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03-18-02 - 9:22 p.m. I made today a "me" day. Arguably, my whole existence has consisted solely of "me" days, if one agrees (and how not?) that I've lived selfishly. I saved you from saying it, Barbara. But anyway, I spent it at work, making a list of ways to get through this. I tried talking to Leif again, and to Rob, but neither worked. Last night did get worse, by the way. Nature stepped in. It was pouring (and I think there might have been some hail) when I wrote the entry prior to this. Finally I forced myself to go to bed, cried myself to sleep, and was okay for a while. See, I have this psychic power/intuition thing that wakes me up before my alarm clock. It's like my body knows when I'm about to be jolted awake, so it wakes me up a minute or so beforehand. Well, I guess the rain brought with it some thunderheads. And I guess my subconscious knew I'd be jolted awake by the thunder, because there I was, lying in bed, half-awake at exactly 4:38 a.m. when, suddenly, the loudest sound I have ever heard went off. It was this GIANT clap of thunder that lasted easily ten seconds. And it didn't taper off like most claps do. You know how most thunder goes, "BOOOOOoooooooooom," like it starts really, really loud and then immediately becomes a low rumbling? This didn't do that. The loud part lasted for ten or more seconds. Logan (the puppy) yelped and ducked under my bed. My cat seemed not to notice it. I, on the other hand, fuckin' screamed. I think I've mentioned it before, but thunder and lightning scare the SHIT out of me. I can't explain it. I know I'm safe from them, they won't hurt me, and it's not like I sit there thinking I'm about to be struck, but I can't help it. I know I'm beating it into the ground, but you can't possibly appreciate it unless you'd heard it. For a moment I could have sworn San Diego had been bombed. Then reality kicked in, I jumped out of bed, ran to my car, floored it all the way home, and climbed in bed with Kellie. She and the rest of the clan were all awake, and we had hot chocolate and talked about how scary the thunder was and I spent the night there. I still haven't heard from Bryan or Justin. They must have gone to someone's house and forgotten to come home. I've done it before. I came really close to cutting my hand again last night. But as I stared at it, knife at the ready, it just didn't seem worth it. Adam thinks I'm a big enough freak as it is, and I actually want his respect. To build myself up, I went digging through my MP3s. I have some from when I was in RENT, one of me doing "Out Tonight" about 20 minutes after breaking my shin. I was getting over the flu at the time, had to do a dance routine pretty much one-legged, and was sooooooooo doped up on Vicodin that it really was some sort of a miracle (or maybe not) that I got through it at all. But I did. I would have done it without the Vicodin, too. And on "Light My Candle," the onstage chemistry between Tony and me which stemmed from our offstage relationship...my voice cracked twice in the song and I remember choking back a few coughs (you can hear that, too). But I did that too. I did it because I felt I had to, like I'd be letting everyone down if I quit. So I popped pills and went on with the show. I know it seems like I'm rambling, but I'm not. I'm avoiding the point. I'll get to it now. The point is, to quote Madonna, "I'm keeping my baby." I feel like I should. I can't explain why. Something is just telling me I need to raise this kid. And I want to. Abortion isn't an option. I know I've said it is, when talking unthinkingly about pregnancy before, and I'm absolutely 100% pro-CHOICE. My choice is to keep it. If I have to be a single mom, then so be it. There are millions of single moms, many younger and more fucked up than me, who've done exquisite jobs raising exquisite children. All I want is a healthy kid. Leif was pushing for me to have the paternity tested via amniocentesis. I'm not going to do that. Too dangerous. Sharon told me that there's some new method they can use to determine paternity in the second trimester whereby a sample of my blood (eww) can give accurate results. We'll see. It's $950. The messes I get myself into... I have this new clever thing to say: My soap opera life has now become an episode of Jerry Springer. Before I was just the vindicive slut, now I'm evolving into the muumuu-wearing, chair-hurling, still-in-pink-curlers-even-though-it's-three-p-m obese trailer trash mom.
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