It finally happened!
I’ll provide you with some context.

Last October I was fucked by one of those evil cameras installed at traffic lights. I was lost in Van Nuys. After I had pulled over to consult my Thomas Guide, like a diligent little Angelean, I continued on my way and stopped at a red light. Then I accelerated when it turned green. Stuff a sub-ape could do. Not being familiar with my surroundings, I didn’t realize that it was a double light, and just as I noticed this, the second light was changing yellow, so I went for it. As my rear tires crossed the stop line, BAM. Red. FLASH! Camera-bot. I had a sinking feeling in my gut that I was fucked, but I forgot about it as soon as I triumphed and found my way home. Three weeks later I got a hefty ticket in the mail. I went to traffic court and actually got the fine reduced from four-hundred-some-odd-dollars to a hundred plus eight hours of traffic school to get the points taken off my insurance. Of course, that would include the sixty-four dollar tuition fee for my “education.” I had until April 18 (tax day) to accomplish this mission.

Hell yeah, I put it off til the last minute. You know me. The other day I signed up for online, all in one go, fax-in-your-certificate, kamikaze traffic school (as seen on tv with Kelly Osbourne). It was beyond remedial and I was appalled that there were flagrant grammatical and diction errors throughout the text. Even worse, in the final exam, which was multiple choice, the errors were so egregious that the questions and answers didn’t agree and it made it difficult to even understand (unless I put myself into “think like Australopithecus mode,” and even once that didn’t work). Despite all this bunk, I passed with a 96%.

In the course evaluation form, I let them know how disappointed I was in their poor use of the English language, and if they would like me to proofread their text, for I am all edumacated an’ shit, feel free to contact me. This is not the first time I have left a comment of this nature in an evaluation, and I am always confident it will either be left unread, or dismissed with an “oh, the hubris of kids these days…”

Well, THEY FUCKING EMAILED ME!!!
Right???

The nice man told me that he would love any help I could give in that respect, and he would refund my tuition for my work!!!

FUCK ME!!!

My father, ever famous for his constant stream of bromides, has a favorite: The squeaky wheel gets the grease.

In this case, pun included, it finally happened!

Last night a friend called to tell me she’s dying.

I made it through ativan withdrawal. My physical symptoms were hell the first week. As expected. They gradually subsided. I needed friends. I am so fortunate to have you. I still have residual anxiety. I expect to for a while, but I actually do have the strength to handle it. It’s something to be proud of, to be sure, but it feels like small potatoes at this moment.

My friend received her grim diagnosis just hours before she called. I wanted nothing more than to “fix” it. I suppose this is a natural reaction. To think there must be something that can be done. She was already in acceptance while I was in denial. I told her I was, and she laughed. I said, “Let me have my Kubler-Ross phases!” She didn’t want to have the morbid “goodbye” talk. She just wanted to…talk.

I didn’t ask why she chose to call me. She hadn’t even told her family the news. The last she’d spoken with then, earlier that day, she’d told them she was going to be okay. That’s what she’d been told, until a CAT-scan revealed the horrible truth.

Maybe that’s exactly why she called me. Just to talk. Dealing with family would be heavy. Of course I am…I’m…I don’t even know what word to use that doesn’t sound too dramatic or self-involved. Really, I’m still in denial. She’s here, we just spoke. I can’t imagine her being…gone. But she wanted to laugh. To talk, and to keep on. And this, I can understand.

In terms of gravity, I cannot imagine facing anything close to what my friend is experiencing. In dealing with the panic of coming off ativan, though, the thing that helped me the most was to get out of my own head. To talk to friends. To step out of my situation. To laugh at myself. The absurdity of it all. To think of myself, on the phone with Lees, saying “I can’t breathe!” while I’m sitting there, breathing just fine. Watch crap tv. Do the dishes. Do the fucking laundry. The goddamn motherfucking loathsome laundry. Stop fucking philosophizing, because that’s how I got into this hole in the first place.

I may be straying from the point. What is the point? Does anything mean anything? Am I philosophizing again? Am I about to write the sequel to “Waiting for Godot?”
How can an existentialist play even have a sequel?

I did something really difficult. And my friend is dying. She’s looking into hospice options.
Is life just stupid?

My place of residence is now a one woman rehab facility.

I’ll explain.

As you probably know, I am fucking nuts. To temper my nutsness, I am on psychotropic medications. One of these, the benzodiazepine, ativan, is to placate my panic attacks, and as it’s highly addictive and I’ve been on a steady dose of it for christ knows how many years, my doc (when I say “doc” or “doctor” here, I refer to my psychiatrist) and I have decided to start tapering me off it. We started a slow taper a few months ago. It was working all right, though a symptom of being off an anxiety drug is, of course, rebound anxiety. When I experience anxiety, what do I do? Take my anxiety med, of course! It’s a really goddamn difficult habit to break. (Insert Chicago song here.)

Yesterday I ran out of ativan. As it was a Sunday, I couldn’t reach my doctor, and I didn’t have any refills on it as that is part of the taper arrangement. (It’s too boring and involved to write out the whole plan.) At first, I was playing it cool. “I can do this, I feel weird, a little jumpy, but I know it’s just slight withdrawal, it’s cool, man, I can make it till tomorrow,” etc. Two hours later? Bona fide freak show. One ongoing panic attack. I took benadryl just because I knew it made me tired. I got in bed because it’s kind of a safety zone. I felt the bed shake with me. I tried breathing exercises, but those just made me more cognizant of my gerbil-like heart rate. I left a voicemail for my doctor telling him I was losing my shit and that I can’t do this, I just came out of a months-long depression and I can’t deal with kicking my anxiety just yet, I have work to do that I can’t fuck up, blah blah, blah, freak, cry, blah. Thank shit, finally the benadryl konked me out.

This morning I expected to find a sympathetic message from my doctor, the prescription called in, and the world to be back on its axis. Not to be. I called the pharmacy to see if maybe he just called in the script but had to meet with patients before he called me. Nope. Fuck! I balled up under the covers and wondered what the hell I was going to do. I wasn’t dead. Maybe I wasn’t going to die from this. Maybe.

I got out of bed. I felt like I was out of my body. Okay, this is just depersonalization, a common withdrawal symptom. I felt like I was on drugs from not being on drugs. Maybe I could enjoy this…

Aaron offered me a cup of coffee, and for a moment I wondered if I should accept something that causes jitteriness, but hell, I’m addicted to that, too. One thing at a time. I read an article in the New Yorker. I felt whacked out, for sure, but not as pants-crappingly frightened as I did last night. Things always seem worse at night. Being in a more stable state of mind, I recalled that the worst symptom of benzo withdrawal is seizure, and that two of my other meds, in addition to being anti-depressant/anti-psychotic, are also anti-seizure. I called my doctor again.
Maybe I can do this. What if I just go cold turkey from here? I did taper, though somewhat erratically. I do feel weird, but I got some work done, proving I can concentrate, though my typing is a bit clumsy (as likely demonstrated here, go easy on me).

My doc called back fairly quickly, apologizing for not getting back to me sooner, he was slammed and all. He’d just received my second message and agreed with me, saying this is what would happen if I was in rehab. I’d be taken off the drug right away and be given something supplemental, which I already had. There would be people there to hold my hand through the rough spots, and he’d be happy to be that person. Though he can’t be here with me, I can call and check in with him any time, and he’ll get back to me whenever he can. I also have Aaron (poor, poor Aaron) and my therapist, and my parents, and my friends (watch out, you guys), to turn to for support. So, hi, everyone! I’m in rehab! Just like Janice Dickinson on that show with Dr. Drew! (She was withdrawing from ativan, too.)

I made my doctor promise I wasn’t going to die from this. He said I most certainly was not. Right now I do have a headache, though. Coffee and Advil, I reckon.

Fuck me.

I’ve never really given much credence to all the New Year hoopla. I don’t make resolutions. I make changes when I feel ready to, not because the date happens to be January 1st. I’m not into reflecting on the past year and making changes for the new one, bla bla bla. Again, I know when I need to reflect and think and set new goals, and it’s not merely because I’m changing my goddamn calendar. You all know there’s a big “BUT” coming, right? Well, here it is:

BUT…

2010 was certainly one of the worst years I’ve ever had. Actually, the craptasm began around November of ’09. Every month, every week, even every day was a struggle. Yes, it ebbed and flowed, but it just seemed like one blow after another for fourteen months. I did some fucked up things. People did some fucked up things to me. Fucked up things I had never experienced, that I never thought would happen to me. There were times when I thought this feeling of utter, helpless oppression would never lift. I would stay in bed for days at a time, despondent. I felt so sad, so hurt, I had a physical pain in my center. I pleaded to the skies to relieve me. I pleaded to God, and I don’t even believe in God. “What must I do? Please, just let this time be over…”

My circumstantial distress became a months-long depression. And it wasn’t just me who was suffering. Poor Aaron had to be around me, the brooding, fatalistic me, and I know how difficult I am when in that state. I didn’t see my friends very often. I retreated. At times I didn’t even want to leave the house, go to any social events, see any people. Usually I can put on a brave face and socialize, but I just knew I wasn’t able. I began to believe that this palpable oppression was just how it was going to be. So this is my life now. How long will I be able to take it? How the hell can I get out of it?

And one week, toward the end of the year, it started to fade. I thought I’d better not say anything so as not to jinx it. But it faded more and more. I did have a med change, which was a help, but also, time and distance from the horrible events were, and are, curative. Not to say I am cured, but I have begun to heal.

Again, I am not a New Year’s resolution maker, but, as it happens, my break from the cocoon did happen to coincide with the end of 2010. Also, 2010 was fucking shitty, rancid crap, and I celebrate its having ended. I am not making a resolution for 2011, per se, but I have learned from my Year of Fecal Matter, and I intend to use that knowledge to prevent myself from making the same mistakes again. To change behavior patterns, tough as that is.

This is where the “getting off my ass” comes in. Not surprisingly, throughout the course of last year, I developed some rather nasty habits and dropped some good ones. I stopped taking care of myself. I started smoking. I became self-injurious. I wasn’t cutting, but I was drawing blood using my bare hands. It seemed daunting to stop these behaviors. I wanted everything to stop at once. “My depression has dissipated,” i thought, “so why am I still doing this?” Learned behavior doesn’t just stop on its own. These artifacts from my YOFM had to actually be addressed, one at a slow, motherfucking time.

My self-injuriousness is all but gone. I needed to tackle that one using a behavioral approach: wearing hats and gloves and such so I physically could not harm myself. it took a while, but the urge calmed down. Then the smoking…I’ve done mini-quits, and now I am about a week into what I’m thinking will be a proper quit. I hadn’t even been smoking for a very long time, comparatively, and it’s still a bitch to stop.

Then there’s starting good behavior. I know I need to get into an exercise routine. I’ve tried…well, I’ve tried to try, but I haven’t done it yet. When I lived in Cambridge, I went to the BEST gym ever. It was all women, for one. It was close to me and it offered great classes (kickboxing and regular boxing, for example). It was clean. I haven’t found anything close to it in LA. I’ve started looking for local sports teams I could join, or some neat-o dance classes, so there would be a degree of fun in my workouts. There are options. I need to just pick one and do it. It’s a bit scary after all this time. Certainly intimidating. But…there has to be something out there for me.

Yes, 2010 blew ass. Yes, I am determined to make 2011 better, not as a New Year’s resolution, but as a life one. Rebuilding, one brick at a time.

I wouldn’t consider myself a poet, but as I have been writing songs for the greater part of my life, one could say that I am.  A lyricist is just a poet who happens to put their words to song, right? Well, with exceptions…

Anyway, this year I’ve delved more into writing sans song (though I still do that, as it’s my job…) and some of the results have been not-awful. I participated in NaNoWriMo, and though I didn’t “win,” (“Winning is for sissies.” – Patti Digh) I managed to eek out over 20,000 words while maintaining my deadlines for clients. I want to finish this novel. Hell knows when, but I like the premise- it’s a satire called “Obituary Queen,” and there’s a sociopath and a cult leader and all sorts of assholes in there. I also wrote a…(OMG!)…SEX SCENE!!!! SEX! AAAAGH! I’ve never come close to doing THAT before.  I’ll likely be posting excerpts here. I’ll consider it my own, lower-brow, New Yorker.

For now, I have this poem.

The Ugliest Girl in the World

I’m the ugliest girl in the world
I hide on the outside
With make up
With curls
When I’m thin people like me
Congratulations!
What an achievement
For abandoning myself
When I’m fat, people like me
Ugliness peeks through
So witty!
So smart!
So talented!
Thank god she’s fat!
In between
Mother says with mother bias
What a pretty face
Father says with male bias
I’m an 8 out of 10
Thanks, Dad
Lovers know what I want to hear
But won’t say
It will seem false
It will be false
After all
I am the ugliest girl in the world

Lovers compliment others
Words never said to me
For I am ugly
If I had the right kind of knife
I’d carve an X into my face
Diagonal
Right to left
Diagonal
Left to right
X-ed out
Then there would be no question
It’s the wondering that kills me

Maybe, maybe it doesn’t matter
Maybe, maybe I’m pretty
This woman lives in me, somewhere
Battling my ugly
Battered by my ugly
In me, two people who despise each other
No one sees my wounds
Agonizing wars, bitches brawl
If I had the right kind of knife
I’d cut them right out of my chest
Leaving a void
Where the pain was
A void
My ugly pain
MY ugly
Where would I be without my ugly?

I found and old school notebook when I was at my parents’ house last month. Judging from the stickers on the cover, it’s from the fourth or fifth grade. In addition to a billion drawings of me and my friend Dinah on our ponies (yes, we really did have ponies, it wasn’t a “crazy girl who always asks for a pony and has horsey everything in her bedroom” situation), I found some long division and basic algebra, some top 40 lists (I’d write down the songs from American Top Forty every Saturday morning for about five years.), and…

A terrible, but disturbing poem, by Paula A. Kelley, age 10:

There was a girl called Mary-Lou
And very poor was she
Between her and her family
Was just $3.33

The little food they had
Was saved up in a small tin can
And when the can was full
They ate it from a frying pan

Mary-Lou was weak and frail
She couldn’t get much thinner
She would have given both her legs
For one well-balanced dinner

One night that sneaky little wench
Snuck in the butcher shop
And stole each roast without a boast
And every last lamb-chop

Her family was in their glory
Prancing ’round the room
Their little home no longer was
The dominance of gloom

They feasted well around the clock
Their jaws a-chomipin madly
But when they finished they were
Gushing tears our just as sadly

What? Whaaat? I can’t even remember writing this (Why would I?) but what kind of state must I have been in? “Sneaky little wench?” “Dominance of gloom?” Did I think that made any sense?
But the surprise “tragic” ending sparked my memory; I do remember this as being something I would incorporate in many an elementary writing. I don’t think this was a school assignment, as it’s scrawled on a page with no name or date, and it has some messy crossings-out and writings-over. I had an unhappy home life as a tyke (long story, like most of us, I suppose), but I didn’t realize how obviously it manifested itself in my creative endeavors.

I also found this:

Guide to Doing Homework
by Paula A. Kelley, age 10

If you need help doing homework, if you can’t take the long hours of labor and toil, if you are so sick of homework you could just barf on every page, there’s only one solution to your problems!
DON’T DO IT!!!

If you have easy teachers, here is a list of excuses:

1. Your dandruff flake ate it.
2. Your little brother couldn’t control himself and went on it.
3. It had little homework papers and had to stay home and take care of them.
4. It blew into the bathroom and your mother flushed it down the toilet.

If you have hard teachers, you can
do this:

Scribble on a piece of paper. Bring it in and say that it’s your homework. Rip it up and say,
“WHOOPS!” after each tear. (Make sure you do this in front of the teacher so you won’t need an excuse.) If they make you do it again, sneak out of that class.
Simple as that!

Okay, so my comedy career had a slow start. “What comedy career?” you may ask. I’m asking the same thing. Anyway, I was so quiet at that age, and I got such good grades, everyone thought I was a goody-goody. Little did they know I had such evil, subversive plans to flagrantly hoodwink teachers so as to get out of doing homework! What a sneaky little wench I was!

Oh…

Why the hell am I sharing this dreck with you? Because I LOVE you. That’s right. I’m talking to YOU.
xoxoxox

PK