Free Time

There’s a moment when you know that nothing you do goes unnoticed. 

I used to always wonder if everything that I did went unnoticed. 

But I hardly feel that way these days.

Every move I make: watched, followed, monitored, questioned, worried about, sighed over.

If I could fade into the background, I would be happy. 

If I could make it to where no one could see me, or hear me, or think about me, or know me….I would maybe choose that.

But I know that eventually, I would become lonely. Because it’s lonely in this spotlight. And I can only imagine what it feels like in the dark.

(I thought I had been there, but maybe that’s what comes next.)

 

I pulled up to my house yesterday evening, sure that I was home for the night. It wasn’t even dark yet, but I knew I wasn’t going anywhere else. I haven’t felt much like….doing anything. Lately. I think I’m punishing myself, for being myself, by spending time by myself, with only myself.

And Harper.

So I turned off the ignition to the car, and sat back in my seat. I knew I was about to have a crazy, out of body experience moment that I have debated internally with myself about trying to describe with words. And this is the first time I have attempted.

Everything looked especially green. The grass, the trees, the plants lining the house and the fence. It was like everything was at it’s healthiest. The sun came pouring in behind a tree, and it was shining on literally, nothing else but me. In that moment. It looked like the front of a post card. 

Or like a prayer card. Or something.

So I felt like I was being called out. By something. I don’t know what. But, it was like I pulled right up into some spiritual, metaphysical moment that I wasn’t even really interested in, but it was just going to suck me into.

So I had to stay there, and be with it for a minute.

It was like this ray of sun, was shining down on me like a spotlight. From the clouds. I couldn’t help but think:

“Oh…okay. Alright. I get it….let’s…come on. Let’s just do this.”

And then this feeling came over me like something was trying to talk to me. Some feeling of comfort. And all of the most comforting images and thoughts and memories immediately came to my mind.

Pictures of faces.

Sounds of voices.

Smells of people.

Feelings that I didn’t even usually think of as comforting.

Came at this moment.

A song came on. With a ridiculous amount of personal sentiment.

And it was like something, someone, whoever was in charge of controlling that spotlight, was shining it on me and telling me:

Stay.

Just stay.

More depressing than I intended…

I think they poisoned me.

Ever since I left, I have had some serious stomach issues. 

I’ll leave it at that.

I was going to wash my car today. But just as I was making my way to the car wash, some dark, ominous clouds rolled right in. And the wind got colder. And there was that smell of rain, that people always talk about, that I always think is a little bit of bullshit and cliche, well it was there–and I smelled it.

And I thought to myself, “…figures.”

I live on the furthest side of town from everything else. It’s always a chore to see anyone. I usually have to wait twenty to thirty minutes for anyone to get here–and it’s not like anyone will be coming here anymore; and leaving usually requires a lot of internal motivation that I can’t really muster anymore. I try to limit my trips to once a day. Try to get everything done in that one trip. It leaves for kind of a lonely feeling at night.

They usually gave me something to help me sleep at night. The first night, the nurse walked in with two cups full of pills and said, “boy, ya’ll are SPOILED!”

Talking to my roommate and me.

I wasn’t really sure why they were giving me what they were giving me. I didn’t really need it. Didn’t really want it. I’m not sure how many other people felt this way. But, still, every 4-6 hours when they rolled those carts out, I would stand in the line with the rest of them, like children waiting for candy. 

They gave some people Xanax. I felt like this was a little cruel.

“Does Xanax like…make you feel kinda drowsy?…” she asked me, sounding a little drunk. Sounding a little relaxed. Sounding a little bit like someone who was taking it for the first time.

I sat there with my arms folded. Staring blankly at her.

“Yes.

This is cool. You’re all fucked up on Xanax and I’m sitting here. Watching you.”

Even though they drugged me up, and I fell asleep fairly quickly the first night, I was still woken up to my roommates terrible snoring. 

Snoring has always been one of my biggest pet peeves since I was little. Hearing anyone’s bodily functions in the middle of the night has always driven me insane. When I sleep next to someone who is completely silent, I secretly thank them.

It was about 2:30 in the morning that I decided I could no longer take it. I walked out into the Day Area with a pillow and laid on the couch. I was hoping to just spend the night there, but it occurred to me that this was illegal, so I asked one of the nurses working at the front desk what else I could do.

Two pink ear plugs were dropped into my hands.

“Thanks,” I said, and walked back to my room.

Of course they didn’t help. I gripped my pillow back tightly against my head, after staring at the picture I kept by my pillow one last time, while the moonlight made the room glow, and sleep dangled itself in front of me once again.

A Weekend with no Whistling…

Today I was sitting in the car with a friend and asked her advice on how I should respond to a text message.

She said, “I don’t know man. You need to corinnealiserast.com that shit.”

I laughed hard. For the first time in a good way all weekend. In case the joke is unclear, she was telling me I needed to make up some good shit to say.

I think.

So, I’m going to corinnealiserast.com this past weekend.

I think I’ve made it clear that I am willing to be fairly open with you, gentle reader, on this internet blog. That maybe you sometimes read. So, that is why I’m about to share with you this story:

One thing I thought, while sitting in a cold, uncomfortable room, filled with people with green scrub pants and transparent white t-shirts, tan socks and dead eyes; I thought of this, as I was listening to everyone else around me say that familiar line…

“I’m Corie Rast, and I’m in this psychiatric hospital to pursue my writing career…”

Because I just felt like I was doing the next step in a life that I would live.

When I first pulled into the parking lot, I noticed it was really empty. My car was the only one there. I should have known that this meant, being the weekend, no ample staff was provided, and I would spend the next 72 hours coloring. But I did think of a joke, right off the bat, that I was dying to tell one of the staff members:

“Parking lots pretty empty. Economy affecting you guys too?”

I couldn’t find anyone that I felt like would really appreciate this joke.

It took about an hour for them to decide that they wanted to keep me. I was told just before that, standing in the doorway of a bathroom, feeling fucked up still and fucked WITH still, “are you going to tell them the truth?”

“Well…yeah…”

“You better fucking tell them the truth Corie. And if you do, they are going to keep you.”

“Well okay then.”

The second I started signing papers I immediately became apprehensive. I didn’t know if I wanted to go through with it. I drove myself there. I specifically did it alone. I made a frantic phone call to my best friend on the way there, telling her how scared I was.

Through tears, she said, “you HAVE to do this Corie. You have to do it.”

She went on…

“Remember in high school, when we always said we would say something at each other’s funeral? Well this morning, I found myself trying to think of what I would say. And I don’t want to be doing that. I don’t want to be practicing what I would say. At your. Funeral.”

It was hard to hear that.

Hard to argue with it.

It was hard to walk through the door. I immediately felt like shit. Because one of the male nurses was cute and looked to be about my age. He was someone that I would be attracted to, and who would be attracted to me, normally. Under different circumstances. Certainly not these.

“This is going to be your room,” the lady said, as she walked me down the hall. I looked down at my white bracelet. It immediately felt wrong. It literally, WAS wrong. On it, it read, “RAST, CORINNE S”. 

Soooo…I was about to corinne”S”rast.com this shit.

We walked into the dimly lit room and I stared at a lady with a black eye and her mouth hanging open, passed out in the bed closest to the window.

“Oh..” the nurse said, “looks like your roommate is sleeping…”

I nodded and set my book and pile of papers down on the desk. It was all I was allowed to bring in with me. People were to bring me belongings later.

I immediately wanted to cry. Just the sight of her, scared me. And it was the first shocking moment I had. The first of many.

I returned to the “Day Area” with no idea of what to do. I just sat on a plastic couch, and stared at the tv. Stared at other people around me. Did a lot of staring. The entire weekend.

After about an hour I got up and asked someone what I was supposed to be doing.

“Oh…there’s not much…most people just read…write…watch tv…”

It sounded like a list of completely acceptable list of things to be doing, but none of them sounded comforting.

I watched a girl who looked about my age walk through the doors. She was in a mess of tears. It made me incredibly sad and empathetic. I knew exactly how she felt. I had moved passed the tears, momentarily, as I was dealing with who would bring me clothes and what exactly that meant…but I made a point to approach her when I had the chance.

“Just so you know,” I said gently, as she looked up at me with a red face and watery eyes, “I know exactly how you feel. I saw you walking in…and I…just know exactly how you feel.”

We remained friendly and there for each other for the rest of my time there. I think she’s still there now….I feel bad for getting out before her.

It seemed that the group of patients was exceptionally fucked up, for the norm of people that were admitted. There were completely grown women that fell asleep on the couches for hours; who stared blankly out the windows the entire day; who had a crippling fear of “people”; who yelled and screamed out and acted as if they were little kids again at any time at all; who had eyes that had no life whatsoever, left in them.

The men, were not much better, but seemed more stable. They were more talkative, and seemed more comfortable being there. Some of them even seemed to be enJOYING it. Only a few seemed truly scared there.

So..only a few I could relate with.

It was about five hours in that I came to terms with the fact that I was going to be completely miserable for however long I was there. I was terrified of everything happening around me. I tried to imagine specific people I knew in my situation. How they would be handling it.

I couldn’t fathom most people’s reactions.

I started to become talkative with one of the male nurses; the head nurse. He was friendly and really laid-back. I felt comforted by most of the things he said.

“I think if I stay here…I’M going to go crazy,” I told him, as I leaned over the front desk.

He laughed and replied, “No you’re not…as least I haven’t yet…you know..my wife..gets depressed sometimes and I just get so pissed off…because..look at these people…”

“When do you think I’ll be able to get out of here?” I asked.

“Well it’s your doctor’s decision. You just have to convince him you’re not suicidal.”

I nodded. I could do that. I could definitely do that.

I tried to write down a lot. But I couldn’t even have a real pen. We were only allowed, like, the inside of a ballpoint pen. That clear plastic part. I could barely hold it. I eventually switched to a red, Crayola marker.

I think I ate two times, while I was there. It felt like eating, was accepting being there. And I hated to do that.

Many people have questioned why I went.

Many people have not.

I’m not even sure I can answer that question. 

I’m not even sure I can envision how my days will be spent now. How my nights will be spent. It is a certain end to some things that I have grown severely, terribly, heartbrokenly accustomed to. 

It is an uncertain end to others.

I realized on the way home that I had not whistled the entire weekend. I went 72 hours, without whistling at all. I absent-mindedly whistled along to the song playing in my car as I drove east on I-70. 

After I hugged my mom, I told her, “I really, really believe, that one of the scariest times in my life, was walking into those doors. And one of the happiest, was walking out.”

*

*

*

Over the course of the next few days, I will share more stories, some funny, some sad, some scary, some happy–with you. I just wanted to get this part out of the way first.

Please don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.

Ringtooooonnnnnnes.

Just that word, gives me a good feeling about what I’m about to write.

So I have this thing, where I make my current ringtone on my (iphone) like…sort of…a theme for how I’m currently feeling in life. I do this because, even though, yes, the idea and annoyance of ringtones is aggravating and a bit silly. But, it ALWAYS catches your attention, when you hear one start screaming from someone’s phone in a public place. You might just start laughing–because it’s some ridiculous like…TI or Beyonce song or something….or you might…really start to question what the hell kind of person that is if you hear something like my father’s–I believe it’s “Wild Thing”. 

Like. What?

That’s what I’d think.

Regardless, even if involuntarily, you just learned something about that person simply by the type of song they chose for their ringtone. Or even because, yes, they were THAT type of person to have a ringtone.

By the type of music they chose to express themself with.

And…now I’m a sucker for playing with a little music and playing with a little of whatever the hell it is that floats around in Corie’s head, and writing shit about it. For you to read. So here we go:

I thought I would just tell you what the ringtones have been for…the last six or so months of my life, and I will give you an excerpt of the lyrics from each song. (These are the lyrics that I actually cut down to play when the ringtone went off. God. I’m such a loser.) Starting in chronological order:

“La Valse D’ Amelie” -Yann Tiersen.

Instrumental. No lyrics.

“All the Trees of the Field Will Clap Their Hands” Sufjan Stevens

“…if I am alive this time next year, will I have arrived in time to share? And mine is about as good this far. And I’m still applied to what you are. And I  am joining all my thoughts to you. And I am preparing every part for you.

“Feeling Good” (Muse’s Cover of it)

“…it’s a new dawn it’s a new day it’s a new life……and I’m feeling goooooodddd..”

*Note: This ringtone choice didn’t even last a day I don’t think. I just heard it when I watched that terrible Will Smith movie where he like kills himself with a jellyfish or something and I really was impressed with Muse’s cover of it. I don’t know. That story just gets more and more embarrassing every time I re-read over it.

“Jesus etc” -Wilco

“…..tall buildings shake, voices escape singing sad sad songs tuned to chords strung down your cheeks, bitter melodies turning your orbit around.”

“Strawberry Swing” -Coldplay.

Don’t judge.

“…ah now the sky could be blue, I don’t mind, without you it’s a waste of time….”

“Better Together” -Jack Johnson

Again. No judging. 

“…yeah it’s always better when we’re together, we’re always somewhere in between together….”

“Expo 86″ -Death Cab for Cutie

“…and if I move my place in line, I’ll lose. And I have waited the anticipation’s got my glued….

“Touch Me I’m going to Scream!” -My Morning Jacket

“….Oh! This feeling is wonderful, don’t you dare turn it off…”

“Strange Times” -The Black Keys

“…..strange times….are here….”

“The Kansas City Shuffle” -J. Ralph

“It’s a blindfold kick back type of game called the Kansas City shuffle, whereas you look left and they fall right into the Kansas City shuffle. It’s a they-think you-think you don’t know type of Kansas City shuffle. Where you take your turn and hang them up and out to dry.”

So, given the logic I presented earlier about ringtones and what they tell you about a person, do you think you could gather a fairly accurate, (yet, perhaps not even specific) picture of my life?

**I have one request. If you read this blog regularly, or fairly regularly, or maybe just stumble across it, but still read, tell me. You don’t have to tell me in person, tell me however you want. But let me know you read this. It would mean more than you will realize.**

Tossed.

I sometimes feel like I’m made of glass.

Some undestructible form of glass…that no matter how much you try to throw it on the ground, or burn it, or step on it, it still remains intact. I’m that glass, that at the Jewish wedding ceremony, the groom can’t step on and break with his foot. (Whatever that ritual is.) I just remain there. Making him feel embarrassed….that I even still exist. Hell, I”m a little embarrassed. I was supposed to make this guy look like an upstanding Jewish newlywed, and there I laid, just…not breaking.

I’m the glass that you can see right through, if you look close enough. From far away I may look shiny and safe to use. But once you get up close, you see how dirty I really am. How many smudges I have. How many people have used me before. I’m that glass that you look at and think, “should….we maybe just toss this out?…”

The thing is…I’ve been tossed out before. But, for some reason, when I’m laying there in that trashcan, someone looks down at me, right at my worst moment, and maybe thinks to themself, “whoa. That doesn’t need to be thrown out. That’s….I wanna take that glass. I wanna take it home with me. And fall in love with it in one way or another, and use it to drink everything out of it. That glass…really looks like it could fulfill me. I could drink…forever…out of that glass. I’m taking this shit. Keeping it.”

So I start on a new quest. Someone saved me. And I fill them up, everyday. With what they drink from me. And I become one of the most important things in their lives. They use me….over….and over…and over….

And then, one day..at some point. They realize that….

Well I don’t know what the fuck they realize. I just know that I usuallly end up…”tossed.” Again.

What did I get myself into…

Whenever I decided that I liked words, was really when I think I set myself up for a life of permanent torture.

Because it was when I decided that I liked words and liked to learn how to use them, in as many ways as I could, to express as many things as I felt-or as you felt-or as he felt-or as she felt-or as we felt-or as they felt–that I really took on a lot more than I bargained for.

Because since that day….whenever it was…was it all the way back in first grade? When I wrote that story about how I hated cats? Was it when I went to that stupid “young writers conference” over and over and stared at everyone else like they were idiots because just being there made me feel like an idiot? Was it when I started writing things in the high school newspaper that everyone hated but loved to read? Was it when I started writing about things that were actually happening in MY life, in workshops in college? That got people’s attention? Was it when I realized that…..shit….I need some stuff to write about. Because that’s the only time I feel like I’m contributing to society, rather than feeling like a constant drain. And maybe the act of being a drain…is what I spend half my time writing about. 

I don’t know if I purposely started living a life that just keeps pouring good shit out of itself for me to write about….but…if I were to sit down with you, over a cup of coffee or a beer or a soda or a sparkling water or whatever the fuck you drink, (depending on who I’m sitting down with) and tell you every single thing that has gone on in my life; since the age of…..I’m saying 10 or so….you would….probably be surprised. Shocked. Personally, I’m not sure what else there is to experience. What is the life expectancy these days? It seems to be getting longer and longer…..how much more do I have to experience?

After you took a swig or a drag or a hit or a rip or a drink just to wash it down, (again, depending on who you are) You would probably look at me and say something like, “Man Corie, you should write a book.”

And I’d probably say something like, “Yeah. Maybe.”

Quicksand.

Our love is like quicksand. The more you try to escape it, the deeper in it you sink.

I try to lift one leg, and I feel it’s grasp tighten on me more.

You try to raise your hand, but it stubbornly remains where it was the whole time–completely embedded in this mess we’ve made. 

I feel myself sinking, falling, losing grip, deeper and deeper into a confusion that brings more clarity than anything else I’ve ever known.

I guess you can’t see through quicksand.

I miss what the morning looks like with you.

The sun, shining at levels that hurt our eyes as we drive the empty city streets, talking as if this is what’s it’s been like the entire time.

Talking as if this is what it will BE like the entire time.

I guess you can’t move, once you’ve fallen into quicksand. 

I guess you’re pretty helpless.

Corie the Clown.

Clowns have always had sort of an unfair disadvantage, in life. I think.

It seems that if you ask maybe 80% of the general public if they find clowns creepy or….something else….they would say creepy.

I’m not sure when this trend started. But, I mean, come on. They are creepy. I think for me, personally, it started when I was little and saw the movie “IT”, about the clown who killed kids and stuff. Always left a single lingering balloon where he had just been. I think sometimes it would just pop randomly, and blood would spurt out from it.

Sometimes I still get creeped out if I’m walking around my job and see a random balloon just floating there. 

But, the clown in that movie wasn’t your ordinary clown. He had like, crazy fang teeth and he said the word fuck a lot and….I mean, he was clearly a murderer. 

The clowns that seem to scare people the most, are the ones that are there just to cheer you up. Not murder you. The ones that are named like….”Bozo the Clown”…or whatever. They constantly have a smile on their face. Literally. It is painted on. And they are always making all kinds of funny jokes and playing pranks and just bringing (or trying to) bring general joy and happiness to their onlookers. People even hire them. To come to their kids parties. Or whatever. Just to make it fun. Their job, is to make you happy. Make you laugh. Put on a show. Be the clown. 

But what’s even MORE depressing…and creepy…and scary….is when you see that clown, slouched down in a corner, with a bottle of liquor and a handful of pills. The smile is still painted on but it’s only because the face paint is so stubborn. When you look up at someone, they can tell you really aren’t smiling. And…it’s pretty alarming. They ask you what’s wrong. But….you feel like you really don’t even have a right to say anything is wrong. YOU’RE THE CLOWN!! You are always happy. And hilarious. And joyful. And if you’re not joyful, you’re still hilarious. You still make people laugh.

But is it in a creepy way? Are they on to you? Do they notice that this is all an act and that you’re slipping?

Probably.

Do they care?

You can’t tell.

So you look in the mirror, and you straighten that big bow tie and re-apply that make-up, and start a new day. That will carry with it….literally, nothing that could be predicted. Because clowns don’t make a salary. They take what they are given. They makes jokes when they come. They work for tips. They will pick up the scraps of attention and happiness and temporary joy that you accidentally drop on the floor behind you. They are desperate for material. They HAVE to keep making you laugh.

And if they try to be quiet….well…all hell breaks lose.

“Strange times…”

I have been robbed, several times in life.

Sometimes, I have been completely aware of it. Like when I know I sign up for a credit card with a ridiculously high interest rate. I’m getting robbed. Or when I pay way too much for a shirt or a pair of shoes or something stupid….that I just was robbed. Or when I put out money that should be going to other things or other people or other companies calling my phone three times a day, on stuff…to put into my body, to make me feel nice…I’m being robbed then also.

These are all very tangible things. Except for maybe the last one. There are definitely some non-tangible robberies within that one that can really fuck with your credit(ability) (eh?) in a way that will take you YEARS to fix. 

But, sometimes, there are robberies that happen, without you even realizing it, where you don’t lose a thing…but…yourself. 

I just heard a song lyric that said, “you stole my heart.” And, that really is very likely. That this young man crying out these words had his heart stolen from him. Because it DOES happen. Someone can come along, and just….take your heart. Right out of your chest. And have it. And, you didn’t even ask for it. You didn’t seek it out. You didn’t leave it laying around unattended. In fact, you’ve kept a PRETTY FUCKIN CLOSE EYE ON IT for a while now. It’s not in the best of conditions, honestly. It’s been through some shit. All beat up, torn, frayed, one sides barely pumping up and down. It….I mean, does it even look like something anyone would want?

Well apparently it is, because, it’s been stolen. You no longer own it. You miiiiiight get it back…at some point. But, right now, it’s not looking likely. You have absolutely no control over what you do–your heart does. And it’s in the possession of someone else. And you have no idea what they are going to do with it. They SEEM  to be performing some sort of juggling act with it. But you can’t tell. You just know, that your heart, is in their hands. 

And…the thing is, is that when you look down, at your hand, you see a heart beating in it that isn’t yours. And you look up at that other person, and you’re pretty sure, that it belongs to them. 

Holy shit. What are they thinking about YOU?

Welcome to Kansas City, Missouri!!!!

Let me tell you a little bit about the part of Kansas City that I live in. 

It’s about a 15-20 mile radius of a scenic, dramatic, completely ridiculous and unfathomable mind-fuck.

If you are friends with any number of the people that I am friends with, (or if you are one of them, which you probably are) I am pretty sure that you are a fucked up person. You know you are too. You think it to yourself, every day. And you think about how the people you are friends with are too. And you sometimes see no way out.

Because you have gotten yourself in so deep. In so many ways. If you aren’t from this area, and are looking for a change of pace, this will definitely suit your needs!

Say you have what you think is a successful, happy, fulfilling relationship. Looking to really put it to the test? Become friends with any number of the people in my phone book. You are almost guaranteed to have it either ruined, or made never the same, EVER AGAIN!

But there’s more to this area than just the mental and emotional “stimulation”. The climate, in almost every way, is completely bi-polar. You can wake up to 70 degree weather one day and six inches of snow on the ground the very next. You can go to your job and feel like you are a good employee, that you are beneficial to your co-workers and that your bosses appreciate you–one day–and the very next, you can be the laziest, most worthless, most ridiculous, most selfish, most problematic person on the earth. Variety is never in demand!

Talking with friends tonight, in empty parking lots and warm cars, it came to my attention that if the need for a new reality drama was being sought out, (which it always is, isn’t it?) I could list off 12 or so people, for a camera crew to follow around. Throughout their entire day. And THAT shit–would be some good television.

Follow any of us around for an entire day. From the moment that we wake up, to the minute we pass out. If this information was made public knowledge to America, or if it was at least acknowledged in a straight-forward way, I believe the rest of our country would be scared.

Because honestly, where are we going?

–The answer is that we have no clue. None of us do. But we can’t give up either. We can’t get out. So we keep festering inside one another. We keep intertwining our lives more and more, until our bodies are so tangled and our hair is in our eyes and are hands are buried throughout one another, that we can’t even see the sun any longer.

Because we’re pretty sure that here in this 15-20 mile radius of Kansas City, the sun doesn’t work the way it’s supposed to.