Jenna's House of Idiosyncrasies Version 10.0 [Focus.]

If you have a complicated relationship with someone, an unexpected but pernicious reminder of this fact can be had, of all places, in the greeting card aisle. Here is a place where relationships are neatly divided and categorized, and none so much as in the birthday cards. There are cards for mothers and fathers, brother and sisters, and every other member of the family. There are cards for husbands and wives, and cards filed “Birthday with Romance” for that specific sentiment, when such heavy handed gems as, “It’s your birthday and I’m thinking of you... Naked”. There are “Birthday for Him” and “Birthday for Her”, some meant to be given to close friends and some meant to hand to someone in the office after the whole floor has signed it.

There is a card for everyone in your life that has a defined role, which often people do. People who you have fuzzy relationships with are either still on their way to being important enough to get a card, or on their way out of your life. In Greeting Card Land, someone is your friend, or they’re not. Someone is your boyfriend or fiance or husband, or they’re not. There is no birthday card for the man who you met when a new friend started dating him, the man who then drew you into a bizarre triangle where you provided all the abstract elements of a girlfriend—the long nights talking, the emotional support, the understanding—and the actual girlfriend bought the sex. There isn’t a card for this man who you threw yourself at while he was still dating your friend, and then again and again after they broke up, getting rejected each time. No card for someone who initiates deep kisses when they’re drunk, knowing full well your deep, abiding feelings, and then when you bring it up a day later abruptly changes the subject. There isn’t a card for the man who, despite rejecting you, expresses romantic feelings and actions to you constantly in the space of well over a year, orchestrating candle lit dinners, posing as your boyfriend at weddings, asking you to dance in bars and in his kitchen, insisting you stay over and sleep next to him, rubbing your shoulders when you don’t feel well. And there is not a good card for someone who, after being out of touch for months, starts a letter with “Jenna Baby,” and in the next sentence refers to you as his “dear old pal”. Read More »

Work is keeping me extremely busy. These days I'm mostly working 10-14 hour days, followed by going to bed early and then getting up to do it all over again. Making calls, responding to emails, doing research, and then some coding. Due to some rather sudden, unprecedented success, I'm having a rather difficult time striking a reasonable work-life balance, and the craziest thing I have done this week so far is singing while making shampoo mohawks in the shower.

Watch out world, I'm unpredictable.

The other fun side effect to having completely overbooked myself is one morning this week, I had an intense anxiety attack, complete with a rapid heartbeat, dizziness, and an entirely overwhelming feeling of despair. I was immediately convinced that I had gone into the wrong line of work, that I was never going to get everything done, that all my clients would end up angry with me, and that I would be sued out of existence. Not that my business would be sued out of existence, but my very person — that I would slowly disintegrate as each wronged party took their pound of flesh.

As you can imagine, this was terrifying. I immediately called my father so he could talk some sense into me. When he didn't pick up on the first try I started crying as if I was trapped in a room with some kind of psychotic killer and no one was answering my call for help.

Thankfully Dad did pick up on the second try, and listened to me rant about my general panic for about 45 minutes. Then I felt mostly okay, and got back to work. The only part that really sucks is that wasn't the first time that happened, and it probably won't be the last.

But hey! At least I'm not running out of work anytime soon.

Yesterday, in celebration of former-roommate-Melissa's birthday, we sat on her and former-roommate-Emily's living room floor (there is no couch there yet), eating chocolate cake, listening to vintage polka music on vinyl. The air conditioning was broken, it was 85 degrees, and for long spans of time no one talked. It was like a avant guarde European short film made to illustrate the futility of life. But it was definitely the most relaxed party I've been to in a long time.

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One of the interesting things about living downtown is the fact that laundry day involves going to into the bars that share your building, asking bartenders to change dollars for quarters.

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Work is not great right now. I myself follow the “don't get dooced” rule, so I won't say much other that I've become very disillusioned with the entire ordeal.

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The new apartment still rules.

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It is so surreal to me that while it was not my intention for it to be so, a post to my website somehow passes for a real apology. It doesn't feel real.

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Classes start again for me on Friday. I was seriously motivated about a month ago, but lately I feel like I'm slipping. I can't organize my thoughts, I can't seem to move on certain things. I feel frozen, locked in place, or maybe even held down by some physic weight.

Of course, this is every August, like clockwork. And hopefully, like clockwork, it'll pass.

I just wish I could remember to watch for it, before I lose what little control I seem to exercise over my own wild psychosis.

The first step is to stop being such a drama queen. Stop feeding it. Stop looking for sympathy, stop trying to be so tragic. It's not romantic, it's sad and desperate.

So stop.

I'll tell you a secret: I've woken up crying for the past three days. Woken up and just sobbed for 10 or 15 minutes.

This is strange behavior under any circumstances, but especially strange because today—the third day I've woken up wondering why I bother to ever get out of bed—is my birthday. I am 22 years old today. And I've been having one of the worst weeks I've had in awhile.

If it wasn't the crippling low, it was an equally crippling bout of anxiety that lasted for my entire workday on Wednesday—nearly 8 hours of tense muscles, rapid heartbeat and difficulty breathing—that only slightly let up after I got home and incoherently babbled to Abie about nothing that I can remember now. It's been not wanting to ever get out of bed, preferring to hide in the dark and not face the world.

Here's where I need to point out that trying to hide from the world and having a birthday at the same time are totally incompatible. Even though I didn't even think they knew about my birthday at the time, Crystal and Amanda showed up at my house on Saturday night (from out of state, no less) and forced me to go a show with them, even though I had no other goals for the night than to curl up into a ball on the couch and try to disappear.

I got out of my pajamas, took a shower, and put on a show of my own: the one where I am happy and normal and not incredibly depressed.

We went to Flicker. My roommates Emily and Melissa were already there. Michael Flynn played lots of mushy love songs. He's actually fantastic, but felt distracted and in a daze.

Between sets Abie showed up, and then Bill Carson played. He's equally fantastic, and writes really sexy music, and the whole time I was thinking about how I needed to get the hell outta there into the open air, away from the crowds. I did not want to be around people at that moment.

After the set I got up and dashed out, and Abie came and found me. I related to her nearly everything, how I felt like shit, smothered by my life, that things, at 22, where not going at all the way I wanted.

Saying it aloud did help, just a little.

Just after midnight we gathered roommates and house guests and all ten of us went to the Grill.

We were all being goofy, taking pictures of each other, generally making too much of a ruckus, when spontaneously all nine people seated with me sang me Happy Birthday. It was simultaneously special, embarrassing, and the exact opposite of imperative-be-ye-not-social.

I probably needed it.

I woke up late today. My Dad called me while I was still in bed, contemplating the work ahead of me, and invited me to Winder to have dinner. I told him I had too much studying to do. He said he would come to Athens and feed me on a study break.

I got in the shower, further putting off studying, and realized there was no way I was going to pass the test on Tuesday. I got out of the shower, got online, and dropped the class.

I called my Dad. “I don't have to study anymore. I dropped it.”

“You sound ten times better than you did when I talked to you before.”

My sister and I went to Winder to eat Zaxby's with Dad. Choices in Winder are slim, see. Being in Winder made me feel kind of relaxed for some reason. Sarah and Dad talked a lot about music theory. Dad made his usual quota of bad jokes, and Sarah talked about her recent admission to a fancy music school. It was good to not be talking about myself for awhile.

When I came home at least 3 roommates blocked me from the kitchen and told me I needed to get in my room. This is a customary Apartment 6 birthday greeting.

A few minutes later, they called me into the living room. You will never guess what my cake looked like. It was the Best Thing Ever.

After I blew out the candles Abie asked me to sit down.

“We have to tell you something about your present. We all went in on something for you but it's on backorder, so you'll have to wait.”

“You guys did that for me?”

It's really awesome to find out your roommates were planning something behind your back, as long as it's not your demise.

Allison: “If you want something to unwrap I can wrap something for you—like the Prince of Weasels.”

Catie: “The Prince of Weasels is not for giving away.”

Allison: “Oh.”

I love both my families. Not because they buy me things or make me iPod cakes or pick beautiful pink flowers out for me, but because I've got people pulling for me even when things seem dark and inescapable. They love me even if I am a grump for a whole week, and they think about me even when I'm not standing there in front of them. I've been up in my own head a lot lately and forgot that I'm in a lot of other people's heads too.

Ow.

So, I don't know what I did, but when I woke up this morning, my lower back was hurting like a mamma-jamma.

Still is.

Anticipation is worse that just knowing. This is my worldview now.

Could this week get any longer?

Breathe.

Since this morning I've gone from feeling like a big fish in a small pond to one of many fish in the sea.

If you don't know what I'm talking about, just keep your fingers crossed for me. All will be revealed in time.

There is some kind of irony here.

I'm feeling so sick of it right now.

If I could just figure what it is.

Even though I feel happy, contented, or I have at least convinced myself that everything is great, I also feel like I am constantly on the verge of a panic attack.

My heart and shoulders tighten when I think about my "To Do" list. I have a constant headache, I'm either too hot or too cold and always figget. I feel overwhelmed, crushed.

But then again, I feel fine. Things feel like they are going fine. I can't decide if I am happy or freaking out.

It's not easy being me.