Ingress: Volume Nine: The Journals of Meghan McDonnell, #9

Ingress: The Journals of Meghan McDonnell

Volume Nine

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Meghan McDonnell

Copyright 2018 Meghan K. McDonnell

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Titles by Meghan McDonnell:

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Minor: Volume One

Novice: Volume Two

Limbo: Volume Three

Elsewhere: Volume Four

Faithful: Volume Five

Vespers: Volume Six

Onward: Volume Seven

Sojourn: Volume Eight

Ingress: Volume Nine

Witness: Volume Ten

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Note

All names and identifying characteristics have been changed to protect the innocent and the guilty. I have solely recorded my interpretations and opinions of all events. Certain place names have been changed. Aside from minor edits, all else is as I wrote it at the time. If you’re new to the journals, welcome. If you’re a veteran, thank you for coming back for more. You’ll find links to songs, books, films, and more throughout the text, and a playlist at the end.

Contents

August 2004

September 2004

October 2004

November 2004

December 2004

January 2005

February 2005

March 2005

April 2005

May 2005

June 2005

July 2005

Playlist

August 2004

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Friday, August 13, 2004

I am halfway through the bio on Jackie Kennedy. I find her fascinating and contradictory. I am drawn to her and admire her. Silly as it is, I identify with her.

I don’t know what to write now that I have the opportunity. I work, and when I don’t, we have family engagements in Seattle.

I was peeved last night. I love the hour at the end of my shift when I am let go early in time for a drink and to unwind and be by myself. This did not happen, though it easily could have. I don’t blame Rachel. I was in a poor mood. I have the next three days off.

Carson and I want to move to Seattle by September 1 but so much has to happen for that to be. I took a Greyhound to Seattle this morning. I want to see Cassie. Meredith and I have plans tonight.

I constantly wonder how I can become the woman I want to be without looking down on who I am now. I want to be successful. After reading about Jackie O., I fear I lack what it takes to be powerful because it involves moral compromises and eschewing of principles that I refuse to partake in. One must lie, cajole, steal, backstab, and be duplicitous to become wealthy and important. But I don’t think this always must be true. I believe I can succeed with my morals intact.

I believe it’s okay to dress well; like fine things; have an aesthetic and style; be well-versed in literature, art, history, and music; be well-traveled and multi-lingual, and remain moral, humble, kind, vulnerable, open, and in service to others. I can be successful, rich, and still be silly and sly and talk a little trash.

I want to be dynamic, to go far in a few pursuits. I study people like Jackie Kennedy because I have a few of her qualities but I want to gain insight into how she became revered. I want to understand the pitfalls she withstood so I may avoid them. In all this seeking, I want to be rooted in God.

I don’t want to be callous, vulgar, tacky, materialistic, or selfish. I want to be honest and as much myself as I can be. I don’t want to worship at the Scientology altar unfurled by the likes of L. Ron Hubbard so I can worship at the church of ME (though I could use more self-confidence).

I don’t know in which areas I have to fake it till I make it and in which areas I can let it flow through me.

Mom often tells me about a woman who was terminally ill. One day, the woman began to bless every part of her body throughout each day. She blessed it even when she didn’t feel the blessing. She healed.

I have to tell myself things I know are true before I can experience their truth. The other night, I wrote on a napkin, I’m living in myself again, not so looking outward. I am more in my skin. My voice is stronger. The mental racket is quieter and not as fierce.

I read an article in a local publication. The outfit is hokey and new-age-y but I liked a piece a woman wrote about what she calls disaster mind. I should see a therapist about my bouts with depression. This woman wrote about the negative tapes our minds play. It starts with one negative thought and gets on a roll. She writes that we must be conscious of it because it’s powerfully destructive. She writes that our culture values the mind so highly that our bodies, emotions, and spirituality suffer from neglect. She believes that ideally, all parts could work together in harmony, as an integrated whole.

Examples the writer uses remind me of Constance and when she said we all get down on our bodies and think, Oh, what are these thighs? They’re not my body. They’re like a broken toaster that I don’t know how to deal with. The article also addresses making up false stories about what other people think. She writes that we judge and compare ourselves against who we want to be. These concepts are familiar.

Love, Meghan

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Friday, August 20, 2004

A day off to myself and we aren’t leaving town. Carson and I watched Garden State today and it influenced me. I liked Zach Braff, Natalie Portman, and Peter Sarsgaard in it. The soundtrack, dialogue, and mini experiences were great. I don’t know what it was but it hit me perfectly. I thought it would be trite and overdone.

I cleaned the place all day and now I’m sitting outside a coffee shop a block from home. Carson is working and when he’s done, Scott and Marie will be in town for a visit all weekend.

I am beat when I get done with work. The secondhand smoke zaps my body of nutrients. I’m still reading about Jackie. In the timeline, JFK was just shot and she’s on her own in Georgetown, depressed and drinking.

Moving to Seattle is up in the air. We’ll wait until October.

Love, Meghan

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Monday, August 23, 2004

Carson found a job advertised in the paper for a librarian archivist. I want it. I want it so bad and am racking my brains for a cover letter and resume with a fervor I have not felt since Professor Robert’s class. This means my letter and res must be airtight and incredible. I want this job. I am searching my mind for the right words to convey that it is right for me.

I’m wrapped in the Jackie O. web. The more I read, the more she shrinks as a perfect woman. She has become a tragic figure. Beyond her glamour and the bad habit of romanticizing tragedy, her life was sad. I think of her as I mull over what to write to the library. I want to know, What would Jackie write? This is an irreverent riff on the signs the Christians at the university hang everywhere: What would Jesus do?

I’d like to lean on faith to get this job but it feels unfair. I don’t have an open enough relationship with my Maker to come calling for favors (read: prayers). It feels too convenient to ask Him, Do You think You could swing it so I get the position? It feels cheap and unearned to pray for it.

My spirituality feels more like a philosophy. Philosophies and religions seem similar to me. But spirituality is something else – an intimacy with the strange secret of Life that slips through in unwitting places. My spirituality (read: the divinity of my Spirit) feels atrophied. I can only ask for this job if it is meant to be. I can’t ask a favor on this one.

Looking at it this way leads me to philosophical questions like Why would God care if I get a job I want? Is God interested that this one 25-year-old American woman wants a job as a library archivist or wants a job at the local newspaper, which offers a full-time salaried position with benefits? I don’t think so. If I keep going on this line of thought, I’m afraid that it will occur to me to sell all my possessions, move somewhere to help the children, and toss my personal ambitions.

What shall I do with this short life I’ve been given? If I prove my worthiness as a human being and sell myself to a company, I will be rewarded with money, medical, and dental. This is the strange way of our culture. My rebellious nature rises to shout, Yeah well, fuck you, society! Fuck you, weird culture! I’m gonna work in a bar or restaurant forever in defiance of you! But who does that hurt? That is not the route to go.

I don’t want to judge others. I do not put myself above anyone. But I look around at my customers and I don’t want to be around them, at least in the context of our relationship. I look at my coworkers and think, I love and respect you all but we make choices for ourselves and our lives and I choose something different from this.

So, I can get a job with a salary and benefits. I can live a life that affords me certain comforts. I can hold onto my rebellious defiant little heart. I can serve people (just not in the service industry). And if people are devoid of money or a home or family or significant other or fame or their unique dreams, it’s not my business what they choose for themselves or what they could change if they wanted to.

We all suffer. We are designed to carry each other, to be carried. We need each other’s strengths, talents, and wisdom. I want to reveal aspects of myself in new venues.

I look at any job I take in Seattle as a spiritual change and journey as much as I see it as work and income. Maybe it’s not me begging or knocking down doors to offer myself to whoever will have me. Maybe the right job can be something that I not only love but something that will fulfill what others need. Will any business ever know how lucky they would be to have me? Will I ever find a place that understands and respects me? Will I find people whose mission, ethics, and desires align with mine?

I’m off to meet Carson and Maletto for karaoke.

Love, Meghan

P.S. I may look on this time as when I listened to Joanna Newsom and read about Jackie Kennedy. Jackie imprints herself on my mind and mixes into my sentiments. These are days of me working and not minding. I look at people on an honest level. I am here with them in the now while I tend to my images and dreams.

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Thursday, August 26, 2004

I finished America’s Queen, the Jackie bio. I cried. The biographer treated her with respect and gave as honest a view as she could. When the author describes Jackie’s passing, I thought Jackie had a fitting end: surrounded by family and friends at her home in Manhattan. Her final companion in life loved and valued her more than JFK or Ari ever did. I’m relieved to be done with the book because it enveloped me. It hummed along the tracks of my mind the past few weeks.

Jackie inspires me to make my life to order. The book aroused my tragedy tendency. It made me worry about Carson’s mortality. Reading about a widow and remembering Charlie’s premature death created a stage for my irrational fears and intuition of eventual death play out to my horror and fascination.

I am getting my resume and cover letter together for the library position. I’m excited about the job. I can’t think about not getting it. I’m floating on confidence, faith, blind hope, and quiet assurance.

I emailed Prof. Charles Foster and asked if he would be a reference for me. He replied and said he will. It feels good to have a former English teacher in my corner. He has a book coming out mid-month and I need to buy it. Foster said he’s glad I am still writing and that I should feel free to send him my work. I’ll put that in my back pocket until I’m ready to publish something.

I emailed Claire again. I wrote that I’m not upset with her and don’t know if she’s angry with me. I acknowledged the strain of our interactions in Europe last summer. I wrote that I miss her and I want us to be part of each other’s lives. I asked her to respond, even if it’s to say she needs more time and distance.

I hope Claire and I can come back together as the close friends we once were.

It feels good to have done two things that were looming over me: email Foster and reach out to Claire. I took the night off work to finish my cover letter and the book. I’m supposed to meet Kirsten and Carrie later. I enjoy those gals. We talked until 2 a.m. the other night after I finished work. I loved talking to them about life, travel, and our men. Kirsten flattered me to no end. She said that the photo of Jackie O. walking in Manhattan, windblown and casual, reminds her of me. She said that every time she’s in a city and sees a woman walking with casual elegance, she thinks of me. I am ashamed of how readily I drank it in. I loved hearing that. It isn’t how I see myself at all but it’s how I wish to be seen. I wish I could see it in myself.

I asked Kirsten if she is obsessed with or intrigued by anyone. She said quietly, You. I doubt that but it was sweet (?) of her to say. George, an old friend of Carson’s, is back in town from a stint in LA. We talked the other night. He and his girlfriend broke up and he’s back at square one. He called me earlier and wanted someone to talk to.

I am glad to have had this day to catch up on what has been neglected. One part of the Jackie bio keeps coming back to me. I don’t quite understand it but something about it won’t leave me alone because it resonates. Jackie’s friend told the biographer (about Jackie), "I think she probably developed this extraordinary sort of spiritually good manners as defense really. Because people with wonderful manners actually protect themselves from a lot of things..." (emphasis mine.)

I understand the part about defending oneself. But the pairing of spiritual with good manners baffles and delights me. My Mom raised me and my siblings with good manners and they serve us to this day. I don’t know if this woman was expressing that if you’re well-mannered and superficially nice that your life will be easier because people are used to callous and selfish behavior and will respond overly well to courtesy. Or if she was saying that always having a smiling and submissive veneer will help you avoid unnecessary arguments and abrasive collisions, and therefore manners protect you from unpleasant run-ins. But I see, in Jackie’s case, that having manners is a shield to put up that protects you from having to roll around in the mire of life with the rest of humanity.

My Mom has impeccable manners and social graces. But she protects herself. We’ll deep dive into this later.

Carson and I celebrate our second anniversary tomorrow. I need to reflect on that.

Love, Meghan

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(later on) I’m waiting on my prince as it is now officially our anniversary. He’s screening a movie and will be home shortly. I’m tipsy. I spent a wonderful evening at Carrie and Andy’s with Kirsten and her boyfriend Trevor, who works with Carson. We talked and drank wine and played with Carrie’s dogs and cat. We all walked to the Hitch. I spent the rest of the night talking to Carrie. She is a breath of fresh air. She reminds me of Claire. Carrie and I are drawn to each other for many reasons. One of my reasons is that I need a light friend in Bellingham, a friend who is fun and intelligent and up for conversation and not an alcoholic. She needs a friend who is not wrapped up in drama. We delighted in each other.

Carrie and I have similar family backgrounds. Our families are loving and supportive. Coming from that, we feel a need to share that foundation and compassion with others. But it can be hard. How do I appreciate my roots without feeling apologetic when I come across people who weren’t valued or cared for in the ways I was? What a condescending question to ask.

Carrie is good. She’s got a hint of Elizabeth about her. She’s sweet and graceful. I hope I may know her better.

Love, Meghan

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Monday, August 30, 2004

The bar is quiet tonight and I am happy for that. I worked my eight hours and then cruised on the internet. I dropped off a resume at the Seattle Post-Intelligencer today. We said goodbye to the red devil (our old Subaru). That car was good to me but a pain in the ass in the end. We donated it to Habitat for Humanity. As we drove away from the lot, Carson said, Oh, look back there at it. It’s kinda sad, and I did and it was somehow sad. The car looked abandoned and forlorn. I think we’ll all recover.

Carson and I saw Joe and Whitney’s new house yesterday. It’s wonderful and so nice for a young married couple just starting out. We had lunch in the backyard. They helped me with my resume and cover letter while we sipped wine.

Carson and I went to dinner at Steve and Annabelle’s with Craig and Sofie. The latter two are going to Jamaica for two weeks tomorrow. I wouldn’t mind an international jaunt but it’s not where my mind is. I’m devoted to finding a job I will enjoy. I have anxiety about getting a 9 to 5 job. It feels tidy and boxy. Five days a week all year. I need to find something right for me.

To celebrate our anniversary, Carson and I had a mellow day. We ate a late brunch and started Lars Von Trier’s The Kingdom. We have the second half to watch. We had pizza and walked to the 3B to hear Andy’s set. It was so pleasant there. I usually go there when it’s rowdy and crowded.

I worked a hellish double shift on Saturday. It was more fuel to rocket me out of Bellingham and find a new line of work. I see a darkness to that place. I’ve gotten glimpses of it before but not to this degree. It feels wrong in that building – the bar and café. I come into constant contact with grotesque, shrunken spirits when I work. There are good people, too. I’m in a snappy and harsh mood.

I talk smack to customers under my breath. A man whom I can’t stand looked at me earlier and I’m sure he heard me say to myself, You fucking asshole. I hope he did. It was barely audible so he couldn’t be sure. Listen to me. What a deviant, cursing at people. I know that name-calling and swearing aren’t right but I will give myself this indulgence because of what I put up with. And putting up is the appropriate term. I’d like to take a loftier, more humane approach but I am beyond that here. I’m tired of neediness. I’m tired of lack of understanding or compassion. I’m tired of people’s audacity.

Carson and I have been moody and emotional with each other. But Carson is amazing. He helped me with my resume and cover letter late last night. I flipped out for a sec. It wasn’t as bad as other stunts I’ve pulled – when I have scratched and torn at myself, beside myself with anxiety. It’s not like times before when I have felt immobilized and yet like I am falling out of myself, when I feel like I can’t control my rage or trace it back to a unified, logical source. It frightens me when this happens. It scares me abysmally if it happens when Carson is present.

Even if you are close to or intimate with one other person, there have to be guardrails on the outer reaches that you don’t cross. There must be self-restraint or self-preservation. You might not restrain your depression or anger with yourself but you should do your best to not let it slip in front of your partner.

When I was younger, I thought you were supposed to share everything with your mate and vice versa or it wasn’t true or deep love. I don’t feel that now. There are a few things I need to protect Carson from. I need to protect myself from them, too. It isn’t hiding or deception. If anything, maybe part of love, marriage, and companionship is having someone with you who prevents you from going over the edge, just by their mere presence. I can’t express this the way I mean it. I guess it’s not wanting to hurt someone and so you conceal your hurt. You hold it back by not flying off the handle or being self-destructive. And in doing this, you release pressure and gather self-control. You wind up not hurting the person emotionally by learning to deal with your depression, insecurity, and rage in a mature way. When you reveal that to them, that you won’t hurt them by shutting them out and being impossible, you reveal it to yourself. The revelation to yourself eases and appeases you some. The response you get affirms that you are growing. The fact that you didn’t hurt them by hurting yourself makes you feel better because they have not been hurt, not solely because you didn’t hurt yourself.

My joy is not complete without Carson’s joy. It gets tricky, bound up as it becomes with a union like marriage. My point is: when I freak out and harm myself, especially in front of Carson, it turns into a pain for both of us that goes unaccounted for and sits like a bad secret – a dirty, gray lump between us that seems like a rift but ironically binds us closer in its candid, awful nakedness.

We must hone our patience and understanding. We seem to share a mutual lack of these toward the world around us. We look outward together and point to the sources of our frustrations. I can’t bear it when we experience this toward each other instead of with each other. Antoine de Saint-Exupery wrote: Love does not consist in gazing at each other, but in looking outward together in the same direction.

Love, Meghan

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Tuesday, August 31, 2004

I feel like a mean person. I have no tolerance for people at work. It tires me to write it. I can’t steel myself against anything here anymore. My job is downright degrading. I’m done with the battlefield. It is beyond an attitude or perspective change. I am so dark. Someone will wave their coffee cup at me. I’ll say, Be right there. As I walk away, I say under my breath things like, Even though you’ve been sitting there for four hours and are too demanding and can see that I’m busy and know I’m by myself and you don’t tip, you fucking asshole. I say these things aloud, barely audible, but certainly aloud. It comforts me.

I don’t understand the mental malady that customers are stricken with. One condition of the disease is no concept of time. They insist it’s been a half hour when it’s been under five minutes. It strikes the