why is my begonia dying?

Dear Begonia,

What happened? Why are you being this way? Please don't die. You were so pretty when I bought you. Really, you were this vivacious orange. You had smatterings of green and brown, and you were gorgeous. Just radiant.

So what's the deal? You don't like sunlight anymore? My bathroom suffocated you? The living room doesn't have enough air circulation? Tell me.

What can I do to make this better? God damn you, flower. What's the deal?

I know I'm not good at taking care of you, but I was trying. I really was. I thought this was it! This is my fucking flower! I GOT YOU AT GARDEN OF GETHSEMANE FOR CRYING OUT LOUD.

I was wrong, begonia. You're the worst. You're the reason you're dying.

Ok, I am. I think I over watered you. I did. The directions led me astray, and now you're overwatered, rotting from the inside out. Fuck, flower. I was trying.

Is there still hope at all? All of these Ask.com answers are confusing me. Please. Just. Work.

You were a flower and I picked you. Ok? So, just — try.

Thanks.

I love you.

Goodbye.

B

part of a short story i started writing a year ago.

Twenty-five years have gone by, and I might as well not have been here at all. No, for real. So, I finished college, big deal. So, I finished my masters, big deal. I still don’t know what I want, what I’m good at, or how I’m going to get it and then do it.

Something tells me that this isn’t a complete shock to my body. I always sort of knew in the back of my mind, behind the thought that I was destined for greatness, that I actually was destined for a life of mediocrity, like most of manhood.

It’s a little sad. And, some might say this is a quarter-life crisis, but that assumes we’re here for 100 years, and I don’t think I can take knowing I’m only one-fourth finished. It’s also strange to know that if I wanted to, and I’m not saying I do, but if I wanted to, I could hypothetically, possibly, just end it right here and now. I’m not saying I will. I’m just saying I can.

Usually when you say you can do something that’s a good thing. Like, some sort of motivational speaker. “Yes, we can.” Like, the Little Engine That Could or something sort of like that. Ish.

In this scenario, though, knowing that I can pop myself in one way or the other, actually freaks me out. It’s strange that the things we feel we have most control over, our physical bodies, should be juxtaposed with what we feel we have the least control over, our mental capacity to bring about life to come by in a not so terrible way.

I always found it strange that young girls developed eating disorders to prove to themselves that they have the power in their own lives. Yeah, the power to destroy themselves. But my question is this, why would you want to have the power to ruin yourself, when life has it out for you anyway? I guess a logical response would be, at least I was the one who did it, rather than blaming something like the economy, or your older sister for always being the better one, or your teachers for not pushing you hard enough, or your parents, or this that or the other thing. Rather than blaming yourself for not doing the work, you can see yourself as some sort of righteous being, offing yourself to maintain the illusion of control.

I suppose it’s less painful if you do it yourself rather than watching as life bombasts the shit out of you.

From my view now, I see I have two options. I can. A. Settle or B. Struggle.

“Sink or Swim,” she yelled at me. The Lake Bluff Pool was a playground full of sticky, sun baked youth. We would go there all day for more than half the summer. From June 10^th to August 18^th I could count on waking up with chlorine still chemically reducing my hair’s natural shine. I could count on my mother helping make my brothers and sisters our hand-packed lunches. I could count on not having to fill my time up in front of the TV. I was ready every day to jump head first into the deep.

Our mother would join in on the fun just before the adult swim every day at a quarter till. She’d play for five minutes, the whistle would blow and then she’d swim a few laps and sometimes just float face up in the deep end, starring up at the bright blue Midwestern sky. June was her favorite time of year.

I finished undergrad with a useless degree in art history. I was never talented enough to be a great painter or sculptor. I was never someone others described as an artisan, though I hoped one day they would. No, I was of the brand of people that always had so much in them, or so I thought, and needed to express it. Art being that particular venue of “Here. My heart is on display,” I entered into classes at Illinois State. It should have tipped me off from the beginning that if I were really good at this, I wouldn’t be going to a state school, let alone the least reputable of Illinois’s dismal showing of state institutions.

But, I threw care to the wind, as I thought Georgia O’Keefe might or Hemingway or Hunter S. Thompson or e.e. cummings, or some other well known thinking being. My parents, who at this point I viewed as dream-killers, told me to be practical. Dream-killing as they were, I should have known that behind their cries for me to become a business major, was me, knowing I couldn’t be even mildly successful with an art history degree.

Swimming our little hearts out all summer seemed to make summer flip by faster. No sooner was I finished with my laps, was I back in school, learning about everything and nothing. How much knowledge was my little brain soaking up each day? So much that it was hard to take in. Like air after running. Gasping for more oxygen.

I was always looking for something more. English teachers seemed to get that about me. As I entered eighth grade Mrs. McGinley had us tell the tale of our lives thus far. I thought I’d dazzle her with my vocabulary. Using words like “tenacious” and “redundant” when it didn’t necessarily make sense became my go-to move, hoping she would get lost in my sentences, assume I was genius and move on to the next paper, heartily slapping my paper with an A.

Five things I love.

1. a compliment from a stranger
2. Robyn's "Dancing on My Own"
3. lending someone a ride
4. playing
5. fall's crisp air

Mysteries

Becoming OK is a constant journey. It really is. For me OK is a success sometimes. It's all you can ask for a lot of the time, and most of the time that's where you're at. And that's just fine. It's OK. Just OK, spectacularly OK. Ok?

But there's this inkling of wanting to "fix" it. Let's just get this out there: I think fixing things is dumb. Of course, fixing (aka maintaining) something before it's broken, that's fine, but once something is broken, it can literally never be what it was before. It will always be slightly unstable. You will always remember that time when it was broken, especially the moment right before it collapses from beneath you, leaving you on the ground wondering what the eff happened. Had you known it was broken would you have sat there? Was the sit right before a good sit? Usually it was just OK, but you only realize that after. And that's not OK.

I'm reminded of a chair I used to have in my kitchen. It was a wooden Baker chair I had inherited from my aunt who had inherited it from my grandma Bette. It didn't quite fit in with the kitchen, more for a dining room, but I made due, because that's what you do in your twenties. Anyway, last Thanksgiving my roommate and I had friends over to celebrate, and somehow or other the chair was sat on, and later was broken. And it was fine. No one died. It was just broken. It was just a chair that used to work, and didn't anymore. Fine. Whatever. What wasn't fine was that we later "fixed" it, and still that chair broke again. A nice enough chair, but still, just a chair that you have for a while, and have to rethink having. And it sucks, doesn't it? Having to get rid of things that used to work?

Ah, metaphors.

Wilco. Concert #6. Hideout Block Party.

I have no idea how this happens
All of my maps have been overthrown
Happenstance has changed my plans
So many times my heart has been outgrown

-"You Are My Face," Wilco

Public Transitioning

The air this morning felt rude against the back of my throat, pushing and scratching something that didn't deserve to be bothered. Like a CTA passenger, pressing against its neighbors, forcing itself upon unwilling fellow riders. We're all victims on the train. This is the worst time of year to be riding the train. To be fair, all times of year are the worst to be riding the train. Everyone's bundled up, scarves on some, coats on others, and still more that didn't quite get the memo that summer's over, barelegged and begging for a burst of heat, uncaring if it's from the fart emitted from their neighbor. You know the scene well.

But truly. It's the coughing that gets me. The uncovered mouth, uninvited into the air -- an uncouth start to a sick filled season. Fall should be a perfect time of year, watching the earth move quickly. But instead it's too often something else. What you once knew and had gotten so accustomed to is suddenly over and all you have to show for it is your body's literal rejection: the cough. Spitting out and hoping to heal what's still salvageable. I get you, Fall.

And as the train screeches to a halt, and you arrive at your destination, you're either happy it's over, or you've somehow figured out a way to enjoy the ride. I'm still waiting for that part.

loop bound

An Excerpt from a Conversation that Deserves an Audience

Me: So, I'm not some needy scared lady.

Laura: Hey, the older you are when you get married, the less chance you have of getting divorced. That's optimistic and not depressing, right?

Me: HAHA. Good call. Not there, but that deserves to be a sketch -- titled "The Cheer(?) Up."

Laura: Now that your cat died, you won't have to worry about the kitty litter affecting your unborn child!

Me: Too bad you lost your job, now you can finally move out of that mansion you always wanted to downsize from!

Laura: Too bad you have cancer, but you'll be so skinny from barfing!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jHPOzQzk9Qo

Monty Python - Always Look on the Bright Side of Life

Me: I love ya

Curtains #2 & Victories.

We got a new shower curtain. Well, not we. I came home to the sweetest roommate treat that isn't edible a few weeks back. I've been in awe of it. Every time I'm in there. Regardless of the task at hand, I stop in silent adoration of this lovely black and white floral drape. The shower curtain is there. Sleek. Stylish. Simple. The ole triple "S." Oh, black and white. Oh, oh, ohhhh. The simple victory.

A friend of mine dates her boyfriend long distance and has done so for a while now, aka over a year. She told me that he's currently on rotation (he's a doctor, of course, he is) in Michigan this week -- and now they're in the same time zone. She lives in D.C. The simple victory.

Monday morning I drove up to Lake Forest to spend time with my momsie. She suggested a trip to J.Crew's sale rack. Sneakily she picked up a cute trendy green purse, asked me my opinion, and then just got it. She put it, wrapped with a sweet "Enjoy this Brigid. Love, Mom" note in the back seat of my car, for me to find later. Just a thoughtful miss. The simple victory.

Last week I won Saturday Night Live tickets. The simple victory.

The Flip Side

This year has been really hard. Incredibly hard. Sure, I'm not trapped under a real life rock, or anything, but it felt that way sometimes. I didn't get in one bike accident this year, but two (and the year's not out!). The flip side: I went 25 years without breaking a bone. 

From start to last there has been a looming feel of what I will hereon refer to as "unsurity." At the risk of  revealing myself too much, between January and February I felt really alone. I finally got a full-time job at the Goodman, but it was all in reverse and cut deeply into family time, friend time, relationship time and performing time. It's since gotten more manageable, but there's still this feeling of not exactly liking where I'm at. Unsurity. The flip side: now I really am alone, and that's making room for me.

Then the first bike accident happened. I was back from what ended up being a difficult trip to Mexico, not quite the recharge I had hoped for. Then the day after Valentine's Day I get nailed by a car door and find myself even more hampered on crutches for a few weeks. If one more person says to me, "Four weeks? That's not so bad," I will murder you. You have no idea (unless you do), so don't tell me what it is that's appropriate or not to go through, especially if it was not my own failure that caused said accident. Let me nail your ankle, and then have the audacity to say your recovery time's not so bad. The flip side: I got to go to Mexico, and I don't actually hope anyone gets in a bike accident, and I'm more empathetic now.


The seesaw then came and went with a successful trip to New York with my favorites, The Grrr, improv team performing at the NYC Improv Festival -- combine that with the Second City inviting me to join their Conservatory ranks, and we've got the makings of a joyful spring.

And it was. Still, there was an inkling, and always is, that I'm not doing enough, or trying hard enough, or working enough, or getting paid enough, or in a successful enough relationship. It's a spiral, and I try to steer clear of it. Work began really getting hard with the hour changes, going from working in the mornings to mostly evenings. I forfeited performing opportunities and the feel of free time. Relationships and friends were unintentionally tabled. The flip side: I know I'll never feel like I'm doing everything I'm supposed to be doing, but I have hope that eventually I will.

The stress of all of this made me an unenjoyable person on the whole, I'm convinced. June had me turn into the latter half of my twenties, and of course, that feeling of being 26 and nothing more was just part of the tailspin. The flip side: at least I'm not in the latter half of my thirties, or in any of them for that matter.

July brought on performances, and thank god for them. Finally part of something bigger than myself. But, maybe the upswing was not as high as I  thought. The thing of it is, when your expectations are low and you're in the midst of everything, it's hard to realize. The flip side: you get out of it.

But of course, August and September could easily be considered the worst months of my adult life so far. The flip side: I didn't die...

For the sake of continuing this festival of feelings, let me paint a picture for you to feel bad about. My relationship ended, I watched my roommate's also end, then I flooded my kitchen and the apartment below me, and, oh yeah, literally fractured my pelvis in three places. Life. Are you kidding me? Are you kidding me? Are. You. Kidding. Me?

The flip side: I'll find someone else, so will my roommate, water dries, and bones heal.

connection

I love this line I read in a recent NPR piece. While the line is particularly about how one views a film or any creative end, the thought so easily translates to any part of connecting with someone or something you care about.

 "'It's up to the individual viewer to decide to connect or not connect with a creative work. By 'connect,' I mean connect emotionally and imaginatively — giving yourself to the movie for as long as you can, and trying to see the world through its eyes and feel things on its wavelength.'"

 Perhaps I'm projecting, but I don't think this notion is without merit. But, I suppose once you decide not to connect, or realize you didn't mean to not connect, the "as long as you can" is in full view, and you've finished with it without even knowing it.

List Maker

Periodically when I need to put things into perspective I make a “5 Things I Love” list.

I love making lists. I'm a list maker. It makes me prioritize.

I have to decide what’s important, what’s not, and how exactly I’ll fit it in. Sometimes when you’re so busy, it can feel like my life’s a puzzle, and I’ve just got to make it work. I love crossing off as I go what it is I’ve accomplished, then going forward on and down my list. This sense of OCD peeps into other things, like organizing my closet or rearranging my earrings, but there’s nothing that feels as  accomplished as crossing off the last thing I need to buy a family member for Christmas, or even looking back on all of these “I Love” lists, and seeing how I’ve grown and changed or how I’ve stayed the same, and that’s fine too. It’s like a reflection of who I was then, and who I am now, and I love it.

I once made a list of 5 Things I Loved comprised of the names of my 5 siblings. I said it was in no particular order, but subconsciously who knows. When I was little I made lists to help me figure out what my schedule was for the next day, a list of what I would be wearing, laid out on the floor next to my bed, a list of classes I was in, a list of my friends, a list of my dreams, a list of rules for my room. I’m a list maker by nature.

And, hopefully, as I look back on all of these lists, I won't feel like I do right now. I'll feel like I have a purpose. There's life in the details. That's where it lives.