It's all still in my head right now, ideas swimming around in free-form, but I am beginning to piece to together a connection between my grandparents' escape from Nazi occupation in 1939, the passing down of intergenerational trauma, and my own, reoccurring, descents into victimization and self-punishment.

My mom has a tendency to brush it off and change the subject when I start to talk about my link to my paternal grandparents' escape from Nazi Germany. Maybe she feels it's a part of my identity that has absolutely nothing to do with her, and maybe she doesn't like that. Perhaps it's just a topic that causes her eyes to glaze over, the way mine do when she begins another diatribe about the state of the healthcare system. 

But I don't think I should dismiss this connection I feel, this need to explore this part of my family's history, and how it has contributed to who I am, both genetically and emotionally. I wonder, is progeny responsible for the indefinable guilt I have experienced since early childhood? Do two generations of repressed trauma and secrecy have a noticeable affect on the third generation?

I've always had this bizarre sense, way back in the depths of my consciousness (however, it is a conscious awareness), that when I am out on the streets, dating ex-cons and murderers, taking drugs, and allowing myself to be abused in various ways, that I am some kind of vigilante investigative reporter, tracking down stories for which most journalists would not risk their lives or reputations. The darkness of the world has always compelled me to make sense of it, to understand the inner workings of said darkness on an individual level. Through understanding a few specific people, I am gaining a generalized education in the development of dysfunction, addiction, and learned (as opposed to instinctual) fear.

I wish I knew my grandparents' story better than I do. I know only surface level information, little more than what is available through a Google search, with justifiable reason. My grandparents, Henry and Elly Glass, were miniature-sized couple who walked slow, were perpetually cold due to prescribed blood-thinning medication intended to counteract years of Elly's Viennese cooking. Despite decades in the U.S., their accents were as heavy as they were precious and they, in true European fashion, had complete outfits for every occasion. Neither owned a single garment made from denim, and they considered peanut butter to be proletariat. Charming as they wereCulturally, we have accepted Holocaust survivors' reluctance to unveil the atrocities they have witnessed. My Jewish heritage was not revealed to me until the summer before my junior year of college. Revealed to me so casually, in passing, and as if the information had always been common knowledge, I was stunned. It's funny to me now, looking back, how plainly it had been presented to me throughout my life. Yet, as casually as it was mentioned to me that August day of 2003, the evidence to back it up was the area of contention, the question that could not be asked directly of either of my grandparents. Also, as I had always been aware of this vague family history, I'd been equally aware that it was not appropriate to ask them about it.

So how do my holocaust survivor grandparents fit into the story of my own life, filled with dangerous characters, illegal substances, and willing footsteps towards complete submergence into anomie? My grandparents, from such a completely different time and place that even with what they had to endure during Hitler's regime, I believe they would've been devastated to learn of the places I had gone willingly, the chemicals I ingested, and the men I allowed to invade my aura.

When I think about what they went through, the adversity they had to overcome, how they had to leave their country, lose friends and family, suffer who knows what kinds of personal violations in order to secure their freedom, I am ashamed of myself. What a complete lack of respect I've had for my family's history.

My grandfather always wanted me to pursue the arts. In his opinion, I should have focused on fashion design. Well, I think that would've been ab-fab, but I was too impatient to learn how to sew. I was also too impatient to learn to play the guitar, deeming null my prospect of becoming the next rock god(dess). I considered other options in the arts, such as painting, but found as a teenager unwilling to get a full-time job for any longer than six months, the cost of materials was a major deterrent. Photography offered even more absurd financial woes.It wasn't that I chose writing as a career path because of it's low overhead, I just got lucky. Writing requires no accompaniment, or special ability other than typing (but even that I postponed until my mid-twenties, opting rather for spiral bound notebook and decent quality pen).

Am I reaching here? Am I wanting to make something out of nothing because of the identity it might provide me? Probably. But I won't know what I'm searching for unless I travel down a few dead ends along the way. Too bad life doesn't have a GPS system. I guess some questions have to be important enough to be worth searching for answers, and getting hopelessly lost along the way. 

Do you think I might have this disorder? Or am I just needy?

P.S. -This isn't actually a self-diagnosis, I just wanted your opinion. I didn't go searching for it, either. I heard the DSM criteria on one of my podcasts, and it was so accurate that I wanted ask you about it. Feel free to give me writing tips on Monday.

The formatting is effed up because I wrote this in Word. Sorry.

 Well, I've done it again. Not that it
  particularly matters. In fact, it's probably for the best and perhaps
subconsciously intentional. Of course, I'm talking about scaring away another
dude. I didn't hear from this guy, specifically, but I have heard in the past
that I'm "too nice". And no one wants to be with someone who's "nice". And I
know I am I try not to be, I try to act normal, which is difficult for me, since
I don't know what normal acts like. I don't even truly like the people who like
me, either, so it's amazing to me that I always end up driving them away. It
really proves that looks aren't everything, because all these assholes care
about is how I look, but it's my personality that inspires them to get the fuck
away from me. This particular guy, I met at 7/11 sometimes after two in the
morning. I had passed out in my car in the parking lot, and he woke me up to ask
if I was alright. I was still very drunk so I can't remember all of the details,
but he basically started asking me to have sex with him, and even in my severely
drunk state, I said, "Dude, I don't know you."

He responded, "We can use
a condom."

"I hate condoms," I said. Now, I'm leaning against the
driver's side door, my head resting on the opened window, eyes rolling back in
my head, barely coherent. That's my excuse for saying such a thing.

It
didn't take long for him to bribe his way into the passenger seat of my car. He
told me he had cocaine, and what a coincidence, I wanted it. So I let him in my
car, snorted a line, and then I drove, in my new, more alert state, to a Chinese
restaurant parking lot, and I let him fuck me bent over the hood of my car.


I remember saying to him, "Everyone leaves me, so what's the point in giving
you my number, it's not like you'll ever call me again." So, I would say that's
one solid DON'T if there is a don't list for such unorthodox a situation.


He did call me, though, and I didn't care. I didn't care for quite a while.
I was a real hold out. I swore to myself and those with whom I divulged my
affair. that he was "gross", unattractive, and dirty. I mean, I wasn't a hold
  out with sex, just feelings. I felt nothing up until recently, now that rehab
  is becoming more definite and witnessing his reaction. His reaction is all "I
like you enough that I'm willing to step out of your life if it will help you do
what you need to do."

Okay, that sounds mature and everything, but
considering the way we met and the sex for drugs relationship we've engaged in
since, I’m not buying it. He's just bored with me, or overwhelmed, or maybe he
likes me too much and doesn't want to. But I know that the third one is bullshit
because what guy wouldn't pursue a girl he really liked if they already had some
type of relationship.

I am the Oxy-Clean of relationships, dissolving
relationships with such strength, down to the last trace of enzymes, until it's
like the relationship had never happened at all in the minds of the other party.
It's this subtle but profound shift of power that cause me to lose my upper
hand, which, by the way, I do not abuse, as they always do. I don't want to be
dominant, I don't want anyone to do anything they don't want to do, and I don't
have the desire to control someone. The thing that fucks me up is that I
interpret the sexual advances of men as something more than just sex. Even more
so when they're saying sweet things to me and doing favors for me without my
asking, and just a couple days ago, I heard this most recent escapee say, "I'm
this close", while holding his thumb and index fingers a half inch apart, "to
falling in love with you."

He's a drug addict who he seems to have an
endless supply of dope, enough to feed my budding addiction, as well as sustain
his and his girlfriend's long-term dependence. To meth! He lied about having
cocaine. It was always meth. It has always been meth. Almost everyone I know
either is or was addicted to the shit. I guess it's my turn. But honestly, it’s
not about the drug, either. It's about rejection and my abject fear of it. I
make the reoccurring stupid mistake of giving myself to the most disgusting,
addicted, deceitful people, and then I have the audacity to feel hurt when they
can't meet my expectations. Why would I expect anything else?

Answering
that question is embarrassing, but so was the way I acted tonight, so might as
well make it a two-fer. I think it's this idea or being the hottest and most
awesome girl that these guys have ever had. I'm out of their league, and that's
just fact, but I get involved hoping that they'll appreciate being with me so
much that they'll fall in love with me (and a decent amount of them have). But I
have also suffered a lot of rejection in my quest to capture the attention and
hearts of these idiots. I guess it's just that they convince me at the beginning
that they're crazy about me, and every time I'm dumb enough to believe them.
It's equally possible that they really do feel strongly about me in the
beginning, and my attempt to disguise my neediness and insecurity always rise to
the surface like shit in pool. Yeah, it's that bad.

I'm listening to the
WTF podcast and the guest is Bob Saget. He just said, "Fear is the enemy. It
shuts you down creatively."

I wonder how, or if, I will ever dispose of
my debilitating fear of everything. I'm actually sitting here fearing that I'll
always be afraid.

Wallowing in misery over my inability to keep a
toothless junkie interested in me, Bob Saget speaks, and it feels as if he's
speaking directly to me when he says, "You expect people to wake up in the
morning and be appreciative? You can't expect that of a self-pitying Jew
bastard."

Speaking of self-pity, I officially agree with you. I'm too
skinny now. My cheeks are sucked in and I just can't make myself look cute like
this. It's gotta stop, all of it. All these idiotic relationships with drug
addicts, my own addictions, self-pity, and fear of rejection. Even though I feel
like it's all fucking pointless and depressing, I'm not going to kill myself
because that's just not my style. That one's not even based in fear. I don't
want to die. I want to be happy, even if I am
just another human in some alien species' SIMS:
  Planet Earth video game.

Did I ever mention what I did? I
had a total meltdown, which, hopefully, came across over the phone as only
mildly psycho. I don't know if he could hear me crying, but I guess it doesn't
matter since I don't matter to him. I can tell when they realize that they can
treat me as shitty as they want and not only will I take it, but I'll be even
"nicer". Before I even know what has happened, I'm all upset over some guy who
I'm not attracted to, who I would never want to be in a serious relationship
with, who I, from day one, I feel their overwhelming pushiness and misogyny, and
who gives me an intuitive feeling of "Run from this guy an run quick". Well, the
current pushy sleaze had become less pushy (still sleazy) over the last week,
not calling or showing up when he said he would, and telling me that he's not
feeling well or whatever so he wouldn't have to come over. I should've known
that I would end up actually liking him if I spent every fucking day with him.
And now, I've been rejected again, and I don't know why. Or maybe I know why,
it's this whole "too nice" thing, but I don't know how to be just regular nice.
I'm always too much of a good thing. Too honest, too open, too trusting, too
vulnerable, too fucking nice. And the worst part about ALL of this is that I am
painfully aware that I'm still just as attracted to sick people, no matter how
many times I get hurt, and I'm still not attracted to normal people. So, I guess
that means that this was my entire past, and could be my entire future. Or I
could take a vow of celibacy and devote myself to Buddha or whatever.

I
spent almost three years sober, working a great job, in therapy, working out and
eating healthy, going to AA meetings and events, as well as volunteering as
  secretary for over a year. I appeared healthy on the outside, I spoke the lingo
  of recovery, I said my prayers every night and morning, I dressed in matronly
  skirts and turtleneck sweaters, but I was just as attracted to chaotic
  relationships and abuse. I was seeing a therapist who specialized in female
  survivors of domestic violence while at the same time, in love with a man who
  nearly killed his ex-girlfriend, and I knew that before I was even committed to
  him. Then he almost killed me, and I still couldn't break away. That's me at my
  most emotionally healthy, not a drug in my system (besides smoking here and
  there, but trying to quit). It that was me then, I can only imagine how skewed
  my thinking is right now. When will shit be good? When will I be happy, have
  friends, meet a guy whose crazy complements my
crazy.

Everything seems inaccessible right now. School, friends, guys, a
career, getting off drugs, and out of this house. I'm not doing any of this shit
for fun; I'm doing all of it as an addict, engaging in addict behavior. This is
not recreational, it is daily and I feel like I have lost the ability to stick
to anything I promise myself. Like after I wake up from having slept for 15
hours, I think, "I feel good, this feels better than smoking that shit." But
  it's sitting there and I can feel it pulling me toward it until I say, "fuck
it," and just start up again. Same thing with the guys.

Some part of me
must like being a victim, because I keep turning myself into one. Maybe I like
being a victim, maybe I like chaotic relationships, and maybe I'm just as bad an
addict as the men who attract me, but I KNOW for certain that I don't like being
hurt, the feeling in my stomach and chest, the aching loneliness that I want to
rip out of my body. What is it? Where does it come from? It can't come from guys
that I've only know a few days, weeks, or months, so it must be coming from me.
So how the fuck do I exorcise it from my life? Seriously, what do I have to do
to stop feeling so sad?

You know what's cool about my blog, though? It's
like a current times Go Ask Alice.
Do you know that book? It was written
in the 70s, and it's like all these supposed journal entries from this teenage
girl, Alice, who is turning into a drug addict and prostitute over time. That
book was proven to be a work of fiction, but hey! Look! There's a true story
right here that I think would scare the shit out of people of any age. If you
look through my blog, I started drinking in July 2011, like a half glass of wine
here and there or a couple hits of weed, through the progression of this
illness, or whatever it is, to today, right now, at 9:55 in the morning on a
Saturday. I've been up all night smoking meth, and now I'm writing this
self-pitying (as well as awesomely Meta) blog entry, drinking a 24-oz bottle of
Corona. Next on the agenda, half a Xanax bar, to help me sleep away a fraction
of my insanity.


 

Well, here I sit with a list of things to do, and I've only started one thing, the rest of it I'm avoiding. It's a list of just some of the things I need to do for grad school, however, the one thing on the list that I started was the fucking laundry. It just overwhelms to the point of mental paralysis. There is so much work to do that I get so stressed out that I just edit photos with my photo editing software. It is something I can be hyper focusedd on without having to think. The personal statement makes me want to die. That's probably the worst part of the whole thing. A different personal statement (or, at least a little different) for each fucking school and i'm applying to 12 schools. Each one wants to know why I want to go there, and honestly, I don't really know why. I don't even know if I want to go.

See, that the other thing. I don't like to read. Today, I just decided to accept that about myself. I don't fucking like reading and I never have, doubt I ever will. I don't want to do that work, but that's the work that will make me a better writer. Then I think about how many times I've heard that my dialogue is the strongest aspect of my writing, and that when people read my writing, they feel as if they're watching a movie. So, am I trying to do the wrong thing, here? Maybe I'm supposed to be writing for TV. I don't like TV or movies that much either. Especially movies, which is why I say TV. There are a few shows that I do like, and the writing is quality on all of them.

I've recently been obsessively listening to WTF, a podcast created by Marc Maron, a comic, as they like to call themselves (rather than comedian). Through his show, I've discovered that I might be better suited for comedy writing. I don't think I could do stand-up, just because the crowd would destroy me through their eyes. But, I think I'm pretty funny, and I think I might be able to write for stand-ups, TV shows, whatever. I know how to be dramatic, too, obviously, so I could write serious shit as well. I don't know if this is ridiculous, but I mean, I am Jewish and I am an alcoholic and my parents are crazy, so I have the criteria to write comedy.

I guess I'm just feeling like all this grad school stuff is becoming too real. I don't really like anything to be truthful. To be really, painfully truthful, the only thing I like is the fantasy, no matter what the subject. Except food. I really do love food. Seriously, though, with relationships, I like to imagine what the asshole I'm with could be like. With sex, well, I'm always getting fucked, asked if I'll let them fuck my ass (umm, no.), and making me hold my legs in various unnatural positions. Usually it hurts, and it frequently cause infections. Like right, a urinary tract infection. It sucks. Movies are just too blody long to just sit there, not doing anything else. I can't just sit and passively watch something. It makes me insane with boredom. That's why I am so in love with talk radio. Because I can fuck around on my computer or drive my car or work out, or whatever, and it's there, in my ears, keeping me company, but I am still doing something while I'm being entertained.

And the something I'm doing is almost guaranteed to be something related to a fantasy rather than reality. I edit this photos of myself so I look better than I actually do. I research everything that strikes my fancy. I would rather just endlessly research than actually go out and apply my research to real life. Grad school was beautiful as a dream, but as a reality, as a thing, with a bunch of work, and a deadline, and the moving, the money, just all of it, isn't nearly as cool. When I really think about having to move to some shitty-ass town in Wyoming, some expensive-ass neighborhood in NYC, it doesn't excite me. I don't want to move to those places. The only school I'm applying to that is anywhere near where I'd like to be is UC-Riverside, not far from Los Angeles. And they have a screenwriting program as well as nonfiction. I feel like I saw it on some kind of notable list, but I can't remember. It's certainly not in the top 50. But it's on the west coast and it's relatively warm down there and it's not a zillion miles from home (which is something I didn't ever think I cared about until now).

I just don't feel the same about anything these days. It's not that I don't care, I really do fucking care about my life and what happens to me and my future, but I feel too overwhelmed (and conflicted) to do anything. I know I have to pull my head out of my ass and just do these applications, but I think my fear that I won't do them is so strong that it's coming true. But, what no one understands about me is that writing and singing are the only talents I have, the only crafts that I'm good at, and if I don't make it as a writer, I am seriously fucked. I mean, really fucking fucked. It's either writing or retail. If I have to go back to retail, I'll end up on the news for a murdering spree at my place of employment. Snapped Walgreen's sales clerk shoots and kills eleven, then self! That was a surprise ending. But it makes sense, because god knows I couldn't spend the rest of my life locked in a cage overloaded with crazy women. Anyway, what I'm saying is, this is it for me, this writing thing, regardless of what anyone else says, yet I'm too lazy and afraid to make it happen. But please, please believe me, I can't overemphasize the gravity of this being the only choice for me, grad school or not. When I think about doing anything other than writing for a living, I feel sick and depressed and like I won't really be living at all, but going through the motions, waiting to die.

That last line actually inspired me to write a couple rough paragraphs of my personal statement.

The drugs are fake...I'm pissed and tired. G'nite.

Below is a flash version of the anthology from my memoir class at UW. You may recognize the name of one of the authors.

And here's an "oldie but goodie" that I thought I'd throw in for comic relief.

 I told myself that I wouldn’t write for the rest of August and that I
would just read instead. But perhaps not writing is what is killing me. I feel
sick and anxious and sad all the time. I feel totally hopeless and desperately
lonely and I have become painfully aware that no one will take care of me
besides me and I’m doing a shitty job. I think this is quite possibly the
darkest hour of my life, even more so than when I was smoking meth out of a light bulb while pregnant with my junkie boyfriend’s baby. I think the reason why is because it hurts so much more this time. So much more has been lost and so much more is at stake. And I feel like a complete human repellent. I feel unlovable, unlikeable, unemployable, and basically worthless in every possible way. I learned what I do that makes people run from me: I say too much, too soon. I am too open and honest about my fucked up life, and it scares people away. But the other interesting thing about my approach to honesty is that it gets me off the hook with most people who should otherwise care (i.e. my parents).  I tell them everything I’m doing that’s fucked up and somehow, it minimizes it. Perhaps I am a master of manipulation? But even so, it doesn’t help me to make friends or get jobs. The only people who seem to like me are the drug addicts, drug dealers, and men wanting to pay me for sex. The only people who can deal with how fucked up I am are those who are just as fucked up or worse. All the normal people—the cool people—can’t handle my chaos. I want to die. I feel so useless, so futureless. I see no point. If I can’t keep friends, get a decent job, and find a nice guy to love me, then what else is there? I can’t even take my road trip now because I can’t get a fucking job to save the money for it. And at this point, considering the way things seem to go for me, I’m afraid to apply to grad school. I’m so mad that I started drinking again, that I let HAM lead me into the sewer. Now everything is great for him and totally fucked for me. The only thing that makes the pounding ache in my chest dissipate is alcohol and meth. Especially meth. I am mad at HAM for his contribution to my demise, mad at myself for playing the biggest part in it, and fucking mad at the guy who took advantage of me and then fucked with my mind and
left me so confused and sad. I’m mad at the system for allowing terrible things to happen to women, I’m mad at all of humankind for being the way that we are, for not changing our beliefs into actions that bring us closer together rather than distance and hate. I’m mad at every man I’ve ever loved. I’m mad at my parents for not giving a shit when I tell them I’m an alcoholic and that I’m doing meth. I’m mad that I don’t have a support system, that I’m not as good of a writer as I want to be, that I spent so many years fucking off instead of doing anything worthwhile, that I’m doing the same fucking off again now, that no one loves me and no one ever has, that I am completely alone in this world with no one to get my back. That I’m fucking a Mexican drug dealer who has “Trust no bitch” tattooed on his arm. That the only “friend” I have that wants to be there to support me also wants me to suck his cock. I hate my life, past, present, future, I hate it. Why is life so fucked up and so hard? I got sober for ALL, that’s why life still sucks. If I had gotten sober for me, I’d probably still be sober today. But I did it for a man, just like I do everything in my life. That’s why I started drinking with HAM, because the relationship was more important than staying clean. And now I’m in a hole again. And I don’t even know if I have the energy or desire to climb back out. I think that if I don’t go to inpatient rehab, I might not be able to just stop. I feel such a lack of control. Of my body, my mind, my heart, my life. I feel so powerless. I can’t stop the feelings without drugs. I used to be able to just shut down emotionally, but it’s like the faucet is on and the knob is broke and I’m just gushing. What is the cure for a broken faucet? I guess you have to go deep—get to the source of the problem—into the plumbing. Fix the pipes before you fix the leak. Whatever that means. Speaking of pipes, cholo is on his way here with a pipe and a bag for me. I am fucked. I am desperate for someone to rescue me because I’m feeling like I can’t do it myself anymore.