I have to convince myself

Saturday. We have a little break in the weather before the next storm moves in. Not sure the next one has a name, but it’s coming our way. And the long term outlook for NL is rain, rain, rain.

It is a day of reflection. I…don’t really care for it. Not this reflection, anyway. It’s an ugly memory that keeps replaying. Making me wonder how much guilt I should take on for it. Any? I felt I had no choice. But it has bothered me through the years. So here goes.

Long, long ago, I had a relationship with a guy who hit me. It was a dead end thing. But I stayed because he liked cocaine as much as I did, which was quite a bit. He took on debt to purchase it. Guaranteed the dude would get paid, you know? But things were nuts. Near the end I was crazed. The more he used, the more abusive he became. And he kept me in a stranglehold. Threatened the life of my father, my family, if I ever left him. He stalked me and wouldn’t let up. Calling, calling, calling all the time. Gods, just thinking back on that time makes me feel caged. I was so…what, embarrassed? Guilty? Don’t know. But I couldn’t own up to the relationship with my family. Did my best to keep it secret. So when the threats came, I didn’t feel I could turn to anyone. I finally managed to escape him while at work. He called me, as usual. I kept him on one line and called the police on the other, telling them I knew exactly where he was because he was on the phone with me. They went and picked him up on various charges, most of which were for driving without a license. I used the opportunity to change just about everything about me. I left my job, went back to University, changed the places I went to and the people I hung out with. Still, he managed to hunt me down. In the end I had to move states to get away from him, and even that was only successful through dumb luck. He drove up to find me. The last bit of info I have on him is that he was the county over from Minneapolis when he was picked up again. For burglary. I found his rap sheet on line and he got more and more into burglary after I left. I feel like he did that to pay off the drug dealer, and I’m fairly certain that’s precisely what happened. So. Am I to blame for his life turning out so shitty? His life was already shitty when we met. I just made it worse, if that’s possible. He already had a rap sheet when we met. He already did a lot of drugs and alcohol. He wasn’t making money, he didn’t have a place to live (just camped out with someone he knew). He was a big loser, to say the least. I tell myself I shouldn’t feel as guilty as I do. I HAD to get out. The control he exerted over me was…it scarred me. Deeply. I couldn’t keep using, either. And I knew he was bad news, even without the drugs or alcohol. It took me a good year, at least, to make a clean break and finally be free of him. And then, in Minneapolis, I went through PTSD. Nightmares that he was back in my life. Flashes of him on the street, stalking me. Terror. Pure terror at times. I remember one night in particular. I dreamt he’d raped me again. I woke up feeling dirty, like the rape had just happened. I couldn’t get clean. I couldn’t sleep. I woke up T and cried and smoked and just hung out until I passed out from exhaustion.

It was bad. I hate looking back on those times. I hate the way it makes me feel. Mostly, I hate him. Hate how he treated me, how I took it for so long, how hard he made my life when all I wanted was to be free of him.

And he left his mark. Other than T, I don’t have a long term relationship with a man. I don’t trust anyone BUT T.

So that’s my head today. Back in that bad time of my life. Hating him, hating myself for it even more. And behind the hate and confusion is fear. Terror. He scared me more than anything else I’ve ever encountered. Because for so long there was no escape.

I am here. It’s long over. I am free. He has no idea where I am. He has no idea WHO I am. Not online. And he’s locked up, far, far away from me where he will never, ever find me again.

I am safe.

Now I just have to convince myself.

I like these worms!

Seems I’ve opened another can of worms.

I find it real odd how and when epiphanies come on me. Sometimes it’s big moments, but more often than not it’s when I’m on the toilet or brushing my teeth. Mundane events that at best aren’t worth mentioning in detail. Today was no exception.

Felt a small slip before it happened. A small reality slip. Something fell into place and then BOOM! A whole new outlook on life. This was it: My view never changes. It’s been a real thing for me, in this body. Looking out through these eyes. Wondering if I can ever see things ‘as they are’ without colouring in various elements. The realisation hit me when I was brushing out my hair. I suddenly realised in one big hit that long hair isn’t really for the person wearing it, it’s for other people. To show off. I can’t see how far down my back my hair goes. I don’t enjoy the waves or cascading sexiness I talk about. I know it’s there, but it’s mostly at the back of my head so I just don’t see it easily even when I look in a mirror. Very similar to weight loss. I noticed that my side to side doesn’t change much, it’s the back to front that changes and slims down. In other words, when I look at myself straight on in a mirror, I don’t see weight loss. Or weight gain. I look the same either way. My weight gain or loss, my hair length: that’s all for others. It’s not really for me.

On the heels of that came more. I will always be the little frightened girl looking out at the world. She can learn and grow, but she will always be there. She is, at my very essence, who I am. No amount of drugs or therapy or writing will change that. I really want to take her out of those underground tunnels she was chased down in nightmares, but the fear of those dreams lives on, never ending. Taking her out of those tunnels means accepting my mother didn’t love me. Full stop, no alibis or reasoning.

I still find that a bitter pill to swallow. The family was all about love. ‘I love you’ was said so much it lost all it’s meaning. It became the goodnight (love you!) or the parting words even if that parting was a nine hour day in the office. Nonetheless, it was drilled into me that this WAS love: wasn’t this proof? It’s said all the time in this house. You know we love you. You shouldn’t even be questioning that. How dare you? How dare I indeed. Questions led to physical abuse and mental abuse and every type of trigger you can imagine. C was a master at applying guilt. An absolute fucking master.

I used to wonder how both I and my sister found abusive partners when dad never, ever touched C in any harmful way. Now I know: it was because of C. Because C beat us and abused us. Wore us down until we thought we were nothing, and that maybe this was as good as it gets.

None of this is new. In fact, this is the oldest puzzle in my life. It sits in the memory of my recurring black and white nightmare. That was me, in my young mind, telling myself all these horrible truths. I was in such deep denial that I couldn’t see it, though. I didn’t want to believe it. So I hid. Even when I was 10, I was guzzling codeine laden cough syrups in secret. I became an alcoholic and drug addict. I used and abused my body in every way imaginable because I expected the worst. Love hurts, as the song goes. Certainly C’s peculiar brand of love hurt. A whole hell of a lot. C never stopped ‘loving’ me, even when she was actively hurting me. It was an angry, brutal type of love. A punishing, controlling love.

Yeah. That sounds about right for my ex cum stalker.

And the me looking out of my eyes today is the same me that looked at herself in the mirror after getting hit. She is the same me who took it. Maybe who even wanted it. My behaviour begged for some action from someone. Anyone. Little wonder it attracted a predator. After all, I grew up with one.

Big stuff in small words. The shame. The shame I felt, the shame that made me try to hide what was going on, the shame that made me lie to myself and everyone else, the shame of it even happening. One five letter word that carries a mountain of emotion.

New leaf today. I have done some baking, dishes, and my laundry is chugging away. Searched and found a few Dutch accounting sites, including standard accounts in the Grootboek (general ledger). Excellent. Skimmed through them and found few surprises. Just need to familiarise myself with them. Maybe adjust my CV to be in Dutch.

NL news: Bad, bad, and worse. Infection rates are terrible, hospitalisations are way up, doom and gloom is coming out of every mouth. Still, protests continue. Really can’t believe these people, but after all, Q’s followers actually believed a Kennedy was going to come back to life like Jesus. So, there’s nut job everywhere. High levels of absenteeism, due to either the virus or burn out. Expecting new lock down measures to come into effect soon.

Personally, doing okay. Always on the edge of a headache during the day but lately it’s passing me by without reaching for paracetamol. Dropped something behind some shelves today and got straight down to the floor to pick it up without even thinking about it. Still a bit of pain in my left back area, but nothing that’s stopping me in any way whatsoever. Need to do some personal grooming: nails and pedicure. But feeling good. Confident. Sure of myself. It will take time, but I’ll find a good job. A job like I should have got post Uni but was still too caught up in a self hate cycle to do it.

I guess I shouldn’t bitch about opening up a can of worms. Yes, the epiphanies are deep and leave me feeling like I just took a hard punch to the gut, but they’re also coming with gifts (more gifts!). This calm. Zen. Sureness. I could live here very easily, never going through another epiphany again. Yep. Probably won’t. Probably more will come crashing in on the heels of these realisations.

For the moment, though, I can say this truthfully: Wow! I like these worms!

What I think

Deep thoughts. That’s how B describes my communications with her. I have ‘deep thoughts’. Either it’s me, or I just have too much damned time on my hands. Problem is, they don’t just come out here in my blog or in my messages to B. They’re always with me. And some of what I’ve been thinking has been pretty damned heavy duty. So here we go.

1. My first sexual experience was being molested by a next door neighbour. My second included rape.
2. The neglect and abuse I received as a kid at the hands of my DNA mother. That’s a continual thing, with layers of acceptance flowing over me.
3. I used to self harm. Hitting myself was the favourite thing to do. And the weird thing is, it was totally accepted as a normal thing in the US. It’s only here in NL where I’ve received the horrified looks from others that tells me it’s NOT normal.
4. My right wing family. I don’t want to admit my dad was right wing. But the more I exam my memories, the more I remember really horrible things coming out of his mouth.
5. ‘That’s just Beeps’. I grew up with this is my ears; C said it almost every day about something in my behaviour someone found strange. In other words, even in my right wing family I was given a lot of leeway. Not sure why.
6. My oldest brother has always been in love with me. He’s confessed more than once that he wants ‘to do’ me and he’s always creeped me the fuck out over this issue.
7. I left my ex, the stalker, in pretty dire straights. I allow that I had to get out. Things were beyond crazy. But there’s a monetary debt I had assured my ex I could handle for him and I just walked out and left it. Realised that probably pushed him into a higher level of crime to try and pay it back. I have to accept responsibility for that. This one, in particular, is a dirty, not nice thought. But it was a dirty, not nice business back then.

… What’s worse: It seems like the justifications I used for my behaviour fall apart when they become entwined with emotional baggage. I ran. A lot. I ran from my ex, I ran from my family, I ran from the US. Justification: fear. It was all fear driven. But the more I look at things, the more I realise the people I had to deal with were all emotionally compromised. And once you start to accept that others are just as damaged as you are, things get really muddled. What these people have done to you is NOT right. But, they have their own justifications. And if you’re gonna accept your own justifications for what you’ve done, you have to give others’ justifications a bit of credit, too. That goes even for my DNA sister, who purposefully sets out to hurt others with what she says and does. She’s very damaged and she has her reasons. I don’t think her justifications are enough to cover her behaviour, but considering I’m usually on the receiving side of her spite, I’m biased. The two parts of me in this are at war. I hate my DNA sister, yet I have empathy for her, too. I’d like to mend our broken relationship, yet I feel not having anything to do with her ever again is actually my best path.

*sigh* I don’t know. I’ve even considered leaving my DNA sis a hand written note detailing all of this to be given to her upon my death.

During my last shrink appointment, I brought up my feelings over both my white AND my beauty privileges. My shrink didn’t get it. Why would acknowledging you’re attractive detract from your past accomplishments? He’s neither white nor a woman, so I’ll cut him slack on this issue. But it’s kind of like finding out that swimming medal you’re so proud off was given to you out of pity. Or realising you’re on the receiving end of a pity fuck. What you felt good about just crumbles, and quite frankly, the mess is worse than the original issue. Dr T spent a bit of time trying to talk me out of my white guilt, too. I just cut him off short. During the time I was raised, in the area I was raised, I’m certain my white privilege came out and I was a Karen at some point. I’m not gonna side step that now. Again, I had my ‘reasons’. I was raised that way, I was young and stupid, etc. etc. In the face of the BLM movement, those reasons sound pretty damned petty. I have to accept that, and if Dr T doesn’t get it, it’s his problem.

Been having some thoughts, too, on the old ‘penis envy’ and ‘womb envy’ theories. If you set aside the messengers on this, I think there’s a bit of merit in the idea that the sexes experience envy of each other. But it isn’t sexual envy. It’s societal role envy. I don’t think women envy men their penises. We envy their socially accepted authority and power which is quite often just given rather than earned. I doubt men envy women’s reproduction ability. I think men envy women’s societally accepted range of emotions. Women can scream and cry and become extremely emotional in public; men are not so free. Either of these sides is a ‘the grass is greener…’ type of thing. Women envision being empowered in the board room, but we rarely envision the badgering, bullying, and confrontation boys and men deal with. Similarly, men may envy women’s ability to burst into tears and release our emotions, but they rarely factor in the other yo-yoing our emotional systems go through due to regular hormonal changes. Both of us want the best of what the other has, yet we’re unwilling to pay the price to get there.

And humanity as a whole? My thoughts there are definitely not nice. Still in the toilet because humanity has yet to do anything that tells me we’re not headed towards extinction.

Summer: The burning season has begun. Fires are already out of control in many areas around the world. Not many news articles on it, though. I’ve noted the change in atmosphere. The ads went from ‘we have to do something NOW!’ to ‘we can get through this!’. You have to purposefully search for ongoing forest fires to find anything. News stations aren’t covering it regularly like last summer. Just as I’ve noted CNN’s banging on about Russia rather than admitting to their daily mass shootings or violent confrontations. We’re getting purposeful distractions again, and that’s never good news.

And yes, I know: none of this is ‘nice’. I can’t help it. My body starts to feel better and my head goes off in another direction. I don’t like it, either.

But it IS what I think.

Oh, man

Oh, man.

NL news: In one primary school, 4 teachers were tested positive for the coronovirus. No word on the kids; hope they get tested, too. The school is considering their options. Closing down completely is on the table. Yesterday was Ascension Day, and the temps soared to 28C. Parks and beaches were packed. The mayor of Amsterdam is considering further lock down measures due to the overwhelming outdoor fever everyone has. Fines were given out and places closed down to new visitors until others left. Meanwhile, a homemade bomb was left on a Rotterdam doorstep south of the River Maas. The entire area is a hot spot, but the bomb is a new level of trouble.

It’s overcast and promising rain. And do we need it! May even have thunderstorms come thru. Crossing my fingers; I love thunderstorms.

My skin has taken on a beautiful golden hue. Tanning has changed. When I was young, my sister had to lay out in the sun for hours every day to ‘work on her tan’. Earliest memories are of no sunblock. It wasn’t that we didn’t use it; it didn’t exist! Memories of my sis pouring tanning oils over her skin. Yes, oils. Like a baked fish or something. I tried to lay out there with her, but just couldn’t. Laying down that long every day was bullshit. Now? 20 minutes a side. That’s all I need to get a decent tan. It just so happens to coincide with my impatience. I can get in about 15 minutes a side before I get antsy or begin to feel too warm. While I don’t enjoy the reason behind needing only 20 minutes a side to get a good tan, I do enjoy the fact that I’m now able to tan well in such a short time.

Back to the perogie assembly line today. Remembered that in Ireland I’d make a double batch of dough every time. Ah! No wonder it’s easier now. Even in our small kitchenette, I have enough room (when organised) to lay out everything at once. May be able to use up one of the containers of filling today. That leaves another of equal size to use up. Estimate: 4 more batches after today. Our freezer is really getting full.

After perogie, it’s my day. Going to do a facial mask for my pores and take care of my nails. We’ve been eating a lot of homemade boullion in soups and gravies, and everything is growing. My hair is…unbelievably long. Keep feeling that rope of a braid reaching down to the middle of my back. It goes longer when I let it all loose. Can I get it to reach my waistline? That’s my question now. Don’t know if I can keep going, tho. It’s already difficult to braid alone, and even brushing it can get difficult. Plus, I had a very vivid and startling dream of getting my hair cut the other night. I was turned around in the chair to look at it, and suddenly I had extremely short hair dyed a white blonde. Shocking. But I liked it. All of that combined is really giving me an itch to make an appointment and cut it.

Concerned that my psoriasis is getting under my fingernails. I’ve got a white spot on my pinkie. Looks like the nail is pulling away from the skin, but there’s no reason for it. Watching it, trying to get my ointment under the nail. Talking to my rheumatologist on Monday, so I’ll mention it. Ugh. Like I need a new influx of THAT frickin’ problem!

Was able to catch up on my rest since Roberto is over his latest hissy fit. Wondered if we were going to hear it again last night; it was hot, and we could easily hear the baby/toddler screaming its head off all evening. I feel bad for that kid. Don’t know if they just leave it or if it’s sick or what, but it screams. A throaty, desperate scream. Over and over. I’ve managed to put a cap on the anxiety that rises in me every time I hear it, but it’s still affecting me. Too often during evening tv my mind thinks on that child and I wonder where it’s parents are. And what they’re doing to it.

Still haven’t really started moving again. Honestly, I’m just so comfortable NOT moving that I really think on all the sweating I’ll do with a bit of disgust. But I also feel disgust at all the extra weight I can feel hanging off my body, so eventually I’ll get to it. I’ll even end up liking it. So, just for the record: This part of my personality does NOT like exercising. I’ll put that down so I have a record of it, because I know what I’ll sound like once I take up the mantle of physical exercise again. I’ll be all gung-ho about it, and gushing about how much I love it.

Oh, man.

No more

10:45 last night: My bionic ears picked up the beginnings of a fight in 817. T and I were done with tv and headed to bed. I told T to throw the deadbolt on the door for the night; we’ve become pretty lax about it. Within 20 minutes of the deadbolt being drawn, the real trouble began.

It started with the dulcet tones of Robert screaming at the top of his lungs. Next came some very loud bangs; I can only guess that doors were being slammed. If there was a person involved in those loud bangs, they were definitely being hurt. Then, the most horrific of all: all those kids screaming out as one. The screaming continued, perhaps out in the halls. More door slams and screaming.

I called the police again. This makes number 3. They’ve got me registered; I didn’t have to give my name or address because I’d already called and am on their records. The cops showed about 20 minutes later. T stayed up with me; his ears aren’t mine but the noise was loud enough everyone in the building heard it and I wanted him there by my side, backing me up. This time, I used the words ‘domestic disturbance’. Last time the police were here, they told me to call anytime it sounded like domestic violence going on. I said it ALWAYS sounds like domestic violence, ergo, I called as soon as the volume went up in Roberto’s voice. The police did not come back to speak with me, so I’ve no idea what occurred. At a guess: Robert denied everything, hid all the kids, and even if he hit his partner, she wears a hijab and full clothing. Very easy to hide those bruises, especially if the abuser knows what he’s doing. My ex used to like to punch me directly in my head, through my hair. Never had any visible bruises because he’d always do shit like that. That’s what I imagine is going on down there.

It wasn’t over, of course. The building was treated to loud music between 1:30 and 2:00 am. I was too tired to get up, tho I’m sure it was from 817.

Feel a bit skittish. Sooner of later, Roberto will be back at our door. I hate being right about this, but I know I am. I said this month would be bad. We’re still under tight social distancing measures and it’s Ramadan. The combination of those two things, thrown in with 24/7 children running around because schools are closed, was that perfect storm for someone like Roberto. It was only a matter of time before his temper erupted. These conditions are supposed to continue here in NL ’til 20 May. And now that he’s lost it and the police have yet again been called, it’s just gonna get worse.

Sent another note the landlord. They’re happy; they need all these police reports in order to get Roberto evicted. The more reports, the worse Robert looks. And it’s not like I’m doing it. I’m not. I’m just doing what’s been asked of me: report disturbances to the landlord, and if I hear something that sounds like a domestic violence situation, call the police immediately. Roberto, in typical abuser fashion, is blaming my bro (thru extension, because women are too stupid in Roberto’s mind to make any decisions at all) for all of this rather than taking responsibility for it himself. In his mind, we’re the problem, not him. It’s his self made trap: he continues making noise and causing problems, making us report him. Then he gets angrier and loses it again, causing us to call the police and report it yet again. Sadly, there are no evictions during the current measures. But we should have ample evidence to evict 817 asap.

…The thing that upsets me the most is the effect all this has on me and my bro. We’ve both had domestic violence up close and in our face; he had to endure hearing it from an apartment above his (and the woman refused to leave the abuser), I had it first hand. We’re both set off by hearing this shit. Personally, I get a huge rush of adrenaline. Shaky, ready to grab a weapon and enter mortal combat. T is affected as well: his stomach gets upset and his mania starts. He’s usually asleep between 1 and 2 am; last night, he didn’t get to sleep ’til well after 2. It’s difficult to settle down afterwards. Difficult to shake. For both of us. That, more than anything, I hold Roberto responsible for. All else is speculation on my part, at least about the domestic violence (tho forgive me: you’d have to be deaf not to think this was domestic violence). But the effect on T and myself? All too real.

Now I must deal with the added anxiety of knowing Roberto will be out for us. He’ll begin doing shit on purpose – like the loud music last night – to piss us off. And eventually he’ll be back at our door screaming.

I really don’t need this.

But I’ll be damned if I’m gonna back down.

T knows this. He’s well aware that I’m both reacting to Roberto and getting triggered. That, in a strange way, my defiance of Roberto’s anger right now is healing a part of me that didn’t stand up to my own abuser. I don’t think I’d do this if I lived alone. Far too dangerous. But with my bro’s support, I can take my stand. I can call the police, report it, tell the landlord, do all that stuff you need to do in domestic situations – over and over, because it may take several incidents before the abused person in the relationship says anything about the abuse. And T’s got my back on this. As do the landlord and the police.

… No more.

I’ll be watching you

The first real day of spring is easy to see. It has nothing to do with the calendar or the moon phase or anything else like that. The first day of spring is the day you see the all the buds on the trees break open. Suddenly, treetops look like they have a delicate green lace all over them.

Yesterday was Rotterdam’s first day of real spring. Temps topped 20C. The words of Dr T were ringing in my ears: I think you suffer from seasonal affected disorder. Get some sun. So that’s what I did.

A shower and hair treatment were overdue. Oiled up my hair and watched my taped Ghost Adventures in the morning. By 1pm I was out of the shower with my hair dripping. T got out a balcony chair for me so I didn’t have to dig for it. Rolled a couple of J’s, took my book (Weaveworld by Clive Barker), some logic puzzles, water and my phone to watch the time. It was hot. Hotter than predicted, hotter than 20C. Especially with my hair down. I sat there in my shorts and sleeveless shirt, exposing as much skin as I could.

*sigh* Yes. I actually sat and tanned yesterday.

Surprisingly – and happily – the balcony looked like it had just been cleaned. No bird shit, no mossy green mildew growing anywhere. Other than some sweating and a couple of times my hair got caught in my glasses (ugh; happens all the bloody time), I found it rather pleasant. Planning on keeping it up. Get that base tan now, while the UV index is low.

Read an article that the police here ARE fining people who break social distancing. Keeping that one in mind. I don’t want to be the bad guy, but if I’m forced to walk thru groups of people it’s good to know I can go straight to the cops once I get inside. And it’s one more thing I could hit Roberto with if he shows up at our door again.

…Too bad for Roberto, on some level. He pissed me off. Now he’s learning I am NOT the person with which to fuck. The thing is, he’s made it easy for me. I don’t have to do shit to make him look bad; he’s perfectly capable of that on his own. I just have to state the facts. A few observations about his aggression towards me and what I feel sure is a general aggression towards all women, his partner included. He’s been quiet for the most part. A few words here and there, late at night, before his voice drops.

Did hear an upsetting incident two days ago. During the day, so I can’t really complain about the noise level. And… Maybe it was just a child crying as they were punished. I don’t know. It seemed to go on for an extended period of time, beyond 15 minutes. I heard a young girl screaming and crying: Daddy, no! No, daddy, no! It could have been anything, all the way to an innocent reprimand that the child threw a fit over. It could have been ugly. I know I have a tendency to think the worst right away, so I’m trying not to do that. What I do know is that Roberto is the only ‘Daddy’ in this side of the building.

Woke up a few days ago to a drill. It was before 8am. Came out, grabbed my phone, recorded the noise. Sadly, due to the cheap recording ability of my phone, it sounds like something from Ghost Adventures. I’d have to isolate it and pump up the volume to make it sound anything like what I actually heard. T said he heard the drilling begin around 7 am. Only one person we know who’d do that…

These are the incidents I don’t report. Roberto doesn’t understand that I report less than 30% of what I hear. Frankly, tho, I’m a bit worried. Thinking that maybe I should be reporting this shit. That child screaming… It’ll haunt me for awhile. And the drilling? This building is cement brick, so drilling into the foundations makes the sound echo through the entire fucking thing. Doing that shit before 8am is a definite no-no here.

Sadly, this is all on me. I’d have to get up faster, find the source immediately, call, wait for the police, then argue over Roberto’s butting in to make my point. That’s a fucking LOT of stress to ask me to take on. Then there’s the continued fall out to be concerned about. The more I complain, the more complaints Roberto will receive from the landlord, which will wind him up more and make him even angrier so the cycle continues.

For now, I’m glad my balcony seems inviolate. Top floor, away from everyone else, only the blue sky over me. It may be the way I experience the greater part of summer.

Certainly, it’s the way I’ll be experiencing most of spring.

Just… Watch it, people. Because from my balcony, I’ll be watching you.

Time for some blowen

The calm after a storm can sometimes be eerier and more frightening than the storm itself. Last night it was so silent in our building I found it difficult to settle down. My ears strained, waiting for the yelling or the music or the screaming child to start. Around midnight I heard a very subdued argument, truly nothing I could complain about. But I was so on edge that I heard it. I also heard a few slams into furniture, like the man was shoving the woman around. I wouldn’t be surprised.

Been gassy and uncomfortable. My bro says that’s probably the adrenaline aftermath. He’s not pleased I’ve been so on edge; we talked about it at length this morning. And, he understands. He’s always been the first to admit that my experience with my stalker left me deeply scarred. After all, he was the one who saw me through it. He’d get up in the middle of the night after I had nightmares and talk me down. Can’t tell you how important that is to me.

Went out to see if I could find some dental supplies today. Headed to Etos and found it stocked to the gills. They even had some of the smaller dental brushes they’ve been out of for months. Didn’t stop in the supermarkets; I’m sure there are still empty shelves. But I saw the green grocer open with full boxes of veg and fruit. Was surprised to find things like clothing stores open. They’re not necessary, but quite a few still had everything out. It was almost normal, walking through the promenade. Very sad to see our favourite Asian place closed ’til 6 April. I get it. I’ve heard enough tales about the racism going on here. Saw them doing some remodelling, so at least they’re taking advantage of the down time.

Had a frightening 24 hours in which all the coffeeshops were closed. Rutte, the Dutch PM, has reopened them if they stick to take away orders. Can’t tell you how great it is to have a PM who recognises that if people have to stay home, they’d better have access to some good smoke. Thank you! Self isolation is much easier with a buzz on.

Spring has snuck into Rotterdam. The buds are full and opening, the first flowers are out making the city look cheery. We may reach 18C before the end of the week. Glad I live on the outskirts; it’s easy to get some fresh air and not run into a load of people.

Tonight: stroganoff. Not a tomato based stroganoff, but one with a rich brown sauce. I think it’s an old German recipe. Took my bro some time to learn how to prep it; all we had were memories of C doing it. Anyway, it’s one of my favourites. Yum!! Can’t wait.

Doing my best to settle down, to stop listening. Really, really hope tonight is quiet. I’d like to get used to that again.

Still doing my therapy exercises. Still numbness in my thumb. Pain in the wrist with certain movements. Three weeks now. How long before that nerve is supposed to come back? That concern doesn’t help me chill.

But, chilling is all I can really do. About the lock down, about the people downstairs, about my own health concerns. Again: thank you, Mark Rutte.

Time for some blowen. 😉

Six more days

Six days. In six short days, I get my cast off. Yea!! Very ready to do all those things I can’t quite do: really take care of my hair, sleep on my stomach, clean the bloody house. Getting better every day. Using my left for more stuff. Can even bend my thumb easily. Still have some pins and needles in the  thumb. Hoping that goes away.

The last of my dental stitches are gone. No more trailing pieces of string in my mouth. Even chewed on that side last night. Whew! May stay off the methotrexate yet again. That would be 3 weeks. I think I can take that. Really want to ensure everything is healed.

Have been recovering. Not from the broken bones or the dental surgery, but from watching The Handmaid’s Tale. Recovering on several levels. As a writer of horror, I can honestly say that Atwood captured THE nightmare behind every woman’s eyes. In comparison, I feel very much the failure. Traumatised by the story, knowing it’s all too close to reality, plus dealing with large quantities of inadequacy. My inadequacies are the minor part of that. Finding it difficult to look at or listen to any man. The rape scenes hit home, and my anger is close to the surface. Have not been able to discuss this with my bro. I cut him off short when he walked in on an episode and disparaged it. Plus…  If I’m honest, I don’t know that he has the emotional maturity to deal with it. The subtle societal swings and psychological responses from all the characters are difficult to watch because of the brilliance of the show. I do NOT envy those actors; it must be the toughest gig on the planet. The show has unsettled me on many levels.

Won 13 hours of free life on one of my games yesterday. It really seems to me they’ve been monitoring me. Had an awful lot of free lives, like they check in every once in a while: Yep, she’s still got the cast on. Cool with me, dude. I’ve really appreciated it.

So, keep me occupied, computer! I’ve six more days.

Terror lives two floors below

Triggers, triggers, left and right.

Bike ride 2, 1st solo trip: Got further than my first ride and pushed my way past the hills and dips in the area for the first half. The second half saw me stop a couple of times, once for a car at intersection. The car waited for me but I had to wave it thru; I was on an incline and gasping for breath. Spent an hour on the bike in total. Found out how much the wind can push against you! Yikes! Got hit with that on the way home, the worst time for it. But I made it back and chained up my bike in front of the building as my bro asked me to do. Felt like a kid. A fat and unhealthy kid, but a kid.

Came back into the house dyin‘. But I didn’t sleep. I chilled out with tv for an hour, then got up and did dishes. Still antsy, I went grocery shopping and lugged up three heavy bags full of bottles and drinks. By the time my bro came home, the kitchen was clean and fully stocked so he could just make dinner.

Today I jumped up and cleaned the shower room. Ugh! The more I cleaned, the more dirt I saw.

LOADS of energy.

What I haven’t done is sit down and write. Must do today. Screw the rest of the dirt in the house; it’s been there for a while and it won’t hurt to let it sit another day or week. Pleased I did what I did.

Sweating a lot at night. Took myself off the blood pressure regulator I was given to help with my hot flashes. With my added weight, that means a bit of night-time sweating until I get back in shape. Should really pull the covers on my bed and let everything just air out. I felt damp when I woke up, like all the blankets were slightly wet.

Had a notification from M. She’s engaged to her partner. It made me feel weird. Here’s someone half my age, engaged and getting married. I still don’t know that I could ever trust anyone enough to marry them. I just kinda feel like I missed a huge part of life. Always told myself I didn’t want it. Even cursed myself by verbalising it. Should have known better; I did the same thing with the prom, running around saying how I didn’t want to go (because I was so afraid that no one would ask me), so naturally, I wasn’t asked. Can’t help but wonder during my reflective moments what if. Makes me generally feel bad about myself, so I try not to do it. But M’s notification triggered it in me, and now I’m just trying to ignore it…

Truth is, I’m not alone. I’ve got my bro. It’s an unconventional type of situation, I’ll grant you. But I was never a conventional type of woman.

Still. I wonder…

Read about the monster storm cell over the states. No one seems to be calling it a super storm even tho it stretches from Texas to Wisconsin, bringing flooding, blizzards, ice storms, and tornadoes. The online approach seems to be one of acceptance and normalisation: this is just what we now call a regular storm. Um, okay. You’re ignoring everything, but, okay. You guys have a lot of flat earthers, too.

On the flip side of the climate debate, I saw the first 10 minutes of a documentary on tv this morning. Two German activists were debunking environmentally labelled products. First, they took an airplane because (in their words!) ‘it was cheap’. Then they drove around in a car. Finally, they went into a supermarket and filled their cart with prepackaged products, bitching the whole time about the ingredients. Never once did they offer alternatives to these habits! Never once did they say they were fucking things over with their flights and their car!

I mean… Seriously?

Worst of all: Woke up last night from the guy 2 floors below us, yelling his head off. Once again, it was after bar close. Fucking asshole! I don’t give a fuck WHAT he’s yelling about; those kids have to hear that shit almost every fucking week from someone they’re supposed to call father. And no, I’m not a fan of the fucking kids, either. But on the balance, they’re guiltless. I blame the father; he’s a belligerent fuck and chances are he’s got an alcohol problem. Even if he isn’t hitting his wife, there’s clear abuse going on. Everyone can hear it.

So, more Dutch to write in the form of a note to my landlord.

Goddess! Why do I have to be the one to report it???

Why do I have to be the one to hear it?

I can only guess that it’s due to my own un-solved shit. I have to hear it, have to report it. I’ll keep getting it shoved in my face until I face or conquer whatever I’ve hidden deep within myself. Right now, I’m angry. But I know what that’s masking: terror. The terror of having a partner like that… That’s what’s setting me off. I know that’s true just as I know that terror feeling every time I hear him scream and yell. It’s horribly familiar, yet held apart from me. I go into my head when it happens, not into my memory. I think I need to face that memory. ALL of it. The fast punches coming out of nowhere. The bullshit follow up: I didn’t mean it, I love you, It’ll never happen again. And my own violent responses: the screams, the hitting back, the threats of suicide. Finally, the terror of not being able to get away from him. The calls, the stalking, the threats and demands…

Who needs to look for terror when it lives two floors below you?

 

How to Raise a Serial Killer in Three Easy Generations

*WARNING! This post is meant as satire, but contains language and ideas that may be very triggering to some.*

Once again, last night between midnight and 1 a.m. I was treated to the guy two floors below me blowing his stack. Screaming at something or someone. I sent a note to the landlord this morning, who responded within minutes. Going to write a note in Dutch to the people below our flat and ask them to contact the landlord corroborating my information. We gotta get these people out of here.

Woke up angry due to lack of sleep. That wasn’t helped by watching the news. Saw one interview regarding the percentage of women vs men in the artistic world. Actually heard an old white guy say men had more representation because they worked harder than women. At that point, I began yelling at the tv. My brother changed the channel to cartoons.

So, on these happy notes, I’m gonna get something out of me that’s been simmering for awhile.

So, you want to let loose the absolute worst in society? Inflict pain on everyone and everything? Don’t despair! Your dreams are only a few generations away.

Raising a killer these days is easy. But raising a serial killer: now that’s a challenge! If you feel up to it and are willing to make a few adjustments to your lifestyle, you too can boast of a serial killer in your family.

Generation One often proves to be the most difficult to get through. It will demand the most time and effort from you, and this proves to be too much for some people, no matter how dedicated to chaos they may claim to be.

The perfect pair to begin your journey is an emotionally unavailable mother combined with an immature father figure. These two archetypes will play off each other well, confusing the second generation’s perceptions of right and wrong. It is far easier to concentrate on the male generations than the female generations! Don’t waste your time on your daughters, just go for the gold. This behaviour, known as ‘the golden child’ syndrome, will give your sons and daughters the very best chance of being unstable, angry individuals. This is key, for their behaviour will reflect and modify the third generation in which your serial killer will be born.

A generous combination of too high expectations combined with angry – and if amenable to you, violent – outbursts towards your male descendants is your strongest option. Scream at them when they spill a glass of milk. Berate them for not being smarter than their age. Set up various control methods, from helicopter parenting to outright spying, to make sure your experiment stays on track.

Needless to say, having weapons in your home is a big plus at this stage. Use your male offspring’s confusion and turn their anger towards target practice. This will reinforce in this bridge generation the use of violence as an outlet for their anger.

Hopefully, by the time your male offspring reach the age of 6 to 8, they will begin petty sadistic behaviour patterns. Look for small things, like ripping the wings off a fly or burning ants with a magnifying glass. If possible, now is the time to reinforce the idea of killing and death. Take your male offspring on a traditional hunting expedition. Use this as an initiation into ‘manhood’ to ensure the behaviour is impressed deeply on the children. If possible, make sure your offspring are the ones to gut your kills. Get their hands into the blood as soon as possible. Reinforce this with happy, positive feedback.

The mother of the bridge generation should figure very little in your offspring’s upbringing. Make sure to keep her in her place. If she tries to interfere, out shout her. If all else fails, smack yo’ bitch up!

When your male offspring reaches school age, make sure to reinforce the idea of domination and superiority in them. With a bit of proper goading and luck, you will be called into the school offices to discuss your child’s bullying behaviour. Do not – do not! – punish this behaviour. Instead, ask for your child to be drugged. This will often further your goal more than you realize, setting up your bridge generation to be drug users. This makes your control all the easier.

When your male offspring reaches puberty, begin exposing them to pornography. Hormones and time will do the rest: your male offspring will become sexually active, and eventually get a female pregnant.

Control at this point is, once again, key. Force the pair to marry, force the woman to carry long term – again, with violence if necessary.

On the happy occasion, do not be too disappointed if it’s a girl. You want another male offspring, but females as first children in broken families can be, in the long run, invaluable to setting up the proper psychology needed to become a serial killer. Older female relations will pattern themselves after the mother figure, becoming emotionally distant and angry. This will be a natural reinforcement of all sexually angry feelings you want brewing in your young serial killer.

Do not worry about the bridge generation any more. Your focus is now on the prize. It matters little if the bridge generation stays married to each other or not, though it is always safer if an angry and violent end is the outcome. This, again, sets up and reinforces the behaviour and aberrant thought you want in your final generation.

Allow your target generation ample access to weapons and violent films and games. Train them to handle real weapons as soon as possible. Never ask what happens to their pets, or why animals in the neighbourhood don’t like them. Ignore all warning signs and advice from so-called professionals. And always remember: a little violence can never harm your goal.

Congratulations! You shouldn’t have to wait too long before things happen. Then you, too, can join the ranks of clueless parents who routinely set their children up and then act totally innocent when the shit hits the fan.