Worst-case Scenario

I'm a worst-case scenario thinker. A headache is never just a headache, it's a tumor. If I overdraw my bank account, then it means I'm going to lose my house. If someone calls me at an odd time, it's to tell me bad news. I don't like to think of it as pessimism. Rather, I see it as a result of having an over-active imagination. I never jump to the most likely, the most common explanation for things. It's always the most outlandish, the most overly dramatic possibility. That's just the way I am.

So when I was driving home late at night two Saturdays ago and saw a man lying on his back in the middle of the street just outside my neighborhood... the first word to pop into my mind was simply: murder.

Yes. There was no room in my crowded mind, jam-packed full of hare-brained ideas, for any other explanation except that a man had been murdered in the street just as I happened by. Shaken and gasping, I reached for my cell phone on the passenger seat and frantically began dialing 911. After a few failed attemps at dialing (the first number I managed to dial was 991 after dropping the phone on the floorboard once), I finally reached an operator just as I pulled up in front of my house. Was the murderer still lurking somewhere in the dark nearby? Had he seen me drive past the scene of his horrific crime? Was he dragging the dead body away, the dead body so close to where I now sat shaking and shivering alone in my car? How was I to know?

The 911 operator talked soothingly to me, reassuring me that an officer was on the way and offering to send someone by to check on me - an offer which I gladly accepted as I live alone and was terrified to wait in the house alone while a murderer ran free.

After hanging up with the 911 operator, I quickly dashed inside the house and called my sister. I just needed to hear a friendly voice while I waited for the police. Kneeling on the floor of my living room, shaking violently, gasping for breath, my sister talked me through my panic. I silently calculated the money I'd be spending in therapy over this. I began mapping out alternate routes to my house so that I would never have to drive by that fated spot on the road ever again. My hands were numb and stark white. My lips and mouth were bone dry. My stomach rolled with nausea and I fought back the sensation (I've always been very adept at mentally staving off the urge to vomit).

Finally, after too long a wait, there came the knock on my door. That would be the police. I hung up with my sister, promising to call back when I'd spoken to the police and opened the door in utter fear of what the officer would soon tell me. What kinds of questions would he have? Would he ask me if saw the murderer? Would I have to go down to the station? Testify in court?

The lone officer stood on my front porch with buzzed hair and bottom lip unnaturally protruding from the dip he was chewing on. His stature was not of one who might be investigating a murder scene. Rather, he stood calmly as one answering a call about a kitten stuck in a tree. He didn't question me, except to ask if I was okay. I must have been white as a ghost. And when I began to tell him what I saw, he merely shook his head, rolled his eyes, even chuckled a little bit and replied with a heavy, country accent, "Yeah, ma'am, we got him. He was just passed out drunk, but he's fine."

He's fine. Those two little words brought the blood rushing back to my hands, my face and my feet. My legs turned to Jell-O as my brain processed this new information. I hadn't just seen a dead body. I'd seen a drunken idiot who's stupidity had just scared me into the next century, had allowed me to spend thirty minutes of my life in shock and endure the worst panic attack I had suffered to date.

Still, I was relieved. Not only that the man was okay, but also because I wouldn't have to go to therapy. I wouldn't have to re-route my way to and from home. I was the kitten stuck in the tree that night. My worst-case scenario mind sent me clawing up into the branches of fear and dismay. And it took the Spring Hill police to drag me back down again feeling slighly shaken and not a little embarrassed.

Drunk guy, wherever you are, I hope you feel the shame of someone who doesn't know how to just call a freakin' cab. And thanks for the biggest scare of my life.

A Semi-True Story

Here's another brief sample of a story idea I had...very different from my other one. But I got inspired recently and just wanted to jot something down in case it turns into something more:

__________________________

It was already a perfect day. I leapt from my bed, charged with excitement and looked out my window at the early spring morning. The sun warmed my face as I looked around at the daffodils blooming freely on the lawn. I turned my gaze toward the bedroom door and the stunning, long, white dress hanging from it. The silver beading glistened back at me as if to return my adoring gaze. We were made for each other.
It was all in hand - all I had to do was walk down the aisle. The flowers, the church, the food, the music… the groom. Suddenly, panic gripped me. My stomach turned uneasily while sweat dewed on my forehead and palms. I felt dizzy, suffocated… trapped.
“Um, mom?” I said into the phone with certain hesitance in my voice. No, not hesitance - determination. I had decided. I can’t do this.
“I don’t think I love him. I can’t… I just can’t.” My voice shook with the impending tears. I almost dropped the phone my hand was trembling so hard.
“Honey, you have to. It’s all been paid for. People have come from out of town. You can’t let all those people down.”
“But, I don’t even know him! Not really.”
“You’ll learn to love him.”
“Mom! Please! Don’t make me!”
“I’m sorry, dear. It’s done.”
I sat up quickly as an unconscious force ripped me from the nightmare. I was okay. It wasn’t my wedding day. I wasn’t engaged. I wasn’t even dating anyone. My mom would never make me marry someone I didn’t want to. That’s silly. My pulse slowed and I sighed in deep relief.
The wedding nightmare had been haunting me semi-annually since the age of nineteen. I was now thirty. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to get married. I was just terrified of making a mistake. It was always the same… everything was perfect, except the guy. This was not going to happen in real life. I was quite determined.
Luckily, the nightmare would not be possible with Nick. He was the perfect man. The way his untidy hair fell over his piercing blue eyes, the way he always had just the right amount of stubble around his strikingly chiseled jaw line, the sound of his voice, everything about him made me all melty on the inside. Surely, this was true love.
It was just too bad that Nick didn’t seem aware of that himself.
Nick was unrequited crush #5 of the past decade. I had a good feeling about this one too. He did smile at me the other day. That’s something…. Right? Okay, so I admit it. I’m not the best judge of what’s right for me. Jack was proof of that. He was unrequited crush #4, and perhaps the most creative in his method of torture in regards to my emotions. He’d led me on for a good six months before deciding that a girl from Chicago was a better match for him. They were exclusive within a week.
I didn’t know why I did it. My friends were unbelievably frustrated with me, but I couldn’t stop. I didn’t want to be single anymore. Truly, I didn’t. But it’s not love if you don’t have to fight for it, right?

Perception

I know we don't all see ourselves clearly... I mean, how can we? It's impossible. I think that, most of the time, I have a pretty good handle of the vibes that I try to put off. But there are other times when I think I must be way off base.

One of my biggest goals in approaching other people (particularly those of the opposite gender) is to come off as calm, cool, collected. I like to give people their space, not be pushy and most of all I never want to be seen as the type of girl who chases guys because I think that is not only unattractive but highly counter-productive.

So when I do approach guys in nothing more than a friendly way, it's always interesting to sit back and watch them misinterpret things as though I'm asking them to marry me. I mean, I don't know... maybe guys are just used to girls chasing them so any attention on any level is seen as a pick-up line. Or maybe I'm the most repugnant human being on Earth. Take your pick.

For example:

Me: Hey, how's it going?
Guy: WHOA! WHOA! HOLD ON! I think you've gotten the wrong idea.
Me: No, I was just saying "hi."
Guy: Oooohhh, look, I'm really sorry. I just don't think of you that way.
Me: I know.
Guy: Gee, this is all my fault, I lead people on. I try not to but...
Me: No, really. I'm not even attracted to you like that.
Guy: Well, I just hope your feelings aren't too hurt and that we can still be friends.
Me: Suuuure, whatever you say. (Sighs) (Rolls Eyes)

Okay, so that scenario never happened. But that is just an exaggerated example of what happens on occasion when I try to be friends with a guy. It's entertaining, if nothing else...

Perception is reality? I don't think so.

Being Shy

There's something I've been wanting to clear up for a while. It's bugged me a lot and I haven't really known how to approach the subject with people so I let it sit on the shelf and fester. But I figured that a blog is as good a format as any to air my grievances about this one particular issue. And that issue is simply this: shyness. Shyness is something that is highly misunderstood by people who are naturally outgoing. "You need to just get out of your shell," they say. I can't tell you how many people have told me this over the years. And this is what I have to say to that:

If you are an outgoing person, then why don't you try being shy? Try going to a party where all of your friends are (and a sampling of interesting, new people as well) and go stand in a corner sipping punch without joining in. And if a person tries to talk to you, answer briefly and return to your punch.

I am willing to bet that for an outgoing person, this experiment would prove to be extremely hard and uncomfortable. They would be bursting at the seams to join the fun and meet all the new and interesting people who are so close but so far away.

Not only that, but I bet that that person's friends would notice that they are not being themselves and would find it very odd.

Now, imagine you're a shy person at the same party. Your friends are there and so are some new and interesting people. You're watching the action and having fun because no one really expects a whole lot of you verbally. So you're able to quietly sip your punch and enjoy the festivities in your own special way.

Ah, but one of your buddies implores you to "Come out of your shell." Okay... Here goes. The party is loud and you're not. So you try to shout a conversation in someone's ear. They don't completely understand what you're saying. Suddenly you start to feel very self-conscious (because this isn't really you) and feel the heat of blood rushing to your face. Knowing that you're visibly embarrassed makes you more embarrassed and you forget what you're saying. The person looks even more confused, you get more embarrassed. It's obvious you're not being yourself... because yourself is not the kind of person who tries to strike up conversations at loud parties. Yourself is the kind of person who enjoys watching from the sidelines and talking to people one-on-one over coffee after the party about how much fun it was.

I guess all I'm saying is - it takes all kinds. And when people try to be something other than who they are, they wind up looking more foolish. Why is there anything wrong with being shy? I find it endearing and the people who are smart enough to make an effort with shy people and get to know them are pretty lucky after all. :)

Friends

I spend a lot of time preoccupied with how I can be a better friend to people. Part of that is my tendency to fear any kind of disapproval from anyone. Simply put: I want people to like me. I want to be liked for me and not for having the ability to put on a great facade. This process, in effect, tends to involve a lot of denial of the self.

I was talking to a friend today about jealousy... Jealousy in friendships. This is one human frailty that I despise more than most. I despise it because of my own personal experience with it. I've seen jealousy drive a permanent wedge between people. Once someone succumbs to it, it is almost impossible to recover a relationship.

Why is that? Jealousy implies a complete lack of trust in people. So that's what it all comes down to. People want to be trusted. If they don't feel trusted, then they feel hurt. And that hurt leads to anger.

And as we all know, anger leads to the dark side. :)

So I said this of friendships... they are like sifting for gold. You are the screen that remains unchanged, unmoved... you are real, tangible, yourself and honest... Eventually, the bad friends get sifted through to reveal the true gold on the surface. The real people who see you for you are, trust you to be yourself and are willing to stick around even when you are not 100% perfect. And that's how I want people to like me... for silly, quirky, ridiculous me.

To satisfy curious minds...

Here is a VERY rough excerpt of that aforementioned project I'm working on... who knows if this will ever go beyond being a little experiment but it's fun to try new things anyway. Enjoy. (And don't laugh).

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All was black. Muffled voices murmured somewhere nearby but I could not make out the words. I lay on a flat surface, something lumpy propped underneath my head. My head – it ached from my forehead to the nape of my neck. The rest of my body felt like a lead weight. I breathed in deeply through my nose and began to choke. An overwhelming musty smell burned the back of my throat. I groaned.

“Ryan… Ryan Sterling?” The voice was unexpectedly familiar and close; right beside my ear.

“Josh?” I mumbled. My voice was so quiet and hoarse I wondered if he could even hear me. My ears felt like they were stuffed with cotton.

“It’s me, man,” I heard Josh breathe a sigh of relief next to me. “We thought you weren’t going to wake up.” I opened my eyes, my head still swimming with confusion – or maybe it was just the room swirling around, blurring my vision. I blinked a few times, and breathed deeply through my mouth this time to avoid the wretched smell. I could still taste it. The swirling room began to get clearer as I lay still trying hard to focus. There, sitting next to me on a little, dirty cot, was Josh Green. I couldn’t believe that it had only been a week and a few days since I’d seen him. He looked shockingly different.

Josh’s face was sallow, his cheeks sunken in and he had dark circles under his eyes. He was still wearing his band uniform – the last clothing I had seen him in. But his clothes were filthy. It looked like he hadn’t had a bath in a week either. He looked at me, his brow crinkled in concern, but I detected a faint hint of relief in his expression.

The room we were in was very dark. A dim, orange light flickered from another part of the room. From the way the light cast dancing shadows on the walls, I could tell it was a candle or a torch that burned rather than a light bulb. Everything was stonework from ceiling to floor, except one wall that wasn’t a wall at all. There were thick, iron bars facing out to a hallway, across from which revealed a long row of cells.

Behind Josh, stood a about five or six other boys who were silently watching me with solemn faces covered in dirt.

I sat up and felt instantly woozy. I leaned back down onto the cot. “Take it easy, man,” Josh said as he gently placed his hand on my shoulder. “It’s disorienting at first.”

“What’s disorienting?” I muttered, closing my eyes again. My question hadn’t sounded like a question.

“The best I can figure is that they drug you with some kind of gas. It makes you fall asleep. That was the last thing I saw when… well, you know. That’s how they took us so quietly. No one struggled.”

“They?” I struggled to remember how I got here. The memories were dangling just out of reach of my consciousness. I remembered the screaming and that was enough to bring it all rushing back in a sickening wave of realization.

“Mom! Dad… Rachel!” I murmured. I meant to shout but my voice was still weak and the words came out in slurred whispers.

“Shhh,” Josh shushed me. “They’re not here, Ryan. We don’t where they’re keeping the others.”

“Who are they?” I repeated. I remembered a dark figure a menacing laugh… my sister’s screaming. I groaned again, feeling nauseous.

“We don’t know what they are, Ryan. They are… not like anything I’ve ever seen before.” He leaned closer in so that his mouth was right at my ear. “They… aren’t… human.”

I Feel That I Should Tell You Why...

I haven't blogged much lately because I am feverishly working on something that may or may not ever come to fruition. I might post excerpts here if I can get past the debilitating lack of self-confidence.

Oh, and if you don't know this band, then go look up City & Colour... they sooth your weary soul.