etiquette

What does one write in a card to an ex-boyfriend who has recently attempted to commit suicide?

Three weeks ago I found out, via email, that my very first boyfriend, the person who rocked my world at the ripe age of 15 and 16, had tried to commit suicide. For the past three weeks he has been in critical condition, in a semi-comatose state. This morning, after making a check-in call to his hospital, I learned that he is now in “good shape” and, as much as I can surmise, on the road to recovery.

I have heard suicide referred to as “the ultimate act of selfishness”. I beg to differ. Another way to look at it is that if a person has been so out of their head miserable for so long, then perhaps the rest of us (who are in a “normal” mental state) just cannot fathom the hell in which that person has been living. And, perhaps those who think it a selfish act are themselves being selfish by viewing it through the lens of their own suffering; by judging the action by the impact it has taken on them.

I bring up the idea of selfishness because that is exactly the descriptor that could be used in regards to my own reactions about his suicide attempt. Yes, I cried for him and for what he had done. I cried for the fact that he himself would, in a healthier state of mind, think it such a stupid thing to do. I cried because if he did die, it would be such an utter waste.

But sure enough, when I heard the news about him, the steady stream of thoughts that came to my head, objectively, had more to do with me than they did with him. I thought about whether my actions, despite the fact that we were together 12 years ago, as teenagers, had any role in the misery he must have felt for god knows how long. The audacity, one side of my brain told me--- how self-important are you? I also thought about what I could and would have done differently and if it would have mattered.

So now that we are past the introspection and sadness, let’s get back to the practical part: what DOES one write in a “get better” note to a friend recovering from a suicide attempt? “Get better soon”? “Glad you are still here”? Life’s pretty ok after all”? Every option seems somehow grotesque and completely wrong.

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So now, I am finally finishing this blog. My ex-b has been released from the hospital and in recovery. I did send him flowers, with a simple note, and we have responded via email. He is doing well and I have realized, consciously, that there isn’t any sort of etiquette when it comes to these situations. There can’t be when emotions run so high. It is enough that you are there.

The right mix

I am someone who has had the good fortune of never really having to deal with tragedy directly. And, I have done my best to avoid any sort of real drama in my day-to-day life to the extent that it is possible (note content of prior blog entries). I tend to approach life as if I were a machine with the goal of reaching fine tuned efficiency in my motions and momentum forward. With fluidity and efficiency being my goal, I tend to try to fit in as much as possible, of what I want to fit in, and distractions from that direction are seen as taking away from the direction I want to be going. I don’t like the way that sounds, and I don’t like the kind of person who would think and live that way, but I do like myself and I know that to an extent, my brain does work that way. It is the way I am. For whatever reasons.

But I have, finally, learned along the way that sometimes the distractions are the best part of life and more often than not, they are the experiences that truly bring enrichment. Because they knock you out of your world and give you a new perspective on it. I have finally realized that I have not failed or let myself down if I do not end up accomplishing all that I set out to do or if my path changes direction now and again. And I see that there can be as much value in not doing as much as there is in doing.

I think that finding the right balance between doing what comes naturally to you, in the life and routine you have created for yourself, and exploring new ways of living is one of the keys to getting it right; whatever right is. Not to be a cheese, who lives with machine-like efficiency, but I just got a forward from my aunt with quotes from the Dalai Lama and one of them struck me: open arms to change but don’t let go of your values.

F@%K!

I went running the other morning and left my ipod behind. I was looking forward to running sans music, as I used to do in my more spartan younger year. Also, the touch wheel (is that its real name?) on my ipod is currently not responding to my touch. I am therefore unable to listen to any other music beyond the 12-15 songs within the last playlist to which I opted to listen before the touch wheel went to pot. And while I am usually a huge advocate of heinously overplaying music, even I have my limits.

In the end, I am glad that on this particular day I chose not to listen to my latest greats just one more time, because man oh man- what an open air treat my ears had in store for them!

I was about halfway around the loop in Prospect Park, with Grand Army Plaza being my entrance point. It was a pleasant, albeit humid, morning; the sun was out and the birds were chirping and the park was luscious, green, and ripe with running activity. All of a sudden, out of the blue and green there came a vulgar, hate-filled shriek: “Yeah, why don’t you go F@%K yourself!!!”

With saucer eyes and mouth agape I turned to see what the ruckus was all about. And what I saw was hilarious--- a brown Chevy Lebaron suddenly appeared to my right, cruising uphill in the farthest car lane. Its windows were rolled shut. Behind the car was a male biker trailing close behind. The biker used his right hand for handlebar support and the left hand (and this is where it gets precious) he reserved for use towards violently shaking his upturned middle finger at the car up ahead.


F@%King fascinating.

the quickest blog i've cut thus far...

I inadvertently dropped my cell phone into a cup of beer during a party over the holidays. I remember watching the scene play out in slow motion as my cell phone tumbled out of my hand and into one of what seemed like an endless array of half empty cups of alcohol, which were surrounding the countertop over which I was hovering as I stuffed leftover pieces of carved meat into my ravenous mouth.

After that episode, my phone was beer logged and didn’t work for a couple of days and that, quite frankly, blew. But then my phone miraculously reincarnated itself. And now it is only on humid and rainy days that my phone acts up--- kind of like those people with knees that are negatively affected by the rain. On those days (this day being one of them), the phone is workable but the screen becomes digitized so that it isn’t obvious who is calling me when it rings. I thought of getting a new phone, but then I realized that I kind of like this new element of surprise.

At a time in which technology allows us an ever greater amount of control over whom and what we let into our own personal worlds, most people refuse to pick up their cells if they ring but the number isn’t recognizable. But whatever happened to social spontaneity? Remember when we used to have real home phones that didn’t display numbers and we picked up the phone even though we didn’t know who it was that was calling us? Cell phones make things a lot more convenient, but they also allow us to hide within our own little protective bubbles, for better or for worse. Perhaps there is value in being caught off guard now and again, even if it means that our lives become a little less fluid and that we are forced to deal with people and situations from which we’d rather shy away; sometimes we have to face our own demons.

the heat has gone to my head

I’ve recently had cause to stop, pause, and reflect on the fact that an entire year has passed, no slipped, by without my even realizing it. I specifically remember it being last summer. That frame of time was followed, in my recollection at least, by a very cold, drunken, and hyper-extended holiday period. Then all of a sudden--- poof--- there I was this morning, standing in a sweltering inferno of a subway station thinking that it would be more comfortable to set my skin on fire than to stand one minute more waiting for the F train. Hot damn--- another summer in the city is somehow upon us.

I didn’t immediately ponder all the wonderful, terrible, unique, interesting, engaging, disappointing, happy, and sad moments that I have probably experienced, without even realizing it, each and every day of this entire year that has suddenly passed; moments that one might argue make up life itself, and make it worth living. No, I thought about how far I had come this past year, and in some ways not so far at all, specifically in the way of love and work, and in that order.

I realized that we are taught that years are like Lego blocks, and as each one passes, that we should build upon the previous block of time, moving in a linear fashion onwards and upwards until we ultimately create the Lego land of our dreams; one that is even better than the one we wanted, but perhaps never got, for Christmas. We are also given a set of instructions, which dictate that we can do whatever it is we want within each of our own Lego lands, but that there should be four big constructs on which we focus our architectural energies: work, love, family, and home. We are told that it is these four constructs, like a four-square meal, that will provide us the necessary framework for sustaining personal growth, development and hopefully, happiness.

The Big Four are comforting in a lot of ways--- they act as cultural barometers, established to help us roughly gage our own personal levels of progress. But they are also very limiting--- and assumptive. Life isn’t always linear and as my mom always says, "it happens in cycles". Though I fear sounding a little too…shall I say, “Burning Man”…I am realizing that sometimes you have to tear down some walls, even start from scratch, before you can make steps forward; that with progression comes regression, and that this back-and-forth motion can even be healthy--- a sort of wetting of the feet.

But back to my initial realization on the fact that quite simply, time passes us by all too quickly and that sometimes you can look back and feel like you have no major, or even minor, blocks to show for yourself; that a few too many areas within your own little Lego land don’t even have a spare plank of wood to help mark their presence. My mom is a wise woman and another one of her favorite sayings is that, “you might expect to have it all, but don’t expect to have it all at the same time.” Perhaps this, and the knowledge that no two Lego lands shall be alike, is another comforting life guidepost to keep in mind.

tiny bird

I generally don’t like it when it rains. Yeah, sure, it’s great for the green stuff and it legitimizes staying in your pajamas and on the couch for long stretches of time. But I don’t like staying on the couch for long stretches of time. While acknowledging that this might be abnormal, I think that most people, aside from those bastard freaks who prefer cold weather to hot and salty foods over sweet, would agree that rainy days generally blow.

First of all, they are depressing. I don’t know why --- something about lack of sun inhibiting vitamin D production (just a guess) --- but I do know that they are especially depressing when you are a Brooklyn-NYC commuter heading into work on the F train on a Friday morning. My tiny, wretched, $5 umbrella dripped water all over the leg of one of my fellow subway riders; that made me feel badly.

In fact, just looking at my umbrella makes me feel badly--- it looks like a small, frail black bird with a broken stick leg. Umbrellas are horrible in general. I always feel like I am going to cause someone’s eye to get poked out when I use one, especially when trying to maneuver through the cramped streets of NYC.

Becky said that her friend David only uses those big transparent umbrellas that are dome-shaped. These umbrellas kind of coat your body and better protect your top half from the rain. They also allow you to see through them, minimizing the chances that you will eye-stab a fellow pedestrian. The downside of this umbrella model being that you look like a big wanker when you use one. But, function must trump fashion when it comes to rain protection. Or must it? I mean, there must be an umbrella-maker out there who is cut from a bigger, more grandiose cloth--- an umbrella maker with a greater vision. There must be an umbrella maker who can see beyond pretty colors and designs to create a modern umbrella that is hot to look at and highly-functional as well. But, perhaps he/she is plotting an even bigger breakthrough in the umbrella market. There could be mood-elevating umbrellas on the way! Tanning booth umbrellas! Umbrella jump suits! Umbrellas with rear view mirrors! Umbrellas with motion sensors! The possibilities are quite simply endless.

love train

Through several reputable sources, with New York magazine and Becky both being high on the list, I have learned that the F subway line has been officially dubbed the “love train”. And apparently, it is the first car of the F train in particular that serves as a hotbed of lust and love connections for single-but-looking NYC commuters.

I have traveled the F train many a time and after hearing the lore, have even boarded the first car, with a gleam in my eye, hoping to witness a make out scene akin to that of a frat house after hours party. But no luck- I’ve never run into anything close; not even someone macking (is that how to spell?) on someone else. The closest I’ve come to seeing F train love happened this morning, when I had the good fortune of being seated across from a new, in-train advertising campaign for Bud Light. It’s really provocative work, featuring ethnically ambiguous young adults in sexually-charged poses centered around various Bud Light bottles (e.g. women stroking enormous stand alone Bud Light bottle while man next to her holds second, smaller but erect, bottle and looks on). All of this goodness against an airbrushed blue background with sliver of moon, meant to capture the essence of the Bud Light logo, which lights up the characters’ world.

let there be love

New York is a concentrated city and whether you are on the subway or in the street, sometimes it’s hard not to overhear conversations being had around you. More often than not, the topic is “relationships”, with various personal anecdotes teetering around this fulcrum point.

That's a realization that came to me a few weeks back. I was in Prospect Park at the time and jogging uphill, fittingly, right before the turnoff at Grand Army Plaza. I passed a couple of women walkers who were thoroughly entrenched in discussion about an email correspondence with a male friend (“so, if he signed it “best”, does that mean that he’s trying to keep me at arm’s length?”). I instantaneously rolled my eyes but then caught myself, realizing that their conversation sounded a hell of a lot like too many that I have had with my own friends. I am an over-analyzer to the core, as are a lot of women and perhaps, a lot of men as well. There seems to be no sport more enjoyable, more inherently alluring, than over-analyzing interactions between members of the opposite sex, whether they be face-to-face, on the phone, or online.

I got to thinking that perhaps these days girls and guys are doing too much talking, too much thinking, and not enough doing. At that point I had just moved to Brooklyn and didn’t know any better. After being here for about a month, I have come to realize that there are many happy couples in the world, and they have all congregated in this particular borough, with plans to procreate.