The Young Dead Soldiers

The first of the services for my dad was today...and though of course it was miserable, I'm still truckin' like I do. The reason there are two is that today was the Marines' official honoration and interrment, which they only do during the week. The service where the rest of the family can speak and share pictures and other things is tomorrow.

We drove an hour north to the state's burial grounds for servicemen and -women. It was pouring rain the entire way, so the service part of things was held indoors in their chapel. All of our close relatives were there, including my mom's side of the family. Except, of course, for my two nieces. I can't let myself hold it against them, because the older one had to work and the younger one was watching my sister's dog...but sometimes they make me wonder.

Two Marines marched in to begin the service, delivering a folded flag and the urn with Dad's ashes in it, then marched out again. A neighbor of my mom's who was in the service for fifty years did all the talking, since none of us were up to doing any, and read a poem.

The Young Dead Soldiers

Archibald MacLeish

The young dead soldiers do not speak.
Nevertheless, they are heard in the still houses:
who has not heard them?
They have a silence that speaks for them at night
and when the clock counts.
They say: We were young. We have died.
Remember us.
They say: We have done what we could
but until it is finished it is not done.
They say: We have given our lives but until it is finished
no one can know what our lives gave.
They say: Our deaths are not ours: they are yours,
they will mean what you make them.
They say: Whether our lives and our deaths were for
peace and a new hope or for nothing we cannot say,
it is you who must say this.
We leave you our deaths. Give them their meaning.
We were young, they say. We have died; remember us.

Then the Marines marched in again and unfolded the flag. They played Taps from somewhere in the back of the chapel, and just as it began, the rain disappeared and the sun came out. Then they folded up the flag, saluted it, and presented it to mom.

I have never before seriously considered going into the services. It's something that crosses everyone's mind at some point, I think, because we all know at least a few people who serve or have served. As well as my father being a Marine, I have two friends who are currently in the army, and Wren's new boyfriend is on active duty in the Navy.

I'm not cut out for the services; I know that. I'm not going to go enlist. But for just a few minutes, while our neighbor was speaking about his time in service, I really understood what it is that drives those who do enlist. Dad said many times in his life that it was the best thing he ever did and that he believed everyone should have mandatory service. He countered that only once by saying it was the worst mistake he ever made. He never pushed me to go into service, but I knew he would be proud of me if I did. It would be the highest honor I could possibly give Dad if I were to become a Marine.

But it's not for me.

After waiting a few minutes for the groundskeeper to put Dad's urn in its place, we all walked out to see it. By that time the rain was already starting to dry up, and the sun was hot. We stood around for a while and talked and cried, and then eventually wandered off to make the drive back down to town.

Most of us met up again at the restaurant where my oldest sister bartends on the weekends, and we sat for three hours and drank and ate and were really awesomely roudy. The napkin war would have gotten us kicked out of almost any other place.

Interestingly, as we were about to leave the burial grounds, the aforementioned aunt Renee came up to ask me how I was doing, and it was with genuine feeling. It's rare to see any emotion out of her at all aside from harsh sarcasm and bitterness, but she was sympathetic in a way that you just can't fake.

"I thought I was young when my father died," she said. "But not as young as you."

"How old were you?" I asked.

"Thirty-three."

As terrible a process as grieving is, and as much as I would never wish it on anybody, it does have some positive effects sometimes on those who are left here.

Blowup Doll

This is old stuff, but I'm back in a place where it fits me perfectly.

I'm everybody's blowup doll

I have no life

My mouth is open to accept your words

Or your venom

I have a skirt painted on

But it won't protect me

So pump me up

When you're ready to play

Have fun, deflate me

And put me away

I'll wait in my box

For one more day

Forever

I can't say what's wrong

Dolls can't talk

Can't get up and leave

Because dolls can't walk

I'm so naive

But I've been around the block

My eyes are open

But I see nothing ahead

I have all the fun

But I feel so dead

You ask me what's wrong

Then say it's all in my head

I've only one use

So put me to bed

You puncture my heart

And put tape on the tears

Everybody loves me

And nobody cares

I wish I could think

But my head's full of air

You say that you're sorry

But life isn't fair

(C) 2007 Skylar Blue

TMI Tuesday

1. Would you stay in a loveless relationship for the amazing sex?

Maybe for a little while, but not forever.

2. If you could only have one, which would you choose: love that lasts forever or great, body numbing sex?

Love.

3. Looking back at your past loves, which one should you have married/taken back and who should you have tossed earlier than you did?

There are none I should have stayed with longer than I did. I probably should have gotten rid of my first girlfriend way before I did...but then again, that's how we learn these lessons. A mistake is not a mistake but instead a lesson if you learn from it.

4. if you had one last fuck in you where, how and who would you “give it” to?

Whoever I was with at the time, and it would be as spectacular as possible.

5. Which is more important sex, money, love and happiness? (and no, you can’t pick’em all)

Happiness. Having those other things are part of happiness, but not all of it; and not everyone even needs all of those to be happy. Happiness is whatever you find it to be for you. And if you are truly happy, who cares if you haven't got any of those things?

TMI Tuesday #192

On Aunt Renee

All of this chatter going on in my head recently about decisions and self and all sorts of complicated human issues has brought one more realization to me. Actually, it's brought quite a few, but there's a particular one that I'm about to discuss.

I have an aunt who nobody in the family really likes because she's a bitch. I won't often call people that, and when I do, I mean it. This woman is cold and sarcastic, likes nothing more than to cut other people down, and can't take what she dishes. While I'm normally up for a good verbal war, she's one I just avoid as best I can, because she tends to hit below the belt.

My mom's and my summation of aunt Renee is that she feels the world owes her something. She grew up poor and with an alcoholic father who, to the best of my knowledge, was somewhat abusive. All of that and possibly other things left her with the impression that the world needs to pay her back for what it took from her as a child. Never mind that she now has a loving husband, a beautiful house, a steady job, and more money than the rest of us. It's become ingrained in her personality that everybody owes her.

It's come to my attention recently that I'm Renee's exact opposite: I feel like I owe the world something. I don't know why, but I've always been like that. I help other people before I help myself, I go out of my way to do random favors and won't accept repayment, and I feel guilty and awkward when someone else does something nice for me. I would happily lend any money I had to a friend in need, but I hate it when my friends buy me things or lend me money, even if I really need it. Wren bought me dinner last week and I didn't even know what do with myself.

While my outlook is certainly more pleasant on other people than Renee's, it needs some work. While I generally consider myself to be an honest person, I trap myself into white lies sometimes, saying things that I know people want to hear just because I can't stand the thought of hurting or displeasing them. When I am forced into giving constructive criticism, I give it so nicely and with so much "oh but everything else is GREAT!" that I don't think people even take me seriously.

And then I get trapped into supporting what I said in the first place if it comes up again. I'm so nice I end up screwing myself, and then I'm too nice to get out of it. I can never say, "Okay, so I lied the first time."

Just one more thing about me that I need to figure out. And then fix.

The Fake Stripper

Aiden is looking for my thoughts on his latest blog entry, which details another of our meetings that occurred yesterday. It involved coffee and a small park and makeouts and wrestling, and was pretty much exactly like all of our other meetings.

I'm not exactly sure what he's looking for in the way of thoughts from me, but I suspect he's hoping for the same thing everyone else wants from me, the one thing I can't give: a definite, in terms of anything. The way I see it, I don't want to make any big decisions or changes right now, in any direction. Not until I've managed to get some kind of hold on this horrible directionless, depressive outlook. I don't want to make a big change now and then come out of this funk later, look back and go, "Shit. What the fuck was I thinking?"

He keeps saying he's sorry that I feel guilty. I think that's both silly and pointless, as it's my problem either way. He wants to know what my plans are, what I'm doing for the summer, what I'm doing for the fall, when or if I'm going to dump Kevin, where I'm going to be living. Kevin wants to know the same thing. So does my mom. I'd like to know those things too.

"Are you still attracted to me?" asks Kevin, and I have no answer. I have no libido at all, one of a collection of odd changes I've noticed in my body over the last few months. I've definitely undergone some kind of chemical modification, and I need to find the cause.

Chemical changes can cause depression...but depression can also cause chemical changes. It could be a vicious cycle feeding itself, or it could be just way one or the other. Kevin's blaming my pills, and I suppose he could be right, but I'm reluctant to give up those particular ones, because they're a three-month pack. Then again, if that really is the cause and I have to get rid of them, I'll do it. Being here sucks.

On another topic, I made a decision and felt good about myself for doing it, since too often I tend to let other people decide things for me. Then I let someone else unmake for me, and now I'm treading water again.

I hate not having a job. I also hate the thought of taking another stupid churn 'n' burn corporate factory job where my boss will act like he loves me and then suddenly fire me without warning and for no concrete reason. (Yeah, I'm a little bitter at The Man right now.) So I made the decision to go back to the clubs. I used to be a stripper, and I had a ton of fun doing it. I got out of it when I went to work in a club that had gone so far downhill from what it used to be that these days it's unrecognizable. I made next to no money because every other girl there would sell herself, any part that anybody wanted, for a Champagne Room, and I have more self-integrity than that. I was a stripper, never a whore.

So I worked six weeks in a gas station, three months on a helpdesk, and two months in a diner. I've now been unemployed for over two months, and Kevin and I are both flat broke and I'm going fucking crazy. I told him yesterday that I'm going back to dancing, and the response began with, "Oh, please no!", continued until he was in tears, and ended up with us barely speaking to each other for two hours while we tried to make dinner. Eventually we made up, in a way, but while carefully avoiding the subject at hand.

We're speaking again, but giving each other the horribly-not-okay "okay."

"Fine, do what you want, I'll just try not to think about it."

"Fine, forget it, I won't fucking do it."

Not exactly the result I was hoping for, and now I have no idea what to do. I was expecting protest, but I was expecting the more standard variety that I get from everyone else, which runs along the lines of, "Be careful, there's bad guys, there's drugs, don't do anything stupid, I'll worry about you..."

What I got was not that, which I can deal with, but instead, "We haven't fixed our own intimate relationship, and now you're going to be selling that sense to someone else, even if it doesn't mean anything to you. I have feelings too, and now they're hurt. I can't even get the fake version!"

"It would be an insult to you if I faked it." I gave him my biggest, and most obviously fake, smile. "If you'd like the fake version, I can arrange that!"

Of course, that too was insulting and "snide." I just can't win.

The Wanderer

I believe that everybody has a purpose in life, something they are meant to be or to achieve. Some people fulfull theirs and some don't; some people are aware of theirs and some aren't. Some people have more than one.

I've been considering the idea, since about the time I started this blog, that perhaps one of mine is awakening other people. Not like a human alarm clock (now there would be a dangerous job), like a...well, I'm not really sure if there's a succinct phrase for it. But I've wondered whether my job in life isn't to wander through others' lives, pointing out to them that there is always more to life than what they are complacent with.

Many people have said to me that I have a passion for life that most people don't, that I'm enthusiastic and vivacious and can make even the smallest daily things fun. I have trouble seeing that in myself, of course; most of us are unaware or rather skeptical of those things that others refer to as our best traits. That's not what matters, though. The important part is that people see me that way, and they tend to pick it up off me.

So maybe I'm meant to wander into people's lives, shake them up, shove them off balance, and encourage them to see that there are other things out there. Then I move on to shaking up someone else. The thing is, if that's what I'm supposed to be doing, I think I'm doing it wrong somehow...because the people I shake up get strangely attached to me as a result. Is breaking hearts part of putting people on their toes, or is it a crime I'm committing unintentionally?

The Deep Dark Woods

My cute little internet handle for myself has come true: I'm literally black and blue this morning, along with a healthy dose of scratches and blisters. I look like I lost a fight, and I feel like I got run over by a fully loaded freight train. Needless to say, last night was not a good one.

It began innocently enough. Kevin and I went to the wedding of one of his close friends about half an hour away. I was a little grumpy because I'd been losing money at poker, but nothing was terribly wrong. When we reached the inn where it was being held, they were without power due to the rainstorm and didn't have a backup generator, so the wedding was held in the dark. An hour into the reception, the lights came back on and everyone cheered, and things continued as they were originally intended.

I deliberately hadn't eaten during the afternoon because I knew the reception included dinner, so by the time the ceremony was over I was starving. The food, of course, didn't show up for another hour and a half. But there was an open bar. Kevin and I looked at each other and said, "Free booze? Let's get drunk!"

That's all well and fine for him, who can hold his booze like nobody else I know. It takes most of a bottle of vodka to get him drunk, so even with the open bar he remained sober. I didn't. I barely remember the food arriving. The night melted into a blur of toasts, dancing, talking, and food. The next thing I know I was in the car trying to drive away, with Kevin standing in front of me yelling at me to turn the car off.

I started crying, and then I heard somebody say that they'd called the police. I parked the car while the groom's brother tried to talk to me, but I just promised him I wasn't going to drive and stuck the keys in my purse. Next thing I remember I found myself crashing through the woods up behind the inn. It was raining and it was dark and I didn't know the area, and on top of that I was drunk out of my mind and wearing heels. I must have fallen down every ten steps; I couldn't stay upright, but I kept going.

I couldn't seen anyone following me. For some reason that I still can't imagine, I called Wren, and I still wish I hadn't. She didn't need the worry of me slurring over the phone, "I'm in the woods! I'm running away! I don't want them to get me! Yes, I can see the lights. No, I'm not going back."

I made it to the top of the mountain, turned left, and started down again, knowing that would bring me to the road. I remember more falling than walking, but I couldn't feel any pain, and I pulled myself upright again and again and continued down the hill. Eventually I reached a logging road, and I followed that to the paved road. Now able to stay upright, I walked with a purpose towards what I thought was north. Unfortunately, it turned out later that I was actually going south toward the city, and not north toward home.

Plenty of cars went by, and I stuck out my thumb, but none of them stopped for me. I don't know how long I walked before I was surrounded by flashing blue lights. Even drunk, I'm not stupid enough to run from the police. I cooperated while the officer put me in the back of his car and drove me back to the inn, where Kevin and his friends were waiting for me.

Kevin drove me back home and made me go to bed, refusing to let me shower first. Still unsure of what was going on, I burst into tears again and sobbed while he got ready for bed himself. I could tell he was angry at me, and that just made me more upset, since I didn't even know what had happened.

We were awake until five talking about what happened and other stuff. I told him that I had cut myself again; he knows I've done it before, although I've never showed anyone before last night. His comment was, "While the art is beautiful, you shouldn't have to do that to feel better." I finally agreed to talk to a counselor, something I've been resisting for a while. I need to keep it from appearing on my insurance, because if my mom finds out, she'll throw a fit.

Mom's a little crazy in a few respects, and is convinced that all doctors but hers are quacks. She also can't stand the thought of her little girl having any problems. When I was diagnosed with asthma as a teenager, it was no surprise to me; I'd known for years. But it was practically the end of her world, realizing that I wasn't perfect. I've tried to tell her several times over the last year that I have OCD, and every time the response runs something like, "Don't say things like that! Don't think that way!" I'm pretty sure if I got professionally diagnosed, she would just go on a rant about how these things are over-diagnosed in this country and all these stupid diseases the doctors are making up are all bullshit.

In the mean time, I'm still shaking from exhaustion, and I think there's a steaming pile of something where my brain should be. Time for some tea and a quiet day. Except I still need to go have a fight with my bank about the thirty-five-dollar charge they whacked me for overdrawing by ten cents.