Origin Story

This is the story of What Happened. It is not pretty, and it's very personal, but it is my hope that in getting this OUT and having an easy reference point or record of some kind, I can begin to let go. This is also the LAST TIME I wanna talk about it. I'm not avoiding it or repressing What Happened, but dredging up negativity isn't fun for anyone. So I'm putting this out, I'm releasing it into the ether, and this way if anyone wants to know there's an easy reference point. This is letting go of anger, This is What Happened. It's no longer what is happening.

So yeah, this is raw, it's ugly, it specifically mentions the time Jay sucked a dude's dick, and it's petty and childish and awful. I realize that. But tell you what: hold on to a) a secret like that for 12 years and b) have that person SERIOUSLY FUCKING WRONG YOU and you may allow yourself a little venting. I'm sure there's an alternative version of this story somewhere on the West Coast with it's own set of opinions and truths. You're welcome to cross-reference, but this is the last I'm saying about anything.

At some point, I will wish him well. Now is not that point.

I'm willing to be petty and small and air some dirty laundry if it means I can let go of it. In fairness, Jay is welcome to tell his side of the story, and all the awful things I did to him. All the times I yelled at him, or treated him unkindly. Oh, wait there aren't any? Oh, awesome, OK then. Moving on: I went into the the Seminar with a healthy amount of skepticism- after all, the first three pages of Google results identify it as a cult.

My friend Alex and I joked on the way down about all the BDGs (Broken, Damaged Girls) who would be there, crying about their breakups and divorces into a microphone in front of a roomful of strangers. We giggled as I envisioned myself making unsympathetic Danny DeVito "Penguin" noises after each sob story: "Whaaaank, whaaank whaaaank!"

After we got there, though, we could see a large variety of people- not just BDGs, but... just... everyone. And when the first few people spoke, confused boyfriends, adulterous newlyweds, bewildered single parents... it was touching, but later as it grew more intense the real stories started coming out. One girl in her early 20's took the mic and described how she'd watched as her father murdered her brother and mom. How she'd gone to foster school dirty and afraid, and was beaten frequently.

I looked over at Alex and held up two Penguin Hands and we both vehemently shook our heads no, eyes wide with horror at this girl's tragic origin story.

I say origin story in the same sense that every superhero has one- some defining rough moment or moments which forever seals their fate into who they must become. But as Iearned, Who We Become has NOTHING to do with anyone but us. I was convinced I'd gone to the Seminar to get over my Ex. I hated him, I wanted him to suffer as I'd been suffering- I blamed him for everything I'd been through the past year and a half and I wanted to get over my anger and MOVE PAST it. I realized that everything was 100% Jay's fault and I was fine like that. I mean, obviously! Look at me! "I'm fine, I'm fine, I'm fine," I'd insist, sobbing.

The Landmark Seminar taught us to differentiate between What Happened, like, what ACTUALLY PHYSICALLY HAPPENED versus the story we tell ourselves about what happened. What Happened was that Jay left me when he searched our computer's browser history and realized I'd been researching ways to overdose on perscription antidepressants and sleep medicine without causing a coma. I'd told myself that that meant I didn't deserve to live.
What Happened was that Jay said he didn't love me anymore. I'd told myself that that meant I was unloveable.
What Happened was Jay left me, sobbing and begging him not to go, literally clutching at his ankles and hysterical on the floor wrapped in a pile of electrical cables.
(The only thing he left behind as he vacated our Hollywood apartment.)

I'd been the one living like I never got off the floor. I remember staying on that floor for 4 hours. I couldn't move. I couldn't speak. I couldn't even see- I was experiencing hysterical blindness, and was terrified when I reached for my phone to call him and couldn't see the numbers- I accidentally called my mom, and scared the shit out of her gasping out some kind of desperate choking sound. I had cried myself out to the point of immobility. I don't recall how or where I spent that night.

I don't remember a lot about the next few days, actually. I look back and just remember darkness. I stayed in our apartment through the end of the month, because Jay and I were going to get back together- things were fine. He'd promised. We were just separated, and even though I'd suggested the separation so we could both work on ourselves (he'd been completely uninterested in our marriage for months and spending all his spare time out with other girls, at my exclusion) and I was curious what it might feel like to be wanted again. By someone, anyone, else.

Jay told me he wanted me to work on certain things- I needed to prove that I could completely support myself (as he no longer wanted the responsibility) and I needed to get healthy. No more crying all night and sleeping all day. No more tranquilizers and memory loss from the handfulls of pills I'd have to take before I could get any sleep. He wanted me to live on my own and get into a routine. Very reasonable.
For me, I didn't ask him to work on anything- After all he was flawless in my eyes.

I simply wanted him to miss me and love me the way I thought he used to. I had fallen into a terrible depression since we'd moved, and the 4 months I spent while he was in New York had taken a terrible toll on our relationship. Jay promised me before he left that he would continue to manage our bills and paperwork electronically, as he had done throughout our marriage. I was happy to let him do so- he'd let me down over the past year by avoiding paying bills because he wanted to file for bankruptcy and I didn't. He also told me he would handle getting some sort of compensation from the moving company which robbed us and vandalized our stuff when we moved to LA. A year had passed and he hadn't made any progress- I felt like he wasn't keeping his word to me about getting it done, and that he was failing to stand up for us. So I was happy to let him handle the bills because dammit he needed to do SOMETHING, right?

(I wasn't very big on the concept of "taking care of myself," Like, at all.)

I was convinced he was cheating on me in New York. When he returned, he seemed like a different person- all he wanted to do was party and drink. He picked up some Ecstasy pills from an employer and brought them home in his pocket. MY husband? drugs? This wasn't him! I demanded he return the pills, and he told me he would but then, at that point, he had checked out and was telling me whatever he thought would make me cry the least. He began turning lights off to rooms that I was still in.

He stopped talking to me- and the more he pulled away the tighter I clung- the more fearful and desperate I became, terrified that he'd leave me. I'd sit up all night with him watching while he played XBox games- we were playing together (or so I thought) until I came home from work ready for the final battle in Oblivion when he shrugged me off and casually announced that he'd beaten the game that morning. "Why didn't you wait for me?" "I didn't think you cared." He had forgotten I was even in the room at that point.

I never hurt myself before I met Jay, but I started to fairly on in our relationship. It began when I took him back after he cheated the first time. I HAD to forgive him, he said, or he couldn't handle feeling guilty and he'd leave. Since I couldn't be mad at him, I began to be mad at my body instead. Little wounds I could suffer, little outlets for pain I couldn't express to him, because it couldn't be his fault I was unhappy. In Hollywood, towards the end, I'd bring my "tools" with me to work, and sit in traffic on the way home til the blood ran to my elbows. Because it simply wasn't his fault I was so lonely. He'd bought me those self-help books a while back, hadn't he? See? He cared.

I tried drinking just to keep up with him so we could do something-anything together, but we were going through a bankruptcy and he'd blow $90 at a time on tequila shots. When I was too exhausted to play and had to get up at 5:30AM for my CSI Internship, he'd go out clubbing without me, spending more money we didn't have. Then he started spending time with other girls- some I knew to be homewrecking whores, and others I merely suspected. I was so desperate to just BE with him one night after I'd taken Ambien and Xanax to sleep, when he texted to say he was at the club across the street (with HER) I got out of bed, got dressed and stumbled across Hollywood Boulevard to join them on their date. I ordered a drink. He was not amused.

She spent most of the night laughing at me as I repeated myself, slurring.
Total third wheel.
They let me wander home alone that night I guess.
I woke up alone.

At some point I'd cut myself again.

After that, he stopped telling me where he was or who he was out with. I was only his wife- I didn't really have a right to know. He was going to marriage counseling with me, and we spent pretty much every session arguing over HER. I didn't like that he was out with her and not me while I was at work. He thought he had every right to do so and was sick of my depression. Witnessing the destruction of my Fairy Tale, I became despondant and began wondering how I should kill myself to get his attention, but still allow my mom to have an open-coffin funeral.
(Many overdoses and hangings create disfigurement. Totally tacky.)

My alarm went off at 5:30am. I'd hit snooze and assume some sort or prayer position, knees curled beneath me as I buried my face in my pillow. I'd then make my way to my closet, where I would sit and shake like a frightened animal, dreading the next 16 hours. He never once even reached out to touch me. I don't think we had breakfast together even once. Not that I was eating.

Our therapist suggested to me that we separate, and I pitched the idea to Jay who was ecstatic with the plan. Two months, that's it- then we'll get back together- I promised Jay to fix what was wrong with me and he promised to... well, there wasn't anything wrong with him, right, so... he promised to stay in touch. Somehow, though I had a baaaad feeling about it and told him I'd changed my mind. "Too late," he said, and packed up everything that belonged to him, and separated our phone bills and netflix accounts.

Netflix, Jay? Really???

I became terrified as I watch him pack- he took everything. He knew I had nowhere to live and no way to pay rent, so he took absolutely all of our belongings with him except for our bed, a pile of cables and the cats. He even took the refrigerator with him, and the ice cooler too so he could keep his tequilla cold while on route to HER house, where he would be living for two months. But just two months, really. Honest. My god I was stupid. To clarify: he left me with literally nothing but a bed and some wires, but that wasn't malicious- he knew I would be unable to pay rent with my unpaid internship "salary," so he took our stuff and put it in a storage unit to keep it safe for both of us. He also paid for the storage and gave me a key, which was nice.

But then, see, I thought he was telling the truth about the two months.

At some point I must've gotten up off the floor because I made it to work at my temp job at Newline Cinema and got offered a 4-month deal- steady employment! I enrolled in a free tae-kwon-do class and got myself in a healthy routine. I lived, supporting myself, with an amazing friend who allowed me to cry myself to sleep when I needed and to cry on her shoulder when I needed. My LA friends rallied around me and lovingly stomped out my flames, pieced me back together, took the pill bottle out of my hand and held me as I went to sleep on some nights. Over that period of time I did absolutely everything Jay had asked me to do.

He left me on February 12th- I had no way of knowing he'd filed for divorce on February 14th.

Happy Valentine's Day.

However, he didn't have the balls to tell me I'd been baited and switched until much much later. He came over and talked with me twice. He even killed a spider for me in my bathroom. He stopped by before I left the Hollywood apartment and found me curled up in a corner. (I had no furniture, remember?) He'd only been by to retrieve an HDMI cable he'd left by accident, but when he asked me how I was and I burst into tears because I was so hungry, he softened a little. I'd lost so much weight, I was all ribs and red-rimmed eyes.
"Here," he said, and pulled something out of his wallet.
He then stood over me and joked how he was "making it rain," by sprinkling down some Sharkey's Buy-One-Get-One coupons.

I blinked up at him. "What are these?"
"Bogo," he smiled benevolently.

I thanked him and told him I loved him and I was looking forward to spending time with him again soon. He got his cable and left, knowing we were already divorcing. When the door closed behind him I stared at the coupon and cried, knowing I had no way of buying one in order to get one. Later, I missed him and spent a rare break at work writing, and sent him a list of 100 reasons I loved him. He got the email and showed up my door that night with a lie, telling me he'd "decided to file" when he'd really already done it 2 days after he left me on the kitchen floor.

(HERE IS THE ANGRY PART:)
I emailed his mistress, Heather Ann Grall. (Cute initials, hunh? HAG? I know, adorable, right?) I knew who she was. I'd googled her, and sent her a facebook message along the lines of "Hey, could you please take my husband's dick out of your mouth long enough for him to get through this separation? We're trying to work on things." She immediately blocked me, and Jay called to tell me to "stop threatening his girlfriend." Wowwww. First time he shows evidence of balls and it's defending this dog-faced whore?
I kept asking him "is she prettier than me," and he'd never answer. Once I saw her, and realized to my surprise that the answer was an easy "NO," I wondered why he didn't just say so, But the fact is, she has money and he wants X and DJ equipment.
Also, she is dumb enough to still worship him and convince his fragile ego that he's any kind of a man.
At some point they'll most likely have average-to-below-average children together, and I can't wait till they ask for the classic story of how Mommy and Daddy met:
"Well, Daddy abandoned a really great girl when he found a suicide note, and your mom was a homewrecking whore in the right place at the right time!"

It is my hope that if they ever breed, their children will be born without the faculties for such a line of questioning, because the moment they realize what a fucking bitch-titted tequilla-bloated cowardly waste their father is, and what a weak, frightened homewrecking slut their mom is, they'll most likely be unhappy. Perhaps the money he'll never send me for spousal support can be put towards their therapy, or better yet, sterilization. Don't most bitches get sterilized?

But I digress... One day during our "separation" (when I had no idea he'd already filed) when I had a small meltdown from the stress at my internship, I drove by Jay's office on my way home. I'd called and left a message- I just needed a hug from my husband- it seemed like the only thing in the world that would make me feel better. I even called his mom just to have a sense of him. She told me to "grow up and move on, that he didn't love me anymore."

(She always was a cunt.)

But that sent me into a spiral of anxiety, because I didn't know he'd already filed for divorce and not told me. Having no idea I'd been Inceptioned, I walked into his office and asked his receptionist if Jay Barwick was available. She looked at me like a crazy person when I explained that I was his wife. "Oh," she says.
"I didn't know he was married."
She walks down the hall and emerges with Jay, who storms over to me, grabs me by the upper arm and marches me to the elevator.
"What are you doing here?" he hissed. This is not my husband...
"I- I left you a message- I just wanted a hug- your mom scared me so bad, I-"
"You are NOT ALLOWED to visit me at work!" (News to me.) He forces me out of the elevator and into a bright sunlit outdoor lobby.
It's crowded and I'm crying.
"You need to leave."
"Will you just hug me, please? Like a normal person?" I'm sobbing and tears are starting to come out my nose.
"No- you're embarassing me." He stands with his arms folded.
Like a fool, I tried to hug him and he pushed me away so hard I lost my balance in my work heels. I stumble back and people stare.
I start to cry harder.
"Go or I'll call security," he says.

I... I somehow make it back to my car and sob in a dark parking garage for an hour. What kind of horrible monster must I be if he won't even touch me... This man was my best friend- I've been by his side for 16 years! Over half my life! He promised to love me forever... I must be so worthless... I'm sure I made some melodramatic FB update at that point because when I arrive home, Arica and Aaron are on my doorstep, waiting for me. They held me until I could walk again.

I lost 25 pounds over that period. I got dangerously skinny, and feral about food. Any progress I'd made "for Jay" quickly became undermined when he finally told me he'd filed for divorce without even giving me a chance. I gave up on myself and began living just as a form of survival. My friends were the only thing that kept me going- I was determined to stay in LA until I could finish out my Writer's Internship, and I did. I lasted 8 months out there on my own, and came back to Florida when the show went on hiatus, to work, recover, and EAT.

So I found myself at the Seminar, wondering what was wrong with me, why he didn't love me, how could he do that to me, etc etc WHAAAANK WHAANK WHAAANK. And then came that awful assignment: we had to call "that person" in our lives, (obviously Jay) and appologize. Wait- I'm sorry- what? Appologize? But I don't WANT to appologize- I WANT Jay to get face AIDS and die. I spoke this aloud before the crowd- the Seminar Leader said make the call- she could not help me if I didn't. I struggled with it all day, and finally found what I needed to appologize for. I called and there was no answer. Shocking. I texted, and a few hours later, he called me back.

The conversation went something like this: Me: "I'm here at a Get-Your-Shit-Together Seminar" and we have to make these phone calls, so please bear with me- do you have a minute?" Him: "Um, yeah, I guess." Me: "OK, here goes- I want to appologize to you for blaming you for everything. For everything I've done to myself, tried to do to myself, and been doing to myself throughout our divorce. All you did was say things to me- I'm the one who believed them, acting as if I was unloveable simply because you said you don't love me anymore. All you did was leave after you found my draft suicide note- I'm the one who took that as proof that I wasn't worth a rescue effort. You left me to die, but you didn't kill me- I'm the one who chose to die. I am sorry I blamed you for this, and I feel bad for you because you are a coward and seeing me in that stage of depression obviously scared you. I'm sorry I put you through that. I'm sorry I overburdened you with our paperwork- I should have taken equal share with that. I'm sorry you felt so much pressure. I understand now why you left, and as part of this recovery process, I have to create a possibility for a new relationship with you." Him: "Okayyyy..." Me: "So I'd like to create the possibility that we could somehow be friends again- I... I love you and I want to somehow be OK with you."

(Holy shit THAT came from nowhere!)

Him: (looooong pause) "What am I supposed to say to that?"
Me: "You don't HAVE to say anything- you just had to listen. And you did. So thank you."
Him: "Well I'm out with Heather now, so I have to go. I don't wanna be rude to her." Me: (shattering into a million jagged, poisoned flaming fragments) "Of course not. Go. I love you." Him:
(clik.)
........................

At 10PM at the conclusion of the day's discussions, students swarm the Seminar Leader for questions, suggestions, personal coaching, etc. It appears to me the same scene as when Lepers would crowd Jesus, begging to be healed, touched, something ANYTHING. I became a Leper that night, after somehow managing to walk back into the hall and take my seat, an ashen ghost of a shell. Finally I got my audience with the Leader. "I made the call- I poured my heart out to him and he left me for her. AGAIN."

She looked down at me, all big Texas hair and pristine perfection. "Jaime," she says. "You have got to stop torturing yourself or you will die- do you understand?" My mouth hung open. "You can die from this," she reiterates. "Just let it go. That's all you have to do." She turns to another wounded victim, all Florence Nightengale. I stare, completely hollow and feel the vacant chill of another hollow hand on my arm. A gentle empty squeeze.

"It's OK," another Lady Leper says to me, reassuringly. "My husband cheated on me 6 times and I took him back every time."

.............................................

"But I'm not LIKE her! It's not LIKE that! I'm not some BDG here because I have no self esteem!" Alex arches an eyebrow at me- we are back in our hotel room trying to do our individual homework.

It's 1 in the morning after two 16-hour days of listening to people pour their hearts out, and somehow Alex is still giving me his full attention."

"How is it not like that?" he asks. "Because I don't have PROOF that Jay cheated on me- and if he did I'd never take him back, I just FELT like he was, ya know, because-"

"Wait wait wait," Alex says, closing his notebook. "That's not true- you told me when we first met that Jay had cheated on you with a dude."

"Well, yes, he did blow a guy when we were first together, but-"

"No, so he cheated on you then- and didn't you tell me he cheated on you with an ex-girlfriend while you were in Ireland?"

"Well, yeah- he told me he went down on her in a school playground. He told me he had to take her tampon out first- why would he even TELL me that Alex?"

"Because he's a douche. Listen- how long were you guys together?"

"14 years. It'll be 15 in June."

Alex holds up his hands. "OK, so 14 years. I'm going to run out of fingers, but he cheated on you twice. At least. Let's think of 14 other shitty things he did to you."

"Um. Okayyy. He spent $900 on a Spiderman costume after I begged him not to spend the money, and never even assembled the pieces. He did the same thing with a $900 Scooby Doo costume- never once booked it, and yet he gave me shit anytime I'd spend money getting my hair cut and colored. Told me it was a waste."

Alex puts down a finger. "Good- what else." "He also never told me I looked good after a haircut- he'd make a face and tell me he hated how it looked when it was blown out straight- OH! And he told me I wasn't sexy... that I was 'cute' but not sexy- and I was 19 and I have believed him ever since and it's fucked up my sexiness!"

Alex puts down another finger. "Keep it coming."

"He left me when I needed him the most- he didn't care that our cat was dying and said we should 'make a decision' when we needed to fucking save him! He pressured me into oral sex before I was ready as a teenager- I didn't want to but he made me feel so bad- he didn't help plan our wedding- he never stood up for me- he forgot my birthday- he doesn't know how to spell my middle name- STILL! He asked people to call him Jay when his name is Jaime and I hated that! He..."

As the list went on and on AND ON AND ON. Alex ran out of fingers, then I ran out of fingers, so I started writing down this fantastic list of things I'd flat out FORGOTTEN. It turns out I had overlooked, ignored, glossed over or pretended around TONS of little betrayals and wrong-doings. I was so desperate for my Fairy Tale I'd been blind.

No WONDER I was so depressed- I thought this amazing man had walked out on me, and instead a selfish coward finally freed me up to live on my own. Jay had convinced me that HE was the attractive, talented one in the relationship, (just ask him!) and as long as I was still bedazzled by the Jay Barwick show, I was fine- but the moment I stopped showering him with adulations, he became disinterested. He needed constant fangirlship, and once I stopped worshipping him, his very conditional affection withered away.

He stopped paying my health insurance. He stopped caring what I thought. If I wasn't going to adore him, I wasn't worth his efforts. Ho-ly fuck. Wow. I was so busy pouring my love and attention into him, and he was happy to reflect it back at me so I FELT love- but I was only feeling what I was putting out. The reason we had so much fun together is because I'm fun! The reason we got along so well is because I'm easy to get along with! Jay was the "real actor" in the family, and never once asked me to improv with him- but even I know the first rule of improv is Yes And. I Yes Anded the shit out of that relationship- oh, and the second rule of improv?
Make Your Partner Look Good. And man, I made him look spectacular- he's amazing! He's wonderful! He'll tell you so himself! I wasn't losing a great husband, I was losing a self-absorbed cheating douchebag. Jay didn't "mutate" and become this horrible person because we moved to LA- when he'd gone to New York, he was free for the first time in his life to make his own decisions, and be who he truly was- not a son, not a friend, not a husband, but a club-douche shot-pounding ass hat.

And that is how he returned to me in LA- in his true form. There I was thinking I'd lost my husband but no, that was who he really was- who he WANTED to be. It makes total sense now... And the girl he's with, his new fangirl, she'll find out soon enough. Preferably after they have fat ugly kids (who take after their mom) and resent their dad for being a cocksucking dick. What is it I heard? You can ride a thousand horses and never be a cowboy, but you suck one cock... Jay never loved me- Jay loved Jay and I loved Jay enough for the both of us for a long long time- but when I really needed help his true colors showed and he bailed.

And Thank God he did- because I survived it. I survived him. I survived starving in LA and I survived enough to get my ass to that Seminar and have the realization that for the first time, I would be OK. Jay leaving frees me up to be ME, and eventually, to be me with someone who gives a shit about someone other than themselves! To find someone who loves ME, not just the way I love them- to find actual love, with others, with another partner, but first and foremost in MYSELF!

...I found myself panting and out of breath, having just exploded all these epiphanies onto Alex and his homework. Grinning, he rose from the table and took me by the hand. "Where are we going?" "Come with me." Alex takes me down the hall into the tiny yellow tiled bathroom of the curry-scented Poulouse Inn in Dania Beach, Florida and flicks on the lights, positioning me in front of the mirror.

"Look at yourself," he says. "Look at how beautiful you are right now- you have color in your cheeks, your eyes are sparkling..."

"Holy fuck they ARE sparkling!"

To say the least- they were radiating. Alex hugs me from behind- I instinctively turn to hug him but he holds his arms fast around my middle. "No- just keep looking. I want you to see how you look." I have no idea how long we stayed in that bathroom, me dazzled for the first time by the sheer love I could reflect AT MYSELF, him marvelling at my discovery.

.......................................

The next day at the Seminar, the change was noticable- in fact, a few of us had had a Breakthrough. The girl from before, with the horror story about her childhood? She walked in and was hardly recognizable- she'd morphed into this siren of confidence and beauty. That day in the Seminar we talked about Metamorphosis- and I was quick to grab the mic. People could see it before I even stood to speak- I was glowing. "My whole life I've been trying so hard to be a greener caterpillar, a fuzzier caterpillar, a more spinedy caterpillar, and I was never happy. I was constantly trying to be these things to please others- but now I realize- I don't have to be any of those things because I'm a fucking BUTTERFLY. Butterflies don't worry about that stuff. I'm gonna be OK."

The other Siren and I nodded to each other. She knew what I knew. I took my seat as 145 of my new closest friends just watched me be born. And somewhere in that moment, I began to Let Go.

When Jay first served me with Divorce Papers in February of 2011, he hired some K-mart attorney who spelled both of our names wrong and requested for me to pay for all of Jay's attorney fees. The papers also stipulated that any of my belongings should be returned to Jay, and that I could pay him spousal support if he asked. I'm giving my ex the benefit of the doubt and assuming this was simply an oversight and he had not taken the time to look at the papers. What did he want- my 1999 Celica? Half of each cat? No, this was the man who left me working 2 unpaid internships, so, virtually jobless and homeless. This was the man who refused to harbor our cats for me for a night, and had no issue with me sleeping in my car.

Because the divorce was entirely his choice, he told me he'd be responsible for the costs of the legal fees, since I could not afford a lawyer. I ignored the first round of papers, and eventually he got it straightened out and to his credit, kept his word about paying the expenses. I assured him I would in no way contribute to the destruction of our marriage, and refused to spend so much as a stamp on his cowardice. He very generously stole stamps from his employer and sent them to me. At one point, even his own divorce attorney realized what a douche Jay is and fired him.

He blames me for this somehow, but the truth is someone has to be a complete tool before a lawyer will quit taking their money. Or she grew a conscience. Either way, by then the final papers were drawn up and he filed them, not requesting any money from me and paying my California appearance fee on my behalf, since I was forced to move home. The final papers arrived today.

He hadn't even looked at them before he mailed them- there are three papers in there from a divorce that isn't even ours, but I assume when you're stuffing envelopes drunk or high, these things happen. My favorite clause in the paperwork is the one "holding him harmless and unimdemnifiable for the extreme hardships lack of support will cause the Respondant." That's me. There's also a clause in there acknowledging that he realizes how depressed I was, and that if I commit suicide my family cannot sue him.

Again, such a classic romantic.

Before I signed, I singled those paragraphs out and gave him a choice: He could either spend the extra lawyer-money and have the paragraph altered, or he could write me a hand-written letter stating that he was fully responsible for his choices and sorry for the harm he has already caused me and for the harm his choices cause me in the future.

No fucking way would I consider him "harmless," legally or otherwise.

I got the letter, worded verbatim to my request. Ah, well. I keep forgetting Creativity was only a quality I'd projected on him- not one he actually had. But the point is, I got the letter, and I felt like a lion that day.

So I signed my married name for the last time, Jaime Kathryn Barwick, to the papers.
He signed his new douchey DJ name to the papers.
A judge signed his name as well.
And just like that: 16 years undone.

I have MY name back- I am Jaime Jessup again. I kept my promises, I kept my marriage vows, and I was a fucking awesome wife. I WAS. I'm still a promise-keeper. And I'm still fucking awesome. But now I'm MINE.

We cling so desperately to what we're comfortable with. I was absolutely willing to overlook some pretty awful stuff so I could have my Fairy Tale. But the funny thing about Fairy Tales is this: they typically come in large volumes- huge collections of Fairy Tales, one right after the other. And if you're brave enough to turn the page, there's a whole new story waiting for you. You just have to keep reading to find out what happens next. I stopped taking antidepressants and antianxiety medicine shortly after that Seminar, in the spring of 2012. It's been a year. When you have total clarity about the world you're operating within, there's really not that much to be anxious about.

I'm still battling insomnia. That's a tough one. I have a hard time most nights, but it's better to be off sleep meds and firing on all cylinders. I thought I'd lost the love of my life, but instead I just lost the love of THAT life. If he really wants to be who he turned out to be, we could never have truly made each other happy. I blame myself for not being fun all the time. I was needy and codependant, and I didn't have confidence in myself. I should've taken the reins more, done more, been proactive instead of waiting for someone to save me. I wish I'd done his laundry more. I wish I'd done my own paperwork. I wish I'd taken responsibility for my own happiness, instead of blaming him for failing at the impossible task of being my Everything. I'm sorry I let Depression swallow my light. When I stopped shining, he left.

BUT: I've learned more in the last three years than in 33 years combined. I've had more laughs, more truths, more discoveries and more actual personal victories than I ever could've had living for someone else. I'm writing more, I'm healthier than I've been in years- ironically, in spite of this and BECAUSE of this, I am the exact independant, self-reliant, confident woman he always wanted. And he's no one I'd even want to be friends with. In the last 2 years I've been taken on a trip around the Mediterranean, fed dinner at the top of Four Seasons, danced on stilts for Millionaires, been spoiled rotten with some very beautiful men, (and a couple beautiful ladies,) finished writing my novel and had more fun as a fucking Phoenix than I ever could've imagined.

He did kill me. Rather, I did wind up losing that life. And I couldn't be more grateful. The world, his world, that world, ended, and something better began. From now on, my life is what I make it. I have my Origin Story, and I'm only just begining to discover my powers.

Watch me shine now.

Eyegasm

When I first caught Kyle's attention, I was sitting on the employee bus after a long Horror Nights shift, rubbing my eye and apparently so very into it, he thought I was experiencing orgasm.
"...You OK over there?" he asked, hesitantly.
"Shh! Keep still," I said. "Don't ruin this for me."

The nerves in my eye (not EVERYONE'S eye, but many people's and most definitely mine) are connected very close to a pleasure center in my brain. So, whereas I was not having any sort of sexual experience with myself on the bus (this time) I WAS having a moment. At the end of a long work day, no need to worry about mascara and eye liner.

I know I'll look like some bizarre crack whore / raccoon hybrid (crackoon) when I'm done, but in that moment there is bliss.

100% totaly eyegasm.

The eye is the Window To The Soul, and made of squishy goo housing millions of photoreceptor cells. These cells transmit light and images (upside down) to the brain, which flips it and makes up a story about what it is we think we're seeing. There's an iris, which expands and contracts, and a pupil, which is sort of a gaping black hole. It's a Lincoln Tunnel of information to our brain. I like to think cells have some sort of individual capacity for memory- they have to, because they replicate.

I'm telling you this because: Three days ago I was rubbing my eye, and really getting into it. Again, it's not sexual, but instead a "shh shh shh-just let me have this- open mouthed moaning ahhhhhhhh" kind of pleasure. And there's no need to immediately pee afterwards.
Anyway, I rubbed for a good moment, again inspiring the curiosity of my nearby friend.

"Are you...?"
"Unh..." I respond, holding up an index finger with my other hand as my head tipped back in exctasy.

Usually, while this is happening, I see lights and colors and shapeless bursts of firework-looking things behind the lids of my tightly-closed eyes. (OK, so maybe it IS like orgasm.

Shh- stay still. Don't ruin this for me.

This time, though, something very different happened: Instead of many, I clearly saw one color- the hazy golden orange of a Los Angeles sky in the evening. There is no other color like this in the world- the smog and disspated shattered hearts collect in the atmosphere and refract the dying light in one last-gasp burst of beauty before the darkness sets in and the monsters emerge from the shadows.

One and only color like this, and I was seeing it now. I also had the intense sensation I was looking up- up from beneath the ground at this sky. I could feel earthen walls around me. I knew I was in a hole, in the ground, looking up. There, sillouetted by the amber light of broken dreams in the sky, was a palm tree, and a tall, thin man (kind of Rod-Serling-esque) in a suit leaning over to look down at me.

Holy shit I was in my own grave. I could "see" so clearly in this closed-eye vision- the tall man in the suit, leaning over, the palm tree bent against the fading light. I knew unequivacably that I was dead, in a grave, in Los Angeles, and here was a friend looking over at me. A strange calm set in as I realized what this meant: I can very clearly see myself dying in California. AND YET: there was no fear there. There was no sadness. If anything, in that moment everything felt right, like it made sense.

I could not tell who my friend was, or what period in time I was, my age or anything other than a profound and easy sense of Destiny. "This is the way it will be." "OK. I'm listening." The French, who are assholes, call orgasm "la petite mort," which means "a little death." They saw it much like Medieval people viewed a sneeze- an intense moment of danger where your heart stops and perhaps your soul leaves your body for an instant. (It's a wonder no one says "bless you" when people come.)
But the point is, in that moment, we are fragile, vulnerable, and closer to god, more attuned to our bodies- there's a whole lot going on in that one split-second. So why not a precognitive vision? My eye cells, which have seen that sky's light before, chose that opportunity to recreate it for me, and were kind enough to throw in a palm tree so I'd know exactly where the fuck my grave will be.

(Jokes on them- I want to be cremated.)

Anyway, whether it's a trick of the eye, a vision, or an unprompted burst backwards, against traffic, up the Lincoln Tunnel from my imagination, it was eerie and soothing at once. A moth to a flame, I know what waits between that golden light. And I'm not afraid. Eventually, the Tall Man in a black suit merged with the palm tree and left me with a residual "Sauron" image which I could see even with my eyes open. I fuzzed back into reality and rejoined my stunned friend, explaining what I'd seen. (For two completely sober people not on drugs, this may seem a little weird.)

I am not afraid of Los Angeles, and whereas I'm not ready to die, I do want to go back, even if it means facing my own mortality. I want to die fighting. Or perhaps, fight, WIN, kick all the ass, and leave this planet at a ripe old age, confident and at peace knowing I stood up for what I wanted- for what I believe in. I know my life will never be easy. I simply won't allow myself that luxury. But if I have to go, I want to go under a golden sky, with a tall slender friend staring at me wondering if I'm having an orgasm.

Burning Butterflies

About a month ago a great friend invited me to go camp out under the stars in his backyard and make a little campfire. I was promised marshmallow roasting, so, done deal. If you want to guarantee I'll attend something, offer me any food on a stick; it is my kryptonite.
Knowing there would be fire, I took the opportunity to get rid of some old paperwork I had sitting around.

This was not just ordinary paperwork- this was 16 years any written word my ex had ever given me: notes passed in school, letters, slips of paper with a simple heart left on my windshield, anniversary cards and eventually marriage vows. "Treasures" I'd hoarded over the years, relishing any line penned by the man I loved. I worship the written word, and I worshipped him- I thought if he wrote it, if must be true. He didn't care much for writing, so there wasn't that much in the stack.

He would often draw a creepy "The Crow" face at the bottom of his correspondence in his early work. His spelling and grammar never improved beyond that, but I oh-so-lovingly lowered my standards and became ecstatic with any inked "proof" that he was thinking about me. That night at the fire, I re-read the words he'd left behind as cheap red wine coursed through my system. My friend kept stoking the fire, keeping it orange and bright and eager to cleanse.

Another pal kept us all chatting amicably to keep the mood light.
"Look at this one," I'd say, on the verge of tears. "This is the one where he promised to-"
"Ah, that's so cute," she'd cut me off. "Throw it in the fire."

Glistening liquid eyes and Blood-Alcohol Content made focusing hard, but I forced myself through every letter of every letter, chastising myself for reading so much into so little. I never wanted him to spend money on me- I'd even made a big deal out of not letting him BUY me anything for Valentine's Day, instead asking that he write me a love letter. My grand plan was to make a book to chronicle our affair for our kids to see one day.

Instead, this is the one (and only) Valentine's Day missive I ever received: "Roses are red, Violets are blue, let's get a philly cheesesteak - ..." The last line of the couplet didn't rhyme. It was a request for a oral.

I'd watched on Feb. 14th from my mother's kitchen as his car pulled up in the driveway. He'd forgotten it was Valentine's Day, but suddenly remembered my request, and had scribbled this out on a page torn from his notebook. I'd been disappointed and kind of offended at the time (I was 19,) but I convinced myself that he'd get it right next year, and I'd leave this one as a private "sexy" letter, just for me.
Evidence that I was wanted.

I didn't know at the time it'd be the only Valentine's Day letter I'd ever get. (He chose not to participate in the rest.) I guess it was too much to ask from him. Later he would leave me on a Feb. 12th and file for divorce on Feb. 14th, then lie about it for four weeks and "suddenly decide" after I sent him, of all things, a love letter.

I emailed him a list of 100 moments I loved in our lives together. He came to where I was staying that night and told me he was going to leave me anyway. Such a softie. He'd written me a few attempts at steamy pages over the years, but they were all thinly disguised requests for one act of passion or another. He'd start off musing and objectifying my body with all the literary craft of a 14-year-old, then eventually sort of start whining for sex.

There were letters explaining actions, there were letters of excuses, there were letters shaming me for being upset about him cheating, then shaming me for being jealous or suspicious. I'd kept those letters too- he so rarely put ink to paper... I just wanted a record of some sort.

"Look at how hard he tried."
"Throw it in the fire," my friend says, rubbing a soft circle with her hand on my back. "Let it burn."

Never was there an apology. Never was there an answer- just...bullshit. As the flames turned the paper to ashes, I felt a sense of relief- like in destroying these lies I was released from the hold they'd had over me. Knowing now what I know about this man and seeing 16 years of collective ego and falsehoods formed a more cohesive view of the writer. He'd been the same person all along- I just wanted a love story so badly, I pretended a last-second request for a blowjob was romantic.

Finally, the heavy-hitters...
The bottom of the pile of my inverted life: the wedding papers. I burned the cards first. All the glitter, jewels and ribbons melting into black char and unrecognizable carbon.

Then the vows. Oh, I cried hard when those went up in flames. Such pretty promises- I'd kept every one of mine. Reading his broken word again hurt me hard- I had truly been veiled, covered in a pretty snow job of white pure gauze and chiffon. The veil burned too. And the garter. And the ring box. And the paper I'd saved and been using to wrap his anniversary gifts in each June 19th. I even burned the Grinch Nose he'd been wearing when he proposed- the latex and paint burst into flame, and melted away like a melting green glacier. A tiny iceberg.
(NOTE: Ladies, if a man is hiding his face when he proposes, RUN.)

The last things to burn were the gifts we'd exchanged on our wedding day, which without any prior planning, had coincidentally both involved butterflies. I'd found a wind-up butterfly in a crafts store, and wound it up so when he opened his envelope, it would spring out into the sky and flutter away. I instructed him to open it outdoors. When he did, and he read the card, I'd inked my promise to him (to never bring up his cheating again): "With this butterfly, I am forgiving AND finally forgetting. I am letting go of my anger, fear, suspicion, and jealousy. When you see me again I'll be in a cocoon of white silk- a butterfly waiting for your release. Tonight we'll say goodnight to our friends and our family, and when it's just you and me we'll slip out of this chrysalis and into a new life together. I love you and I can't wait to start life anew with you as my husband."

He gave me a video game.
"Fatal Frame 3: Crimson Butterfly."
(It's a Japanese Horror game and it's actually pretty cool. I enjoyed it.)

I loved our dual butterflyship. Our wedding was beautiful. We cried together as we read the vows he'd later throw away and I'd be forced to burn.

A friend had retrieved and saved the wind-up gift, and I sobbed as it went into the fire.
That was the last thing I had to let go of: my own eager willingness to turn a blind eye. I didn't explain the significance of the winged messenger to my friends, who held me and kept chatting like people do when they're distracting a child from a booster shot. The yellow and black wings went up in flames, and it charred into nothing more than ash and wire.

I didn't want to burn my butterfly. I fucking LOVE butterflies. I wiped hot tears away and spoke instead of trivial things until I laughed again.

Eventually, the coals died down and we went to sleep on the pool deck. My friend made himself a stack of blankets to burrow under, and I slept in my clothes and my wolf hat snuggled tight in a nearby sleeping bag.
The chilly night passed and the sun came up.
The next morning I opened my eyes and FELT the day. I had no headache. I felt clear. I felt lighter.
The haze and smoke of the night before was gone, and only the faint smell of smoke lingered in my hair.
I breathed. I was breathing. I was OK.

I sat up and smiled at my friend, who grinned back at me from about 6 feet away as I slid slowly out of my silky sleeping bag.
The first words spoken to me that day were these:

"Good morning, Butterfly. Time to come out of your cocoon."

I will never know how I've wound up so lucky to spend my life with these incredible friends. The friends who let you burn when you need to, cry when you need to, and without any explanation, see you clearly first thing in the morning as you truly are: a singed-but undamaged, free Butterfly.

LA Stories: Ambien Nights

Zolpidem Tartrate: Generic Ambien. Or at least that's the excuse I gave my boss after I texted her semi-nude photos of myself in a wolf hat at 2AM. Fortunately, she's a nature lover and has an awesome sense of humor, so aside from moderate humiliation, little damage was done that night.
But that was just one of so many Ambien Nights...
Ambien is a hell of a drug- it's a sleep aid, and I've been prescribed it several times throughout my storied career as an Insomniac.

My first time using it, I lay in bed next to Jay and proceeded to wave my arms in front of his face.
"Jay," he asks me in a cautios tone. "What are you doing?"
"Trying to keep all the buffalo off you," I answer.

Later, living in the heart of Hollywood, both my internal monsters and the ones outside our windows got me rattled- Life in LA had me pretty spooked, and I was again prescribed Ambien to help me sleep. Things often got scary around our building... Our upstairs neighbor tried to throw his wife out the window. The corner of our street was affectionately reffered to as "The Rape Corner," and there were often desperate, hungry people lurking in the shadows. I was perpetually nervous, and one night, when a violent fight broke out in our courtyard, I was terrified. I shook Jay awake as two men threatened to kill each other outside our ground-story window.
"Just let it go, it's fine," Jay said, rolling over to go back to sleep.
"I'M GONNA FUCKING KILL YOU!" screamed the Guy Outside.
"COME FIND ME MOTHER FUCKER!" screamed the Other Guy Outside.
"Jayyyy," I said.
"I'LL FUCKING GO ROOM-TO-ROOM AND KILL EVERYONE IN YOUR FUCKING BUILDING" yelled Guy Outside as he tried to kick in our gate. The gate is only a few feet from our window.
"FUCK YOU. COME GET ME" replied Other Guy Outside.
"Jay," I say, "We're in 1B. If he goes room-to-room, we're like SECOND."
"Fine," Jay said. "Call the cops."

When Jay left me alone over Christmas to travel home to Florida and visit his family, I pointed out that I didn't want to be in the apartment by myself at night. Between our fairly violent street and my penchant for Doing Stupid Stuff on Ambien, I felt it wasn't good for me to be alone. Jay agreed, and we decided that my friend Paul, another stiltwalker from Horror Nights, and now a Grinch working Grinchmas with me, would crash on our couch during Jay's absense.

It may seem odd that Jay didn't mind/care that another guy was sleeping so close to his highly-medicated wife over the 10 days surrounding Christmas, but Jay had long since stopped giving a shit about me. Hence him leaving me alone over the holidays. ...I should've let the buffalo get him.

At any rate, Paul was a wonderful friend and did not attempt to seduce me as I slept. In fact, he was pretty sound asleep himself when the noises from a party across the courtyard kept waking me up. I could see the lights twinkling through their open windows as they drank and danced and shouted over one another- it was a loud party. And it was 4:30AM.

I really wanted to just get some rest- Paul and I both had 7AM calls that morning, and a full day of prosthetic makeup, stilts and Holiday Cheer is a tall order on 3 hours of sleep. I decided to go politely ask them to shut their goddamn windows. Since I had a substantial swath of bright blue hair at the time, I figured I'd put a hat on to cover my obvious indentifier- I wasn't sure how my request was going to go over, and I didn't want to be "that blue haired bitch" for the rest of my tenure in the building. I pulled a cap out of the closet, and shambled past Paul as he snoozed in the living room.

I made it out the door, down the hall, across the courtyard, down the other hall, and knocked on the door. Several times. Then, since I wasn't getting the attention I felt I deserved, I pounded on the door. No response. Finally, I summoned my courage and turned the knob, walking into a complete stranger's house, in my pajamas, at 4:30AM.

He met me in the hallway. He was about 6 feet tall, and bathed in absolute God Light. He was so ethereal. So beautiful- the holiest of Holy Angels stood before me in Apartment 1N. The Archangel Michael. Wings, robe, halo. The whole schmorgassboard.

"Hi," I stammered. "I tried to knock, but..."

"No, no, I'm sorry- were we being too loud?" the Angel asked.

"Well, I've just gotta be at work in 3 hours, and your windows are wide open-"

"Ohhh," he says, nodding his head. "Dude, I am SO sorry- here, lemme get you a beer- you wanna beer?"

"Nah, man, I'm cool."

"Well I'll shut those windows right away- we're winding up anyway- so sorry."

"No worries man- goodnight!"

We may or may not have hugged, the Angel and I.

I went back to 1B, let myself in, strode past Paul and got back into bed.
When the alarm clock sounded a few hours later, I was convinced it was a wacky dream- but no: there, at the foot of my bed, was my hat, ready to greet me.

I walked out into the living room and shook the hat at the boy asleep on my couch.

"Paul. You're fired."

But I gave him a second chance, it being Christmas and whatnot. After work that day, we came back to 1B and strung bells across the door, just in case. Paul was not about to let me down a second time. Sure enough, a few days later, another fight broke out in the courtyard. Motherfucker this, I'll kill you that. You know the script. I snapped awake and instinctively felt for my husband in the dark- he wasn't there. He was in Florida. I remembered now. I listened to see how bad things would get, and they rapidly got progressively worse. The 'Ceremonial Kicking Down Of The Gate' began, and I was freaked out.

Our bedroom is connected to our living room by a small narrow hallway- the exact center of our apartment. I threw open the bedroom door and headed towards Paul, but instead ran smack into him- he had been heading to find me.

The first words out of his mouth: "Are you OK?"
I suddenly found myself confused by the question... yes, I was. I was. I felt safe.
Paul started zipping up the jacket he'd been carrying, and put both his hands on my shoulders.
He looks me in the eyes. "What would you like me to do?"
"Hunh?"
"Do you want me to go break it up, would you like me to call the cops? What do you need?"
I was absolutely stunned. This was not the lasseiz-fare reaction I was used to.
"Um, I'll call the cops," I said. "Please don't go out there."
"OK. I'm not gonna leave you," Paul says, taking off his jacket and placing it around my shoulders.
It's at this point I realized I was shaking. I guess I do that when I'm scared- it's a new thing I'm trying.
We call 911, and sit side by side on the couch, listening as the fight breaks down and relocates.

By now the chemical haze in my brain wins out over the adrenaline rush of the panic from before. I lay my head on my friend's shoulder as the Ambien kicks back in. I tell Paul about all the pretty lights I can see floating around the room. I can't sleep... too much happening.

"Shhh shh- it's okay," he says, rubbing a flat palm up and down my back. It is soothing. I feel calmer.
I fall asleep that night on his lap, listening to him as he softly sings Christmas carols.

A few hours later, the alarm clock goes off. It's 7AM and Paul is still sitting straight up with me asnoozed on his lap. He has stayed in that position for four hours, so I could get some rest.

Ladies and Gentlemen: meet Paul.

Nothing else too crazy happened over those nights. No more fights, no more angels. No naked wolf hat pictures. But thanks to the modern medicinal miracle of Zolpidem Tartrate, I discovered what I TRULY need to sleep at night: Someone Who Cares.

LA Stories- Himmelschlantern

It was Thanksgiving- or at least, the night we were celebrating Thanksgiving, and Mick, Arica and Chris had invited everyone over to The Nest. The Nest is their tiny apartment in Burbank, so named because of the abundance of pigeons in constant coitus above their doorstep. It's perched at the end of a long flight of stairs, and although it's actually a fairly roomy 2-bedroom, I describe it as tiny because that is how it feels with 23 people packed inside it.


Mick, Arica and Chris are never at a loss for friends- their home radiates both warmth and madness, and is constantly filled to the brim with artists of every imaginable kind. I've never met so many phenomenally gifted people in one place in my life, and the open-door policy at The Nest meant a guaranteed warm fuzzy holiday. I picked my friend Chelsea up in North Hollywood on the way, and we headed on over to greet our friends at the dinner. Since I was moving soon, I brought the entire contents of my fridge over to donate.


Placing the Trader Joe's bags down and shedding a jacket meant a solid 15 minutes of hugging. Not the typical gladhanding you'll see at most parties, but genuine coming-up-for-air love amongst people I'll love my whole life long. One of these people, Aaron, arrived shortly after we did, and we all passed a pair of matching hamsters around the dinner table and drank wines no one's ever heard of.


The residents of The Nest had pasted a large macabre paper turkey on the wall, and Arica handed each of us a construction paper feather to write on.
"Write down what you're thankful for, and we'll give the turkey a tail," she instructed.

We did so, and then, after a round of introductions from our Hostess, we commenced to reading the feathers out loud.
I had two favorites that night:
One girl, who'd had more than her share of wine, mentioned that "she loved us, and she was coming for us."
A pause.
"Like, sexually, or like a stalker?" Chelsea asks as the room exploded with laughter.

Since most of us were too drunk to read our own handwriting, Arica took over and collected feathers from the remaining participants. Several people, independent of one another, had written that they were thankful for Batman and breasts. Arica read one, trying to make out the scrawl...
"Batman... Shit- ...Tits?"

I found this hilarious, and decided that Shit-tits was surely the most awful nickname possible.
Aaron was talking over a group of people at Aaron-volume, which is always a delightful 11.
I wanted his attention.

"Aaron..."
Nothing.
"Aaron!"
Still nothing.
"Hey Shit-Tits!"
He turned toward me, finally hearing. "Yeah?"
Ohhh god I almost peed.

Chelsea and I had spent most of the night trying to keep Aaron from drinking an entire bottle of grenadine, so this temporary new nickname gave us a lot of post-grenadine-passive aggressive pleasure.
At some point, John and Elissa showed up, having split their night by spending the first half at a karaoke competition to support our friend Kyle. It was a big night for Kyle, and I'd been torn as to whether to attend the dinner or the show, but somehow John and Elissa wormholed it and made it to both.

Arica continued to read feathers.
John, ever clever, deftly whipped out a rhyming ode to The Nest and our friends.
Aaron had written something charictaristically profound and touching, about how our friendships had changed him. In Latin. (Showoff.)
Chelsea had devoted hers to her love of her friends as well.
Batman and tits were touched on again.
No one noticed that my feather was omitted- I'd done so myself by folding it into a tiny square and hiding it in my pocket while Arica was collecting them.

How could I express all my love for these people on a single paper feather?
I'd written my Thankfulness down.
I could've written about the time Arica and Aaron showed up at my doorstep to tuck me in after some melodramatic post of mine on FaceBook.
I could've written about the time Aaron and Sean held me on the couch while I sobbed because no one would check my moles on my back for cancer, and how Aaron had sung the theme song to "Dif'rent Strokes" and made me laugh though my tears.
I could've written about the time Aaron pulled me aside at my own party and encouraged me to look at my friend's faces. "Next time you wanna call Jay, call one of us instead," he said.

Instead, I wrote this:
"I'm thankful that the night I put a bottle's worth of pills in my mouth, I thought about you guys instead."
I would not have been around for Turkey and stuffing that night if it were'nt for the very people I was sharing it with. They have each, in their own way, saved me from myself and pulled me out of the black.

I treasure my friends with every beat of my heart- because the day I longed for it to stop, they filled it to capacity and refused to let me quit.
But that sort of sentimentality was too heavy for the evening. Too much weight for a feather to bear. So I kept it in my pocket and enjoyed the night, basking in the warm glow of wine, Batman, and Shit-tits.

...Then my phone rang.
It was Kyle.
He wasn't calling to revel from his win at the competition, like I thought- he was actually calling with a serious concern: one of us was missing.
Kyle's roommate Erik had just gone through a really rough time and been forced to go find work in San Francisco. As he was our friend, too, and for all intents and purposes my drinking buddy, we were all sad to see him go. We'd kept in touch, but no one had had contact with him for about two weeks. He hadn't updated his facebook page. His phone was shut off. Erik had not shown up to work or come home for three days, and his SF roommates were worried enough to call the police. They also called Kyle, who called me.

I gathered John and Elissa, Aaron and Chelsea, and we headed immediately to Kyle's.
He was more than a little rattled.
Kyle had only that day begun to pack Erik's belongings to send up North to him, since a new roommate was moving into Erik's spot.
"I just feel so guilty," he explained as he paced his apartment.
Kyle didn't want to be alone with Erik's Box of Stuff. Kyle and Erik were really close, and Kyle was legitimately freaking out.
He was scouring FaceBook when we arrived.
Someone had apparently instructed Erik's ex-girlfriend to start calling local hospitals, and when that didn't pan out, she began calling morgues.
We got really worried- Erik is a great guy, but he likes to drink and he has a mouth on him. Our minds were spinning with possibilities.
Most of them bleak.


I hate to admit it, but I assumed the worst- I had a horrible feeling that Erik was somewhere in the bay- my own dark secrets sat heavily on a folded up feather in my pocket, and I was terrified that we hadn't been there when Erik needed us the most...
Kyle is a Guy's Guy- or at least has those tendencies. He'll drink beer and watch his beloved Raiders and eat his share of hot wings, but at heart he's an artist as well and pretty susceptible to freaking out, like the rest of us. A lot of residual feelings of unresolved issues with Erik, stress, and guilt were foaming up in him, and we could see it in his eyes.

Naturally, we tried our best to remain positive. There was a cigarette run and a case of beer purchased, with all 6 of us in a car meant for 5, but we were determined to be supportive.
Chelsea and I were in the middle of soliciting duck pics from our guy friends (see the "GingerWolf" blog for more on that) when Kyle stopped us.

"Can we just listen to this for a moment- just for a second?"
The Beatles' "Hey Jude" came pouring out of Kyle's computer speakers as he sat in his chair.

"It's Erik's favorite..." he explained, needlessly, as Paul McCartney began to sing.
"And anytime you feel the pain, hey Jude, refrain."
As the song played, we sat motionless and silent.

"It's the fool who plays it cool."
Kyle broke down, lowering his head to his chest and burying his face in his hands.

"The movement you need is on your shoulder."
And so were we- on Kyle's shoulder, there, with him.

I don't know how the five of us bamf'd into place, but we formed this protective ring around our friend- something Chelsea would later describe as a Cuddle Puddle.

"Let it out and let it in, hey Jude, begin."
As if my heart had never been broken before, it broke again that night for Kyle. Each of us had tears in their eyes as we ached for our friend.

"Take a sad song and make it better."
We held Kyle, almost trying to physically absorb his hurt and spread the burden amongst us. We all held him close and tight while he wept for his friend. Our friend. We were so scared and so fiercely protective at that moment, each realizing the fragility of life.
One of us was missing. Cling tightly to those you love.

The song repeated a few times as we held each other.
"Na, na na na na na naaaaa," came the chorus.
We all prayed for Erik's safe return.

"Hey Jude."

Since my roommate had become a creeper (please read "The Creeper- part 2: And The Darkness) and Kyle didn't want to spend any time alone where Erik used to be, I invited him to spend the night at my place with me and Chelsea. I like to think sharing a bed with a blonde and a redhead helped take his mind off things for a while.

The next day was my last day to pack, and my next-to-last-day in town. Erik was on my mind as I gathered up my belongings and said my "see ya laters." I couldn't bear to tell anyone "goodbye."
That night my core group was meeting at a bar, but since Aaron was 20 at the time, he couldn't go.
I scheduled some time for him to meet me at my place so I could get a one-on-one chance to say what we needed to say. He showed up, right on time, like he always does, wearing his long black coat and his cake-stomping boots.

Aaron has dark black hair and even blacker eyes, which absorb everything and spit it back out with some sardonic twist. He held me tight and I wondered if he knew that he'd saved my life.

A while back, a Cinematographer had given me a Himmelschlantern, which I'd refrained from packing several times to have it at the ready- it's a candle-lantern, which fills up with the hot air from a candle, and lifts up, glowing away into the sky. I'd been saving it for a special occasion- first, for an LA Anniversary with Jay that never happened. Then, perhaps to send my wedding rings off in style. But no, tonight was the night- to convey the things I could not say, and to send off a message of love and hopefulness into the sky.
Aaron and I carefully removed the packaging, careful not to tear the blue paper which made up the skin of the lantern.

"Making to two pieces the candle and hands," the German-to-Chinese-to-English directions read.
Okayyyy. We went outside onto my North Hollywood sidewalk and readied ourselves with the Himmelschlantern and a lighter.

"Prepare special parings for friends," was the final instruction.
We attached the candle to the frame.

"I'm making my paring for Erik," Aaron said.
"Me too."

As Aaron held the lantern skin ready, I lit the candle. Or at least, I tried.
The damn thing would NOT light.
We tried again.

"Maybe we're not paring hard enough," Aaron suggested.
We par'd the fuck out of that thing, and tried every possible way to get the candle to ignite, It simply wouldn't. Time and bizarre engineering prevented the wax from doing anything other than scorching.

"Hmm," I said.
"Hmm." Aaron said, then "...Wanna just set the Himmelschlantern on fire?"

It was a great plan- but the damn fireproof (for obvious safety reasons) paper would not ignite.

"Got any lighter fluid?"

Yes, yes I did- my super-sweet ex, Paul to the rescue again, from thousands of miles away. When you live with a fire-poi juggler, he leaves you with lighter fluid. This is the natural order of things.
I found Paul's stash in the garage and we tested a spot on the Himmelschlantern. It looked good to go.
We took turns dousing it and blazing it, as cars passed by unphased by the destruction in the street.

As the embers flew up and away into the chilly night, we made our parings.
Whatever the fuck a paring is.

Finally, it had charred and crisped to nothing.
We kicked the ash into submission, him in his famous boots and me in mine.
The black soot still sits on my suede, reminding me of that night and our scorched-earth policy.
"Well, that's that," he said.

It was and it wasn't.

I clung so tightly to him- we were both scared and sad and completely assimilated. I knew I'd leave a piece of my heart behind with each of my friends, but Aaron has a sizeable chunk and it physically hurt to watch him walk away. I hate saying goodbye when the future is uncertain.
I hated not knowing where Erik was.
I hated... leaving.
All I could do was trust that the fibers of my intentions had made it through the smog layers and up to where the dreams go in LA. The glittering stratosphere where stars are made.

EPILOGUE

The next night, while driving with my brother through Arizona, I saw a shooting star. It may have been Himmelschlantern fragments because I wished with all my heart on it for Erik's safe return.
Within an hour I heard the news: he was alive and safe, checking out of a hospital.
Feathers and Himmelschlanterns. Sleepovers and Shooting Stars.
I miss you friends- but you're here safe in the embers of my burning heart.

LA Stories- The Creeper, Part 2: And The Darkness

After all the drama with Uche, I had plenty of sympathy for Andrew- he had been played for a fool and now we were all paying the price. I tried to give him some extra care and show him some love by inviting him out when I'd be with friends, and he began tagging along frequently- even guilt tripping me when I didn't include him in my plans.

He had no car, so since I was working nights, I'd let him drive my car to run errands or do whatever it was he did- he definitley wasn't an audio engineer like he'd told me, and he wasn't in real estate, like he'd told Taz. In fact, to this day, I'm still not quite sure what his job was- but it always provided him plenty of money for weed. (Another thing he'd lied about when I first moved in.) When he wound up blowing my car's speaker, I decided not to say anything. Poor guy was going through a breakup, he probably just wanted to rock out and cranked the volume up a little too loud. No big deal.

Taz and I even went to go support Andrew on the night of a big stand-up comic competition. This was the one job we were both fairly certain he hadn't lied about, but when it was his turn to go on and he started to choke, we got worried. Hadn't he been telling us all along that he was a comic? He delivered his opening line, got lost, tried to read his notes, then spontaneously gave up. We were stunned- we wanted to support our roommate, but we weren't really sure who he was any more...

Andrew and I had jokingly said that "as soon as Paul left for the cruise ship job, we'd make some caramel babies." I'd started the joking, so I'm to blame for that, but after Paul left, Andrew ratcheted it up to flirting pretty hardcore and I became uneasy about it. Also, I caught him in a bizarre lie- he told me and Taz that he'd hurt his ankle stepping down off a curb, but then I overheard him on the phone telling a friend about how he'd gotten into a fight on Halloween night, then come home to find the same guy he fought with lives on our block. I was sad that he'd lied to us, but I didn't say anything to Taz at that point. Point is, I started getting serious weird vibes from someone I trusted.

Over the next few days, Andrew became almost possessive and jealous if I went out, and would question who I was going out with or when or if I'd be back. For a while, I felt sorry for him and continued inviting him along to group activities, but then this happened:

Andrew was stretched out on the couch (our only furniture) when I came down to wait for my friend Mark. I sat down on the floor with my back to the couch, and Andrew said "come sit on the couch." I told him I was fine, but he insisted, so he slid down and I sat down, then he slid back up and put his head on my lap... okayyyy... I pet his hair and was talking about baby sheep when he asked how long it would be until Mark got there. "5 Minutes," I said. "Perfect," he says. "Just enough time for a blowjob."
Then he takes my hand, and even though I'm pulling away from him, puts it on his crotch. Like, wow.
Gross.
I said "Wow, no, that's really not going to happen," and at that exact moment Mark showed up thank god and we went to go get wings.

Over a dozen hotwings, I told my friends how weird Andrew had acted, and how I'd sensed that he'd been watching me sleep.
They told me to be careful, so that night I asked Mark to stay over and sleep between me and the door.
The way my room was laid out, the door was right next to the bed, so Mark would act as a buffer between me and any creepiness.
I had to keep my door open just a crack for my cats to come in and out, but it would take a solid effort to physically SEE into my bedroom from the hallway.
The next morning, Andrew definitely was looking in my room because I heard him (at 6AM) pause by the crack in my door and comment "Hm! One head, two heads!)
The door was only open just a sliver- not even enough for a cat- but enough for a Creeper, apparently.

I decided to tell Tazzie, and she told me that Andrew had told her that he was falling in love with me, but that probably it was just a reaction to me leaving. She also told me that he'd confessed to her about the Hollywood fight, but told her it had started because some guy on the train had accused him of being gay. Go figure.
She and I began noticing different inconsistencies with things he'd told us, and the more we spoke, the more uncomfortable we both got. She also told me that he'd told her his brother was in jail for life because his brother had murdered 5 people. Andrew told me he didn't talk much with his brother because of an age difference. Hrm.

A few days later, my friend Aaron and I were watching TV when Andrew came in and scooted Aaron over to sit next to me. Between us. He then pressed his body against mine and made some weird groaning noise, ao Aaron and I made an excuse to go upstairs.
"So, you ready to watch this?" I said, holding up a random DVD.
"Let's do it," says Aaron, catching on.
"Where are you going?" Andrew asks.
"Upstairs," I say.
"What are you gonna do," Andrew asks.
Ummm. Yeah. Tazzie came home a few minutes later, and after she, Aaron and I corroborated stories, we all became seriously creeped out.
"You guys wanna get out of here for a while?" Aaron asks.
Yes, yes we did. So we wound up at a Valley party for a model on her 21st birthday. But that is a tale for another time.

The next day, tired from getting my ass kicked at flipcup, I decided to take a nap. Big mistake. I woke up and found Andrew in my room, WITH HIS HEAD ON MY PILLOW, stroking my arm to wake me.
"Honeeeey, wake up," he whispered.
"Dear God what are you doing?!?"
"I just wanted to make sure you didn't oversleep."

After waking up the following morning to him legitimately staring at me through the crack in my door, ("just to see if I was home or not,") I decided that I wouldn't stay another night there by myself. My wonderful LA friends Kyle, Mark, Chelsea, and another HHN pal, David, all either put me up at their place or crashed with me the remaining nights. In a way, it was fun because it created some epic sleepover fun. I have zero regrets about that. There was nail painting and eyeliner application- and that was on a Kyle night!

Aaron gave me some very sweet advice regarding the matter:
"Jaime, do me a favor?"
Anything.
"When you move back,"
"Yeah?"
"Stay the fuck out of North Hollywood."

Tazzie had had enough by this point, and decided to relocate as well. The two of us quicly realized that it was no coincidence that Andrew's prior two roommates had both bolted at the same time.

The day of the big move approached, and on my final night there, James (my brother) spent the night in bed with me- at my insistance.
At 3:30AM, Andrew opened my door- a last, looming black shadow in the darkness.
James awoke feeling Andrew's eyes on him.
For a moment, they just watched each other. Then:
James said "Hi."
Andrew said, "is she asleep?"
James said, "yeah."
Andrew said, "Oh. OK," and went away.
The very next morning, we were out- never again to worry about The Creeper of North Hollywood.
Until he stiffed me out of $100 of my return deposit.

Goddamn you CraigsList LA.

LA Stories- The Creeper, Part 1: The Ghost

After escaping The Wizzard and crashing with Paul, the good people at CraigsList LA revealed to me a potenial new place to live! In NoHo, cats OK purr, rent reasonable, blah blah. There were even smiley faces on the ad! How could I resist? The ad said they were looking for roomies with interesting jobs, so I called up and introduced myself as a Stiltwalker. I was in.
Andrew, the guy renting the rooms, explained over the phone that both of his roomies were moving out at the same time and he was looking for more of a "family" atmosphere, where we could hang out and be comfortable around one another. After living in a domestic violence situation, I was all for this. We set up a time to meet and I headed over.
Judging from his voice over the phone, I expected a small gay dude. What I got instead was a large, muscley black gay dude! Surprise! He seemed really laid back when we met in person... like, TOO laid back... I asked him if he was into partying, and he told me that he didn't do drugs. Another point in his favor. I asked him if he was dating anyone, if I should be expecting a lot of fellas over late at night and he got confused.
"I'm not gay," he explained.
"Oh," I said, still unsure.
Even though he seemed really out of it, Andrew let me fill out an application as if it was a done deal. The room was TINY- but it was a room in a safe place- and the other roommate moving in was to be a girl named Taz! Taz (short for "Tanaaz") is from Australia, and works as a nanny while auditioning for films and commercials. Andrew explained that he was an Audio Engineer and a stand-up comic.
"I walk on stilts, so... with our powers combined..."
Done and done.
Tazzie and I moved in the same day.
My friends Paul and Todd helped me move in, but as soon as the bed was loaded into my room we noticed a problem: nothing else would fit in there.
I held back the hot tears of an impending panic attack while the boys figured it out- if they stacked my remaining furniture on top of itself, completely blocking the window, we could fit my clothes in the room. Maybe.
There was no overhead light fixture, so as the pile of furniture eclisped the last escaping light of the sun, I held my breath and suppressed my screaming internal OCD... "It's OK. It's fine. I'm safe here..."
And thus I was moved into my tiny dark hole.
Due to a scheduling mishap with his cruise ship job, I was able to return the favor Paul did me by letting him live with me- Andrew and Taz, after meeting Paul, very graciously invited him to crash with us since he was in-between homes and had been so kind to me.
Everyone got along famously- until Uche happened...
The very first week Taz, Paul, and I moved in, Andrew spontaneously invited his brand new girlfriend Uche to live with us. Uche seemed quirky and high-maintenance, but since Andrew had been so kind with Paul's situation, I wasn't about to complain.
Uche (pronounced "Ooo-chay") had just been mysteriously fired from her job as a cold-caller finding financial backers for a film project, but she was planning to rebound quickly and got a part-time job as a hairstylist. Andrew, with a huge kind heart, was allowing her to live with us rent-free and chip in when she could. Uche wound up working an entire 2 days at the salon before she realized it was easier to stay home and do nothing.
In her spare time, she enjoyed talking loudly to the TV and eating my food.
Not just some of my food- ALL my food.
Paul and I went grocery shopping our first week in, and came home from work to find most of it gone by the end of the night. She and Andrew would drink an entire container of juice, leaving only a thimble's-worth at the bottom. Ordinarily, this wouldn't be the end of the world, but I was so poor at that point an empty container of food made me want to cry.
Then the night terrors happened... Not theirs- ours.
Paul and I shared a wall with Uche and Andrew, and it was at night that Uche's (legitimate) Bipolar Disorder came out. Born without the skill of an "inside voice," Uche would lecture Andrew for hours- HOURS- about how awesome she was, to the point of mania. Here is a direct (and my favorite) quote:

Uche: "I gave you my pussy- that's right- I GAVE you my power- and that was MY mistake- that was MY fuckup- and now I've gotta sit here with YOU? Do you even KNOW how many people are DYING to be my friend? There are hundreds of people on my phone right now who would DIE to be with me, and I'm with YOU."
Andrew: "Please go fuck yourself."

Uche was born in Africa, and has had a tough life. She claims that her dad tried to kill her. She's a people person, and very skilled at getting people to give her things for free (like living rent-free with Andrew, for example) but her gift comes with the hefty price of being bat-shit crazy. Since she is a Scientologist, she doesn't believe in medicine, and would berate Andrew for being "weak" and depending on Paxil for his Anxiety and Depression.

After a few weeks of sleep deprivation, Andrew caved and broke up with her, but he did it by placing all of her belongings outside in our building's shared garage space. It was behind the gate for our cars, but still, he pretty much dumped her out on the street.
This drama happened while I was working Halloween Horror Nights, so I was pretty much out of the loop- Paul had gone to train for his cruise ship job in Vegas, so for a few days, the house was quiet during the day.
Then Uche hopped the gate and bum-rushed Taz when the garage door opened, just long enough to run upstairs and STEAL ANDREW'S PAXIL.
Cops were called, the usual drama ensued. Thanks LA.
Then, I came home after my Horror Nights shift (at 4AM) to find Uche, who again hopped the gate, sleeping, blocking the doorway to our house. Rising like a zombie, she lurched towards me in the darkness and scared the shit out of me- which was fair, because really, that's what I'd been doing to other people for the previous 8 hours. Uche claimed that she and Andrew had made up, and that I should let her in to sleep on our couch. I wasn't buying it.
Taz was awake, Skyping with some Aussie friends, and she and I woke Andrew up to deal with the situation.
Andrew let us down, big time- he finally answered his door after we knocked and knocked, then told us he was too "over it" to deal with Uche. This left me and Tazzie with a crazy woman on the other side of our door. Neither one of us wanted to let her in, but we couldn't let her sleep out in the cold either, so BOTH of us got in my car and drove Uche back to her Hollywood apartment. During the car ride, no one brought up the fact that it was fucking insane. We did, however, as a group, enjoy spotting hookers on the way to and from Uche's place. We even saw one get arrested. Oh, the places you'll go! Dr. Seuss has nothing on me.
The next day Andrew didn't want to deal with it either, and the subject got dropped. Naturally, we assumed they'd broken up for good.
Until about 2 weeks later when she came over at his invitation, spent the night, and STOLE A HOUSEKEY.
Goddammit, Andrew. Bitch played you for a fool.
So she came and went at odd hours, like a Bipolar ghost. Taz and I began to sleep less easy, but little did we know: Uche was not the problem...