Nobody said it would be easy

Friday lesson: better than I thought it would be. My teacher listened to me, for one thing. Not just listened, but he attempted to implement my suggestions immediately. That felt good. Being heard always feels good.

Weird incident, though. Don’t know precisely what happened, ’cause I was reading along in the book. But this other student, this guy (emphasis on that word because he’s a real character) must have touched or groped the female teacher. She almost jumped out of her chair. Bitched him out and told him to move, that he couldn’t sit next to her. He ignored her. Maybe it was an accidental graze. I really don’t know. What I do know is the dude in question is questionable; he’s always angry and makes no bones about it. And he stares a lot. At me. With a look on his face I can’t quite pin down. Hate? Lust? Both? I’ve found it unnerving in the past, and in future I’ll find it more so.

Nursing a big lump of angry disappointment. Heard from Bolton; suddenly they’ve modified their terms and conditions. Now a script can’t be more than 700 words. 700 words! My blog posts are longer than that. Why the fuck didn’t they say that up front? Don’t know if I’ll write something for them now or not. I can shit 700 words out pretty quick. But I’m still kind of angry. So I guess I’ll just wait and see how long my irritation lasts.

On the up side: plenty of places to send to. Writing up a synopsis (UGH) and updating my CV. Think I might have something that’ll work, so I’m in down mode now. Give it 24 hours before I read it again. Otherwise I’ll just go round and round – very much the proverbial dog chasing its own tail.

Stepping up research on the next script. Still do not know the name of my main character. I want to use real names, but I’m taking full artistic license with the names I choose. This is for an American audience, and if there’s one thing I know about American audiences, it’s this: give them too many Russian names and I’ll lose them. So I want to choose names with simple and familiar diminutives. Right now, she’s just ‘the new girl’. She’s already a pilot, and a little cocky about her skills. I’m getting a sense of the other women, too. How they react to this newcomer. And the men. The slurs, the set-ups. Letting my mind wander through these ultra short scenes. I need to pick and choose the best. Hone it down. Make it run on a limited cast. And figure out how – or IF – I can write a scene while the women are in their planes. Can’t expect them to have big sets. So it’s gotta be lighting and sound again. Hm.

Doing my best to keep up with a gym visit every other day. Not easy. When I get in that groove, I want to push every day. When I’m not in that groove, it’s a pain to just put my shoes on and head over there. Trying to do what’s best for my body – day on, day off. Meh. If only my body and my head would mesh better.

Still find myself just snapping at my brother once in a while. Why can’t I apologize to him for that? I should. Instead I ignore it and privately vow to do better. And I do better, for a while. Then I mess up again.

*sigh* I guess nobody said it would be easy.

Birthing Basilisks

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Yesterday I had what amounted to an anxiety attack. Mine are pretty light compared to what I’ve seen/heard other people go through. Nonetheless, they’re distressing. Sitting in a chair doing nothing and feeling like I can’t draw breath disturbs me for some reason, go sue me. I sat, holding my solar plexus and just fucking breathing in and out for about an hour and a half before it finally let go. Fucking hate that.

Felt most of the day yesterday like I was carrying about a basilisk egg in my chest, ready to break open and give birth to death incarnate. I was able to pin it down – I did bad again, or think I did. I made a comment on a post and I’m afraid it wasn’t very nice. I don’t think it was terrible; the worst word I used was ‘boo’. And I didn’t put out my FIRST response which really was nasty. I guess right now I feel like I should have waited for my third or even fourth re-write before I put it out. I could have made a better argument and sounded less like a child (sorry, I revert to ‘boo’ to announce my distaste when my curse-riddled mind tries to not be so profane). Once again I get to feel self-disappointment. It’s a disturbing feeling.

I wonder how disappointed my mother was in me. Truly.

My sister liked, at her most vicious moments, to tell me in detail how disappointed my mother or father was with me in this circumstance or that. She knew that would hurt me most, so she always paraded it out whenever I let her. That was always her last slap at me. How could I defend against that? It wasn’t HER disappointment. No. That would have been easy to deflect. It was the disappointment of my dead parents. No one to slap back on that, nothing to say. I was there and heard mom & dad’s disappointment in HER, so I know they let loose with shit. And yes, she’s undoubtedly exaggerating, perhaps outright lying. That’s what she does. There’s also a nugget of truth in there, because my sister doesn’t have the imagination necessary to pull a scenario straight out of thin air. Something was said, some face pulled (mom pulled a lot of faces at me, I’m beginning to realize that as I watch more AbFaB and continually get set off by what Jennifer Saunders does with her mouth).

Sometimes I wonder if mom hated me. I can’t quite wrap my head around it all. Intellectually, yes. But not inside, where I need to understand. She just fucking gave up. She didn’t even fucking try. Everything I did was taken with an attitude of ‘Oh, really? You’re gonna do THAT? Well, ok. It’s your life’. Great when you’re fucking 20. She started to do that to me when I was 15. Man, she was SO fucked. I remember clearly the last time mom put her foot down with me in any manner: it was a party held by the swing choir/theater kids from school. Now, these were all pretty much kids mom would have wanted me to be friends with. They had ambitions, they did well in school, they were happy and open people. These were also the kids she embarrassed me in front of by insisting on picking me up at 9:30 p.m., even after I’d had an offer from an older friend to get a lift home. I cried all the way back, knowing I’d NEVER be invited to anything like that again, and I never was. That was the faux pas that isolated me from those kids, and it wasn’t mine. She did it. The funny thing is, after that mom didn’t give a fuck who I hung with or where or how late. I hung out with the WORST people in school and she could give a fuck. Go to bars when you’re 15? Here’s what she said: “If you think these people are your friends, just remember that if the police bust you it’s your friends who’ll pay the price. They’ll lose their liquor license and maybe go to jail.” I never said any of THOSE people were my friends. And after she’d fucked all chance of me hanging with people I WANTED to hang with, what the fuck did she think I’d go and do? Namby-pamby and hide in my shell? I was 15, and fucking angry. I dressed up and found out how easy it was to get into bars and clubs. I was WELCOMED. I was POPULAR. I could sit at a bar stool and literally have a half circle of men around me, talking, joking, buying me drinks. Yeah, I know all they were after was a quick fuck. The point is that overnight I went from this shunned fat girl who felt people were laughing at her as she walked down the school halls to someone who had 8 different guys calling her every week. Little wonder I began haunting bars and becoming a regular. I so craved that attention. ANY attention. I took it wherever and however I could find it.

Bleh. Back to mommy dearest. I keep seeing those sappy programs where everything comes out okay ’cause your mother is your mother and she’ll do ANYTHING to protect her kids. ANYTHING.

I don’t believe that of my mom. Remember the old scenario of you and your family being caught adrift in a sinking boat and someone has to go overboard and sacrifice themselves in order to save everyone else? It was a common question in our schoolyard (maybe we were all morbid kids; don’t know). Well, these days I think mom would have tossed me or one of my siblings or ALL of us in order to save herself and her husband. Yep. Every one of her babies would have to go into the water before she would. And she would NEVER have let dad go. She would have given the idea lip service. She would have spoken up in that voice which we all knew, that voice that meant here she goes, she’s gonna make the ultimate sacrifice for all of us even though it’s the last goddamn thing she wants to do. “Oh,” she’d say with that mournful sigh, “I’ll do it.” And then we’d all say no, please don’t, we’ll throw ourselves overboard but please don’t put yourself through it AGAIN for us, mom. Fuck you. You were SUPPOSED to throw yourself overboard, you fucking bitch. You were supposed to sacrifice again and again. What the fuck did you think having fucking children was all about? Kids fuck up, mom. That’s what kids do. Sometimes that needs discipline. More often it needs fucking guidance. But the only thing you ever guided anyone to is fucking self-serving interests, mom. You raised a couple of fucking bastards, you do know that, don’t you? D may be redeeming himself, tho I’d hardly know since even if I email him he won’t bother to respond for 3 years. And K…well, you really did a number on her, I must say. She is one self-righteous fucking CUNT of a bitch. There’s not enough curse words created to fucking describe HER properly. As for me…

Here ya go, mom:

Goddamn you to hell for not caring. Goddamn you to hell for ignoring me. Goddamn you to hell for ignoring my fucking pain, you cunt. You did NOT deserve to have someone like me in your life. When I think back on all the fucking times I DEFENDED you because I so wanted to believe that you loved me I want to just die. Cut my own fucking guts out. You treated me like a piece of fucking garbage, mom. Some stain left on the fucking carpet that you just couldn’t quite wash away but didn’t have the money to replace. I hate you for the way you treated me. I hate all the times you forgot about me and left me standing and waiting for you. I hate all the times you told me how crazy I sounded and then tried to get me to open up to you. I hate you for your goddamn SELFISHNESS, mom. You were never fucking there. Even if your body was present, you sure as fuck weren’t. I have zero memories of you ever playing with me. Zero. I have zero memories of ever doing something that I loved and having you support me. I have zero memories of you EVER being honest with me, other than that ONE time in the van on the way home from grandma and grandpa’s. And then it was too late. You were already fucking dying by then. You chose to do nothing about it, say nothing about it until it was too late, and then you fulfilled your life-long fucking dream. You became the fucking drama queen, the operatic fat woman dying on stage with a long aria about how her life had done her wrong. Fuck you and fuck the way you decided to die you fucking cunt.

Basilisk, indeed.

That’s ok. It’s what’s there. Someday I hope to love my mother again. To feel that warmth when I think about her. Right now I have a real problem with that. Hells bells, someday I hope to be able to think about my sister and not be angry. I can’t manage that, either. And that’s ok, too. It’s where I am. I suppose I’ll continue birthing basilisks for a while. At least ’til the supply runs dry, but oh my! There do seem to be a large amount a them eggs.