I am a master at rising to the occasion, meeting or exceeding what is expected of me.

Conversely, I languish under low expectations.  I am unhappy and unfulfilled under them, longing for a challenge, and completely uninspired to achieve anything that might resemble my full potential.  I keep myself distracted.  I find other things to occupy my time.  Sometimes I set up new challenges for myself, but it's easy for me to forget them or change my mind unless I commit myself to something.  I set goals with no motivation to achieve them.  Over time, I all but forget all about things like motivation and drive.

I'm experiencing this now.  It's my job, and it's my relationship. 

I can push myself, but I need a goal, I need a destination.  I need structure.  School provided that admirably.  "Jump through these hoops."  "Write a poem."  "Research sex."  "Practice piano."  "Complete this elaborate sequence of tasks, piece your schedule together like a puzzle, and we'll give you this nice cream-colored piece of paper with your name on it."  The long-term goal is clear, and the short-term goals are immediate and obvious.

Since leaving school, I've been drifting.  Testing my boundaries, seeing how much I can do without actually accomplishing anything.  The bar has been lowered.  Now, there's a certain level I'll never get below but have no motivation to get above.  If I have a peak of sorts, it'll still come down to this same level of the status quo.  I'm setting my sights higher, but it's hard to maintain that energy when it's not required or appreciated.

I find it's the same in my relationship.  There's a level of comfort, certainly, and it's nice not to have to impress anyone.  But it's easy to see how married women "let themselves go," a phenomenon I've never understood until now.  I'm in no danger of getting fat, but I have neither pressure nor motivation to, say, shave my legs.  So I don't, though it was something I used to think necessary.  Sure, it's harmless enough.  But I don't like the idea that I might be less of a person in a relationship than on my own.  That isn't right.

As I was working on some cover letters at Durango Joe's last night, Scott called to say he was making dinner, and he would have it ready for me when I got home. How nice! So I finished up my work (well, didn't quite finish) and headed home.

Imagine my surprise and delight when I walk in, and not only has Scott made dinner, but he rearranged the living room (we'd been talking about it--I bought an end table but couldn't—am not allowed to—lift it, and he brought that in and moved the bookcases and such) and sorted the recycle for today. Plus he'd done the dishes earlier. Great! I thanked him profusely and complimented him on the delicious dinner. I was in a good mood, and it all seemed like it was going to be a good evening.

From there, things started to go downhill.

I tried to bribe him with sexual favors into giving me a massage, and he seemed to like the idea. We got nekkid, and were playing around, but he was being too rough, biting too hard, spanking, et cetera. I said "ouch" when he did and tried to discourage him, but I finally had to tell him to knock it off.

He sure did. He rolled over, pulled the covers over his head, and wouldn't look me in the eye even when I rolled him over to face me. I tried to tell him I didn't mean to be short with him, but he was having none of it. So there he was, suddenly sullen, and there I was, wishing I could go back to five minutes before when everything was so great and feeling bad for making him feel bad, and frustrated because I was so completely shut out that there was no in again.

So I put on my robe and left the room, sat on the couch, crying and playing guitar, half-trying to write a song but the words wouldn't string together. About one in the morning I settled into the couch and tried to sleep. I felt like it was my fault, but at the same time I kept hoping that Scott would see he was overreacting and would either apologize or forgive me. Of course he wouldn't, and didn't.

At 4:30, I woke up and couldn't get back to sleep, and I finally went to bed and found Scott awake too. We reconciled, almost without words, and I was finally able to fall asleep in his arms. In spite of everything, it still manages to feel like the safest place in the world.

I've had all these feelings lately, that leave me quite confused and helpless, for all the strong and enduring woman that I appear to be.

When this shit happened, I didn't ask questions. I guess I was afraid to find out the answers. So since then, I've been treating it like a great accident, terrible but it could have happened to anyone. I've been loath to cast judgment. But now...

I heard it from my mom. She just can't believe how I could still be with Scott after what he did, and it never occurred to me that perhaps she knew more than I did. Again, don't ask, don't tell, don't think, and maybe I can pretend it never happened. I'll always have the scars to remind me, but I can still forget. It doesn't have to change my life.

I know I have to learn my lessons, but that's all I've hoped or expected or figured would come of it. Get a new tattoo, stop getting so drunk, and buckle down. Put myself first now that I have had some hard proof that I'm at best second. At worst, a damn fool. And yet, I still hate to admit it because it makes the world seem such a lonely place. I know it, and at the same time can't help but leave the niggling incredulity in my mind that says I must be wrong, I must. And I wonder if I would throw myself upon the mercy of fate yet again if the opportunity arose just so that I might try to prove it.

A poor hopeless romantic to the end, even if it kills me. I say that with tongue in cheek, but I'm still frightened by the possible truth of that statement. Even if it kills me...

I might have died, perhaps. I wouldn't be the first person to die from fisting, my mom tells me. It can't be anything but a violent act, even when both parties are willing. It's all about power and control—not a desire to hurt per se but a willingness to take that risk.

It's all so easy for me to pass off, always wanting to think the best of people, and even better of the people I care for, but I can still be brought up short if I have to stare it in the face and ask myself, how on earth can I want to be with someone who is willing to take such a risk with my physical well-being, and how can he be trusted with an instrument so delicate as my heart?

I have no good answer, but I still can't bring myself to believe that he would have done it if the circumstances had been different just so, or if he hadn't been drunk, or if he had known what the risks were... And in spite of it all, I still trust him. And beyond that, what I need now more than ever is support, and wouldn't I be a fool to shed myself of my strongest pillar now, because even if I wonder if may crumble at any moment, it has proven still to hold.

The same things I fault my mother for in relationships I can so easily justify to myself, masterful as I am at it. She, who will not leave Rich because things could be so much worse; she, who is afraid because she doesn't trust that better truly exists and doesn't want to be forced to find out the hard way. "What a way to live your life," I tell her, and here I am.

I pretend my life is different because I am not married to him, or to this life. I can still change, and soon enough I will, so why do anything hasty? Why cast him off just to find myself alone when that is the last thing I want right now? Not to mention the practical considerations of finding another roommate or paying twice as much for rent for March, April, and May? All valid points, but none of them the real reason. I'm scared. I don't trust in my ability to meet people, let alone the right people. I can't bear the thought of not having him there to hold me when I need someone's touch. And I can't bear to think that maybe it's been a waste, that I've inadvertantly fallen into some trap, cupid's cruel game that I would fall in love with the first man I laid eyes upon, or in my case rather the first guy who was nice to me.

I'm not ready to give up. I am still an idealist. Like Jewel, "I'm sensitive, and I'd like to stay that way." I am not willing to be the bitter and jaded person that experience has, or should have, made me. I resist! I shall believe in love, even if it kills me.

When it comes down to it, we are ultimately responsible for ourselves. If we aren't looking out for ourselves, then we are responsible for whatever happens, like it or not.

I had lunch with my mom yesterday. I had been missing that, and the recent turmoil with Rich may yet do some good, though I'm hesitant to expect and great change. In any case, over the course of the conversation, she said that I espouse Christian values more than anyone she knows. My take on the subject is this: Leave "god" out of it. I don't need a book, a preacher, or a congregation to tell me how best to live my life. The "higher power" people seek is not something found outside, but rather within themselves. But of course, as my mom reminded me, human nature in its most basic state, as found in a newborn, is selfish. Evidence of this abounds everywhere you look: the Exxon-Mobil CEO who makes as much in a day as most of us with be content earning in two years; the people who drive gas-guzzling vehicles and devour our natural resources because they feel entitled; the cheating spouse who does it just because she can... I don't cite these examples to claim that this is the norm, but only to establish that selfish human nature prevails in many cases.

And even from those we most trust and cherish, we cannot truly expect (and indeed have no right to demand or expect) anyone to put our best interests ahead of their own desires.

More than once, I have learned that lesson the hard way. I can appreciate my strength of character and force of will for helping me pull through these difficult times, but that doesn't change the fact that this time, I will have the scars to live with for the rest of my life. As good as I am at putting the past I can't change and don't want to be crippled by behind me, I will have this as a reminder.

And I have no one to blame. It was his doing, certainly, but I knew better. I had had too much to drink, not for the first time, and so had he. It's all fun and games until someone gets hurt.

Because I must, for my own sanity, I did at least learn a valuable lesson. In showing disregard for yourself, your own health and safety and general well-being, you don't exactly inspire the most noble facets of those around you to come to the surface. And when those less virtuous qualities rear their ugly heads, you have to have the presence of mind and self-respect to fight them off. Period. No one but you can or will do so, 99.9% of the time.

If I needed a reminder (and it seems I do, since I ignored the handful of other negative consequences) of what can happen if I drink too much and/or let people push my boundaries drunk or sober, I have only to look at my scars. And if I needed a lesson in humility, I get to carry my shit in a bag twenty-four hours a day for a month. And if Scott needed a lesson in self-control and putting someone else first, well, he has the hospital bills to contend with.

Anyone who knew me when I was a little girl can tell you I was obsessed with dolphins. I had little statues and pictures... I probably did hundreds of drawings of dolphins, and for a class project in elementary school I illustrated twenty different types of dolphins, using my Greenpeace book and the Wildlife Fact File as resources.

So I've been thinking about marine biology. I'm getting antsy, and I've been asking myself, is this what I want to do for the rest of my life? I enjoy graphic design because I'm good at it, but do I find it fulfilling? No, not really. I thought about (and am still considering) studying Holistic Nutrition and Naturopathy, but I can think of something better: marine biology, my childhood ambition. I'm about to find out: can I really be what I wanted to be when I grew up? I can't think of anything better than living near the ocean and having to SCUBA dive and be on boats to do my research.

I've applied to three schools so far, in California (Monterey and Long Beach) and Oregon. I'll be applying to University of Hawaii at Hilo and Hawaii Pacific University as well. I selected these schools based on my preference for living, affiliations with research institutes and/or graduate schools, and because they offer a marine biology major.

I have always felt that society has no right to dictate to me what I should or should not do and on what schedule. They really don't know me as well as I know myself, so I assume my right to question, ponder, and reject (sometimes to my own detriment) the norms of society.

Hence my disdain for age-based legislation, and the school system. I find that there are always exceptions to these arbitrary distinctions, to the point of absurdity.

I dreamt that I was marrying Scott. It was outside, perhaps in winter but not cold, in some place I didn't recognize. I had written it on a calendar, though I couldn't say now what the date had been, and a few people were there. Scott's friends, mostly, and none of mine. No Scott, either. I was on the verge of telling everyone it was just a joke, not for real, they could all go home now... But I couldn't bring myself to say it, though I wanted to many times. I was afraid Scott wasn't coming, and it occurred to me that perhaps no one had told him. Maybe no one (me) had even asked him...

And I woke up, with Billy Joel's "The Stranger" stuck in my head.

I ran into a car on my bike today, about an hour ago. I'm okay, for the most part, and everyone was really nice, but I was mortified, and my knee is killing me. I think I need to go home and ice it.

For a while now I've been hovering on listless. I haven't gotten too far from it, even when I'm "happy" or should be. I'm afraid that... I don't know. That I'll never move past my mistakes and my self at my worst. I feel trapped in my job yet again...

All I want is to be paid what I'm worth for the work that I do. Is that so much to ask? Instead, I have to spend 7-9 hours at work, whether I'm working or not, to make it worth my while to be here. It would be great if I could just collect $40 an hour while I'm working, and be able to go home when I'm done. I need to go into business for myself.

I plan a year here. It's been nearly five months, which is about the longest I've kept a job ever, frankly. I get bored easily... Lack of stimulation wears me down, when my time is bought by the company I work for, and so cheaply! Yes, I'm getting paid, right now, to write a journal entry, and to be on MySpace, and to work on personal websites. I understand that I'm getting paid for nothing. But it's almost an insult.

I don't really merit more, though. I'm fresh out of college (actually, until December I'm not technically "out"), and young, a whippersnapper. But I know what I'm doing--I grew up in the computer age, surrounded by the technologies I use now on a daily basis. At fourteen I was a Photoshop wiz, and I've only gotten better. I want a real challenge.

She kicks on her slippers without a word, a tightness in her chest. She shuts the door carefully. It isn't anger. Sadness? She thinks back to what was said, and all that was forgotten. What had she learned, really? Unable to think anymore, she flips open a book and stares at the page. A sigh. What's the point? She can't be sure of anything anymore.




Those damn words. It's always a risk, isn't it? One can't ever be sure. If one were smart, one might simply stop saying them and exposing oneself to that hurt. But that's destructive itself. Wait and see...

Interesting weekend. Not one that bears repeating very often, because I didn't get anything done, but that was almost the point.

I did at least clean my car thoroughly, which was the main goal for the weekend. I spent most of Saturday doing that. Then around 5:00 I went to Casa de Fowler, played drums (sort of) and made spaghetti, and drank jungle juice until midgnight. Then I took a hit of acid and tripped all night with Scott, in a closet under the stairs, in the dark.

4:30 a.m. or so a gun went off. A bullet from the .38 Special went through the ceiling, through the floor and the mattress, and grazed Mark Fowler's ankle. I, in the closet in the dark, didn't quite grasp what had happened, but I heard the gun go off. What I don't understand is where these kids got it into their heads to be passing around a loaded gun inside the house while drunk/tripping. Thank goodness no one was hurt...

Anyway, I spent all day yesterday in bed&mdashI was really only vertical for two hours or so... lying and cuddled and talking with Scott, and then sleeping all afternoon. I woke up around 8:30 p.m., considered making dinner, and went right back to sleep.

I haven't been updating. I've written a few journal entries in my black book, and I've written some MySpace blogs, but it's not the same. My LJ is something else entirely: it's a chronicle of my life, in great detail. It is my external memory—I can consult it for dates that I've forgotten, details that had slipped my mind, and a record of how I felt at certain periods in my life. It is a chronicle of change. I will start writing in it again.