Whatever it takes

I am too anxious to count victories or pat myself on the back. Too future-fixed to do more than just write.

It amazes me how my mind can decide ‘do whatever it takes to stay calm’ and within 10 minutes the same mind is telling me ‘boy, you’re weak if you have to resort to that right away’. My mother trained my brain well; it took over her job the moment she kicked it. Crack open that proverbial space between a rock and a hard place and you’ll find me, shivering and squirming in indecision.

Yesterday should have gone better. I did my homework, I read my book, I listened and worked on the language all week. But everything was slightly out of focus. I experienced that fritz out sensation on a lesser scale. I kept up, mostly, with the verbal assault in Dutch. But I seemed to lose a lot of words and a lot of grammatical rules. Loads of correction from my teachers, which meant loads of patience from me. I didn’t lose it, I didn’t grow angry or have an outburst, but I know I didn’t do ‘well’. Not as well as I should have done. Gods, woman, just fucking say it! Okay. I’m too smart to make such dumb mistakes. There. That written in stone fucking shit that was drilled into me the moment C got a whiff of where my IQ sat. I can’t escape it, and I continue to beat myself with it every time I fuck up. I’ve heard variations on that theme from my teachers, too: slow down and think about it; you know better than this. Obviously no, I don’t, because I keep fucking up, don’t I? If I “knew” it, I wouldn’t do that, would I? So why keep repeating that I should know it, that I’m too smart for it, that I’m not thinking, that I’m making so many fucking mistakes?

Can’t smart people make mistakes? Why do I continually get messages that make me feel like I must be perfect 100% of the time?

Finding myself more and more ready to make those mistakes – at least, in language class. I think I’ve been going about this all wrong. I’ve always worked my ass off to do my very best. That leads to this assumption that I’ll always be that good and never make any mistakes. So, fuck it. I’m gonna stop doing my best for other people. I’ll just do whatever. A half-assed attempt. See my mistakes: I’m human. Fucking deal. Allow me to fuck up! Please! Why is it okay for everyone else to fuck up but not me?

…*sigh* I suppose, if I think about it, there’s reason in this to feel good. I must do such an amazing job most of the time that when I DO fuck up, it’s very noticeable. People must judge me very highly to always have this reaction, right? Don’t know that I’m happy about that. I mean…it just ends up making me feel awful about myself, and always, always brings me back to that horrible circular statement of being too smart to make such dumb mistakes.

Then people ask me why I feel so shitty about myself. Or why I’m so sad and depressed most of the time. Or why I don’t even want to try some days.

For fuck’s sake!

…I gotta break this. Already my thoughts are circling the drain… Someone just fucking kill me is top of the list.

Up this week: buying that CD. That’s a downtown trip during the day. Into public. Doing all those things normal people do: ride the metro, walk around, interact. Anxiety issue number 1, that is. Number 2 is the psych appointment. Really getting wound up over it. My bro’s b-day is Friday, so I’ve got to do some baking (which includes both before and after kitchen cleaning because for some reason it’s okay for my bro to leave a mess in there but not me). Also expect to meet with the director and hash thru the script (another anxiety ridden thing: can I let go enough to actually get it produced?). In between all that I need some gym time, some homework time, game time, and the bare necessities of sleeping and eating and keeping my body groomed enough to do everything else.

The best I can manage on ‘keeping calm’ is to balance one anxiety with another. When I think too long about the psych appointment, I counter it with my script anxiety and vice versa. If I worry too much about my trip downtown I concentrate on going to the gym. It works, to an extent. It doesn’t allow any one thing to become too big in my head. But it doesn’t take my overall anxiety down, which is what I want. Thinking ahead a week doesn’t really do the trick, either: then begins the countdown to my Amsterdam performance, which brings up all the associated issues of relearning my lines, hitting the marks, etc. …Fine. If I flip my computer calendar to April, it’s not so bad. As long as I ignore the alert in the first week about the upcoming performance, my schedule is clear and free. April it is, then.

Let’s see… It’ll be getting warmer by then, so maybe I’ll open up some windows. The sun will be out longer; perhaps I’ll be taking strolls in the evenings during twilight. The issues that are coming up this week and causing me anxiety will be in my past by then. Over and done with. Yes. And progress will have been made. Decisions about the production(s). Maybe some movement on some sound effects. Maybe I’ll have heard from the theatre in the states by then. Maybe the local theatre group will have already called for auditions. I’ll have written more – something. This blog, at least. Yes. I can feel good about all of that.

And remember what you said, woman. How do you feel in your skin? …Not so good at the moment. Then let it go. Seek that comfort in yourself. Don’t listen to that other part of you that wants to make you feel bad.

Whatever it takes.


Tell him

Somedays I’m in danger of allowing this blog to become a thing in my mind. Almost didn’t post because I said to myself ‘well, you didn’t do much; maybe you should take a break ’til you give your readers something to read’.

*ahem* This is for you and no one else. You do not advertise, you do not give out this address, you do not link, you do not push, you don’t do any of those things. This is for you. If people happen to read it, that’s their business. Stop worrying about how other people feel and take care of yourself. That’s why you started this. That’s why you’re out here almost every day. Not for them. For you. Only you.


So…was irritated yesterday beyond belief for a few hours after my bro came home. I’d spent five hours mega-cleaning the house and exhausted myself. I was so tired I didn’t have the energy to take the now full garbage bag downstairs to the trash. Instead, I took a hot shower and washed the day’s work and dust off me. My brother noticed the bag in the hall when he came home and said he’d take it down “since you’re so tired from whatever it is you did”. Whatever it is you did?!? Wait. I had to clean the hoover bag out twice from all the dust I picked up. There used to be a stack of DVDs by the tv over 30cm high that is now gone and all the DVDs are put away. There used to be scraps of paper, things left everywhere – it’s all tidied up now. And he says ‘whatever it is you did’ to me?

Goddess!! Sometimes my brother can be such a man. Such a guy. Such a dude. Such a how do you even manage to stay upright on two feet type of person. I swear he needs glasses ’cause he just doesn’t seem to ever see the layer of dust or crap around the place!

I let it irritate me for most of the evening. Just…wasn’t quite there in spirit, you know? My bro laughed at the tv programs; I sat there largely unsmiling. Realized it was a perfect little example of what goes on with me: something is said or done that hurts or irritates me, I say nothing, I end up not enjoying my time because I can’t stop thinking about why I’m hurt or irritated. So I took a look at that.

My first reaction was: say nothing. Let’s see how long it takes him to say something about the DVDs. My brain wagered me that it would be at least two weeks; my spirit upped the anti by claiming it would take him at least a month. While my brain and my spirit argued, I paid attention. I had two sides of me squabbling, raising my blood pressure and anger with everything they said, and I simply stepped in and quietly asked, ‘What is it you want?’

That stopped everything. The rolling comments that were winding me up, the anger, the back and forth arguing that got me nowhere.

I admitted to myself I wanted acknowledgement for my hard work. I’d done a great job and wanted someone to notice. Since my bro’s the only person who’s here to notice, the job falls to him – whether or not that’s fair. So that same calm and quiet voice in me then asked ‘And if you let it go and wait for him to notice, are you going to get what you want?’ Those arguing voices of brain and spirit sounded like reticent schoolchildren: ‘No-o-o-o….’

The answer became clear. I had to point it out to him. I feel like I shouldn’t need to do that. I feel like anyone who’d see the before and after would have enough perception to notice a lot of hard work had been put in on cleaning. But I also had to acknowledge that, love my brother as I may, he’s a product of poor upbringing as well as I. Some of his communication habits are very destructive. I can’t expect him to be perfect all the time. But he has this bad habit of throwing blame. Some of it is simply the words he chooses to use; quite often if I have him break it down, his meaning isn’t as mean as I’m taking it to be. Still…knowing I am someone who takes too much blame onto herself, this verbal habit of never acknowledging one’s own responsibility in a situation is trying. I feel blamed, whether or not he means to do it. And I’ve got to fight against that feeling every damned minute. I’ve yet to teach him better communication skills. …Well, I say that, but truth is I probably have. We communicate better now than we did thirty years ago. Still! There’s plenty of work to be done.

So I pointed. I spoke up. Oh! he said. Where’d the DVDs go? I pointed out that I’d inserted them into our collection in the appropriate sections: action, comedy, horror, kids. Then: And what about the DVDs you took out to make room for the new ones? Am I gonna have to look for something I want to watch now? No, I told him. I only removed the DVDs we’d both watched and both agreed were sub-par films and maybe we should give them to a charity shop. Once his concerns were addressed, I received the acknowledgement I wanted and went to bed feeling better. But his reaction to this bears scrutiny; his first thought was to ‘what did you do wrong’ rather than ‘good on you’. This is…typical. Sadly. I’ve learned to hear beyond his words because we’ve had innumerable arguments over poor communication in the past. I know, tho, that part of me cringes every time it happens. I’d do better with a different approach from him.


Good on you, girl! Double good on you! You worked hard and asked for what you wanted. You weren’t even bitchy about it.

Now, go and do something nice for yourself today. This is me, your superior, giving you an order. Do it. Find that CD you want. See if you can buy it.

And don’t ask your brother if you can do this. Tell him.

The animal

How I wish there was anyone – anyone! – else sitting in the WH right now. I’m so sick and tired of seeing his face every damned morning. Can’t get away from that sexual predator and narcissistic liar. And every time I see him I think ‘Yep. That’s who my family voted for. That’s who they support. And that’s exactly what each and every one of them are like.’

Bullying? Yep. Shouting out how anyone who tells the truth is a liar? Check. Sheer ignorance? Yeah, they got that in spades, too. Controlling, manipulative, power hungry? Yes, yes, yes. Cut out 45’s face and plaster the face of anyone from my mother’s DNA family and you’ve got what I grew up with.

It’s a constant trigger.

I’ve grown to believe in the idea that all children, ultimately, want to kill their parents. I think that’s our animal nature: the drive to usurp the old alpha dog and take charge of the pack. And we’ve developed all sorts of coping mechanisms to deal with it, but from time to time it, as well as most of our animal centered natures, comes to the fore. Aggression. Violence. Rape. War. These are some of the ugliest ways humans try to assert control. Older generations have attempted to solidify their power base by sending the younger generations off to be killed in battle. That happens time after time historically. Time after time historically there are lines drawn between ‘them’ and ‘us’, and those labels are usually meted out by those old cronies in power. In effect, our ‘parents’ give us something to fight – something other than our parents themselves. That’s how they retain power. That’s how they manipulate. That’s how they control.

Calling them ‘leaders’ is a misnomer. We should actually call them ‘controllers’ or ‘manipulators’. They do not lead; they enrage us into action. They bully us into action.

It is sickening.

…*sigh* Told my bro about my name issue, and how I’m calling myself by my childhood diminutive. He asked me if he should call me by that name, too. Bless him! I said no, and for now that’s the correct choice: I don’t need yet another trigger locking me into my 13 year old self. I am continuously reminded of that, continuously triggered. Wish I would have just taken care of my issues back then. But older me acknowledges this is tricky stuff, and it scares me. I’ve got more coping skills than my younger self, so I’m cutting her some slack. Telling her she did the best she could, and no one could ask anything else of anyone in this position.

My bro was pleased to come home yesterday and find I hadn’t sat around inside all day. He’s especially pleased I went downstairs to yet again buy a little noon-time food for myself. He’s encouraged that for years decades, and it’s always been difficult for me to do it. Just going somewhere or stopping somewhere to pick up something to eat, maybe a drink: I don’t feel worth it. It’s a waste of money. The only time it isn’t a waste of money is when I’m on the edge of passing out from too few calories or dehydration. So me doing this for two days in a row is a big deal.

Managed to tackle the worst of the housework, too. Dishes, hoovering up dust bunnies, garbage and recycling. Even (as promised) made my bed. Finished my homework, read three chapters in my book. I’m happy about all of that.

Received an email yesterday from the theatre group. It basically said ‘hey, you’re the one with the videos…maybe you should contact L and make sure she has the ability to use your format.’ …O-o-o-oh? All news to me. This is a get-together to see the vids my bro put together. Not the long-promised cut together vids that were going to be made from the ten people somehow allowed to film the play even tho filming wasn’t allowed. Lucky for me, my bro was close at hand. I read him out the message, and his reaction was very like mine: first a disbelieving and ironic laugh, then a ‘Oh! Didn’t know they wanted to see those videos!’ I took care of it, but it brings to mind another thing I want. This type of situation happens to me when working in a group. Other people drop the ball, then I feel put on the spot and under pressure to perform and perform quickly in order to have things proceed smoothly. Let’s be clear: I wasn’t even aware the date to watch the videos was approaching until I received a reminder message about it. I didn’t know a date had been chosen. I didn’t know I’d have to supply the videos. I didn’t know I’d have to think or deal with the format of said vids. This information was dumped on me less than 36 hours from the supposed viewing. While I’m capable of dealing with this on a timely basis, I feel ill used and put out. Angry to be asked or expected to deal with this mess on such short notice, and unable to communicate those feelings to the group without alienating them.

I know I need to communicate something along the line of ‘Next time I’d appreciate having more time to prepare. I feel uncomfortable if I think there’s a time limit or too much pressure.’ Simple, and without that whine in my voice that says ‘you used me and I’m pouty and unhappy now, boo-hoo’. Do not feel up to it yet.

I’m also aware that on some level this could be a bit of group hazing. The ‘test the new member’ stuff that so often occurs in group situations. Not saying they’re conscious of that, just that it might be going on on a subconscious level.

It’s that animalistic behavior that drives these repetitive cycles of humanity.

That part of us we can’t escape.

The snarling beast. The wounded anger. The very desire to destroy, and taste blood.

The animal.

[Note to self: well written. In re-reading this, I experienced a click of recognition from the theatre group’s perspective. I won’t jump on them; this is a case of miscommunication. My bad as well as theirs. I made assumptions, and I see now where and why they made their assumptions. …And wow, that puts my pouty feelings to rest. Goodnight, animal.]

Am I alone out here?

I told you so.

Today’s kicker: an article on a study showing that the DNA of women who have babies is on average 11 years “older” than women who don’t have babies. Wow. Can I say that’s like finally coming out and admitting menstruation causes pain in the female body? Duh-uh. I noticed that very early on: women who have children grow old fast. And why shouldn’t they? Having a living thing tapping into your body for nine months, sucking off your reserves, eating up the vitamins and minerals a person needs…no great surprise to me to find mothers age quicker than normal women [I am using ‘normal women’ here to reassure myself and the rest of the bleeding world that choosing to NOT have children is normal, not some freak accident of nature]. I’ve watched it again and again, through people I’ve known and strangers.

So happy you men finally caught on. Maybe now you’ll begin to recognize why I consider the ‘keep ’em in the kitchen barefoot and pregnant’ is such an indignity. You not only use women like baby factories and slaves, you endanger and shorten women’s lives every time you do it.

Will this open up lawsuits against states and countries that force women to have children? I sure as fuck hope so. Endangering the lives – purposely shortening the lives – of women should be a criminal offense. I hope they hang you fuckers up by your balls.

But no. Some man will probably invent some way for men to have babies. And then we’ll hear it. Then we’ll have story after story of these “courageous” men. We’ll have detailed descriptions and graphic pictures of their pain. We will be told how they’ve never felt anything like it, and no one could ever know how painful it is until they go through it themselves. Then, the men will be lauded. Oh, good on you, old boy, for breaking that pregnancy barrier. By jove, if we’d known it was that painful we’d have given you more powerful drugs. Here! We’ll make something new that will take all the pain out of childbirth because no man should ever have to go through that again. You are a pioneer! And then the book will come out, followed up by the film.

Think it won’t happen? Do you remember how I began this post?

I like men individually. But as a group, you’re assholes I’d rather the world did without. Justice to me looks like several thousand years with men tied up in some holding cell and milked for their semen. They can never see the light of day without a woman’s permission. They can never vote, can never change their circumstances, and will get ridiculed, belittled, and abused every time they dare speak up for this “equality”. Do that for three or five thousand years and we’ll be even. Maybe.

Like any good little girl, I know my anger at men begins at home. Let’s talk about Dad.

Dad, I knew, loved me. Individually, as me. He did not see me as a second class remake of my sister, like my mother did. I need to say that up front.


Continually saying things like ‘women should never be president because they’ll have a mood swing and hit the button killing us all’ did not build up my self-esteem. Telling me I was pretty as a consolation when I was in tears didn’t convince me I was attractive (just the opposite, and I’ve a clear memory of my mother telling me how SHOCKED my father was by a comment from a colleague who said I was beautiful). Lecturing me to hide my intelligence from the world because if men knew how smart I was no one would ever marry me did nothing other than add to my complexes.

I was raised by a Neanderthal. A loving Neanderthal, but a Neanderthal nonetheless.

But Daddy liked his little girl. For all that negativity, he was the one who encouraged my verbal skills, my debate and logic skills. Even when I grew old enough that my logic caught him out and triggered his anger, I felt he was proud of the fact I could do that in the first place. It was as if he wanted me to be one way in private, and another way in public.

Again: secrets. Keep the silence. Don’t let them know. Hide it.

There’s always a second message when secrets are involved. The implied message that you’re somehow wrong if you can’t keep the secret. You talk too much, you don’t care about the other person, you’re self-centered…pick one. They’re all implied, and you can latch onto whichever one your programming set you up to accept.

I have never been accused of talking too much. Saying too much, yes. But not talking too much. My only assumption all these years (and that’s been backed up by the actions and reactions of others) is that I’m different. Somehow. I don’t have certain filters in place. I just say things. I talk about subjects that people don’t discuss. I reveal “secrets” about myself that others think they can use against me. That, of course, is their perception problem. I say those things so I take my power back. If I’m up front about my body issues, no one can shame me by pointing a finger at me and calling me fat. Yeah, I’ve already told you I think I am; you’re just pointing out the obvious to me and that makes YOU look like an idiot. So I talk about my uncomfortable self. I reveal my anxieties – not crying, nor wringing my hands, just stated. I have panic attacks. I have body issues. I have self-esteem issues. My mother abused me.

To me, this is just truth. This is honesty and communication. But the looks I get -!

Perhaps it is too much honesty. Too deep of a truth to reveal to some people. Does everyone hide that much?

Am I alone out here?

The perfect slave

Can’t stop shaking. Much worse than normal shivers or shakes. Like palsy or I had a stroke.


Woke up crying. 5 am, in bed, crying yourself awake.


I will happily murder the remainder of my mother’s family, too.

Here it is. I knew I wasn’t feeling it. I knew there was more to it. My head could process the hate but my body couldn’t.

Why I am so sad?

Ah, who gives a fuck? Get it out of your system. Of course you’re fucking depressed; look at your life. Look at what you were taught. Look at how you were and are treated. Surprised you didn’t pop sooner than this.

There is nowhere to go when your mind fucks with you. Nowhere you can hide, nowhere that’s bright enough or fast enough or overwhelming enough to take over that tyrant in your head, showing you those things you don’t want to see.

I feel so damned alone.

And it’s all so sad. Those wasted years, not understanding why I was doing what I was doing, why I felt the way I felt. I’m bright, I’m accomplished, I’ve done some great things and I can’t take any of it in. Just the negatives. Just the shit, please. I’m used to that.

Today’s fantasy of choice is a gun. Usually my mind sees knives. Sees me stabbing my family, again and again, over and over and over until they’re dead, dead, dead and can never say another nasty thing to me again. Today, it’s a pistol. Shoot them in the head, shoot them several more times because they fucking deserve it, shoot them, shoot them, shoot them down. And oh, yes, I’m fully fucking aware now is a bad time to say this and I’m fully fucking aware of how sensitive the subject of weapons is right now. This is all fantasy in my head, and it tells me something about myself: I’ve upped the ante. I might let someone live if I stabbed them with a knife. Shooting them is an up. An increase in anger and rage. It also shows me I’m starting to disconnect from them – I no longer have to “feel” the knife go into their bodies in my fantasies; they are not worth that close of contact. Shoot them before they can get to me. Shoot them so I don’t even have to touch them. Disconnect: these people are not my family, they do not love me, and I will not allow myself to be hurt by them any longer.

C is so fucking lucky she didn’t live to see this day.

Because I’d fucking kill her.

The whole thing with the film crew is still eating away at me. Shouldn’t. I know that. I “should” just let it go. Isn’t that the very first thing to pop out of the mouths of those assholes who don’t struggle with this? “Let it go”, like we want to hang onto this, want to wake up crying and shaking, want to go through any of this. Oh, fuck you! It hurts, and I’m blaming myself, and that hurts even more but it’s what I’m fucking USED to because that’s the way I was raised. Sorry I’m such a fucking head case. Sorry you don’t have a fucking clue and can’t even fucking imagine what it is to feel this way.

Most of all, I’m sorry you’re such a sad sack of shit that you lack basic empathy.

I’ve never had many friends. Well…one time. When I was the cocaine connection for everyone between 19 and 30. Then, my mother was pleased because so many people called me to hang out or come to this party or do that. It was all cocaine, mother. They didn’t want me there for me. They were using me, just like you. …I’ve tried to have more friends. I find it really hard. Hard to make that connection on my side, and harder still to have that connection returned. I get a lot of pleasant acquaintances in my life. People I can hang with, if the situation warrants. People I can talk to on some level or other. But those acquaintances never seem to grow into anything else. We never overcome that awkwardness, never really open up to each other. Part of the problem is just me. I don’t have tons of cash to go to this event or that, and even if I did there’s my health to consider. Say no enough times and people stop asking. I try to explain that, but…well. People have loads of reasons for not understanding it fully, and I hope most of them never find out what reality looks like when that kind of shit manifests in your life.

Some of them, tho, could do with a good kick in the pants from reality.

I want to kill my mother.

The shaking has stopped. Good thing, too. Almost spilled my coffee a couple of times.

How deep the rage goes. Pretty damned deep. It’s in the animal, in that knee-jerk reaction part of me far beyond the intellectual daydreams of my mind. It is in prey part of me, and it ignites the fight or flight reaction. I understand why the little girl froze. She was too small. No surprise, then, my recurring nightmares of being hunted by giants or spy helicopters in the sky. I was overpowered right from the start. Who wouldn’t have been? I grew into the mindset of being a slave, with no free will of my own. That wasn’t my fault. Nor was it my fault to take as long as I did to wake up. It’s a lot to wake up to, and I had zero tools to deal with it.

My mother physically abused me. It was covert; I was not the child on the playground in dirty clothes who sported a black eye or cigarette burn. I was smartly dressed, in ironed clothes, my hair pulled back so tight it hurt. I was the child from the good family, the respected family. I was smart, shy, and prone to outbursts. I couldn’t play well with others and I didn’t have many friends. 

In many ways, I was the perfect slave…

The last vestige

Start to heal, and feel worse. Anyone else suffer through this? Three days on the anti-viral and the exhaustion hit me – couldn’t stay awake for anything. Now, it’s a stuffed nose and cold-like symptoms. Joy. Reminding myself to feel happy about it while I cough and blow my nose, tearing through the facial tissues in the house until all the garbage cans are full of my used product. It’s coming out of my body. The nose blowing, the navel goo, the exhaustion…all side products of this illness.

Gods, healing is gross.

Sent a text to my teacher, telling her I had shingles and wouldn’t be coming to class. Waited nervously for a reply. Kept thinking she’d tell me no one wanted me back in class after my outburst. Went through the whole thing in about fifteen minutes: shame, guilt, anger, acceptance. Finally my phone jangled with a note: get well, and we hope to see you next week. I find my reaction and…well, everything that’s going on worth mentioning. Because I’m getting this reply from the teacher I call Ms. Hard Ass. Make no mistake about it: she IS a hard ass. But I think she also understands me better than most. I think she’s sussed out that I’m bipolar, maybe a bit autistic. And I think she’s dealt with this type of behavior before. She was the only one who dared to continue speaking to me normally after my outburst. I remember her even asking ‘may I point a few things out to you?’ before giving me some corrections. Of all the people in that room, I feel she’s the one who understood what was going on with me, so her kind reply is doubly appreciated.

Been imagining me apologizing to the class. I have to; it’s the only way I can work up the nerve to do it. Have to add that my imaginings always seem to include someone (one person in particular) piping up with ‘suggestions’ on how to stay calm or stay healthy or whatever. Assumptions, really. The same sort of thing I have to suffer through when someone tells me of some home remedy for rheumatoid arthritis. Dudes! I studied herbal remedies. Whatever you’re going to tell me about, I’ve tried it or looked into it and decided the science can’t back up the claims. Don’t lecture to me about eating right, or sleeping, or getting exercise. I’m on top of all that. I’ve been juggling this illness since I was 10. I dealt with it undiagnosed for 25 years, and now diagnosed for another 17. I’ve done more than you could ever imagine. But it always comes up. And I have to paste that smile on my face, the one that hurts even me to use (can’t you SEE how unhappy I am with what you’re saying?), and listen, and say ‘yes’ and ‘really?’ like I’m truly interested because doing anything else is viewed as rude. Very few people seem to understand how rude it is from my side. …I understand I’m being triggered. My experience with apologizing has been that the apology is never really accepted; I must go through lectures and reminders for the rest of my life. So I’m naturally leery. Afraid it’ll happen again. It’s hard to remember that there are people out there who aren’t gonna react like my family. Doing my best to offer myself alternative fantasies: apologize, and have the apology accepted. People smile and nod at me. I am forgiven. I want that, and I want to trust that it’ll happen. It’s the last part I’m snagged on: trust.

How can I trust S and the film crew so easily, yet be unable to trust other people? I’m having the same issue with the theatre group. I don’t trust they’ll follow through with my piece. Or am I asking the wrong question? Is it ME I don’t trust in these situations? Do I feel incapable of taking criticism, of hearing ‘no’? *sigh* Again, my experiences are not great. I’ve rarely had the thing known as ‘constructive criticism’ given to me. Rip you to shred criticism, yes. In abundance. Meant to hurt you as much as possible criticism. I’m afraid of that. It hurts. No matter how much of it you get, it hurts. Maybe I’m being a drama queen, but it does seem I draw more of that to me than most people. I’ve heard things like ‘you can’t even write a grammatically correct sentence; don’t even BEGIN to think you’re a writer’, or the always deadly ‘gee, you’d be really pretty if you just lost 20 pounds’. That’s not even mentioning the times I was called childish, ignorant, stupid, arrogant, and just plain wrong in every way imaginable (and no, my inner defeatist attitude is NOT something bred in me, but moulded onto me – these are simply echoes of things I heard about myself growing up). So yes, I’m touchy. Begin to attack me personally and I’ll go off on you. Point things out to me calmly and without judgement, and I’ll be fine. I don’t think I’m asking so much there. Am I?

If life is a mirror, then I’m in trouble here. Because things point to the fact that I’m too judgmental. If I feel judged, then (by mirroring standards) I must be putting out too much judgement. …Oh. Well. I DO judge. I’ll admit to thinking ‘gods, people are STUPID!’ about three hundred times a day. And I judge my mother, and my sister, and all my family. I judge them all to be lacking, and all to be dangerous to my mental stability. *sigh* Yet it’s only after leaving them – finally leaving them, all the way through me leaving them, not just in words or distance leaving them – that I’ve met people I can love. I’ve found places I fit in, even if it’s just a short film shoot. I’ve gained self respect.

My doubts and fears…they are just the remnants, the last vestige of the damage done.

Perchance, to dream

It’s midnight my time. I’ve been tossing and turning for an hour, trying to get to sleep. Every time I manage to banish the thoughts that are bothering me and take a deep breath, those same ghosts swoop back down on me moments later, strangling me and any hope of sleep.

So. I fucking lost it today. Some would say that’s a self fulfilling prophecy. Others might say ‘she just knows herself’. Whatever. I fucking lost it, and pretty bad, and feel shitty about it. Just about losing it publicly, not what I lost it over.

Let’s make something real clear right now: hearing ‘calm down’ in your native language is bad enough, but hearing it in a foreign tongue really clicks my meter into the stratosphere. And man, did I fucking hear it.

Class. I probably should have called in sick. Just stayed the fuck home. I knew I was walking a thin line with my anger and irritation. But no! I wasn’t dying, and Dutch is for some reason fucking important to me (can’t quite remember WHY right now), so I had to go despite my misgivings. First up: punctuation. For fuck’s sake! Between a couple of people chatting non-stop to some non-fucking-sensical comma use, I was on edge. Then I was called on to read out a couple of sentences and I kid you not – the entire fucking class laughed at me when I made mistakes. Laughed at me. They didn’t laugh at other people when they made their mistakes. Everyone patiently waded through it, and hid their eye rolls over the fucking forever repetition some people had to go thru. But me, they laughed at. My mind went bonkers. Every single word of Dutch left me. Every. single world. You could have said ‘Ja’ to me and I wouldn’t have caught it; it all sounded like ‘blah blah de blah blah’ to me.

Right. So someone with an IQ of around 80 realized I was angry and made a comment about it. Why are you so angry? Why? I’m fucking confused. I was then told if I didn’t understand something, it was better to ask (are you feeling like I was treated like a 5 year old? because I sure as fuck felt like it). So I began to make a ‘safe’ answer regarding the punctuation I didn’t understand. Then the woman sitting next to me – it was her first lesson – piped up and tried to explain to the teachers why I was confused. She fucking thought. she knew. what the fuck. I was going through.

Ballistic-o-meter went off the scale. All pretense of Dutch was dropped, and I rounded on her in English, saying that if SOMEONE would let ME answer the question I was asked, perhaps I would be able to explain MYSELF.

The fucking nerve of her.

The fucking nerve of all of them, laughing at me like that.

And gee, when break was finally called I didn’t think it was a big fucking surprise that I fucking avoided every single person and just found a quiet corner to try and pull myself together. Yeah. Laughing at me like that really makes me fucking want to talk to you.

I am this close to telling them all to fuck off.

If it happens again, I might just do that and walk.

I ain’t even sure I want to go back! Between my continued RAGE (fucking RAGE all capital because it STILL hasn’t slowed down) and my shame over losing it yet again and being so fucking shamed over being so fucking shamed…Christ! Like I want to walk back into THAT den.


Can’t I just find another class? Or maybe a private teacher?

Or maybe I’m just chicken shit. Maybe the brave thing to do is stick it out. I don’t know. I just know right now my whole oomph is out the fucking window and headed south. I don’t want to do Dutch. I don’t want to read Dutch or hear Dutch or think Dutch. I am fed up.

Can’t let go of the part of me that feels a failure if I just walk away and stop trying, tho. So I torment myself. Bad, bad, Beeps! You’re so awful. The whole situation will probably solve itself because they’ll probably tell you to leave. No one wants you around with your angry outbursts. You’re not right in the head. Either that, or you’re just a stuck up bitch princess who wants everything to always go her way.

I’ve been told both.

…Gods, I hate myself.

And I’m too empty to cry.

You know…the worst thing is this…unspoken attitude that I ought to be able to handle it. I ought to be able to breathe my fucking problems away. Just like I ought to be able to stop my circular thoughts. Just don’t think about it. Yeah. Why not tell me not to think about elephants? If I could stop my thoughts, clear my mind, be calm no matter what, DON’T YOU THINK I’D FUCKING DO IT? Do you really look at me at the height of my frustration and think ‘gee, looks like she’s enjoying that’? Because I DON’T enjoy it. I don’t enjoy the ensuing comments. The looks. The forever pussy-footing backlash. The connections forever lost because people decide I’m just too this or that, and they don’t understand or want to TRY to understand.

I don’t enjoy this. At. all.

Nor do I look forward to the endless tossing and turning as I rehash and rehash what happened. Or the burning sensation in my stomach and solar plexus. Or the excess gas, the tight breath, the clenched jaw, ANY OF IT!! The pounding of my body makes me wonder if I’m having a heart attack. No? Just my heartbeat, all normal? Then why does my body pound like that?

I refuse to make any decision other than the decision to allow myself to calm down and go to sleep.

Perchance, to dream.

That might explain it

I am here only to bitch and moan and scream. All those things I’d like to do on other social platforms because that’s where it gets triggered. All those things I don’t do on other social platforms because I don’t want to deal with the back-talk, the trolling, or the other unwanted fucking bullshit.

First up: women who support 45. *ahem* Go and kill yourselves. Quickly. It will save me from murdering you, so look on it as if you’re doing God’s work, which you seem SO fucking concerned with even though your God makes you an outcast for your sex, your God MUST be called “Lord” or “Him” or “He”, your God of course had to send down a son because daughters are fucking worthless (right?), your God who is a man first and always and will never, ever let you forget it. Get down on your knees and suck Him (and that ‘Him’ stands BOTH your male Gods including the one in the White House) off. You utterly disgusting whores, so eager for a pat on your head from your Daddy or your husband that you’ll give up every ounce of decency in you just to have it.

Second: England. Congratulations on confirming in my mind, at least, that you ARE the pedophile capital of the world. The amount of ‘adults’ who engage in this behavior in your country is fucking staggering. And it’s pretty obvious that all your women are lying whores who deserve to be raped – or at least that’s your attitude. You’re letting the worst serial rapist in your history out of jail. Free. Guess his victims just don’t fucking count. They all wanted it anyway, didn’t they? Just like those kids you fucked. Those kids wanted it, too. They dressed provocatively, didn’t they? You just couldn’t help it. Your dicks got hard and, well, you’ve got to find SOMEPLACE to put a hard dick, don’t you? And, after all, that’s what women are made for – even if the ‘woman’ in question is only 5 or 6, or really a boy who won’t fight you too much because they can’t.

Third: the 1%. The day is coming, people. Your throats will all be cut. You will be left penniless. The masses will wake up to the fallacy of ‘divine right by birth’. You take, you keep, you hoard, and you laugh at the rest of us when we complain. You have no rights to what you claim is yours. Contrary to popular belief, the old idiom of ‘you can’t take it with you’ still holds true. If you can’t take it with you, you don’t own it. So no, you don’t own your land or your homes or your car or the workers whom you treat as slaves. You don’t own the government, or government officials, or the stock market. You are greedy fucks who stop up the progress of the world. You are the WORST of this terrible parasitic species called human, and on my list you’re number one to be shot even tho you only show up as my number three gripe this morning.

Fourth: the U.S. My only answer is this: napalm, and lots of it.


…I am frustrated and anxious, thus you get a tirade this morning. I know it. Continuing to hold smoking to a lower level despite feeling so homicidal. Have not yet gone off on anyone. That statement makes it sound like I expect to go off, and I guess I do. It’s my pattern. A pattern I’ve tried to break for a long time without success. I consider that a personal failure. …I must be at least a bit crazy, because I keep trying. Even tho I know I haven’t done it yet, even tho I don’t even know HOW to do it. Breathe, they tell me. Hell, I’m breathing! Sometimes damned hard from my anger. Can we get something a little more concrete to work on? Telling me to breathe just doesn’t cut it. And putting on that sanctimonious attitude and telling me it’ll all be okay if I just breathe only makes me want to shove breathing up your ass so far you’ll be belching from your sphincter for the rest of your natural life.

*big exhale* Yes, I’m currently smoking. I said I was keeping it under control, not quitting, and if anything serves as evidence of needing to calm the fuck down, it’s my post first thing this morning.

I’ve been diligent this weekend. Worked steadily. My homework is done. I’ve finished the latest Dutch book I was given to read. I’ve prepped up an article to share with the class. This morning I’ll conjugate irregular verbs while eating my oatmeal. In addition, I’ve watched Dutch programs or films every day to reinforce hearing the language. Also managed to clean up the house, finish off laundry, check on times and routes for Tuesday, SMS’d S about Tuesday, sent a message off to my insurance company about the increased coverage I need, sent a note to the theatre group telling them I’m done with the story and ready to share it, and even got to the gym. That’s diligence!

I should be happy as a clam (tho why clams are so damned happy, I’ll never know). S assured me in her message that I’m always welcome in her home. That warmed my heart. She’s been caught up in last minute homework projects, so we haven’t had a good chat yet. But looks like I’ll head up there on Tuesday so she can do my make-up. I’m sitting pretty with language, having done all that work. Should do just fine in class today. I’ve got what I need for Tuesday: the outfit, directions, back-up plans, and money on my OV chip card. My back isn’t hurting me, and my jaw pain is very low to non-existent.

One weird thing. I’ve got two sets of bite marks on my shoulder. Too big for an insect.

Maybe an angry imp bit me at night while I slept.

That might explain it…

Make it count

I do not like waking up with my life in review. Legend has it your life flashes before your eyes as you die. Makes me wonder if I die every morning in bed. If I’ve already passed over, and this is my limbo. A place I’ve been put to sort myself out and where I can learn how to play nice with others. And maybe it is. We assume, when we speak, that there is one reality: this one. But what if there are realities stacked on reality, if birth and death are just the passages between? What if I’ve died and been born a thousand times over already?

What if nothing changes?

…I’d call that Hell.

So I must, by definition, call my inner mindscape Hell because nothing to little has changed up there. I’m still angry. Still want to beat the living shit out of my mother, my oldest brother, and my sister. I want them to hurt. Hurt, and regret the hurt they’ve caused – and I want to see it. I want to see their pain because of all the pain they’ve caused in my life. I want to see their tears, hear their cries of ‘I’m sorry!’ so I can coldly tell them that yes, they are sorry pieces of shit and I have no empathy for their suffering. That desire burns in me, unabated no matter how many epiphanies or moments of clarity I receive.

I judge that part of me to be small, and weak, and mean. I don’t like it, nor the person I become when it takes me over.


Did not venture out yesterday, and the weather is twice as bad today. Figures. Procrastination typically makes things worse. Shoulda, shoulda, shoulda. Today the evil sprites tinker on my teeth again; not looking forward to that. Then I must find shoes, and some sort of cheap purse I can use rather than my ever-present backpack (fine with jeans, not so great with an evening dress). Meh. I’m both excited and nonplussed about “coming out” as a female – something I haven’t done for decades.

My brother is not coming to the premiere. He doesn’t have any appropriate clothing. I didn’t realize that until he told me last night. All his decent stuff was destroyed in Ireland. Had to tell that to S, who called me last night asking for a list of guests I was going to bring. Had to tell S I wasn’t bringing anyone – and I heard that snag of pity in her voice after I told her. Really? No one? Nope. It’s the pity I felt from her that’s bugging me. I totally understand my brother’s reasoning; he’s got to invest in a few things this month and there just isn’t the money to do that plus buy a suit so he can come to a small premiere for a short film that was made by students and probably won’t ever go any further. In some ways, in fact, I’m pleased. My bro’s autism can…be embarrassing for me at times. His reactions and words. People get offended. They look to me for explanations, and I just don’t want to do that anymore (nor does my brother want that). And…while my brother is my biggest supporter, there’s something else as well. He negates my energy. Not purposefully, and not with anything he does or says. But we both…do things with energies. He adds disruption. I…I do something different. But I can’t do it when he’s there: his disruption level is so high it disrupts me. And I can’t always do it. Don’t know why, or even what it is I do, but I’ve seen it and felt it. Other people have seen it and felt it. In the right groove, I can sway an entire crowd. Bring them under my ‘spell’. It’s…an odd thing to admit to. Sounds crazy. But it has happened my entire life. And whatever it is I DO do, I do it a lot with the film crew. Naturally. It pours out of me. So, if I’m honest, I’m rather happy my brother isn’t coming. I want these people to see that in me. I don’t want that part of me shut down.

…Did I just admit that I can’t share a part of me with my brother? Well, yes and no. He’s seen that part of me. He knows it. He also knows it can get out of hand: this is the part of me that turns into the ever-young party girl. Loads of fun, but she can get in over her head pretty easy. She overindulges. So he tends to be a bit disapproving of that side of me. I know he does it to keep her in line, to keep me from hurting myself. But…it’s also grating. I feel shackled at times.

Sometimes, I have to let myself roar…

And, bless him, my brother knows that. Just as I know that sometimes he has to fly without me by his side.

You never know which roar will be your last, so make it count. I plan on that. One of the reasons I’ve kept this particular dress for so long is that it’s a power outfit for me. I can’t wear it and NOT be there. Even if I feel I look like shit, that dress makes me feel pretty. Attractive. Seen. I will smile and beguile, laugh and listen, be thankful and humble and grateful for the opportunity and time I’ve been give. I may never do another film; I don’t know. No one does. So, give it everything.

…That’s what counts in these daily deaths I go through. The times I gave it my all. Those are the times that do NOT haunt me. Those memories do NOT tear me from my sleep and push me out of bed against my will. I want more of them.

Make it count.

Pick one


Wish I could. Wish I could vomit all this out of me. The anger, the burning hate that threatens to consume my mind. I want to strike out, to hit, to hurt, to kill. Make ’em bleed ’cause they fucking deserve it. I am very wary of this feeling; I know it does nothing but breed more problems. But I feel like I could just punch something or someone and keep punching until my hand breaks.

The weather is not helping. High winds and hail storm against the window, echoing the warfare I feel inside. Noisy shit that just won’t leave me alone no matter how many times I decide to let it go. Keeps coming back like some rabid dog determined to fucking bite me.

Did well yesterday. Give me a gold star. Homework, gym, and held back on smoking too much. Still want to cut down further, but real progress.

…Meh. I recognize this is part of the process. Increased irritation and anger while going thru withdrawal. Doing my best to keep that in mind. It prevents me from killing anyone, but it doesn’t help me sleep.

Dentist tomorrow. Joy. Have to tell him about my teeth. Oh, gee. Yeah, they still hurt. Sometimes here, sometimes there. Sometimes not at all. I can’t figure it out, and I can’t stop it. And I’m fucking fed up with it. Please don’t fucking touch this one nor that one. And please don’t hurt me anymore.

Don’t want to go out there today. The winds and hail are scheduled to continue, and it just makes me want to hole up under my blanket. I could. I know what I need to do before the premiere and it’ll take one day if I’ve got my shit together. I have the time to skive off. Tempting. But staying home means tempting myself with smoking all day long. It’s so easy to light up and let my worries drift away. So I don’t know.

I also don’t know about my hair. My bro has officially given me funds to go to the salon and do whatever. Now that I have permission, I’m really wondering if I want to cut my long locks. Managed to sneak in that shower yesterday, and as usual when faced with this type of decision, the alternatives all make themselves attractive. I stepped out of the shower with my hair already hanging in soft ringlets – the type of hairstyle some women work hours to achieve. And I wondered…do I really want to chop all that off? Isn’t it pretty? Yes, it is pretty. That’s a plus on the long hair side. But it’s also a pain. It’s so long now I HAVE to blow dry it because air drying it takes more than 8 hours. I don’t like that. I don’t like the fact that when I sit with my head relaxed against the back of my chair, my hair gets caught behind my back. I don’t like the extra heat I feel in bed, either. It’s heavy, and hot. …That’s a lot more negatives than positives. Should be an easy decision.

Fucking dithering. I’m worrying about possible future regret. That’s a moot point. It doesn’t exist, it may never exist. Kudos to me for trying to think ahead and consider the full consequences of my actions – but stop getting caught in ONE scenario. Many possible futures exist. Pick one, and work towards it.

Pick one…

There’s my problem. I want conflicting things. I want, in essence, the impossible. Long hair without the hassle. Smoking without the detrimental health effects. Weight loss without the work. Everything is conditional. If you want that, you must put up with or do this.

Even love. Humans have this intellectual construct called unconditional love. I’m not saying it doesn’t exist; even the “impossible” exists on the e curve, but I believe it exists in flashes of temporary feeling rather than as a stable, common emotion. One cannot feel loved without expecting certain things. We feel loved if people listen to us. Are there for us. Share their lives with us. Laugh with us. Hug us. But that means we expect these things to create this feeling – we put those conditions on our feelings of love. Can you feel loved when someone spits at you? Hits you? Degrades who you are, what you believe or feel? And wouldn’t someone who could say yes, I feel loved when people treat me like shit, be viewed as mentally unfit? Out of the norm? Strange and unwell for feeling that? …I think “unconditional love” is just a misnomer. What we’re really saying is ‘understand me, forgive me for what I think are my sins’. Is that even possible? I wouldn’t know. My immediate family was the type that never forgot, and never really forgave. My sins were repeatedly brought up and thrown in my face, every time things went wrong. “You always”. “You never”.

The hypocrisy I can’t forgive them for is expecting me to forgive this behavior, while simultaneously never forgiving me.

Intellectually, I think I’m at the point where I realize I have to forgive to move beyond this point. That doesn’t mean letting them back in my life; protecting myself is still the most important thing, particularly while I’m feeling vulnerable. I get it. I know what I eventually have to do. I just don’t know how to get there. This is so deep in me, I feel it’s burned into my DNA. – Which is why most of posts degenerate into family gripes, like this one.

*sigh* Your future is out there.

Pick one.