There’s already enough

Heavy sigh.

If I were to take as long healing from all the crap I got growing up as it took to brainwash me into thinking I was a piece of shit, I’d be 76 and counting before I got over it. That’s the thought that elicited the heavy sigh, a depressed feeling, and anger over time never fucking being on my side.

I hate my family.

Gods…I know I look awful when I’m at the gym. Catch myself too often too deep into emotion. I tear up, my face turns red – I’m sure I look either like I’m about to have a heart attack or a nervous breakdown. Or both. It’s what happens. My body moves, stuff shifts and suddenly I am overwhelmed by memories and emotions. Therapists really should think about doing sessions during work-outs. At least in my case.

Gotta go through it. Free up whatever got blocked. Breathe. Fucking breathe. That’s the only thing I can think of, when it hits me. My feet move, time ticks on, but I’m unaware of any of it. Just stuck somewhere deep in a half hidden memory that’s full of old, built up muck. I’ve only impressions left over. Impressions of regret, and anger. Why did it go down that way? Why couldn’t I have been one of the lucky ones born into a family that cared?

Don’t talk to me about fate. I’ve always felt like I’m paying forward in this life, and it sucks. I was never a kid who enjoyed frying ants or ripping off the wings of flies. I don’t have that mean streak in me. If I’d been a shit in a previous life, wouldn’t it have shown up early on? I think so. But I was that weird kid who’d get up at 4 am to sing the sun up. I talked to trees, and cried over injustices.

And if the secret to reaching zen is dealing with people shitting on you all the time, I must be some freaking holy zen master.

So why do I find all of this so fucking difficult?

Haven’t I learned anything?

But, hey. I don’t have social niceties. Was never taught them. Don’t get hidden agendas, or most faux pas (what IS the plural on that, anyway?). And if I had a nickel for every time I heard about how ‘different’ I was…well, I still wouldn’t be rich. But I could buy a cheap meal for myself.

So what’s stuck in my craw today?

Other than the welling up of old memories and feelings, I guess I’d have to say it was what happened at my language lesson. Yeesh. You know, questioning any of this makes me wonder if I’m not just some drama queen timing things out and demanding my fair share of attention. Nonetheless, I noticed a definite difference between how I am treated and how my fellow student is treated. The effect was heightened for me because we had another new volunteer teacher sit in with us, to learn how a lesson might be. I think she looked at me twice. The remainder of her eye contact was reserved for my fellow student. And rightly so; the majority of conversation took place between my teacher, the newbie, and the other student. I was not included. I was not asked questions. I searched for things to say, to include myself…didn’t feel it was well received. They turned, they listened, but they didn’t follow up with statements or questions. Am I being paranoid? So difficult to tell. The other student is not as far along as me, and both instructors might have felt she needed more practice speaking. That’s logical. Still. I’ve an undeniable feeling that something else is going on, something I’m not catching onto. I hate that.

Mm. That’s the second thing I’ve said I hate.

Decided something. Had a weird few minutes during the script read through. I was outside with the director and someone the director knew was leaving. The guy asked me – twice – if I was the director’s wife. My reaction: laughter. I’ve thought a lot about that, and realized it might have sounded derisive to the director. Like I was laughing at the idea that we could be married because I found him unattractive or whatever. I wasn’t; I was laughing over the idea of anyone even conceiving ME of being capable of marrying someone. I’m just a bit worried that my hilarity will be taken the wrong way, and I don’t want any misunderstandings over my lack of social skills. So I’m gonna bring it up to him. Remind him of that moment and explain myself because I didn’t at the time. And I don’t need anyone else thinking I’m a shit.

There’s already enough.

Tell me

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Six plus weeks of hearing trouble, and I finally have the go-ahead to consult a specialist. Interesting examination with my doc this morning; she put a tuning fork to various places on my head and asked me where I heard the sound and how long it lasted (the best sound I’ve heard in the past six plus weeks). Hm. My spidey-sense tells me ever more strongly that I’m headed for surgery.

Saw my v.c. (very cute) physiotherapist yesterday. Haven’t referred to him that way for a while. He made it clear he was seeing someone, blah-de-blah, and I figured I’d just better get over my infatuation. But he greeted me with that smile of his, and bowed me into his office with the sweeping motion of a gallant knight of old, and my heart just went BOOM! So I’m right back to my fantasies, ignoring what’s going on because I can’t stop thinking about kissing him all over.

Tonight is the first night of auditions for the theatre group. I’m not on the schedule, but I’m going anyway to say hi to people I’ve met and surreptitiously ask a few members to help me with my own read-through. Been rehearsing, and prepping to step up and audition tonight despite being scheduled for Tuesday – because that’s the way my life generally works (prep for one thing, and another happens: in this case, if I prep for Tuesday I’ll be asked to audition tonight, but if I prep to audition tonight I’ll have to wait ’til Tuesday). Am blowing off language class this morning and tomorrow. My Friday teacher told us last week that everyone could bring their kids, because kids’ schools are off for Easter. Kids! Walking germ factories. I’m not exposing myself to that risk just before auditions and just before MY time off to write scripts. Uh-uh. Probably being overly cautious, but I’d rather that than another four to six week illness.

Back to the gym. Can’t say I look forward to it, but I’m doing it. Was appalled at how quickly my mood sank over the weekend. Gotta keep on it. A day off here and there, but no two day break anymore. Not ’til I’m over this mountain of anxiety (which, let’s face it: I may never get over).

No word from any place I’ve sent out emails to. I know my new email works; I’ve received a couple of things in my inbox. Why nothing from the important places? How long does it take to send an automatic response? Wondering how soon is too soon to send a second request.

Meh. And I got a look at my hair in bright daylight. The new color doesn’t even come close to matching my old.

Trying to not feel frumpy. That’s difficult right now. Seems every time I catch a glimpse of myself somewhere, all I see is this horrible old woman. Lines down my face, dark circles under my eyes, sagging skin, fat folds, wide hips, fading skin color…. Yet, I can look in a mirror on occasion and think I still look pretty good. I hate it; it’s like two copies of me. One, the woman I want to be; the other, the woman I’m afraid I am. Can’t honestly say which is the truthful version of me. Maybe both.

…Is my vc physiotherapist flirting with me, or is he yanking my chain? Do I have a real shot at a theatre role, or is it all a set-up with a pre-determined outcome before I even audition? Will these theatre groups even read my submitted work, or will everything I do end up in the circular file?

Somebody, please…tell me.

Something

WARNING: THIS POST CONTAINS CRUDE LANGUAGE AND RACIST SLURS TO MAKE A POINT.

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Finally sick with that cold everyone was trying to give me. Thanks for passing it on, people. Really. Thanks for sneezing on me, pushing your dirty tissues my way, coughing in my direction, passing me things after you’ve sneezed into your hand – oh, you’ve done a thorough job. Well done.

Can’t seem to say much these days. My brother keeps watching the fucking news, and I keep getting angry, then he gets angry at me for being angry at the fucking news. Oh, gee, sorry. Didn’t know I was supposed to sit by and let Hitler point two take control without a word passing my lips. I mean…history has pretty much condemned the average German citizen during Hitler’s reign. They sat by and did nothing while this happened. Deja vu, anyone? How can something like that be uttered, yet right now the people protesting 45 are being called losers, babies, and told to shut up, get with the system, stop griping. They’re protesting, maybe like the Germans should have done when Hitler rose to power. Oh, but you’ll stop them, won’t you. You’ll make it illegal to say anything against the system. You’ll lock people up for stating the facts, while you spread your “alternate facts”. You’ll squeeze out the free press, make taking to the streets unlawful. It’s happening right now, as I write.

This blog will become illegal soon.

Christ, and last night I just HAD to see a goddamn news bit from good old Wisconsin. The sleepiest state full of bigots you never remember. Oh, they’re all for 45 over there. Good old man. Even people with wombs think he’s wonderful. But that’s people from Wisconsin for you. If you didn’t know, Wisconsin is the SERIAL KILLER CAPITAL OF THE WORLD. That’s where you get the weirdos who eat their victims, or make furniture out of them, or shit like that. And they voted for 45. They support 45. Get the wops and the chinks and the niggers out, that’s what they say. Women should be barefoot, pregnant, and chained to the stove. I should know; I ran from that state as fast as I fucking could.

No wonder I don’t like to admit where I’m from. Usually I just say ‘earth’.

Had to try to explain to a bunch of people yesterday – in Dutch – how American doctors will let you die right outside a hospital if you don’t have insurance. It was so far from what they consider to be sane that they didn’t quite believe me. And I’m pretty sure they thought I was exaggerating the costs, too. I wasn’t. In fact, I was quoting them the costs from thirty years ago. At the time, a visit to a regular old doctor cost me 80 bucks. Even if I didn’t have insurance here, that’s 2.5 times higher – 250% if you want it to look real big – over what I’d have to fork out right now to see a doctor.

And the health care here is so much better.

…Onto things other than what the news stirs up in me.

Went shopping yesterday. I know, I know! Me, shopping. Mark it down; it’s rarer than a Blue Moon. My bro found a small strip mall nearby, so we metro’d over. Sales, sales, sales – which was great, because my winter coat has died. One of the snaps broke, and it’s the kind that’s sewn into the lining, so now I’ve a big hole in my coat as I walk around. Or I did have; I’m now the owner of two new smart jackets, one for cold weather and one for spring weather. Hit a mega-mega sale at one of the stores; retail would have been €160, I spent €75. Yippee! Looking forward to being able to wear them out, show them off. It feels like a long time since I bought something new for myself.

My dizziness is better. Long story short: I’m getting old. There are small bits in your inner ear that can become dislodged, float around, and make you feel dizzy when you get older. That’s the entire reason for it: you’re old. Gods. Like I needed to fucking hear that. Anyway, the remedy is pretty simple; you’ve got to tilt your body back and forth a few times to get those bits to re-set into their spots. Kind of like bumping an old pinball machine (there’s a reference that proves why those little bits are moving around: old, old, old).

I’ll need to prep up the script again, find another theater. This is week two. Haven’t heard back from the other theater yet, tho that’s not surprising. I find it cute that non-writers always seem to think people get back to you within a few weeks of sending them your material. HA! A few months would be more like it, and that’s only if they’re on top of things. Keep telling myself it’s just an exercise in positivity. I don’t really expect anything to come of it, but sending it out is an affirmation to me that I believe in myself. Plus, it gives me something else to look for in my inbox besides the long awaited email from the director who promised me last year to read it. That whole scenario has me all over the place. I’m worried I won’t hear from the theater group at all, that they’ve decided they don’t like me, so they’ll just conveniently lose my email and not notify me of their meetings, auditions, or whatever. Do I send out a message, asking? Most people would, I suppose. Most people would ask ‘hey, you said you were gonna read that thing months ago, did you ever get around to it?’ but I’m too afraid. Too afraid of that cold brush off that I’ve been getting.

But there’s only so much I can take before I say something.

Something.

 

A Little More Autistic

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Brick walls. They’re everywhere in life. I’ve sure run into them often enough. I’m surprised I haven’t broken my damned nose yet.

Today’s brick wall (let’s paint it black) comes in the form of some stonewalling from my uncle. He claims my eldest brother never contacted him, and he has no idea what I’m on about.

After my last post, I waited until T was up and talked to him. I read my message to him and asked for advice. He thought it was excellent, and only suggested I find a way to end on a lighter, happier note before sending it to Uncle D. I did. After receiving my uncle’s reply, I went back over the entire email conversation with my bro to find out if I was truly insane – did I read more into it than was there? T backed me up; my uncle’s first email asked about Geert Wilders and my voting habits. My reply was very short: I know Wilders, I vote locally, I can’t vote on the EU level. Now, between the original question and my reply, something bloody well happened. Because the message that set me off does not address anything I said. Instead, in reply to my statements about Wilders and voting, I received a four paragraph long explanation of how my uncle voted over the years, why he voted for this chosen candidate, why he left the Republican party and is now a member of the Libertarian party, and how he feels about Trump. His answer pretty much mirrors what I would have expected out of my eldest brother in reply to a short email conversation we had over my birthday. Hm. T’s acknowledgement that yes, something sounds fishy, helps: there’s no logical way to get from A to B without some hiccup having occurred. He also told me that gossipers don’t like getting caught out, and that’s pretty much what I did.

It’s left me feeling melancholy. Not sad, really. I already knew this about my family, and have no surprise over anyone’s reaction. There’s just a dull lump of ache in me. I can’t run away from the truth anymore: my family isn’t brave enough to be honest. They can’t own up to their past, their words, their actions. They lie, they manipulate in order to avoid the truth, they tell me I’m wrong every step of the way even tho there’s not one atom in me that doesn’t quiver and tell me otherwise.

This is how I was taught not to trust myself.

My uncle’s subterfuge – if it exists, and although I must acknowledge the possibility of me being wrong, I’m sticking to my guns here – is not major. I remember as a child shopping with my mother, my sister, and a cousin. My mother was trying on coats. My sister and cousin were laughing at her because she was so fat. My mother asked me if that’s what was going on, and I lied. I said no. Because I thought if I could convince her that wasn’t what was happening, she wouldn’t feel bad. I can liken my uncle’s lie to that: an attempt in his mind to save me from some perceived greater hurt. He’s a good guy. I think he’d be motivated in that manner. So I can’t hate him or be angry over anything he does.

*sigh* Naturally I’ve considered the possibility I’m being paranoid. That’s something else I’ve heard before: you’re being paranoid. Somehow it always seems to crop up at a time when a lapse of logic has occurred, when something shifted that can’t be explained away without introducing a lie somewhere.

Perhaps that’s the element missing in my understanding of social interactions: lies.

People have called me naive. I’m the gal who falls for silly jokes, over and over, because I just don’t get people who do that type of thing. My tendency is to believe people until they prove they can’t be trusted. And there have been times and circumstances in my life when I continued to believe, despite the proof….Oh, who am I kidding? I let people walk all over me for a good, long time, and then I finally explode like a spitting bobcat. That’s something I’ve been trying to change. Call out these people earlier on. Say what I need to say up front. If they’re cool, they’ll deal. If not, they can fuck off.

But speaking up is difficult.

It’s doubly difficult when you don’t trust your own instincts.

…So I fall back, time and again like a crutch, on my brother’s advice and thoughts. I run my logic past him and ask him to check my answer: is it right? Did I make a calculation error somewhere?

And underneath that: Am I bad for thinking this way?

Lower still: I’m scared.

T knows this. All of it, right down to the deepest muck there is. He’s always understood that part of me, just like I’ve always understood his sometimes cryptic replies to questions. That’s that weird twin-like connection we have. It’s so deep it’s difficult to explain. And his autism has, oddly, been a strength for me. He lacks many filters non-autistic people have; he just blurts stuff out. It can be really hard to take in. He’s also a hard ass on many subjects: knowledgable, articulate, and dangerous to debate.

I used to try to help T be a bit “less” autistic. I’d remind him of the types of things he shouldn’t say or bring up. Give him a couple of social niceties to use to break the ice.

I don’t do that anymore. If anything, I strive to be more like him: bluntly honest, sometimes to the point people find me repellent but DAMN IT! I’m true to myself.

Frankly, I think we should all be a little more autistic.

 

Done

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Houston, we have color. After a week of being whiter than a white sheet, I finally look a bit more normal. Laryngitis, followed up by the mother of all head colds. Gods! I hate being sick.

It hasn’t escaped my notice that my voice – a power center for me – went down first. I also noticed the prolonged head cold, which long ago I was told indicated uncertainty. Metaphysically, this illness fits. Birthday, bullshit from my brother, worry over, well, everything. Hate when that happens. It’s like an additional ‘I told you so’ from the Universe.

Been skipping everything. Staying under a blanket with tissues near-by, drinking juice, and eating everything, including a huge pot of soup my brother made for me. I feel fat and lazy and now that I’m on the mend I’m antsy as all shit. That does not mean I’m headed to my language lesson today. Nope. Yesterday was the first time I saw my face in the mirror and didn’t think I looked like a ghost. I need at least 48 hours post color before I’ll head out again. Otherwise, I’ll just get sicker.

Thank you, methotrexate. I hate those little yellow pills.

Been working on convincing myself that I’ve done all I need to do in regards to my eldest brother. Telling myself that I did send out that nasty letter and let loose with everything I ever wanted to tell him. I didn’t, of course. But I figure since he never really listened to me anyway that just posting the letter had the same effect as actually sending it to him. It’s hard to let go of. I want to beat him into a pulp until he just lays there and can’t say anything, can’t put up a protest, and then hit him with all that shit. Just shut up and take it. Listen for once. Hear me.

That’s a lost cause.

My bro, T, has been playing our ancient Mac with the original SIMS game on it. I’ve been reminded that if you make a neighborhood full of nasty people, they’re perfectly happy. Nasty people like nasty people in that program. But put one nice person into a nasty neighborhood and they’re miserable. I recognize myself in that programming. My misery with my natural family. They were shits. Sorry, dad. I don’t think you were a shit. You were just ineffective at standing up for yourself. So my models were my shitty mother, a dad who I loved very much but who caved at everything, an older brother who loved me like Nietzsche, and an older sister who made it her life’s mission to be a bitch to everyone. T and I are only 8 months apart, and I’ve never really seen him as older than me. We’re more like twins. And like twins, it always felt like him and I against the rest of the family. I’ve even experimented with the old SIMS game myself. Added in my ‘family’ to see how the program ran. My SIM looked as miserable as I felt growing up. So did T. We both run much better away from the rest of the family. You can run us as individuals, and we do pretty well. But put us in a house together and we become the dynamic duo.

It’s all in the programming. Btw, I’ve found my SIM lives perfectly happily if you leave her alone with a cat. Her only problem is making friends (gee, I got close with my SIM, didn’t I?).

Maybe I’ll put the theatre group into a neighborhood. Do my best to assess what I’ve seen of their personalities and see what happens.

*sigh* Yeah, I’m still thinking about that. Still thinking about my script (which I haven’t heard anything on), my interactions with them, etc. etc. Analyzing every little detail. Hoping I didn’t fuck up too much.

I need to get out of my head.

Not so easy to do when you’re keeping your body in down mode.

Somehow between my birthday and this cold, November ended (gee, imagine that). It’s full throttle Xmas from now on. I miss my fantasy of Christmas. I can never say it actually was as I remember it. But I believed. I believed in the holiday and the season. That it was time to put away old hurts, heal, reconnect with loved ones – even tho I never had a good example of any of that. I am old, and jaded now. I don’t believe. I acknowledge I still want to believe, but I don’t. Not really. Not with the family I’ve got. But I’m stuck somewhere between not believing and wanting to believe. I keep trying every once in a while because I can’t let go of wanting to believe. It’s real hard for me to say I’d be better off with zero contact from my family. Feels like a failure – probably because that’s the word I’d hear from them on the matter. You’re giving up again. You always run away. You’re such a baby we can’t even talk about this, huh? They make me the unreasonable one. They shame me. They throw guilt. They take the power position, and wield it unyieldingly. Gods, that is so ingrained in me! To let them do it all, and take the blame. Even tho I know that’s not healthy, I still do it. Knee-jerk reaction.

So I get to spend a lifetime talking to myself, telling myself I’m okay to feel the way I do, giving myself permission to walk away, and building up my confidence after every cheap shot they take.

If I could go back to the first time I decided to buckle under this pressure, I’d change it. Take it all back. Never let them start in the first place. Save myself a lifetime of conditioning. I know it began out of a want to save them pain. Don’t know what ‘pain’ I was saving them from, but that’s come up over and over for me – sacrifice to save someone else pain.

I’m done being hurt.

Good Sound

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Okay. I’ve had 24 hours to adjust to the fact I’m insane. Not really happy about it but okay. I mean, what the fuck else am I gonna say?

I am wrong, my memory is wrong, I’ve been speaking like an ass for a goddamn year. Confirmation came thru this morning in the form of an email from my previous teacher. And I swear it was he who told me! But okay. Down the rabbit hole, lost the mind.

Now I can’t trust myself.

And that makes me sad.

Been having this sitting lump in my stomach. That sorrow/depression feeling I know all too well. The thing that will allow me, once in a while and only for appearances’ sake, to emit a laugh now and then while I watch tv with my bro. But the laugh comes from nowhere and goes nowhere. It doesn’t stay in my body, buzzing and humming and making me feel good. It doesn’t linger on my face, showing the world that yes, I AM actually happy. It dissipates. Disappears. Melts back into that lump and returns to my stomach.

I feel very alone. What the fuck am I supposed to do? Hi, doc, my brain is now telling me things that aren’t real and giving me memories that never happened. Got a pill for that? That’s pretty much a straight to the looney bin do not pass go scenario, isn’t it? All I can do right now is start again. Assume I’ve made other mistakes, because if I make such a big mistake in verbs I must be making similar mistakes elsewhere. A, B, C.

What I really want to do is crawl under a rock somewhere and just ignore it all. Everything. The language, exercise, my writing, my music, people – even my brother – everything. Fuck it all. I feel wounded in a way that doesn’t show and it seems no one else understands. And I can’t make people understand this, I guess. I try. No one gets it.

Days like this and I do wonder if I don’t suffer a touch of autism. I get so frustrated and upset and it seems the more I try to make myself understood the further I get from any sort of understanding. All I can do – and I do mean the only thing I can do – is get myself under control. That could take days. Weeks. I never know. I’m sad and angry and I can’t communicate it at all IRL. But I do know from experience that if I continue to bang my head against the wall I’ll just wind myself up more. I HAVE to walk away.

And yes, in the past when I’ve walked away I’ve been called all sorts of names. I’ve been told I’m a quitter, a slacker, a loser for doing it. Even a stuck up princess that expects the world to turn on her desires. Doesn’t matter if I get myself under control and come back to it; the fact that I must walk away at some point has always garnered me shame. So I’m ashamed to walk away, even tho I know if I don’t things will get worse. Double bind. Got a lot of those in my life.

I fucking hate people sometimes. How they are so callous and mean. Never had anyone say to me Yeah, Beeps, it’s okay. Take ten minutes or a day or whatever you need. It’ll still be here. A little break won’t hurt anything. No. It’s always shame you for this, shame you for that. Peer pressure to make you say and do things you don’t want to say and do. Push, push, push. I push myself enough, thank you. Don’t need YOUR hand on my ass, too. Now I got people looking at me like I’ve really lost it – what do you mean you got such a basic thing wrong? What do you mean you don’t want to participate now? What do you mean? Why? Why? And I tell them and they STILL look at me that way.

I feel I got no one on this. Nobody. Even my home doesn’t feel safe; my only option seems to be to curl up inside myself, to become that leaden thing down in my stomach.

Don’t want to. Really fighting it. Think I might need the release of a good cry, but I’m afraid if I start I won’t be able to stop.

Now, I know (intellectually) all I’m trying to do. I realize everything is coming to a head – lowered calorie intake, increased activity, withdrawal from smoking, sustained pressure on the language front. I know this is one of those times I need to take a few things in stride. Cut myself some slack. Be okay with fucking up because I’ve put myself physiologically in a topsy turvy situation. Yeah. I’ve got just enough clarity I can occasionally lift my head out of the shit and see that. Can’t see the other side of this, tho. Can’t see a shore or a boat or anything. Feels like I’m gonna be here forever. That adds to my panic and anxiety. Calmly laying everything out for me to examine helps for a few minutes. It doesn’t get me through the day.

Gonna go out and take a walk. It’s not my walk day. It is, in fact, a down day for exercise. Doesn’t matter. Thought I was getting up around 7, too, only to find that no, I forgot about Daylight Savings time and it was really only 6. Shit happens. Besides, what the fuck am I supposed to do today? I don’t want to do language – I still feel too burned and unsure of myself. I don’t want to sit and play games; feels stupid and time wasting to me. Don’t really want to do anything. If I could become a rock today, I would. Just a rock. No thoughts, no feelings, no nothing. Just sit there. For fucking ever.

Birds would shit on me. Rain would wash me clean. I’d take the feet of all that walked over me and never break. Everything would just pass over me, and I’d still remain intact.

Sounds good. Guess I’m looking for a place called Good Sound.

Here we go again

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I am not 100% convinced I didn’t wake up in an alternate reality yesterday. Not sure what reality I’m in today – and you KNOW when you begin to question reality around you that things are a little weird. Love to say this was all brought about by finding an LSD connection and tripping my balls off, but it ain’t so.

*sigh*

No. My current freak out is over something that happened in language class. We’re doing a lot of reading and question answering. Ran into a couple of sentences I began to question. Sometime my head learned a Dutch language rule about verbs – and I was told yesterday that I was wrong, completely wrong, it never happens, I must be insane, where did you learn that. I’m having a hard time swallowing the idea that I cemented a wrong idea in my head so early on. Sent a message out to my old teacher and I really hope he answers. This language stuff – it’s all potluck who you get as an instructor. These are volunteers from the community. There’s no strict learning plan; every instructor does things a bit different. And there’s plenty of native Dutch speakers with poor grammar. My old instructor is a professional writer and editor in Dutch; he knows grammar better than the majority. So I asked. After all, I just watched a tv program in English where I heard one person say ‘The money got growed’ – absolutely AWFUL grammar. I don’t need to learn Dutch from someone who speaks like that, and I’m sure they’re out there!

I spazzed in class. Suddenly I’ve been speaking poorly and using the wrong verb tenses for an entire YEAR? I was told yes, yes I’ve been speaking poorly, using the wrong verb tenses. In fact, while I tried to explain my question to the instructors it was like I was speaking Martian. No one else knew of this rule I had in my head. No one else had ever heard anything like it. I had immense group pressure to submit and give in. Accept I was wrong and begin to talk like they do. But I’m not sure if they’re a ‘The money got growed’ group or not. I retreated to my default spot – withdrawal. And honestly I don’t feel like picking up my work on the language AT ALL. If I did get something so basic so wrong, well…Can I ever get it if I make big mistakes like that?

I don’t even know if I can trust my own brain. I mean….I know it gives me gip over my self image and confidence. But suddenly I’m thinking I can’t trust this great machine that’s put me over the top in 99% of the classes I’ve taken. Some wires got crossed. A spanner got thrown into the works. My bro says calm down – but this is one time I can’t calm down. If I can’t trust my own memory then there’s nothing I CAN trust. Because this isn’t a ‘little’ wrong, this is a big wrong. And it’ll take a while before I can correct a big wrong in my brain. And then I will always – ALWAYS and forever more – have that niggling doubt every goddamn time I try to speak. Am I using the right verb forms? It will never go away.

Fuck.

You bet your ass I’m hoping my ex instructor writes back to me and says yes, you’re right Beeps, who the hell is teaching that class?

To make matters worse, I’ve heard nothing on the script I wrote. Nadda. The director took it Wednesday night, said he’d read it right away. I know; he’s got a life, right? Don’t expect things so quick. But when someone says they’ll read my work that night I generally feel that they’ll be getting back to me quick. Christ, this feels like a goddamn publisher – put it out there, get enthused and excited, then hear nothing. Naturally I don’t want to be a pest. The director has a day job as a teacher at the Uni and a whole other life (I’m sure). But it’s damned difficult not seeing anything come through my email day after day.

The only applecart that hasn’t been upset is my exercise regime. The weekend is easy time, just walking in fresh air for an hour a day. It’s actually a little hard not to go back to the gym again – I think I’m getting addicted to the post work out burn. But I said I’d do the gym twice a week and I’ll stick to it for now. In a month, if all is good and I haven’t hurt myself, I can take that up to three times a week.

It’s weird to live in a world where I feel I can trust my body over my brain, but that’s right where I find myself. My body’s getting much stronger. I can feel the pull of my muscles, the way they stretch over my skeleton. There’s far less fat to grab around my midriff. And sometimes I can even see the shape of the muscles begin to emerge. I’m holding onto that. It’s a great feeling, without a doubt. That’s where I’m trying to center myself right now. Not the brain, but the body. Can’t trust the brain. I might have torn something up there. But the body! I begin to feel if an emergency occurred I’d be able to react and react quickly. Punch, kick – even run if I needed to.

What I really want is a little consistency. Two days in a row feeling good would be nice – and completely different from what I generally go through. I guess what I should be telling myself is that the next high isn’t too far away if I’m already in the downs.

Most of the time when I envision obstacles in my life, I see them as towering stacks of stuff. Mountains I have to climb over. But the truth is my obstacles are deep trenches. Low lows I need to climb OUT of, not over.

So. One hand over the other. Here we go again.