this city like a living, breathing organism and the genesis of all their problems. I won't go that far, but I've been thinking about two comparable situations: Some people encourage you to look up at the stars, out into the universe, and, upon witnessing the vastness of the cosmos, you'll feel insignificant, and so will your problems. I think this might be bullshit. In New York, you can't see stars, but all you have to do is look out into the skyline at night, see all the buildings lit up, with lives going on inside them that are in no way connected to you, to find that your life is fairly irrelevant. This strikes me as negative. My problems don't disintegrate when I'm gifted with the knowledge that my life is a mere blip in the scheme of things.

What am I trying to say? I'm lonely. This enormous city with all its people, its culture, its vibrancy and aliveness makes me feel so utterly insignificant. It's a sobering feeling when you're supposed to be young and drunk on life.

Also, as an afterthought, but related to this problem: I love my friends, but I don't always like them.

Still alive, still fertile

Dr. Aaron left me a voicemail saying all the tests came back to her normal. "Normal" doesn't explain this phantom pain, but I'm still elated. For a woman to be robbed of her reproductive capability, I imagine, is comparable to a man being told that his sperm are lazy bastards with little interest in rushing out and propagating the species. It might make me feel less like a woman. What do you do when your primary form of identity is damaged? My heart aches for everyone who actually has to go through this. Just skimming the surface terrified me.

Irresistible

This disperses my grumpiness every time without fail.

Hiding

New York is all shades of grey today: grey buildings, grey sky, grey slush covering the grey sidewalk, grey faces from lack of sun and real air. Due to the threatening weather, we were released from the office early and I babystepped home, terrified of slipping and breaking my ass, thus rendering me useless for St. Patrick's Day. The sleet storm was daunting. My friend messaged me "come 2 met?" and I told her I was easily intimidated by messy weather. I stretched out across my loveseat in my miniscule living room, "French Kiss" on low in the background, and finished Carnet de Voyage by Craig Thompson. He compiled a travelogue with touching sketches documenting his publicity tour through France, Morocco, Switzerland, and Spain. He was so emotionally honest. I was indulgent and allowed myself to live vicariously through him as he ruthlessly exposed himself. I so often find myself in a place of cowardice or paralysis when it comes to peeling away and laying bare what's happening inside me (confessing my feelings into the internet's anonymous void does not count). Immersing myself in his experience broke me open a bit. Pages 221, 222, and 223 made me weep. He said "I love you." He did it repeatedly and without hesitation. How can anyone be so brave?

On Sonograms and Rogue Lubricant

The pain in my ovaries was getting worse. Worried about my health and my (far, far into the future) plans to eventually make babies, I made an appointment with my OBGYN. She maneuvered her jellied, rubber gloved hands around inside me and, just as I was starting to draw comparisons between myself and a Thanksgiving turkey (we both taste good with cranberry sauce?), she said "I don't feel anything, but I'm going to schedule you for a sonogram anyway." Two weeks later, I found myself "stripping from the waist down" with my stained beige gown "open to the front" in a dressing room with no lock whose door refused to stay shut. The nurse directed me into Room 4 and I hopped up onto the examining table, still wearing my little red flats because I could think of no reason to take them off. The room was late-night-bar dark. It would have been romantic without all the machinery and the nurse pressing down on my pelvis with a bizarre humming instrument that could see through me. I stayed still as she measured my reproductive organs (am I supposed to feel pride like a guy if they're larger than everyone else's?) and when I thought she was done, she said "Now we're going to do an internal sonogram!" with the perk and enthusiasm of a museum guide. "A what?" "Oh, you've never had one before?" She held up a long vibrator-esque device with a small camera built into the tip. "Who does this regularly?" I thought as she explained that I would be inserting the instrument myself. I went to pee and contemplated the absolute absurdity of sticking a foreign object into myself while a complete stranger watched. I assured myself that people all over New York do it on a regular basis, and not just for medicinal purposes. When I returned, she had covered the device with a large, scratchy looking plastic condom and about three pounds of K-Y jelly. I lay on my back, my feet in their little red flats thrust into stirrups, held up the vibrator with the camera at the end and asked weakly "What do I do again?" "No no no no!" my nurse protested. The K-Y jelly lurched, gave in to gravity, and dropped... right onto my cashmere sweater and began mingling with my hair. "That's why you don't hold it upright" she scolded as if it were common knowledge. I took a breath and inserted the instrument. She moved it around. I wanted to look at my ovaries. She wanted me to keep still. "Do you see anything?" "Oh no no no no," she said, an obvious fan of the emphatic and multiple negatives. "I don't give out results. Your doctor will have them on Thursday." Then she handed me a box of baby wipes to clean myself up and left me to dress alone in the mood lit examining room. I left the office, went back to work, and told everyone I had gotten into a lubricant fight with my nurse.