I have a cold. In the middle of late spring. On a continent that, apparently, doesn’t believe in air-conditioning. Pathetically, since I’ve finally started eating, I actually feel physically better with this cold than I have for the past month at least.
I went to therapy yesterday. I admit that I was terrified. Either because I was worried it wouldn’t work (this is my third therapist), or because I was scared of German intolerance for tardiness (I just completely skipped my last appointment without calling), I had been dragging my feet (read: having panic attacks every time I thought about rescheduling) for weeks. But I finally made it. It wasn’t life affirming, but there’s something to be said for having to speak in German. Normally, I find myself almost in competition with my therapists. It’s bizarre, and unhealthy, but what can I say? Anyway, it’s harder to feel on equal communicative grounds when you have to ask the word for “to find out” (herausfinden). We’ll see how it goes.
I asked my mom the other day if she was ever tempted to read my blog. Both she and my father were given the address after the first posting, and neither she nor my dad have read it since the first posting. When I asked her why, she replied that she found it “offensive.” Even braced for her typical craziness, I was sort of thrown off by that one. Offended? I went back through early posts to fetter out something that would disturb her sensibilities. I guess I said fuck a lot? But I think that what really bothers her is my open discussion of my depression. It’s not even that she thinks it will leave me with no friends, no husband, and no job prospects. It’s the Southern Belle in her rearing its appropriate head. Because in the South, one does not air one’s dirty laundry in public. I understand her concern, but I have to stand by my decision: stigmas don’t leave societies because they’re discussed in hushed whispers behind closed doors.
1) Americans do NOT eat McDonald’s and Burger King every night. Like you, it’s generally the sort of shit we buy at 3 am because we’re wasted and nothing else is open. Contrary to what you seem to believe, we do, in fact, have an eating culture. You’re just confused because it’s so much better than YOURS. You see, America is a country of immigrants. That means that when people arrive on our shores, they bring with them their beliefs, their songs, their languages, and most importantly, their chicken tikka masala. I know this seems odd to a people of Aryans, but I swear, Mcnuggets are not considered a culinary delicacy by anyone over the age of 6. Please come try our food. I would suggest that you start with Southern food (deep fried and delightful), then move on to TexMex immediately followed by BBQ. Feel free to skip over the middle of the country, casseroles aren’t really all that impressive, and move on to some seafood on either coast. Finally, pop back to Indiana or one of those other places no one can pick out in the center of a US map for some homemade apple pie. Yum.
2) Please stop giving me shocked looks when I refer to some aspect of German history. A few weeks ago someone asked me if they taught us anything about Germany in American high schools.
…
You started TWO WORLD WARS. But no. They didn’t mention you.
2: 00 am. class in 7 hours. drunk. GERMANY I CAN’T KEEP UP WITH YOUR DRINKING HABITS.
And her parting words were, of course, soo Friday? Beer? Dancing? More beer? Meals seem completely unnecessary with the amount of beer these people drink. How can you fit sausage in your stomach? I just saw you drink 4 LITERS OF PILS.
Sleep sleep sleep. Feeling better. At first, I admit, I felt pretty pathetic. Here I was, feeling sad all over again when I had been well on my way to recovery. Why was I crying over this asshole? It seemed absurd. And then, it came to me. I EARNED these tears. Why am I upset over this betrayal when he’s clearly moved on to some other, I’m sorry to say, foolish girl? Because I’m pathetic? No. Because I was LOYAL. Because instead of slowly withdrawing from my relationship without letting him know about it, I was IN it. I was there, I was committed. I was honest. So, yes. It sucks that I’m still getting over the person who so easily discarded me and then offered nothing more than, “I’m putting my life back together; I hope you can do the same.” It sucks more than I want it to. It hurts more than I want it to. But all this proves, is that I’m brave enough and self-aware enough to laugh when I’m happy, and to say when I’m not. Before I’m so over the relationship that I feel ready to jump into another one a week and a half later. I’m emotionally mature enough to own my pain and recognize that diving into another committed relationship less than two weeks later is probably not the healthiest way to recover from heartache. I’ll serve my time, because my heartache was well-earned. So I’ll cry my tears, and I’ll call Gwen every few days when I relapse. And then, I’ll move on knowing that my deportment hasn’t left half of my friends feeling ashamed of the person I’ve become.
“I could never make it to my monday wednesday 10 am class because I didn’t like the metro transfer that it required.”
Some random person just “approached” me on skype. with a digital flower. how romantic. rather than shying away from the internet predator, I became enthusiastic once I discovered that unidentifiedgenderpotentialpedophile spoke arabic, german, english, and french! So if I suddenly stop responding to emails, and you haven’t noted any morose blog postings, send for help.
you said you hate my suffering and you understood and you’d take care of me. you’d always be there. well where are you now… ?
just threw out the skunk stuffed animal Spencer gave me (how appropriate…) with the rest of the trash. His sweats and boxers will follow shortly, once I dig them up out of the storage closet. Definitely keeping the scarf and shoes, though. I do love me some orange. I’d tell him to get rid of the clothes I got him, but then he’d have to go back to dressing like a bum. Not even I am that cruel. Camille will, of course, want to be seen with him in public. Besides, just like I leave the bathroom cleaner than when I found it, it’s nice to know I’ve left that shit, if not better, certainly better dressed. So much for being civil. It’s clear, he doesn’t deserve it. He can buy new underwear, I’m not wasting the postage, or the luggage space.
hahaha what would I say? My heart is broken. I hate most of the people I know at Harvard. it’s hard to paint your fingernails when your hands are shaking?
well actually, I chose cigarettes and the dixie chicks, but I feel that the sentiment is there. not following? Does, “I will not be defeated by a bad man and an American stick insect…” help? No? WORK ON YOUR POP CULTURE SKILLS.
being the generous person I am, I shared the fruits of my pain with the world. by which I mean I opened floor to ceiling windows so I could smoke and sing to the world. much to my surprise, rather than irritate ze Germans, this seemed to please them. two men gave me the thumbs up and stayed to listen to three songs (creepy) and one young blonde woman told me I was “total toll” and sat down on the curb to listen to my heart-wrenching rendition of don’t play that song/YOU LIED (charming and gratifying).
Then Tara arrived, but more importantly, I ran out of cigarettes. So it was time to move on. Knocked on Martina’s door (Martina = my elusive and as it turns out really amusing flatmate with whom I now party) to get the show on the road and made our way to Villa. Where I consumed a white russian, mojito, and piña colada in alarmingly rapid succession. We drifted to Tangente, but were immediately repelled by the techno music and, moreover, the people who like to dance to techno music. Moved on to Mel’s where shockingly NO ONE WAS AROUND. The dance floor was completely empty. Cheap beer, though, so Martina indulged. She’s…fond of that. At this point it was time to get down to serious business. No more kiddy stuff. We were going to have to pay a cover. Tara was tired and doesn’t live in the altstadt so she said her goodbyes while the Europa Haus III ladies made our way to Cave /kaf/. They played American Pie and reggae and other absurd things, yet somehow we kept dancing and drinking beer and smoking until 5 am…A 36-year old American soldier surgically attached myself to his side despite the very good impression I was giving off of only being able to speak German. I finally gave in and admitted to being from Boston. I was feeling charitable. Until. He took it upon himself to stroke the scars on my thighs and ask (in a deeply concerned voice, of COURSE) how I had gotten them. “Ich hab’ mich geschnitten.” What? “I cut myself.” Oh. ..
Surprisingly, this did not scare him off. I finally just told him I was too young for him, though really I would be fine with the age. But what the fuck do you do with some guy you meet at a bar at 4 am? Exactly. No thanks. Also, why go to Germany to pursue American men? The real problem was probably that I was still traumatized from last weekend’s confrontation with three very very drunk soldiers who informed me and my friends that he and HIS friends had been fighting in Iraq so that us stupid democrats could sleep safely in our beds at night. It started by him asking us our age. When we replied that we were 21, he asked us if we were sure….I said something that could have been construed as rude but that I prefer to think of as sophisticated and flippant. Offended by my tone or obvious lack of interest, he responded by saying that he was just trying to protect our rights. And so it went from there. I really don’t think I walked into that one. But perhaps in retrospect I should have seen it coming. Those haircuts are rather distinctive. But they were talking to a German! And that coward didn’t say a word against them. Though, really. What are the chances that a German approves of American foreign policy of the last 8 years?
Anyway. We finally left as the place was closing. I was exhausted, anticipating a hangover, and having been amazed by my ability to walk a straight line, silently attempting to repeat the alphabet backwards. Just as I was about to express my exhaustion, Martina piped up and said, I’m not tired at all! Want to have a beer or some wine when we get back?
…
Martina. You know that sound you’re hearing right now? Those are birds chirping. And see how the sky is changing color? THE FUCKING SUN IS RISING.
We had wine. And more cigarettes. She asked me how I was doing about the most recent twist of the knife and then recounted a story of a friend who called her from thailand with the news that her boyfriend had given her herpes and HPV. I conceded (reluctantly) that it could be worse. Spencer fucked me, but at least he didn’t leave any diseases behind. When Martina suggested we now move on to beer I had to put my foot down. I wasn’t wasted so much as dehydrated and vaguely nauseated by the smell of cigarette smoke all over me. Of course, having bid my farewells, I did nothing to remedy either of these problems, neither drinking water (instead stupidly chose orange fanta?), nor taking a shower (tooooo farrrr).
I did, however, call my mom and gwen to assure them that I hadn’t done anything foolish, that I’d enjoyed myself, and that I would demonstrate better taste in men in the future. Then I chatted with Mandy, or rather, I blubbered incoherently insofar as one can blubber incoherently via instant message, and she gave comfort and support and all of those things that a friend should give. So did Lena, bless her, who hid out in the basement of a restaurant among dust heaps and boxes in order to video chat with me and make sure I was doing ok. It’s nice to know that some people understand the importance of knowing your friends are on your side.
or at least it better have. though I think I may have thought that before… my solution? dancing and white russians! tara arrives in an hour. time for a quick shower, a fabulous dress, and some bright red lipstick. peter randomly messaged me a few minutes ago to ask if there was something going on he could join. I said nope. Tonight is girls’ night.
Additionally, I went grocery shopping today AND finally got my laundry after letting it sit for two days. A nasty little habit I got into at Harvard that I really need to grow out of. These Germans are shifty characters and I wouldn’t want my knickers disappearing into some perv’s collection.
lena arrives soon and has promised to a) cook for me and b) tame the wild beast (my hair, which against all odds, seems to have REJECTED the chemical straightener I put in it before leaving for Germany. it’s tighter than ever and a huge pain in my ass) Checked London for my hair products. Unsuccessful. It seems I’ll need to continue to have friends import it from the Americas for me. Like tobacco. Or cotton.
My Dad, true to form, is coping with my depression the way he copes with everything. RESEARCH! Apparently I will soon be receiving a copy of the latest PBS special on clinical depression. I investigated online and you can have it gift-wrapped! How thoughtful. Gives it such a nice touch. Regardless, Kudos to Dad for making a productive effort!
Saschathatdeviousbastard is still on the loose. Evading my flour trails with ease. All I’ve found of him is his shedding. Time to move on to pinky mice traps.
And since I know that pretty much no one else will have the spine to say anything to him. Spencer: who ARE you? is Liane as disappointed in you as I am?
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