I don’t like surprises–specifically when I know they’re going to happen. The anticipation is too much for the curious cat inside me to bear/bare(?). I warn you to never lead on about something you don’t want me to know about because I will nag you until you’re on the ground, whispering soft reassurances until I finally leave you alone.

My boyfriend, Tim, in an attempt to shut me up for that very reason, right out told me, a week before my birthday, that I was going to have a surprise party, or rather a surprise dinner with all my friends. Well, that’s cool, I thought. I wondered why he told me, but hey, I can’t blame the guy. I’d tell me, too.

I’ve had to act surprised before, in a similar scenario, and I’m just not the best actress in my opinion. Plus, failure makes me anxious. So I figured we could just tell everyone that I knew about me knowing the surprise. That way, we’re all off the hook. No more pretending, right? Wrong. He didn’t want me to speak a word. With that being said, I totally did speak a word. To my best friend and my roommate. And for about a week, I let the others I knew were coming pretend to not know anything. Ha. Ha. Nudge Nudge. Yeah I know you know about something you know I know… Wink. Wink.

My birthday rolls around and I’m getting a kick out of this Aloof Game everybody’s playing. I’m feeding off of it, and totally playing along. You should know, I LOVE my birthday. The attention. The pampering. I’m not afraid to admit it. On my birthday I am allowed to act a princess. Period. I couldn’t WAIT to go to dinner and it be completely about ME. Full disclosure, I got a bit aggravated with Tim somewhere around mid-afternoon for various reasons that I don’t need to go into, but it’s good for you to know. God, my writing sucks today, doesn’t it?

Anyway, we’re arguing at work and then Tim leaves to go get ready for dinner. Did I mention we work together? I meet him at his place, we argue a bit more in the car, and then we pull up to the restaurant. 6:30 sharp. For some reason, I’m feeling very emotional at this point. I think it’s because I stopped taking birth control? Anyway, Tim says, “So, you’re probably not going to like what I’m about to say, but there’s actually no one here. It’s just a you and me dinner.” My face drops. “I thought it would be a funny surprise. Isn’t it funny?” I do not laugh. I immediately burst into tears. Call me a brat, I don’t care. But suddenly, my night of drinking wine in the middle of the table amongst my friends like Jesus at the Last Supper disappears. Don’t get me wrong… I love my boyfriend and spending quality time with him, but you can’t set my expectations so high only to pound them into the cement with a bat.

Well, he consoled me, told me it probably WAS a stupid idea on his part, and we went inside. Dinner was fine, mostly consisting of me drinking wine, feeling better, and telling him how stupid he was for thinking his idea was a good one. I mean, c’mon. What an idiot, right?

We were going to meet my roommate and her boyfriend for drinks afterwards, but to be honest, I wasn’t feeling it. So I told Tim I wanted to go to the work kickball game instead. On the way home, I sulked in the passenger seat as he silently drove. Conversations were short, mostly lined with sass and mostly on my part. But I felt justified.

As we pull into my apartment complex, Tim exclaims that he’s so angry he needs to work out. So he swings into a parking spot and turns the car off. “Excuse me?” He tells me again that he needs to work out to blow off steam. I’m thinking, What? YOU need to blow off steam? And I’m not getting out of this car with you. I’m in a dress!

He comes over to my side of the car, sticks his hand out, and insists I come with him. Why? I ask. Just come on, he says. Well, I start to figure something’s up. But, you can’t blame my hesitation at this point. Was he setting me up for another surprise only to pull it out from under me? I take his hand, reluctantly, and we skirt the corner of the building. My roommate is standing at the gate to our pool and ushers us inside. Now I’m really trying to put two and two together. Are there more people here? I’m looking around, searching for movement. Or maybe we’re just meeting Hannah and her boyfriend for a nice night by the fire pit. To be honest, the latter depresses me. I walk a few paces. The fire pit is lit, but there’s no one else around. Half way there, the silence breaks as a mob of people jump out from behind the pool house and yell SURPRISE!

I always thought I could read people really well. I always thought I knew how to expect the unexpected. But I did NOT expect this. Apparently I AM blinded my emotion at times. The first thing I did was look at Tim, hitting him lightly across the chest. He was smiling, like an innocent, yet guilty little gremlin. I didn’t know what to do as everyone began to edge toward me. The spotlight had never been so blinding. I smiled and put on a happy face, because I really, truly was. But guys, I had just been balling my eyes out only an hour ago. All of my favorite people were there, even those 100 miles from where I lived.

I was so happy. And I was so sad. All in the same night. I hated Tim for what he thought could have been funny, but I loved him for knowing me so well. For knowing the only way to surprise me. God, I hate him.

Wrote this two years ago and it still makes me laugh…

When I really sit down to write, I feel like I have so much I’m meant to say. So many stories that need to be told—not real stories. Fictional ones, but I feel this visceral urge to have these characters’ voices heard, as if they were real. Are they real? In the sense that they manifest what’s real and what’s true? Maybe the only way we can see truth is through fictional manifestation. Symbols. Tales. Satire. Archetypes. Plot. Conflict. Fables. Morals. Truth is hardly easy to comprehend so it must be done so indirectly. Does that make any sense at all? I’m really just letting myself word-vomit because I’m listening to the Pride and Prejudice soundtrack with a headache.

Since getting back on WordPress, I’ve made it a point to follow blogs. I was looking at some this morning, and found myself really liking the humor, particularly from young woman. (See post below.) I was actually laughing while reading, something I hardly do. I don’t laugh when I read, at least not out loud. But, as I chuckled to myself at work, I did something I absolutely HATE doing–comparing myself. I thought, What is it that she’s doing to make me laugh? How is she so funny? How’d she get so many followers? Is it because she’s funny? Am I not funny? Why am I not funny? Because, let me tell you, when I go back and read some of my older posts, I want to gag on the effort I clear put into trying to be funny. I mean, to me, I’m just sad. Not literally. But my attempt at humor is just sad, which really is a disrespect to my father who, to me, is the funniest human alive. What am I doing wrong? When I write, I like to think my voice is coming through, but maybe that’s just because it’s in my head…

Maybe it’s because I write too much about depression and anxiety. Maybe I need to try telling stories. My problem is…I have a severe case of Not Able to Recall Words disease. See, the words sit on the edge of the tongue, and no matter how hard I try, they won’t come out of my mouth. So, as I’m writing, I end up settling for a sub-par word that definitely does not sound as good as what I wanted. Sadly, there’s no cure, which is rather unfortunate for a writer…

See? Look at me… I’m being all self-deprecating again…

“IF only I hadn’t made that mistake…”

“IF only he hadn’t slept with that woman…”

“IF only I had been more careful…”

What do these three sentences have in common? They’re brooding. They’re analytical. They’re unnecessary. They’re dependent on the PAST. And what happens if we get stuck in the past? It increases the probabality of depression. You know why? Because we cannot change the past, and anyone who lives in the past knows the feeling of helplessness in not being able to change it. Wondering what would have happened if this or that had happened is pointless. Will it change anything? Fix anything? No. Don’t set yourself up for INEVITABLE disappointment. Having depression myself, I realize there is no easy fix, as some would believe. But MAYBE, if we ridded the word “if”….

Now, there are two dirty demons who wreak the most havoc in the brain–one we’ve already covered, meaning lucky #2 must be…. ANXIETY.

“What IF he doesn’t like me…?”

“What IF I end up going crazy…?”

“What IF I have a panic attack and my friends think I’m weird and don’t want to be my friend anymore and then I’m alone with no one to turn to and then I kill myself?”

And what do these three sentences have in common? Read above answer, but replace PAST with FUTURE. How many nights have I wrestled with that small, insignificant, fragile two-letter word? I have to admit, the epiphany for this post hit me last night, and I was too excited to start writing it. Because it makes so much sense, doesn’t it? It makes the problem sound so simple. All anxiety/depression-related issues stem from the word “if.” And, ya know, like chemicals and stuff…

Clearly, this post is meant to be a bit humorous–I realize getting rid of a word won’t take away the feelings associated with depression and anxiety. But doesn’t recognizing the connection give you some perspective? Doesn’t it prove we’re our own worst enemy? Again, I am not implying that depression or anxiety can be cured or should be taken lightly. But as a victim myself, I think it’s important to start the conversation…

If only we could figure out a way to wholly dedicate ourselves to the PRESENT, we might start living…

Peter Pan had found life to be one of easy luxury. Days full of sleeping. Eating. Smelling the rubber band on the carpet. Is it alive? I shall pat it thus. Dreaming. Watching life outside. When will she be home?  

And then came the day when it all would change.

Where life was once bright, darkness has now enveloped. Between his legs, a pulsing battle ensues. Peripherals malfunctioning. What did I do to deserve this? Lethargy. Is this the end for me? The bed seems so far away. The cabinet he could once pounce atop cannot be summited any longer. Days are endless. Life grows mundane. The itch behind his ear goes un-scratched. The small pebbles of food do not taste the same. Bland. Will this last?

She comes home, finally, but he does not have the energy to leap up per protocol, greet her with a warm meow, and paw at the bottom of her leg. She’s worried. She wonders if he’s hurting. He lays there, his eyes glazed over. It’s been two days. She wraps her fingers around his neck. A little pressure, and then the world opens up. Light filters into the edges of his eyes, brightening and shaping the pupils. I can fly. Peter Pan shakes free of the phantom bond, and springs to the floor.

Oh, the cleverness of me!

From days of endorsing his own despair, stiff joints protest. He stretches high and low, and proceeds to bring life to his creamsicle fur. He licks his paws and his chest. He moves to his stomach, and then lifts his right leg… Something appears different about the space between his hindlegs. Something is missing. Numbess remains. He licks at the fur there, watering the dead soil… She makes a sound of reprimand. He looks up, and then darkness blankets him once again.