Keep on rock ‘n me, baby

This morning I hit the unfriend button on FB. Unfriended my uncle. Still half on the fence with the whole idea, but I can’t shake the truth that if anyone other than a family member did to me what he did, I’d read him the riot act. Sharing DNA doesn’t allow people to treat you like dirt. So after much deliberation and a lot of anxiety, unfriend it was.

I’m worried about the backlash. The demands to know why I did it, the endless denials and accusations, the being told I’m wrong over and over. Do not know how much I’ll take before I…blow up? Finally get angry? Tell them to fuck off? Report them for bullying and abuse? Any or all of the above. That frightens me, too. So far I’ve dealt with this very level headed. I don’t want to lose it now. More; I don’t want to give them one iota more of anything they can use against me. Losing it is definitely one of those things they’ll use against me.

Found myself thinking the other day that if, when I die, my mother appears to me, waiting to guide me to the other side, I’ll grab her fucking hand and DRAG the bitch to Hell. And if that means I’m stuck in Hell for all eternity, well, as long as I know she’s getting HERS, I’ll deal. Can’t be all that much worse than living here.

Now, that’s a sad fucking thought, isn’t it?

Fuck! I’m screwed up.

…Having a difficult time getting myself motivated. Maybe I finally took the word ‘holiday’ in its entirety. You know – REAL time off. Gym time, writing, reading – even running my lines for memory’s sake has become a chore, a non-emergency, something I can do tomorrow or the day after. For my own peace of mind, I’ve allowed it. I know what I can do when I am motivated; no need to push it if I’m not. One more performance to stay healthy for. One more run thru of the play to do. Focus!

But something’s cooking. I hope my inner eye is focusing on the thrillers. I think it is. I’ve begun pacing again, talking aloud to myself, sorting out ideas. The task of taking my ideas to paper seems monumental, but that’s my lack of motivation. I’m sorting. Thinking. Plotting. Getting that film of the story to run seamlessly in my mind.

Been talking aloud to myself a LOT lately, actually. About all sorts of things. Part of that is my brother’s schedule: he’s out more and more with band rehearsals and other stuff, leaving me alone in the house. Part of it is just ME. It’s what I do, what I’ve always done. I think I give myself comfort this way. I think it helps for me to hear with my ears all those words of support I tell myself. After all, that’s why I think I began it in the first place – to allow my ears to hear those words no one ever said to me. You’re beautiful. You’re talented. You’re brilliant. In talking to myself, I can be brutally honest without fear of being ridiculed. I can be supportive without strings; my self talk doesn’t hinge on me acquiescing to political views or moral stances I find abhorrent. And I feel it, down to my toes. It’s mother-me comforting child-me.

Same reason why I rock while seated. It’s a comfort motion. My torso moves for and aft, back and forth, rhythmically, like I’m rocking a baby. I am rocking a baby: me. I’m telling myself I’m okay, I’m safe, and I can take care of myself.

And that’s okay. It’s okay to give myself what I need. It’s healthy, in fact. I’m embarrassed by what I do: the rocking and the talking aloud. Embarrassed a LOT. Part of me is afraid it looks insane, and I know what happens when THAT line of thought occurs to someone. Everything that comes after gets discounted, no matter how on the mark or true it is. Part of me is just plain ashamed of myself: here I am, 50+, and still trying to comfort that crying little girl in me. I should be beyond this. Over it. Able to let it go, and get on with my life.

I shouldn’t feel so fucking stuck.

But I do, and saying I shouldn’t is just one more way for me to reinforce that blame and guilt instilled in me as a child. It’s all your fault. If you were better/stronger/smarter, you wouldn’t be here.

Oh, yeah. It’s lovely having a war of confidence go on in your head 24/7.

I always feel so naked when my confidence is shaken. So the worm, wriggling in the mud. Nothing. Contemptible in my lowliness. It is what’s allowed physical abuse into my life: hit me, I deserve it and worse. That’s a mindset I have to fight against every day because no matter how long it’s been since I was in an abusive relationship, I still think that way. I still hate myself that much. I still think that little of myself.

Rock. Or smoke. Or do anything other than think about what you just wrote.

Ugly truths are like scabs. I can’t help but pick at them. And it hurts. Another way to hurt myself…

Run. Hide. Deny. Distract.

But truth will out. Even in my distractions. I know the music I’m including in this is a ‘love’ song. But flip it to me talking to me-the-child – because that’s the way I’m hearing it this morning.

Keep on rock ‘n me, baby.

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Six Easy Steps to Stopping a Narcissist Cold

October 16, 2:05 p.m. (my time)…That’s the last time I received a comment from my uncle on the play notification I posted on FB. Almost two entire days of silence. This morning, of course, there was an email in my mail. One of his mass sends to friends and family. The email was a picture of a patch – one of those embroidered things people put on their shirts and jackets to make them feel important (like a Boy Scout). The pic was two buzzards, with the caption ‘patience my ass – I’m gonna kill something’, and I can’t help but feel I had at least a little to do with the level of frustration and anger it reveals. Side note: my DNA sister was the first to respond to my uncle’s email, posting a laughing meme back (her communication style is exactly the same as his, so no big surprise there).

The following is the conversation in full. I’m copying it here to make sure I don’t lose my words, because this is one of those RARE times I actually shut up the narcissists in my family by turning the tables on them, and I want to remember it.

uncle: I imagine this will be funny…..sorry, I won”t be in that area then. LOL

me: What’s so funny that you put ‘LOL’? You didn’t make a joke.

uncle: K-, Yes I did….when I said, I won’t be in that area then. That was my joke.

me: Oh. But you don’t live in the area. In fact, you live on the other side of the world – a fact I know. So…where’s the joke?

uncle: you need another cup of coffee Ms. !

me: What does my caffeine level have to do with our discussion? And why are you trying to change the subject and blame me for your poor “joke”? A joke is supposed to be amusing – yet your original statement, “I won’t be in that area then” isn’t amusing, it’s simply a fact. There’s no cause for laughter. No cause unless you feel uncomfortable for some reason. Shifting attention to my caffeine intake is simply a distraction from your discomfort. Why are you uncomfortable? ..Plus, get it right. I live in Rotterdam, not Amsterdam.

uncle: I was hoping some caffeine would wake you up and you would see my joke…;.clearly you have seen my joke all along. And….I won’t br in Rotterdam to see the show either.

me: Actually, I don’t see your joke at all – which is why I queried you in the first place. However, if you’re referring to me noticing your discomfort, yes, I did see that. It’s pretty obvious. I also noticed you continue to sidestep my question: why are you so uncomfortable?

uncle:  I’m not uncomfortable…..just made a joke about the show sounds good but I won’t be in the area to see it. I thought it was a funny comment.

me: Well, we already established it wasn’t a joke. You didn’t say anything unexpected or funny even tho you keep insisting you did. So you’re either uncomfortable for some reason, or the LOL isn’t actually because there’s a joke in your statement, but because you’re making it into a joke. Returning to the stage is important to me. Why do you feel the need to make it into a joke? I don’t understand. Please explain.


Since asking him to explain himself, he’s been silent (other than the patch email today). Hallelujah! I called him out on it and didn’t let him get away with SHIT. Notice how I turned things on him? Needling him with the idea that he was uncomfortable? That was deliberate. I wanted to wind him up on that point, knowing it wasn’t on the mark, so he’d admit he wasn’t uncomfortable – which led him straight to the point I was making: he was being a bully. There was nothing funny about his comment; he was belittling me. Note: he didn’t like my post about the upcoming production. He just made his ‘joke’. And the fact that, half way through the conversation when he realized I was getting the upper hand, he had to make ANOTHER joke just showed that yes, his goal was to belittle me. That joke was all about ‘you’re not even worth replying to; I won’t answer you directly, just make a silly joke with you the butt of it’. The last few sentences are the real corker: Returning to the stage is important to me. Why do you feel the need to make it into a joke? I don’t understand. Please explain. Straight up statement: you’re making fun of me; why? Explain yourself.

Oh, how I made him run!

Distilled down, here it is:

  1. Destroy their first statement. This isn’t true because… Stay calm, and state the facts.
  2. Explain how, if their first statement isn’t true, then the following must be what’s really going on. This is where the turn happens. We already established it wasn’t a joke. So you’re either uncomfortable for some reason, or the LOL isn’t actually because there’s a joke in your statement, but because you’re making it into a joke.
  3. Push the alternative you know isn’t true. Why are you so uncomfortable?
  4. Make them admit the false alternative is false.
  5. Point out that the only thing left is precisely what they don’t want to admit to: they’re being an asshole. Don’t say asshole. Don’t accuse them of being mean. Again, turn it. This is important to me. Why do you feel the need to belittle it?
  6. Ask them to explain themselves.

The sheer I wanna get up and do a jig JOY I feel over mastering one conversation with a family member!! If only someone had told me it was THIS easy to shut them up!

Six easy steps to stopping a narcissist cold.

Pearls before swine

I’ll start with this morning, ’cause it’s in my face.

Another uncle comment. This time, it’s a ‘You need some coffee’ with a Google link to coffee houses (NOT coffeeshops) in Amsterdam after I called him out on NOT being funny and NOT making a joke. Here’s my reply:

What does my caffeine level have to do with our discussion? And why are you trying to change the subject and blame me for your poor “joke”? A joke is supposed to be amusing – yet your original statement, “I won’t be in that area then” isn’t amusing, it’s simply a fact. There’s no cause for laughter. No cause unless you feel uncomfortable for some reason. Shifting attention to my caffeine intake is simply a distraction from your discomfort. Why are you uncomfortable? ..Plus, get it right. I live in Rotterdam, not Amsterdam.

I’m proud of my reply. Called him out on it. Kept my cool. Even left with a little jab about him getting the city wrong. Ha fucking ha, uncle. Are you laughing now? I’m particularly proud over pointing out his discomfort (several times) and calling him out on his attempt to distract and blame me.

You wanna play games? With words? You DO know I’m a wordsmyth, right? Plus, I was taught by your sister – my mother. Your OLDER sister. The woman who knew every game you ever played and one upped you continually.

You ain’t gonna win.

I said I fucking had it with this shit.

…NEWS ALERT: Just had a notification from FB. An instantaneous reply from my uncle. DAMN! I really got him. Here’s his reply (including the typos; he was obviously in a hurry to say what he needed to say): “I was hoping some caffeine would wake you up and you would see my joke…;.clearly you have seen my joke all along. And….I won’t br in Rotterdam to see the show either.” Oh, I’ll continue with this charade. If it winds him up so much he’s got to reply the moment he reads what I say, I’ll continue.

Give him a little tit for tat. Generally I’m against that type of behavior, but some people just don’t learn!

Onto happier things.

Three point seven kilometers in thirty minutes. Wanted to write that out, because it deserves that much respect. That’s topping 7 km an hour on the cross trainer. And I felt flipping tired. Have the last several times I’ve gone to the gym. But I keep amazing myself, pushing more and running faster than I ever imagined I could. I believe soon to be 52 year old me could easily lap 22 year old me. Upped repetitions on my arms. That’s difficult, and I have to stop often and take a break. Still hate doing my abdominal exercises, but I might be ready to add a few more crunches to my routine. Walking is, as always, the easiest – though I’ve got to confess I feel awful slow walking at 5km an hour after running on the cross trainer. Find myself wanting to pick up the speed on the treadmill. Haven’t, yet.

Feeling strong in my body, my mind, and my soul. A bit unshakeable. Like I’m suddenly too together for anyone (including my uncle) to get under my skin. I like this. If this is the level other people operate at, I can see why they don’t understand when I fall apart. Doesn’t give them license to be assholes about it, but I get why they might not fully understand why someone like me struggles so much. It’s easy to let things slide off your back when you’re here. World trouble? Yeah, always is. Emotional turmoil? Yeah, it’s a pain, but what are ya gonna do? Financial trouble? It’ll sort itself out somehow. All those pat answers spewed ad infinitum via memes suddenly make sense.

I blame the endorphins. I’m getting a regular blast of them when exercising. And let’s face it: they say ‘peptide’ and ‘hormone’, but in reality they should say ‘drug’. It’s an all natural drug, I’ll give you – but it’s a drug. You get a drug response, it’s addictive, you need more to keep getting off – it’s a drug. More: it’s a drug I like. So I keep pushing to get it. Now…doctors get very pleased when they hear about an exercise regime. Oh, good! You’re getting regular exercise, toning your body, and losing weight. What could be better? No one acknowledges the drug interaction in your brain, unless it’s to say something like ‘well, exercise is GOOD for emotional turmoil’. Why is it that a drug naturally produced in our bodies is better or good, while drugs we take are bad and evil? I just don’t get that. It’s a drug, either way.

Blanket fucking statements. They ruin the damned world.

Today, I work. A few errands to run, and I plan on using the travel time on the metro to read Dutch. Then it’s time to tear into Taman. Make those changes I keep talking about. Start arranging a read through. Want to read through the play I’m doing, too. Keep my lines fresh over this break. And I need to call for an adjustment to my shoes (more Dutch; ugh!).

First, though, I will fashion a reply to my uncle. He doesn’t get the last word on my page. Even if that means this discussion goes on for another year, back and forth. And I know what I’m doing. I’m staying coolly disconnected. I know the necklace is tearing, and the mud is thick.

I know I’m casting pearls before swine.

Kill them all

How many times have I woken up far too early, thinking ‘I should have just killed them all’? More than I care to count, and this morning numbers among them.

Funny thing, my morning moods. Never know what’s gonna come out of me. Sometimes it’s hate – pure, unadulterated. Sometimes it’s understanding – a compassion I often lack, but always aspire to.

This morning, it was a no-nonsense approach.

Replied to my uncle. Simply wrote “What’s so funny that you put ‘LOL’? You didn’t make a joke.” Straight up called him out on it. It’s a method I’d prefer to use on a daily basis, but I must admit my own emotions often get in the way. Today was a mix of disgust and anger, cooled by the knowledge that he couldn’t touch me, couldn’t hurt me, and nothing he was going to say (or no tirade he was going to throw) could ever really affect me.

To quote a sample used in a very old song I participated in, I’m sick of this shit.

So if he’s mean, I’ll tell him he’s mean. If he’s wrong, I’ll tell him he’s wrong. If he’s an ignorant shit (most times) I’ll have to find the courage to say that, too.

Fuck “saving” this relationship. There’s nothing to save but a board my family uses to strap me down to while they whip me with lies and old, unrelated shame.

I hate them.

Shoulda taken one of the hundreds of guns they keep ‘in stock’ or ‘for sporting purposes’ and blown every single one of their heads off. That includes the small children, because I know from experience that if they were raised in THAT family, they’re fucked. Forever. Might as well free their souls and let them try again.

That’s horrific, isn’t it? A terrible thing to say or think (or at least that’s MY knee jerk reaction).

Stuck in the usual place: hating, and hating myself for hating so much.

…Spent time yesterday doing all those chores I haven’t done for a month. Cleaning. Ev-er-y-thing. Laundry, dishes, floors, cabinets, bedroom, toilet – you name it, I did it. Not perfectly. It was a nice day, and a Saturday, and I didn’t want to work that hard. Got it back to livable standards. My bro’s radar was on full blast when he got home. First thing out of his mouth? Wow, look at how clean everything is! Walked into the toilet: Wow! Everything shines! Yeah. Funny how appreciative he is of cleanliness, yet how reluctant he is to join in on the work to get there…

Today it’s back to the gym to be stared at as I stretch, and sweat, and push. Watched a recorded Graham Norton show last night during which a guest commented that she doesn’t have very good eyesight, but that worked to her advantage because audiences just became a blur. I can relate. My eyes aren’t terrible, but my long vision is fuzzy. Things are soft. All the ugly and hard edges are taken off, and the world is one big bouncy castle. Much different when I put on my glasses or stick my contacts in! But I don’t wear my contacts or glasses at the gym, so everything is in soft focus. I can’t tell if people are looking at me or just in my direction unless they happen to be close enough. And any facial expression of shock…well, that’s just blurred away. It’s as good as blinders. I don’t register anything directed at me, so I act like nothing is directed at me. Unless someone actually speaks to me, I’m totally alone in my head.

But I gotta admit…I might start facing the wall during my stretches. ‘Cause I now know they watch me. For sure.

Haven’t found the head space to begin work. Determined first to make the changes I know I want to Taman. That should take all of an hour if I’m really slow. Then it’s on to part 2 of the thrillers. Know what to change there. It’ll take a re-write, but hey! When I know what I want, a re-write barely takes any times at all. Been cooking up part 3. Bringing back a character from part 1. Have a particular actor in mind for this role – one of the troupe I’m working with. Not sure why. He’s not a great actor. Not even very good. But I’ve seen him in a couple of things now, and…he’s getting type cast. If there’s a gay man, he’s the actor playing it. Always. Great that they want a real gay person playing a gay person, but…he never gets another role. And they’re always the same type of gay person. Flamboyant. Never anything else. The character I’m writing for him IS gay, but not flamboyant. And he’ll have to stretch. In part 3, he’s close to a nervous breakdown.

Realize as I mull over the trilogy that I’m asking a LOT of this troupe. It’ll take more than memorizing lines to pull this off – but in them I see the desire to do more and, oftentimes, the boredom over not being challenged. Am I projecting? I realize those are MY emotions. But now I see the tiny habits of everyone. The surreptitious phone checking, the whispering, the fidgeting and distractions. The yes, we can do this and it’s fun but it’s not really challenging us attitude. And I sense they’ve worked, as a troupe, in one direction: improv. They stress it, they’re good at it. I want to see them stretch in another manner.

I want to see them act.

It could very well end up a disaster.

But I’ve my ace in the hole: sound. I know exactly what I want and how to get it – plus I’ve the skill and equipment to do it. Set your audience on edge with sound, and the acting can be a bit sub-par. It’ll still work.

And I really want to do this. Why? Because in my writing, I really did kill them all.

On the road to hell

Watched the death toll and wounded count rise. Saw and heard the vids. Kept checking back, maybe just to make sure it really happened.

Vegas on top of Catalan on top of hurricanes and those everyday bombs that keep getting dropped in the names of “democracy” and “decency”. I’m not sure how much more humans can handle. I lay the blame on the heads of those idiots in charge, those same idiots who’ve always been in charge and who will continue to be in charge long after “voted” officials are gone from office. I lay the blame on guns and gun makers, capitalists who put a buck before humanity, and the vast majority of Americans who feel this is their life and they’ve a right to do whatever the fuck they please while alive.

Well, there you go. NRA fanatics, capitalism, and “freedom” all rolled into one. Multiple auto and/or semi automatic weapons (fuck the official reports; I heard those gunshots and they weren’t from a fucking rifle) at an open air concert in Vegas.

And wow. A full day has gone by without some fucking gun rights idiot claiming that if only someone in the crowd had a gun they could have taken the shooter down. That’s the most common argument put forth by those people: that more guns are safer because if some nut job starts killing people, another law abiding and upright citizen can kill the shooter dead on the spot. Never seems to happen.

What also never seems to happen in a simple acknowledgement of the FACTS. FACT: Europe has less guns and more gun control, and although there are gun related deaths and crimes here, we haven’t seen these mass shootings on the same scale as the US. In fact, we’re not even ON the same scale. The US has one all their own, and gun deaths are listed in the tens of thousands every year.

The Netherlands is shocked if gun deaths surpass several hundred.

And no, don’t bring up the idea that NL is so much smaller than the US and that’s why there aren’t as many gun deaths. That’s bullshit, and you know it. In fact, compare NL’s stats to any state in the US and I think you’ll still find the gun deaths here to be less. Skew it anyway you want; guns kill, and making guns easily accessible makes it easy to kill.

…What I don’t get is why the rest of the world allows a paranoid, gun-toting, bullying minority to rule them.

Gee. Maybe I just answered my own question.

One more thing I’ll risk saying because I think it needs saying: Thank Goddess the shooter was white. Enough color bullshit from the states. Acknowledge you’re discriminatory. Acknowledge your white privilege. Acknowledge you pay women less, think foreigners are dumb, and still treat African Americans like slaves. Exceptions don’t count; you’ve got to talk about the MAJORITY now. Saying ‘we’ve got a black guy on staff’ or ‘there’s a woman on the board now’ only makes it worse. It sounds as if you’re saying ‘Well, we let one of you in. That’s it; we’re done. We’re not racist or sexist anymore, see? We’ve got one of you on our side. He/She will even back us up, because we’ve let them into our club. We’ve given them money and power beyond their reckoning, and they’ve caved in and given up their morals just like we knew they would because everyone does it. Now, go away. We’ve business to attend to, boy/silly woman.’

AAAAARRRRRRRGH!

Ah. And can we talk about free speech? A news exec got the ax after an off-color comment on her personal FB page. Let’s see… You can’t protest in the streets by marching. You can’t protest at work by taking a knee. You can’t protest or even speak your own mind on your social network pages for fear of being fired. So when does this free speech kick in? Btw, I’m NOT defending the comment. Off-color is a very kind euphemism. But when and where in the “Land of the Free” are you supposed to exercise your “right” of free speech?

For many decades, you’ve only been free in the US to talk about the freedom in the US. Let’s not forget the McCarthy years (and if you’ve forgotten, or are too young to know, look it the fuck up). Let’s not forget the wording of the Patriot Act. Let’s not forget Guantanamo Bay. Let’s not forget the burning crosses on people’s front lawns, the public shaming of victims of sexual violence, the physical abuse of the LGBTQ community.

Freedom my ass!

The US likes to make things two sided. You’re for guns, or against guns. Coke or Pepsi. Democrat or Republican. Left or right. Christian or Muslim. Black or white. Man or woman.

There’s far more choice in the world.

There’s far more grey in the world.

If you force your black and white viewpoint on me, then fine. I’ll pick a side. And from where I stand, you’re in the wrong. Or at least, you’re more in the wrong than in the right. I can’t discount the fact that you’re a human being, too. You must have people you care about, things you love. You must experience some sort of emotional connection to the world, even if it’s a small and skewed one. Maybe all you feel is fear and anger. Well, I can relate even to that. Certainly, there have been days – weeks, even – when I’ve felt the world would be a much better place if 95% of the people in it were dead.

Those are my little fantasies. In those fantasies, generally I just wake up and people are gone. Not even the bodies to deal with. Total fantasy, and I realize that.

Today, though… I don’t think that particular fantasy will come up for me. I am in shock over the violence in the world – all over the world.

We are on the road to hell.

Please

Hmmm…

I’ve heard that regular exercise help you maintain your emotions. It’s true, I guess, for the small shit. I feel far less likely to bite someone’s head off for a random act of ignorance when I’m on top of exercise. What it don’t help with is the BIG shit. That, I find, still gets me…enraged. Angry just isn’t a big enough word here. Enraged.

I am enraged, and have been for a few days. Fighting it. Doing what I can to distract myself. It only works until the next nose tweak, the next heavy handed attempt to rattle me. Then I lose it again because GODDESS DAMN IT, I’ve asked nicely that my uncle NOT be a shit and NOT engage in political rhetoric with me and yet he still does. Why? He probably doesn’t even know why. He’s just compelled to do it – because that’s what narcissists do. They act without thinking, and push and push until their victims can’t take it anymore and then they put on that air of innocence – Why are you so angry? Oh, gee. Maybe it’s because of the years of insults that have been thrown out of your mouth and directed towards me and my beliefs. The belittling, the discounting, the blatant attempts to shame me for thinking differently than you.

Fuck you.

Sitting half and half right now. It’s either block my uncle or declare I’m dead. Blocking my uncle is the only REAL way to know he’ll shut the fuck up on my page. Declare myself dead and he’ll sit out there, posting right wing shit after right wing shit, until my personal page looks like David Duke’s.

Found, and blocked, a new page from my would-be serial killer nephew.

And people think I overreact. Well, if I met a rapist who espoused opinions on women’s roles and women’s rights, I’d discount them out of hand because of what he was – a rapist. Likewise, I feel I must discount any reconciliatory sounding post from my uncle because I know that underneath he’s either making fun of and belittling me, or attempting to pacify me with lies. He’s admitted as much to me; he feels it’s his “right” to poke at any left-wing idea he sees fit, and he shouldn’t suffer any backlash because of it.

I’m so fucking SICK of white ignorant assholes crying because they catch flack for being racists. Oh, poor babies! You get ONE taste of what it’s like to be marginalized, of what you’ve put others through for fucking hundreds – no, THOUSANDS – of years, and you cry like a little bitch.

I have NO sympathy for them. Is that harsh? I suppose so. I suppose I should turn the other cheek and all that. I can’t, though. They broke that ability in me long, long ago.

Best I can do is turn away.

Which, naturally, I’ll be vilified for. I’m the bad guy, I’m the asshole, I’m the one who won’t communicate.

Yeah, yeah.

…For this morning, I just hit the delete button. Again. No one has the right to post ANYTHING on my page that I don’t want.

Better things to talk about.

Second day of the gym went well. Very well. Found far more energy than I expected. I suspect I’m ready to get on the cross trainer two days in a row, though I’ll take it easy through the next few weeks because of the upcoming performances. Got on the bikes, which I haven’t done since hitting the cross trainer hard. Kept adding resistance; couldn’t feel it even after I went up to a level I know I couldn’t handle three months ago. My legs are really strong.

Hammered out the second letter for my bro, and prepped everything to send out. Going to wait until afternoon here. I don’t know where the physical offices of this publisher are, but I suspect North America, so sending it out at noon here will still be only 8 a.m. New York time. A real agent wouldn’t be working on weekends, so I absolutely do NOT want my message coming in saying I sent it out on a Sunday! No. Might even wait until 1 or 2 here; give that illusion that I came into the office, saw the reply, and prepped my answer right then and there. My bro is very excited, and tends to get wound up just talking about this deal. I’m keeping a lid on his mania as much as mine, reminding him it’s only the first step and we’ve a lot of negotiating to get through before anything is signed.

The short time span before performing really hit me this morning. I’ve been reminding myself of it, but somehow this morning it got real. Hope to head to the charity shop today; still need to find a pair of ugly pants for my outfit. Need to find a magazine, too, because somehow my name got on the list of props claiming I’ll supply that, even tho I never put it there. Well, I don’t have much to contribute in way of props, so I feel I should just do it. Somewhere around here I’ve got a poetry magazine in Dutch I’ve kept aside…

Run lines, shower, prep for tonight’s rehearsal. I’ve things to keep me occupied today. Even have two films I recorded, so plenty of tv time just waiting for me to watch.

Good. I’ve things to mull around in my mind. To write the letter or not write the letter; that is the question. I will only ask once. And I will say please. Please refrain from commenting on my page. If that last, final, clear appeal is ignored…well, I have my answer.

Please.

Walls

Probably just did something I’ll regret. Will no doubt catch flack for it. I just deleted a comment on FB from my uncle, and paired it with a post saying I’ve had it and will not tolerate trolls or bigots in any form. Why? Because my sheet wearing uncle sent me a fucking article from a fucking racist paper. Nothing like saying ‘I like burning crosses’ like a link to a right-wing bullshit article like that.

Why do people like my uncle think it’s okay to spew out such ignorant, hateful things, yet still think they have the ‘moral authority’ to bitch at me and what I say?

I hate them. Hate my uncle, hate my oldest brother, hate my sister, HATE THEM.

Have not yet whipped out that big old blocking mechanism but I’m this close.

…I know what my problem is. I want two things: one, I want my family to acknowledge how bigoted and messed up they are, and two, I want them to acknowledge my successes. Both are beyond the realm of reality, and I should know that. …I do know that. But I also have to own up to the part of me that hangs onto the notion that some day they’ll wake up, some day they’ll see, some day they’ll hear.

Really wish right now I had just killed them all.

Been thinking, too, of announcing I’m dead. Leave the FB account open, because that’s what happens these days. But change the status to deceased. Maybe even post a little epitaph. That way, at least, I’d free myself of family shit. They’d have no reason to email me annoying right-wing articles first thing in the morning. The one or two friends I care about would be informed. The rest of the world can fuck off.

The day is coming. What day? The day I blow my top publicly. The day I let loose on the shits that call themselves my family. … I try, each and every time this happens, to remember all the important stuff. Like, they’re obviously ignorant. Their heads are stuck in cages. They’re obviously hurt and angry. But it just seems to me that they don’t change. At all. If I felt there was even the tiniest shift in attitude, the smallest recognition of the larger view…But I don’t. They continue on, beating the same dead horses with the same hickory sticks, saying the same slogans, listening to the same bullshit, believing what they believe because it’s easier to be angry and aggressive than it is to THINK.

The outcome? Well…I was pretty sure my nephew was abusive to animals when he was young. My feeling is that if he didn’t evolve into a serial killer, that was just sheer luck on the part of humanity. He’s raising a son, so I expect the family to include a newspaper headline grabbing racist within 10 years, when he comes of age.

And I know how bad they are. Who do you think has carried the brunt of their disdain all these years?

…Sent out a letter yesterday to a publishing company on behalf of my bro. It was as tight and exciting as I could make it. Didn’t go so far as to represent myself as an agent, but I implied it. I know how those letters are seen: appearance is everything. More than half the publishing places won’t even look at a letter if it’s written by the author. Did my best to get him the attention I think he deserves. Need to cull through some other publishers, and continue to send out feelers.

I’ll have a good laugh at myself if it turns out I find my niche representing other authors…

Skipped the gym yesterday. Didn’t care, didn’t want to go, didn’t have the motivation to get out of the house. Told myself that was okay. Really should go today, just to clear my head – rain or no.

Got that extra irritation going today because I recognize that if I was zen, I’d just delete the comment from my uncle and be done with it. But I’m not zen, so I’ve gotta go that extra bit. And what’s really getting me is that this is the same behavior I want to call him out on. That little extra nose tweaking that isn’t necessary. Knowing I’m acting out and being petty does not help my cool. On the other hand, I am so SICK AND TIRED of being my family’s kicking dog that I can’t help but cheer myself on: You go, girl! Give it to them! Stand up for yourself! 

What’s a scapegoat in a family of narcissists to do?

Seems to me it all comes down to how much I’m willing to take. That’s the answer in most cases. How much bullshit are you willing to deal with in the name of your career, or love, or whatever? We deal with shit from bosses because of the pay check. We deal with shit from spouses because of sex. We deal with shit from our families because that’s the way we were taught. We even deal with shit from outed racists and bigots under the banner of “free speech”.

And I think people like my family push people like me because they’ve done so for so long they think they have the right. Plus, they secretly want to see us blow up. It gets them off. Gets their dicks hard – or their vaginas wet; take your pick.

…Maybe the fascists are right about one thing. A wall might be a good idea.

Are we having fun yet?

It’s been a few months since I got hot under the collar from something my family did, so I guess it’s time. At the moment, it’s a FB push for a thumbs down so they can publicly let anyone and everyone know what idiots (their word, not mine) they are. This little tantrum campaign is headed up by – you guessed it – my uncle. He tagged me in the initial post, and asked for comments. So I gave him one.

I told him that in the social climate today, trolling others and calling (or implying) them to be “idiots” was mean. Simply mean, with no redeeming value. In my opinion, it shows an inability to form a coherent argument, a complete lack of logic, and a childishness one could only expect from life-long narcissists. Am I surprised? No. This is my family, my blood. I know what shits they are.

Trolls. White supremacists. Greedy mother fuckers you don’t want on your side, or as friends.

Goddess, I hate my DNA! Still don’t know how I managed to survive that upbringing.

…Oh, yeah. I drank. A lot.

Sometimes I think I should of just picked up one of the family’s guns and gone on a rampage. Taken care of all these headaches at once. But I’ve long noted the reluctance of we grandchildren to reproduce. Seems most of us got the message, somehow: the family’s fucked; don’t have any more kids. Three did not get the message – all male. No wonder. It’s not like it’s difficult for them to have kids. But I worry about these few surviving remnants. This is a toxic family, a family bred for war and violence. Their message is” hate yourself, then hate the world”.

If I received a message later today that every single family member – close to me or far extended – DIED all on the same day, I don’t think even one tear would fall from my eye. That, of course, is for my mother’s family. My father’s family never was a family. I never even knew most of them, and those I did know I only met once. Perhaps politics and ethics were a part of that: those of my father’s family I’ve reconnected with are as liberal and tree-hugging as myself. I am more at ‘home’ talking with these near strangers than I am in deep conversation with my mother’s side.

…Took care of myself yesterday, as promised. It was boring. I was boring. But, so far, I’ve hung onto good health.

Been tired without a good reason lately. Don’t know if it’s the weather, or my RA, or just ME. Sleep sounds great, but I hit my bed and sleep isn’t as easy to find as it should be…In my armchair, it’s a whole other ball of wax. Out like a light as quickly as snapping your fingers. Ah, aging! Another delightful thing for you to look forward to, like your pubic hair marching down your legs and growing grey. All that shit no one tells you.

Are we having fun yet?

Distill me

Spent some time feeling pretty down on myself for losing it yesterday. My brother, however, complimented me. He said I was quick to recognize I had a problem, I didn’t break or throw anything, and I came back to my safe space to get a hold of myself. It helped to hear that even tho I still have these episodes I’m handling them a bit better.

Went to rehearsal. Managed to make a joke about my earlier anger, and worked up the courage to ask the director if he’d read my script yet (answer: no, but he promised to read it last night; still waiting on anything – good, bad, or indifferent – from him). Last night was very relaxed. The other couplet couldn’t make it, so it was just me and my partner. We were told the director would get picky. We were told we’d do a lot of stop and start.

We were stopped for direction four times, and done in less than an hour.

Feels good to crow over something I can do, rather than grouse over something I can’t do. And I can act. It’s not just that I was first to memorize my lines, or first to adapt a character to the role. It’s also all the small stuff: the growing physical comedy I’m pulling off. The facial expressions, the body language. I am never at rest on stage.

We be SO good that our scheduled rehearsals might get cut. The director might not be effusive in his praise, but he does give it. Said we were the tightest, best prepped duo in the group. Said he didn’t know how to make it better, or funnier, than what we’ve got. So…

We were asked to come up with a completely new interpretation for next time. Shake things up, see what happens. Experiment a bit. Get loose and lively.

I went to bed birthing a new role. Almost a complete opposite from what I’ve been playing. My current character is a fifty-something introvert with a brash voice and an annoying laugh. She’s completely unsure of herself, and that shows in her clothing style, her hair, her face, and her dialogue. But I thought…what if her insecurities make her put on a ‘show’? And then it was there – a ‘fading flower’ of a woman, dressing too sexy, being overt in her flirting. Her voice is a fake, too. She’ll try to pull something off to make her sound sophisticated, but it’ll slip in moments of surprise or panic. But the key will be the physical humor. Her posturing. Maybe she hikes up her boobs when he’s not looking (this character needs cleavage). I see her wearing something that’s too small for her. And she’s not comfortable, and can’t sit properly because of how tight her clothing is…

Need to get back to the charity shop and see what I can find for a couple of euro.

Also have an idea – a very, very rough idea – of what to do during our long, uncomfortable silences. It’ll take a little set-up, a little special effects…but I might be able to do it. Another thing to add to my list of stuff to prep. See what I can do…

Worked on the next script idea during the afternoon. Had to get some information, and my internet searches led me on a slightly different path. Still the same basic story, but a few key elements have changed. For one, I’m not using the Cassini space probe. Too in the news and in your face right now. I don’t want to be dated. Just go back and watch ‘Escape from New York’ to find out how much dating something can bite you in the ass! No. Fix historical fact in dates, but leave your time line floating as ‘twenty years in the future’. Much smarter for the long haul. So, I’ve found another vehicle (literally; it’s another space probe) to base the story ’round. Now I just have to flesh it out.

Gonna go and burn at the gym today. Probably run myself into the ground. I need it…the endorphins, the time away from thinking about this or that. Sweat out all the crap that’s not necessary – my worries and fears, my inconsequential ideas. Leave me the core of what I want. The very essence of the story and this new role interpretation.

…Distill me.

Pressure Cooker

Anger. That unmitigated, unwarranted ‘hard on for the world’ (as my father put it) anger.

Didn’t help that I had a dental appointment at 8:30, a time I’d rather be sleeping, or playing, or just about anything other than sitting in that fucking chair getting my teeth attended to. Didn’t help that I didn’t see the hygienist, as I thought, but the dentist, for an unnecessary 6 month check-up, nor the knowledge that after three minutes (three fucking minutes) of him looking at my teeth and telling me he could do nothing for my problem area, I’ll probably be charged upwards of a hundred euro. Didn’t help that my brother was glued to his fucking phone when I came home, playing games. Didn’t help that the dishes are piled up, or the shopping is undone…

And people wonder why I have an anger issue.

Fuck!

Also not helping: a standard rejection on my fast-spun, 20 minute lame attempt at comedy.

Double fuck.

The silence rolling through my email – silence from two readers of my latest work – is bothersome, too. What’s wrong now? Did I write something offensive, or is it just so fucking bland both of you have nothing to say?

Fucking hell.

…I am smoking toking this away. Yes. It is barely 10:30 a.m. and yes, I am smoking a big fatty and when it’s done (soon) I’ll roll another. Fuck off.

The whole world can fucking fuck off right now.

I’m moving too fast, and I know it. I always turn into the human pressure cooker. Always. Maybe it’s years between an episode, but sooner or later I fucking lose it, as I am now. Done my best to avoid it. To tame myself, soothe myself, prevent this from fucking happening in the first place – but I only kinda succeed. I succeed in delaying the reaction, but not actually preventing it. Oh, and I feel all high and mighty and damned GOOD about myself when I can delay it! Just adds a bit more fuel to the fire when it all comes crashing down. I was kidding myself. Living that lie. Believing my own fucking fantasy.

I got no fucking control when this is on me.

The best I can do is isolate myself so I don’t hurt anyone, and smoke it down.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

And I gotta let it go, because tonight is rehearsal and I’ll be DAMNED TO HELL FOREVER if I go in there this fucking angry.

Shit.

…And no, I’ve no real idea what the fuck happened. A dream, maybe? Something fucking triggered me. I went from okay and feeling good to THIS overnight. One of those tight-mouthed people who tells you from the fast we walk down the sidewalk that we are NOT people to be fucked with today.

This morning is one of those rare times when I agree that yes, I need medication.

…Half way through joint 2 at this point, and feeling it. Beginning to be able to breathe again. Deep breaths. I lose that ability during times of wrath.

Think I’ll just namby-pamby today away. Toke, watch films, play, write if I feel like it. Run my lines for tonight, maybe (don’t really need it). Do my best to reset. Filling up my day with less purpose allows my head to relax. And my soul.

Turn down the heat. Let the steam escape.

And clean up the mess from this morning’s explosion.