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.


No one else will


Sick. I feel sick. All the time. It’s a side effect of the antibiotics I’m on: upset stomach and diarrhea. Right now I’m running to the toilet so fast I’m not sure I even want to step outside the house. Does not help that I can still see an infection in my mouth. I’m gonna have to go back to the dentist. And he’s gonna want to tinker more. And I don’t want him to.

Wondering if I’m just old now. If I’ve reached that point when all my teeth just have to come out because I’m fucking falling apart. I ain’t dying; no such fucking luck. I know the signs of the body going into shut-down, and I’m not there. I’ve still got color in my cheeks and red lips. Which means one thing: I gotta suffer thru it. No matter what. Death ain’t that close.

Telling myself I’ve one day more on my anti-biotic. Telling myself that this IS livable, many people have false teeth and live a full life. Telling myself all that and more, but between the number the pills are doing on my stomach and my anxiety I’m not in a good place.

And the world ain’t helping.

Had a call from my GP about the morphine pills. I asked for another refill; not getting it, unless I go in and explain myself to the doc. Been on them “too long”. It was hard enough to ask for help in the first place. I don’t feel worth it. I’ll just sit here and let the pain come until I can’t take it anymore, then go to hospital and cry and scream. It’s all I deserve anyway.

…Fucking yeah. Fucking really depressed this morning. I know it. I know I’ve been battling it back for days.

News just heaps more anxiety and hate on my head. Can I call like I see it? I’d like to get three people I can think of out of the states. Then bomb it. Totally. Wipe it out. Kill everyone. They’re a mad bunch of psychopaths who are ruining the world. Let’s do everyone a favor and stop it. I sure as fuck don’t want to keep hearing about how they love their guns and hate their children. And the rest of the world wonders why American children who escape that prison hate their country and their ‘people’ so fucking much.

You know what I heard the other day? That Americans made a ‘mistake’. That’s how 45 was referred to, as a ‘little mistake’. Yeah. Electing a dictator was a ‘little mistake’. Electing a man who’s proud of the fact he’s a sexual predator was a ‘little mistake’. Electing a racist liar was a ‘little mistake’.

The sheer wall of ignorant hatred coming from the US is stifling. Horrifying.

And yeah, you’d better keep me out of those borders. ‘Cause if I have to go back, I ain’t goin’ down alone. Got it?

Goddess damn them all!

…*sigh*… And the sheer hypocrisy over the fact that no one seems, on a day to day basis, to get it. How can you be happy when there’s all this shit in the world? How can you feel good about yourself when you support an autocratic, dictatorial regime? How can you feel so ‘right’? Doesn’t it bother you that slavery still exists? Doesn’t it bother you that kids are killing kids? Doesn’t it bother you that human life is so fucking cheap we’ve got throw away people? But no. Those of you who can hold your shield of denial tight in your little hands are ‘okay’ and ‘normal’. I, who feel everything, am ‘wrong’ and ‘abnormal’.

I fucking hate the bell curve.

Just because I grew up in a time when most people were clinically insane makes me the odd one out. Doesn’t matter if their view on the world is skewed; it’s the ‘norm’, that high point of the bell curve that most people fall under and anything else is outside that norm and must be, by definition, ‘wrong’. There’s an old saying that a one eyed man in a land of the blind would be king, but that’s not correct. A one eyed man in a land of the blind would be locked up and medicated because no one else would be experiencing what he’s experiencing and thus he would be deemed ‘insane’. Doctors would spend their lifetimes trying to teach the seeing man that he’s just imagining it, or that he needs to breathe through it, or that if he just talks about his mother or father or the boy who bullied him enough everything will be fine and he’ll stop seeing what he’s seeing.

THAT is how I view the world. You’re fucked, not me. I’ve been asking for a lobotomy or some sort of equivalent on and off for years because it seems to me that’s what it’ll take for me to forget all the horror on this planet and just fucking smile and talk about the latest tv episode of the latest show everyone has to fucking watch like fucking zombies without a fucking thought in their own fucking heads. Go on. Maybe then I’ll smile as I kneel down to suck you off, you fuckers. Maybe then I’ll forget how much I hate you. Maybe then I’ll think like you: that sex is the pinnacle of human existence. That’s it. Just sex. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Up the ass, in the vagina, in the mouth, just fuck everything and everyone as hard and as fast as you fucking can because that’s it. There is no more, no greater reason, nothing more to aspire to. Forget intellect. Forget spirituality. Humanity is all about the orgy. Blood and semen and sweat mixed, violence and sex mixed, all in one big groaning and gyrating ball of legs and arms.

You’re all so empty.

Rx: smoke a joint, woman. I know; yesterday wasn’t good on smoke. And we both know it’s not an ideal solution. But remember our number one priority? Take care of ourselves. You’re on the edge of busting a gut, or making yourself so sick from anger and anxiety that you’ll cause real long term problems. You’re gonna feel better once the meds are done. You will live through whatever comes your way. Smoking now, or smoking today, isn’t gonna change much. So take care of yourself right now.

No one else will.


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…

I’ve been told I’ve been wrong before

Imagine, if you will, a thin, eerie whistling. …You’ve just entered the empty inbox zone.

Okay. Now it isn’t just mania. Going on five days since I heard about the possibility of performing in Amsterdam. Same amount of time with the read through, and still nothing. Nothing…nothing…nothing. The nothing is so LOUD it echoes. Feels like there must be worlds of conversation going on without me. Plans being made, ideas being discussed – and I’m out of the loop. Maybe that’s just paranoia, tho it won’t be the first time I’ve actually been left out. Seems to happen an extraordinary amount of times to me. I was ignored and left out of my family. I was ignored and left out by people I called my friends. Can’t help but get triggered by the silence; it’s so damned familiar to me. I can feel myself built walls: Well, I don’t need them or Next time I’ll be a bit more stand-offish. Defense in this case is okay; offense is not. I cannot take the lead. I must only react to what’s given me. Don’t ask me where that law is written. If I knew, I’d go and destroy it.

…Part of it, I know, comes from long and old memories of being told I was interpreting situations incorrectly. No, people weren’t ‘making fun of me’ like I felt they were or I was just ‘in my head and over-thinking as usual’. I’ve been taught to doubt myself at every turn. Have to remind myself those lessons came at the hands of people with whom I’ve broken contact because they’re totally screwed up. …Difficult, tho. Those early experiences get so burned into your soul.

In this case, my recourse is simple: ask. I’ve full rights to send out an email or two, asking about Amsterdam and the status of my script. Amsterdam is easy to ask about. The script…not so much. I face rejection on a couple of levels with the script, and I find myself reluctant to begin poking the bear just to get a reaction. Timing in life – as in comedy – is sometimes everything. Ask at the wrong time and you’ll get rejected big time. Wait, wait, wait until the wheels are in the correct alignment and you can ask for the moon. My instinct tells me to wait on the script and I’m gonna listen to that part of me.

Got a lot of nothing on my plate today. Cleaned the house before the web people came for the meeting with my bro, so that’s kind of already done. My homework is finished. I finished reading Roald Dahl and am well into the other book. And, biggest of all, it’s my bro’s comic book day so he’s out of the house all afternoon. Not sure what I’ll keep myself occupied with, tho a horror film spree while I play games sounds quite inviting. I should go and run the animal, too. Tho I’ve got to admit, I feel pretty damned lazy right now. Don’t know I’ll even get out of my pj’s.

…You know, maybe I should learn to clarify that pj point. I’ve said to doctors that I often stay in my pj’s all day and they get that look on their faces (you know the one) and then write ‘depression’ in my file. I’m not sad in my jammie-jams. I’m happy. It’s freeing and fun. It says ‘I don’t care what the world throws at me, I’m safe and warm and can do whatever I want, including closing my eyes and going to sleep right now’. Don’t you get that? I’m far more depressed in grown-up clothes, all tight and uncomfortable. Can you sit in a cross-legged position easily with jeans on? No? Then why wear them? I want freedom, full movement. Give me a big, soft bag to wear and I’m 100% secure. And when I feel secure, I’m better able to be happy. To allow myself some time and care.

While I’m on a rant, the same thing goes for make-up. Why, oh why, do people assume if a woman doesn’t wear make-up she’s either (a) depressed or (b) a lesbian? Why is it “okay” to wear a bunch of war paint that isn’t you out into the public arena? Why is it socially acceptable to feel good about yourself if you do up your eyes, your lips, wear high heels and dresses, but NOT okay to be happy bumming around in rags? I’ll admit: the make-up and tight clothes and high heels ARE attractive. Even I find them so. But I spent years doing that, and you know what? I’d rather not do it anymore. I’d rather my feet be comfortable in sneakers or my orthopedics. I’d rather my waist bands be loose so I can turn and run and do things. I’d rather my nails be short so I can type fast. I’d rather my hair be out of my face so I can see what I’m doing. I’d rather my skin be healthy and free from dead animal secretions and toxins. Why is that wrong? And why do you think I’m depressed for feeling that way?

Why, too, is it wrong to not want a sexual relationship? Why must we all fuck, fuck, fuck, right up to our dying day? Don’t you realize how much time that takes away from what I find truly important? Don’t you recognize the same old patterns, played out time and time again through the fucking eons? Don’t you see how empty the word “love” has become?

…I’m just flabbergasted that people don’t recognize this shit. Wonder at it, as I do.

*sigh* But I’ve been told I’ve been wrong before…

The most difficult thing of all

Get yer head on straight.

Somehow that phrase always seemed to implicated guilt and shame for me. Having your head on straight is a good thing; anything else is weird, wrong, and must be changed that very moment. I recognize the controlling factor in the statement. The ‘think this way; any other way isn’t acceptable’ undertone.

Don’t tell me how to think. It’s a trigger for me, an invasion of my most private space. How dare you come into my being and point negative fingers! Get the hell out of my mind.

Nonetheless… Been pacing in front of the tiger’s cage, wondering if I’ve got her sedated enough to take on tour. Can she sleep through the public parade? Will she just lay there quietly, or will she try to break free again? I don’t know. That scares me. I don’t want to go out there and start yelling at people.

Didn’t even crack open my homework. My bro pointed out to me that I was exhibiting all the signs of burn-out. He reminded me how much work I do on a regular basis. He gave me strict instructions to play and fuck off all weekend (though he was pleasantly surprised and pleased about the clean house). …Do not feel ready to go back to class. Not mentally, anyhow.

I can feel the drag of depressive thoughts. They’re mixing with my mania, creating a real shit storm. Non-stop pacing and restlessness while I write is one thing; non-stop pacing with circular negative thoughts is another.

Several nights now wearing my mouth guard. I was right to fear the intense back-lash. I feel like a 13 year old every damned morning, taking it out of my mouth and rinsing it off. Can tell when and where I hurt myself. I wake up biting down on the guard, or wake up with aches in certain teeth. Push, pull, grind, bite. Oh, no! No anxiety there! Just a regular night’s sleep. Wednesday I see the physiotherapist for my jaw. Hoping it helps. And despite the surfacing memories of my younger years, despite the aches in my teeth telling me how much damage I do to myself at night, the overall pain in my jaw is receding. Good Goddess! I’m brutal to myself.

But I need to pick myself up and get back out there this week. No more hiding. No more excuses. See the physiotherapist, attend class. Get back to the gym. Do those things I’ve been lax on. That includes making a long overdue call about my shoes, and setting an appointment with my doc to talk about finding help for my mental health issues. BIG issues. BIG and SCARY. I don’t wanna. Don’t wanna think about it, don’t wanna do it, don’t wanna leave the house. Sure as hell don’t wanna tackle as much Dutch as I need to.

…Yes. Very much like the 13 year old me.

I can see her, standing in front of me. The long hair I hated so much. The buck teeth. The outfit, even. She’s an odd mix. Not quite historically accurate. She keeps telling me she’s 13, tho she looks more like 10 or 11 to me. But hey! I won’t argue. She wants to be 13, I’ll treat her like she is. I was much more aware at 13 that life just included some shitty experiences that you HAD to go thru. No getting around them, no understanding or pity from the people around you. Just deal, ’cause everyone has to at some point. Or so I was led to believe.

Throw all that out the window. You know for a fact your childhood was screwed up. You know for a fact you were raised by a mentally caged person. Don’t cling on to one part of that while trying to let go of all the rest. Let it all go.

Try being brave. Remember?

…And, little girl, I know how afraid you are. Of everything, all the time. And you know what? You’re one of the bravest people I’ve ever met. Because you keep trying. You just pick yourself up and go. Don’t even complain about the wounds, the pain, the horrible gut-wrenching shame and guilt you feel. You tried to see everyone in the best light. Give everyone the benefit of the doubt. You worked so hard to be the daughter you thought your mother wanted. You hid everything from everyone. Never let them see you cry! That was our motto. And you didn’t. In private, yes, we let go. We had to. But never in public. They never saw you cry or back down. I remember the shaming. Having to hold our head up high, gather up the dregs of dignity and walk away. It was hard. Real hard. As hard mentally as it was physically when our feet gave out on us. All that pain. All those looks. And all that neglect. Day after day, month after month, year after year. Tormented at school by bullies, tormented at home by your sister.

This is a different kind of brave, little one. You need to say your bit. I don’t care how you do it. Just do it. Say ‘ow’ if that’s all you can manage. Say it softly, to yourself. No one else has to hear. No one else has to know. But you HAVE to say the words. You have to take that step. It’s that icky experience no one wants to go through. Pull out the splinter, rip off the plaster.

…And so our head isn’t on straight. We’re crooked, like our teeth. So what? It adds character. Yes, we have triggers. Learning more about those every day, aren’t we? And yes, we think outside the box. Other than the norm. For most people, that’s a plus. You were just raised by ignorant bigots.

Take it in: this is you. Allow yourself to be. In all your crooked, mixed up glory, allow yourself to be.

… … That might be the most difficult thing of all.


*deep, lovesick sigh* Will I ever be able to have a physio appointment and NOT fall in love with my therapist? …Doubtful. I seem to be made hard-wired to like this guy. Everything about him – his looks, his voice, his mind, his attitude – I can’t help but like him. I’ve tried to keep cool. Be distant. But after each and every appointment, I feel love sick. I hoard up memories of his words and the jokes we share as if they mean something. Ach! I could spend a fortune on appointments just to have more time with him.

Today I’m getting walloped by a side comment he made about my hair. I told him the day is coming; it’s getting chopped off. Immediately his voice took on a slightly pleading tone: Why? I’ve heard that response before, in that tone of voice. It’s a ‘I really find your hair attractive, please don’t cut it off’ thing. And the very female response he brings out in me is now screaming to keep the hair long, deal with it. He likes it. Never once does this side of me ask if I like my hair this long. She’s only concerned with the impact it makes on other people. Especially people she finds intensely attractive.

…Still nothing in my inboxes regarding my work. I’m beginning to bite my nails.

I did manage to finally finish J’s story, and after several attempts, a note to him about it. Oh, that note! I re-wrote it and re-wrote it. I wanted to be up front about some technical issues. I wanted to be clear. Not mean, not cutting, just truthful. And bless J’s heart, he read it as I intended. Thanked me for pointing out the tech side of things, and admitted that he knew these were problem areas in his writing. I received a very long reply, detailing his ideas for his world and the characters. The message wound up with a ‘I’ve got low energy and loads of depression right now, so I’m not writing at the moment’. I replied, telling him to try and use that. His world is depressive; let that reflect in some of his characters. He ended up asking if he could quote me on FB. I said sure, thinking it would be one or two lines from my message. Nope. The whole thing, with praise heaped on my head for bringing these ideas to his attention. He told me he never once considered putting his depression into his stories. In his blog, yes. But in his stories? No. I could hardly believe it.

Please don’t tell me the majority of stories about depression are written by non-depressive people. It’s probably true; it has that ring of ‘yep, that’s reality’ in it.

No wonder the world is so fucked. We’ve been fed one viewpoint – a false viewpoint, with limited and restricting stereotypes laced throughout – our entire history. Stories about black people written by whites. Stories about women written by men.

Good Goddess! Write what you know!

More: write what you are. If you’re a man, write about men. If you’re gay, write about homosexuality. If you’re a woman, write about women. Don’t try to get tricky, don’t think you know what it’s like to walk in another person’s shoes. You think you know, but you don’t. Leave the truth telling to the people who’ve been through it every damned day of their lives. That, more than anything, seems to be lacking. The overriding, all-encompassing shit we ‘minorities’ face day in and day out. If you haven’t had to deal with people ignoring you because you’ve got big breasts, or dissing what you say out of hand because of the color of your skin, you don’t get it. Our minds are not wired to imagine such slurs on a regular basis, such degradation in everything we see and hear and touch. And it changes everything. People like to imagine themselves being strong and brave in these situations. People get it wrong. Because when you’re a dog beaten for no reason and locked up in a cage all your fucking life, you develop certain behaviors and attitudes that are not strong nor brave. It’s easy to be heroic when you step into a bad situation after a lifetime of support and real love. But if you’re that beaten dog, heroics are something you dream about, not something you do. You’re too enmeshed in freeing yourself from your restraints.

*grumble, grumble, and grouse…*

…So today I need to walk into my language lesson and tell them I’m not continuing this semester. Thursday lessons just aren’t worth it. There’s no lesson plan, no structure. The room is big and loud. It’s difficult at best to hear. I think my time is far better spent doing my Monday homework, extra reading, and watching more films and programs in Dutch. Structure, repetition, and clear speaking. That’s what I need. Not a teacher who’s half afraid of me and half doesn’t like me. Not a ‘lesson plan’ that dithers here and there without any clear direction. Not an extra student who, when she shows up, pulls the entire experience back to a lower level I’ve moved beyond. I need to keep moving forward. Not sure what to expect today. My plan is to take nothing; I’m not staying. Just show up and talk to my teacher. Tell her I can’t afford to pay for both Monday and Thursday lessons, and since I must choose, I choose Monday lessons. The other reasons…if I was offered Thursdays for free, I’d go. No skin off my nose. Then I’d view it as one more opportunity to just use the language. But it’s not worth paying for. Last semester, my fellow student didn’t have to pay. We’ll see if that occurs for me. I don’t expect it.

Get to the gym. Make sure I’m ready to head to Den Haag tomorrow.

*sigh* And work, once more, to free myself from this lovesick feeling.


Down time for RA. One of the worst things ever was growing up not having this disease diagnosed. I experienced a lot of pain, and was told I was being over dramatic. Truth was, my bones were minutely fracturing and my inflammation at a level that should have put me in hospital. But I didn’t know. I listened to the hateful people in my life who blamed me. I told myself I was weak and stupid. So I’ve still got a real problem with taking time off for pain I didn’t actually cause. This time, it’s in a foot, and bad enough I’ve been limping. Lovely.

In ultra paranoid mode. It’s the last week before the play, and the most dangerous time period for me. I’ll be working every night, up late, with people (who all seem to have sick kids or sick spouses or a nasty cough themselves). That’s a recipe for disaster. Washing my hands dozens of times every day. Pushing juice. Picking meals for health value rather than taste.

Heard from the publisher I was pursuing for my brother’s book. Sadly, they passed. Can’t shake this feeling someone on their side fucked up; we were passed off to another person, and he seemed to discount it out of hand with a ‘we already have enough music theory books’ statement. Which seems odd to me, because they DON’T have a book like this. Theory books are written from piano keyboard standpoints. This one works from guitar and bass fretboards, too. But, okay. I’ll move on. Have pages and pages of publishers to check out.

Have not yet addressed the issue with my uncle. Waiting until after the play. I don’t need the distraction. Must admit to feeling half and half – half anger, half pity. I’m still angry he thinks he has the right to rile me up on my own page. But I pity him, too. Took a look at his FB page, and can I say, it’s little wonder he comes to MY page to get some attention. Nonetheless, it’s got to stop. Lucky for him, that top fresh edge of my rage has worn away. I’ll be gentler now.

…Got to admit to a growing sense of…disappointment, I guess. I feel flat and let down. Almost depressed. Not sure why. If anything, I should be feeling up and excited this last week of rehearsals. Maybe I’m just tired, and the RA flare up doesn’t help. Maybe I’ve been working myself too hard, or worrying too much. I look forward to performing again, and yet…yet I don’t.

Coming to some hard realizations, too. Deeper levels of understanding. I’m beginning to really understand my 20-something self, why I did what I did. Started calling my mother by her first name in conversation and in my head. Found it helps me disconnect a bit from that ‘but she’s my mother; I’m supposed to love her’ shit. C was a bitch, and should have NEVER had children. Full stop. Found an article about daughters of unloving mothers. Had that ‘oh my god, they’re talking about me’ thing happen with a couple of items they noted, particularly a bit about children not knowing if the good mommy or the bad mommy was present. That hit home. Hard. I’ve also been admitting to myself how often I sabotaged my success, or turned away from opportunities because I just didn’t feel worthy. I take responsibility for these actions. But I lay the blame on C. She boxed my mind in, she made me feel helpless and worthless. I hate her for it.

Unfortunately, there ain’t no do-overs in life. I can’t go back and reclaim those lost opportunities. I can’t go back and make myself feel worthwhile. Wish I could. I’d like to see how far I might have actually gone if I was unfettered by self-hate. If I was given just a tiny bit of real support and love.

I am so jealous of people with loving families!

But even if I could go back, I know now the only things that would change would be how quickly fights would escalate and how early I left home never to return or talk to C again. Because she wouldn’t change. The rest of my family doesn’t ever change; why should she? It’s not like she wanted me. She didn’t. And she sure as fuck wouldn’t change her martyrdom for her children. I could only go back and tell them to fuck off. Say the things I should have said. I couldn’t spare myself hurt or pain, because that would still happen. I could just get out of it sooner, stop acting out against C earlier.

It’s difficult to change this aspect of myself. To stop hating myself so much.

Hell! It’s difficult to just stop.


Fighting that down side. That ever present, soul dragging weight that refuses to let me feel good about myself. I know it’s bad. My work out routine should effectively kill off any bad feelings – yet here I am, day after the gym, working to feel anything other than flat or slightly irritated.

I wanna hide inside today. Watch too much tv, and smoke.

Got an email from the director. Seems we’re all getting together on one evening for promotional pix. Oh, don’t be so impressed. Our promotional pix will consist of someone grouping us together and capturing the moment on their smart phone (they’re all too modern to own an old fashioned camera). And, with no costuming or make-up…Can you see where I’m going here? I don’t expect much.

In fact, I don’t expect to be in the promotional photo at all. I expect the mysterious board will choose the prettiest people to be in the ad. Oh, they’ll take my photo a few times. But use it? I really don’t think so.

No serious writing yet. A few outline adds. A few times of looking at the outline and having my bro come in, look over my shoulder (the worst possible thing you could ever, ever do to me), and break my concentration to the point I close everything down. *sigh* And I’m glad his writing is going so well, his book has so many thousands of words, so many pages, so many graphics, so much. I’d like to concentrate on my own now, thank you very much.

Doing okay with the getting out of the house every day vow. At least, so far. Thinking I might take the metro down to one of the city’s charity shops today and take a look around. I really need something other than my six summer t-shirts and one set of shorts. Not that anyone has said anything to me. But I feel it. I don’t like it.

Heard from a friend, whose life makes mine look like a fairy tale. Honestly, I could write down everything that’s happened to this person and it would read like the most made up soap opera of all time. He’s had more bad news, naturally. Sometimes I wonder if he ever has anything happy happen to him at all. I never hear about it. Once in a while he’ll describe things as ‘fun’ or ‘pleasant’, but most of the time he talks about his pain, his anxiety, his money worries. And I’ve never heard him crack a joke. Twenty-five years of knowing this person. No jokes at all.

Makes me feel pretty lighthearted and frivolous in comparison.

Trying to cut back on caffeine at the moment. My morning coffee consumption just crept up and up, until I was almost at 5 large cups. I’ve read caffeine isn’t good for irritable bowel syndrome, so I want to cut back on it and see how my tummy does. Easier said than done. Caffeine really affects me, and cutting back one cup in the morning for two days in a row has already resulted in caffeine headaches and general sluggishness. Well, better now than in autumn, when I have a schedule I need to adhere to.

Maybe I’m due a day off. No cleaning, no exercising, no language, no rehearsing, no errands. Sit, and wallow.

I know my mind is not all happy-happy. Woke up yesterday with five bruises on my arm from my own fingernails. Seems I crossed my arms over my chest at some point in the night, then dug my fingernails into my flesh. That’s not an act of a happy subconscious.

And rain clouds are coming in. It’s not supposed to rain today!

That’s it. I’m wallowing. I liked the idea the moment I wrote it. I’m too tired, too full-on lately. Haven’t had an afternoon off since I don’t know when. Take a nap. Chill-ax.


Triple F

I found it hard, as a child, to reconcile the memories voiced by my mother’s family with the truth. After all, what is a four year old to think, listening to her elders talk bout ‘gettin’ whooped’ while laughing heartily? I imagined a Dennis the Menace scenario. Something non-threatening and, ultimately, funny. Not a one of my aunts or uncles ever seemed to be angry over their past. ‘Whoopins’ were what you got. With a belt. Sometimes until you bled. But ha, ha, we all laughed about it in the end so it’s okay.

My dad, too, had stories. Stories in which he was always alone. Stories in which his parents grieved (and grieved and grieved) so much over the death of their first born that they seemed to forget they had another son.

And other hints. Frowning brows and dark looks now and then. A sharp tongued remark, quickly retracted. A tear that never fell from an eye.

I am a second gen product of abusive families.

Understanding – full understanding, the kind you only get with age and experience – hit me the other day. This is why my mother never doled out punishment when we were very little. She was too afraid she’d follow in the footsteps of her parents, and really smack us around.

My mother was an abused child.

And my father, a neglected child.

No wonder I am what I am.

I’ve often thought about my parents. How they got together. I know the story – a teacher in high school set them up on a date. What I never got was the why.

My father was very much into physical appearances. Comments on my appearance were usually limited to the ‘you’re a workhorse, honey, not a racehorse’ range. I was told I was beautiful only as a consolation, when I felt ugly and unloved. ‘Ah, honey! You’re beautiful just the way you are’ – which felt like a consolation and a lie. I was never freely told I was beautiful or even pretty. And I figured he had to say it; parents always have to say it, don’t they? Even if their kid is the butt-ugliest person on the planet.

At the time of their meeting, my mother was a slim and young size 12. My father was an extremely huge 350 pound linebacker for the school football team.

My mother claimed she saw beyond my dad’s weight. Saw he was a good person, a good man, and that’s who she fell in love with.

But there was another man in her life. A sailor. I’ve one black and white photograph of the two of them together. He went off to war. Mom never talked about him, other than saying she dated him.

I wonder now if Mom was just looking for a way out. Someone – anyone – to help her leave the house.

And I’m not saying my mother didn’t love my father. Just that the initial reason she got together with him might not be as noble as she would have me believe.

As for my dad…Mom was his first and only love. Again, not surprising when you take into account his past. He was starved for attention. First person to give him even a little bit of time and energy, and he asks her to marry him.

Never did get a straight answer on the pre-marital sex issue. Mom said no, they never did it, and Dad said yes, the were at it like rabbits.

I used to think my parents’ story was this great romance. Now…it’s just grey and bleak, like the weather hanging outside my window.

Bullshit ordinary things I need to keep track of: Tired all day yesterday, ’til I finally broke down and had some more coffee. Left 10 hours open to sleep, so naturally I was up after 8. Doing okay but not great with smoking. Getting down on the floor to do abdominal exercises these days. Sucks big time. Still not writing anything but these morning blatherings. Frustrated. Bored a lot. Feel very out of step with the world.

Everything’s weird. I’m weird. That’s the real problem: me. I’ve got that un-tethered feeling going on. Free floating fear. The dreaded triple F threat.


Allowed that despair to overtake me yesterday. Just for a moment or two. Enough time to sob deeply and feel a tear drop from my eye. Then I shook myself, sighed, and went to the gym.

Exercise has become a time waster. A thing to keep me from smoking. Not a thing I enjoy. Not a thing I do to get in shape or lose weight. Just a thing that keeps me out of the house, away from my ashtray. The goal is to spend as much of the afternoon at the gym as possible.

Hope to tire myself out. Get back here and almost fall asleep for the rest of the day. Wouldn’t need to smoke then. Wouldn’t need to do anything, other than chill.

Doesn’t quite work, of course. The more I do, the better shape I’m in, the longer it takes to tire me out. Half hour on the cross trainer. Half hour on the treadmill. Half hour on the bikes. Half hour on the free weights. Was surprised all evening long. Kept expecting my eyes to close while watching tv. Nope. Wide awake.

Telling myself I shouldn’t feel all wimpy and weak. My stamina has improved. I’ve moved up settings on everything, including heavier free weights because a 15 year old BOY had to go and pick up the lightest free weights in the gym to exercise. Really, kid? I didn’t want to, but I picked up the 4 kilo weights and started working – after I shot him a dirty look. He’s a healthy BOY CHILD and should be working harder. I’m an OLD WOMAN and should be working less.

Gave a lot of thought to what I wrote about yesterday. Thought so much about it I think I might have handled one of those disagreement points better than usual. It came up in conversation. I could hear it in our words and the slightly harder edge in my brother’s voice. My head said ‘this is one of those times when he feels you’re not hearing him’. So I stopped trying to get my point across. I acknowledged what he said ‘I hear you, and agree’. I dropped the pitch and volume of my voice. And I heard him stumble a moment, expecting a fight and getting none. Then he dropped his voice volume and tone, and suddenly that horrible argument moment was over and done with without our getting into a shouting and/or blaming match.

….And no, it didn’t escape me that in handling and defusing the situation I had zero opportunity to speak my own mind. That could be an issue, so I hope nothing too important comes up. This whole thing began in part because I feel un-listened to. While I’m very pleased to have no arguments or bad feelings to overcome this morning, as far as the subject goes my brother has NO IDEA HOW I FEEL ABOUT IT. He’s assuming I feel one way or another because I haven’t spoken up. But I can’t speak up without causing an argument. And I can’t prevent and argument AND speak up. That’s two conflicting things for me. Either I concentrate on keeping the peace or I speak my mind. And if I continually choose to keep the peace, I end up feeling like my opinions and thoughts don’t matter anyway – which is exactly what started the whole fucking thing in the first place.

Why does this shit always fall to women? I never hear men talk about compromising themselves in order to keep the peace with someone. NEVER. They just bulldoze over. Me, me, me. Hear me. Listen to me. Honor MY fucking opinion. Oh, you have one too? Well, that’s just silly. You should think like me. You do, don’t you? Oh…you don’t? What’s wrong with you?

Round and round. Get ready, women. If you haven’t hit this shit in life yet, prepare yourself. It’s gonna happen, and you’ll be blamed no matter what you do. It’s what men do. How they react. It’s their fragile male egos, which we pamper and coddle because some of us like to get penises shoved up our vaginas. Or maybe all of you put up with it because you think you need men. We don’t, you know. Plenty of sperm in the sperm banks. We can kill every man on this planet and be just fine. Better than fine, with their male egos out of the way. We can make real peace, real change. And never, ever let another person with a penis think they’re better than us. Never, ever let them take over again. Return to a matriarchal society. Burn every book that uses ‘he’ as a gender neutral pronoun or ‘mankind’ to describe humanity. Destroy every testosterone driven film. And yes, cut off all the dicks of every male ever born because frankly I’d find it cathartic.

Right about now is the time when some man usually pops up and asks ‘are you a dyke?’

No, for the record, I’m straight. I just see men the way they really are. Oh, got a problem with that? Can’t reconcile the idea of a strong willed woman who’s not gay? You are so immature.

But that, of course, is just another male put down. Oh, if a woman has a strong opinion, she must be a lesbian. Regular women don’t talk like that. Real women don’t think like that. I’m rolling my eyes as I type.

No wonder I remained single all my life. Sure, part of it was choice. Part of it wasn’t. No one ever wanted to spend their life with me. And I suppose that’s got to do with having a strong opinion. Dad told me long ago that I’d scare men off. Too smart, too opinionated, too outspoken.

Odd, then, because he’s the man who made me this way. Encouraged me to think, to debate, to challenge his viewpoint at every opportunity.

I feel like a freak. Some Francis-stein that’s half modern woman and half old fashioned lady. Don’t know where I fit in, don’t know HOW to fit in.