Terami.com Blog

When I was a teenager, I spent my days reading or journaling while sitting on the couch in my bedroom. The couch had belonged to my great grandmother and it was covered in crushed gold velvet. When I finally moved out of my parents' house, the couch wouldn't fit through the door so we brought a chainsaw into my room and, yes, cut it in half before tossing it out the window. It was awesome.

My mom seems to think that I was a difficult teenager. Moody. Dramatic. But I beg to differ because really how difficult can you be when the only thing you do is brood? Shut the door, problem solved.

Next, my twenties were a sea of numbness and confusion. A few really good things happened in those years, but mostly I was an idiot with a 9-5 job.

So it came as a complete shock to me when earlier this week my inner emo girl decided she needed some attention. One day I was a housewife with adorable hand splints and a positive My Fingers Will Heal Soon attitude, and the next day I suspected nothing short of amputation in my near future. The best part was when I was home alone at 2 am, crying into the carpet, staining little sections black with my mascara, ready to take out the xacto blade and do the surgery myself. I know you doubt stupidity like this happens in your thirties, but I assure you it does.

I spent the next 48 hours utterly delusional, convinced that by way of my sprained fingers, the universe was giving me a sign to stop living. I should clarify that for the past two months, I've been in pain. Aching pain, and the meds aren't working. And for the past month I've been on a largely liquid diet because I can't cut my own food and stabbing it with a fork is particularly humiliating. So there's the pain. And the hunger. And the utter frustration that I can't unbutton my pants because, dammit, these hot-looking jeans that I insist on wearing fit too tightly. Oh, yeah. And I haven't left the house in the past few weeks, except to go to the grocery for more liquid to drink and to go to the bookstore to pick up a copy of Breaking Dawn...don't get me started.

So these were all factors for you to consider when I tell you that I contemplated ripping down every happy looking photo of myself from our walls. Because. The happiness was mocking me.

And I contemplated tearing down my studio - because who can ever make music again when the universe is telling you to stop living? Next, I wanted to delete my websites so there was no digital proof of my existence before I set fire to this house and destroyed myself in the flames. Yes, life is just this miserable with sprained thumbs.

Sure, there was a removed part of my brain that was amused by my bad behavior, commenting, "This is the best entertainment we've had all year. I mean, this feels really good. We should do this more often. Maybe we'll blog about it in a few days. Don't forget to mention the part where we scream that there is no God. That's good stuff."

And then, last night my emotional fever broke. Suddenly I was all, Back to 1991 much? And I had newfound respect for my mother because I wanted to smack myself and realized how much self control it must have taken her to just shut the door between us. I could tell you right now it was good to get in touch with the angst, but that would be a lie because there are so many places on our carpeting and bedsheets that have little mascara butterfly stains and I'm a housewife at heart. Who hates stains. I'm just hoping that the few people I spoke with over the past few days will forgive me for contaminating their universe with my garbage. And so, with that said, I gladly publish the story on the internet. Because even though she's calmed down, my inner emo girl totally wants to put it out there.