You don’t know me, but I am a big fan of your work. I’ve had your products for at least the last 15 years. I am a Mac girl. There are more Apple products in my home than I could even accurately tell you. Because I’m too lazy to think about it. Or get up and count.

You seem to be the leader in technology. The one to beat. You started with huge computers and made them smaller and smaller and then so tiny that they fit in ones pockets. Of, you know, one who is lucky enough to own an iPhone, which I currently do not. No fear though, I will shortly. In about eleven and a half weeks. but whose counting? Anyway. Let’s just say, I am a fan.

The touch screen computer and phone? Brilliant. Seriously. The nine million apps? Just awesome. I already have a running list of ones I’m going to buy and I don’t even own the dang phone yet. Can we say addicted?

Where was I? Oh yes.

Here’s what I need from you. I need you to start working on the next big thing in technology. I have faith in you, in your capabilities as technology leaders, to be able to figure this out. What I’m asking for is a teleporter. It can’t be that big of a request, really. Think of the money it would make you, if you came up with it first. It’s the next big thing. I’m sure of it.you could put limits on it, on how and when people could use it. You could charge per trip. Heck, as long as you’re cheaper than a plane ticket, I’m game. For a free one, I’d even be willing to get a tattoo of Steve. For reals. Whatever you want, within reason of course. Everybody has a price and mine is low for a free teleporter.

Steve Jobs and Apple create the first teleporter. Think of the headlines. Heck, I’ve tried three times to go play with the iPad in your store and couldn’t even get close enough to see one. Imagine the lines at the store to try out the teleporter.

I really, really need a teleporter. See, all of my friends live in different states. That doesn’t lend itself to convenient friend nights, or being able to show up with soup or tea or hugs when someone is in need. This is something I really need. The ability to just show up.

You can do it. I know you can. I’m counting on you to do this before someone in China or Japan. Please? At least give it a shot. For a true fan?

Thanks so much. – Issa

So often, I open and close this page. Sometimes multiple times a day. I don’t know what to say. I have words, but I’m not sure I can or should share them. I doubt my own voice, that anyone cares to hear the crazy that is currently in my head. I know that’s not true. I know all of you come back here, because you do care. It’s just me, being me.

I worry that I’m too depressing. Nothing new, I know. I could probably look back over the past six months of posts and see that same sentence over and over again. For that, I’m sorry.

Last week something happened that knocked me flat. A phone call, from a douche bag who shall remain nameless. It stopped me in my tracks. Made me question every thing. Made me scared to the core of my being. Not for any real reason, just because of who it was. It knocked me on my ass in a way, that I have yet to recover from. Yet again, I’ve let that douche take away my power. I hate myself for that.

I hate myself for ending my vacation that way. For letting it slide me into depression the way that it has. I wish I could say that differently, to not say that I hate myself for things, but I can’t. Not today. Not this week. Maybe not for awhile.

Divorce sucks. Can I just say that? Divorce sucks. My life, my world, down to pieces of paper. My life, in so many ways,  decided for me, for the next sixteen years. I don’t know what to do with that either. Not by a long shot.

It’s the small things you notice. The small things that remind me. Things like I am scared of heights and have been one handed, so I used a living room light in my kitchen for two weeks, because I couldn’t reach the kitchen lights to change them. I finally had to call him to come change them, because I knew my mom was about to show up.

Things like, I got in my rental car last week and had to adjust the seat. I cried, because I realized it had been four months since I’d had to adjust the seat in my car. It’s something that used to drive me nuts. But it was sad.

Things like, I went and saw a chick flick on Sunday night. Alone. Which isn’t a big deal, except all the movies I see now are chick flicks and kid movies. I haven’t had to take turns on my movie choice in months. Funny, but I miss that silly argument over whose turn it is this time.

I worry about everything. I don’t know how to stop. I feel like I have no control over my own life right now, so I just fret about all the small things. Which is dumb, since I can’t control those things either. I worry about my kids and how much I’m screwing them up. I worry about the fact that I have no idea what I want in life. I worry about being too much work for my best friends. Basically? I worry a lot.

It’s not all bad you know? My life? It’s not. I have great kids, a decent house, amazing friends and I do know one day, I’ll figure some of this out. It’s just that when I open this page lately,  it tends to be when I’m struggling. I am right now. I’m struggling.

After being named one of the most popular names of the year (and a name she to this day, still hates), she was determined to not do the same thing. One of her favorite songs was Sweet Melissa. What a pretty name she thought. Then she told my dad she was sure it was my name. She obviously wasn’t the only person who had this thought in 1980. In fact, the top five names in 1980 were Melissa, Lauren, Elizabeth, Jessica and Rebecca. All but Jessica were on her list, because that was the dogs name. She also was convinced Melissa couldn’t be shortened. Snort. My mom is a funny lady.

My middle name is Ann. Yeah. Original, huh? It’s after my great grandma. If you ask my dad, it’s spelled Anne. However, he spelled it wrong on my birth certificate and so it’s just Ann.

My last name? Well lets just say, when my great-grandma and great-great grandpa escaped from Poland and came to America, they decided to fully become Americans. They changed our name to one of the most common American names around.

All this is lovely and fine. I’ve always loved my name. I’ve loved that people can spell it, say it and pronounce it without being told. Their were four Melissa’s in my graduating class…of 68 people. But whatever. Another me, uses the same Walgreens that I do. They always make me give my social and birthday to pick up prescriptions. No biggie. I find it funny actually.

Yesterday though, it was annoying. Yesterday I came home from California and nearly missed my flight. Even though, I was there super early. I went to check my bag and for some reason the guy didn’t give me my ticket, he gave me someone else’s. That someone had my exact name. She however, was going to Vegas. The annoying thing was that I handed the guy my Colorado license and said, I’m going to Denver. He didn’t want to see my reservation paper that I had out for him. As I walked away with a ticket, he said, have a nice trip back to Denver. Now, I’m dumb and slow. Especially at 7:30am and without having had coffee. So I don’t even bother to look at the ticket. He told me gate 22 and when I got to the right area, I looked at the screen…because I nearly missed my flight last year, because of a silly mistake like that. Anyway, I see that my flight is actually at gate 24 and I go sit there. Whatever, it was early, was my thinking. Maybe he hadn’t had any coffee yet either.

I sit with my coffee and mess around with my brand new, shiny, amazingly awesome Kindle. (Oh yeah, baby.) I don’t put my headphones on, because I’m scared to miss hearing an announcement. When my flight is called, I go stand in the cattle call line, that Southwest prefers. I’m all happy to be B6, thinking that for once, I may not have to sit in the middle. I hand the man my ticket and start to walk away. Problem is, he calls me back. Yep, it took that long for me or anyone to notice that my flight ticket says I’m going to Vegas. In three hours. Sigh. They send me over somewhere else, to prove that I’m supposed to be going where the reservation paper in my hand says.

I made the flight, but hey, middle seat. They also guaranteed me that my bag would be going to Vegas. Somehow I got lucky. They must have managed to get it on last second, because it was the first bag off. ha. Happy birthday to me.

Moral of the story? If your name is so dam common? CHECK AND DOUBLE CHECK EVERYTHING. Ahem.

ps. Thank you all so much for the birthday wishes. You have no idea how amazing it was to get emails, texts, tweets, DM’s and Facebook notices all day. You helped make it a great day. Love and hugs to all of you.

Maybe if you weren’t so depressed and negative all the time you’d have “real life” friends. She didn’t need to add the quotes in there for me to get that, I know she meant it by the way she said it. Real life, not Internet people. Words full of anger. Words full of hurt. More meaning behind them, then anything she has said to me in a year. This friend of mine. Supposed friend, I should say. This person who is supposed to know me. Supposed to be my friend for life. This woman who I’ve known since pre-school, isn’t really my friend anymore.

I am too negative for her. I am too depressed for her. She, like my soon to be ex-husband, wishes I could be that woman who I was before. Before miscarriages. Before depression. Before separation. Before.

The people who were supposed to be there for me forever, just want me to be someone I’m not. They want me to fake it. To pretend I am okay.

I can’t. It hurts to think that I am not enough for anyone. That I am too much to deal with. That I’m very much alone. That the people, the friends I’ve known forever, the ones I considered family, don’t really want to know me anymore. If I think about it too long, it hurts to breath. It’s more than I can comprehend.

I’m not that girl anymore, the girl she wants me to be. She no longer exists. That girl I once was is gone. In her place is a woman who is stronger than she believes she is. (Or so my best friends keep telling me. ahem.) A woman who does everything for anyone. A woman who continues to get out of bed, no matter how much she doesn’t want too. That woman is me. That girl? Isn’t.

The truth is, it’s not just her. I’ve lost most of my supposed friends in the past year. I feel like I’ve lost some readers/some friends because of what I post. I get it, I’m depressing. I’m no fun to read. It’s okay. I’ve pushed some people away I think, because I don’t have enough in me to give most day. I’m doing the best I can. My best just may not be good enough.

Real life friends. Shit. My real life friends don’t actually want to know me. Real life. Like the friends I’ve made online aren’t real. Whatever.

I don’t have to see people every day, for them to be true friends. If I’ve learned anything in the past year, it would be that. True friends don’t fit in some tiny little box. At least not in my world.

In her world? I guess they do. I guess I’ve fallen out of that box. It’s killing me. But I can’t change it. I don’t even want to change it. However, it does make me unbelievably sad.

Want to know the truth? Without the friends I’ve made online, I’d have no friends. None. In some ways, that terrifies me. In other ways, I’m comforted by the fact that I do have the greatest friends known to man. The greatest, most caring, most amazing friends I could ever hope for. Some of them…some of you are better friends than I’ve ever had. Truly.

Is it different? Yes. Is different always bad? No.

I have friends who I can text/email/IM/call any time of day. I have friends who check in on me if they haven’t seen me around. I have two of the best friends in the world.Friends who have held me together the past few months. I don’t know that I could ever repay them for it.

What I know is this: tomorrow morning I’m flying to visit friends. Amazing friends. Friends that I met online. Friends who are okay with me, as I am. Friends who love me and support me and hold my hand whenever I need it.

This is what true friendship is.

i hate having x-rays. not because it hurts in the way they want me to move, although it does. no, mostly because i’m afraid of what they might find. what other, old, not healed right things will they find.

first time it happened i was 19. i was playing street hockey on roller blades and fell. i put my arms out to save my face. logan was working, so my mom took me to the er.

broken wrist. wouldn’t have been a big deal…except for the pain, save for his next words. when did you do this before he asked? my mom said, oh she hasn’t. no, he said this is a big break right here. one that didn’t heal right. see, he said as he showed us on the x-ray.

i knew when it was from. i played it down that day. oh it wasn’t that bad. it was the summer when i was 12. the summer you took that six week seminar in seattle. the one where you left us with dad.

truth? i didn’t sleep for a month because of the pain. i tripped and fell on a vacation. my step-mom deemed me a whiner. said it wasn’t that bad…its barely bruised or swollen, she claimed. ignored me as i cried and protected it against my chest for a month.

second time was after my car accident. x-ray of my right ankle showed old injuries. two this time. mom was there then too. oh when i was nine i remember using crutches for a few weeks. you were on your honeymoon. remember that summer? we were with dad that time too.

i didn’t say that it was painful and i’d been injured by the evil step-brother. that his wrist was in a cast, because of a hockey injury or something else. that she had pain pills for her precious son, but was mean when i asked for advil. i didn’t say that they bitched about the cost of getting me crutches at the drug store. made me feel like i injured myself on purpose. like my injury was taking away or competing with her son’s injury and pain.

i remember a broken toe that she duct taped, when i kicked a wooden chair. i was 10 that time. i had to write 500 sentences about not running in the house.

i remember being told that if id lose weight i wouldn’t have broken my fat ass. that time i’d injured my tailbone, falling on the beach, trying to hit a stupid volleyball. we won’t even go into the next 4 weeks of jokes made at my expense after that. i believe i was 17 that year.

what i know is that i don’t like x-rays anymore. they make me panic. i waited four days longer than i should have to get one this time. i sat in pain for four days longer than i should, bcause i fear the x-rays.

because if i remember all of that, what have i forgotten?