That’s the way to use it

So, now I’m pissed off. Yesterday’s discussion of my problem with my fellow students was an intellectual note. Something that nagged at me, but that was all. Today it pisses me off. Lucky for me, I’m reading Roald Dahl. He specializes in long, insulting sentences. I’m ready to whip out something along the lines of: You’re a horrible, slimy, nasty, mean, and evil bitch of an witch – and I can do it in Dutch. Fair warning, Universe. If I am laughed at one more time, or dissed, or spoken over, they’re getting it. I’ll write it the fuck down and memorize it. I am not putting up with that shit any more. As for the break issue, I’ve determined I’m just bringing my reading with me from now on. Screw everyone.

My teachers have asked me not to swear in class, and I’ve obliged because I care about their opinion and respect them as people and as teachers. But I can still put people down – thank you, Dahl! You’ve drilled those words into my head with every book.

And if all else fails, I know two Dutch insults to sling at them. One: drop dead. Effective in any language. Two: tell them they’re cancer. That’s a strange one; a big Dutch insult is calling someone a disease. But, okay. I’ll go with it. You’re cancer.

I prefer the long winded, descriptive sentences of Dahl, tho. Use what I’ve learned.

*sigh* The hoover broke. Overheated and didn’t recover. The only thing I’m not unhappy over is the fact that it happened while my bro was using it. Thank the Goddess! I do not have to hear about what I should have done, or what I should have noticed, or anything negative. He did it. Not me. I grew up hearing I was a mechanical jinx, that I broke any machine I came within three feet of. It wasn’t true, of course, but it was repeated to me so much and so often I’ve developed a real complex about it. I was 32 and still hearing about a lawn mower I “broke” at the age of 4. So if the damned hoover had to break, I’m breathing a sigh of relief it didn’t do it while I was using it. My being a jinx is a family myth that’s hard to shake. Unfortunately, it happened at a time when I haven’t cleaned the house regularly, meaning we have dust bunnies in every room. My room, in particular, was on the list of ‘needing to get clean’. Now I have to wait ’til I don’t know when. ‘Til we can find a decent, inexpensive hoover, I guess.


Opened up and looked at the production notes. Did a fast spot check and, yes, I found pages moved. Shit. That means going thru it line by line, checking 13 pages of notes against the script. Not a fun job. Did manage to work on the dialogue I needed to pull apart; tabled it, diagrammed it, and ended up pulling out 50 cuts to record separately. May not use them all, but it’s a good place to start, I think.

Got out for a walk. Spring is here. It pussyfooted around, timidly playing with us for a month. Now it’s moved in and pregnant with summer. In one day, the trees went from that feathery bud stage to leaves out. I passed four freshly cut lawns. There was so much green smell in the air it was rushing up my nose and tickling my brain with an almost electric feel of excitement. Gods, bottle that! I’ll buy it. It was so warm even I didn’t need a jacket or hoodie. Just a t-shirt. In 48 hours, temps are forecast near 30C. Well, that was it, then. That’s too hot. My wrist already hurts from the temp increase. Time to shift to summer life: early wake ups from the sun and the noise, afternoons in the gym where there’s air conditioning, open windows rather than turned on radiators. Makes me glad I got outside for a walk when I could.

Tapping my feet a lot more. I try to stop, but then I get busy with something on my computer and the next thing I know I hear that tap-tappa-tap-tap rhythm that I do. Palms still sweating, tho not as bad. Sleep is something I do. Something I tell myself to do. It’s bed time; turn the light off. Or it’s light out; get up. How rested I feel has very little to do with anything. Food…desire comes and goes. I eat, twice a day minimum. And it’s not the food; it tastes good. My mouth waters. I just…I think I’m hungry, then I drink some water or something and I’m not, and I just go back to whatever I was doing for a few more hours until I start to feel cold. That’s when I know I need food: I’m cold. Not hungry. Cold.

I’ve got a plan. I just gotta stick to it. Get up, blog. An hour on Dutch. Eat. Go to the gym. Back home, work on the script. Dinner. A little game playing, then tv time. Read, sleep. It’s a solid plan, guaranteed to get me thru the work I need to get done. Honestly, though, I just want to sit here. Don’t know why. I’m tired of every damned computer game I’ve got. I don’t even pay attention to what’s on the tv half the time. But I keep finding myself doing it: droning out, playing solitaire of all things. Mindless. Repetitive. Nothing surprising, nothing challenging. A few strong story plots surfaced the other day while I was on my walk. One came complete with characters, plot line, and scenes played out in my head. Fairly obvious what my next play will be.

And I owe it to my fellow students. That nagging feeling, that anger…it’s turned into something. It’s given birth to a veiled woman. Mysterious. Intriguing. Heartbreakingly sad.

That’s the way to use it.


I’m trying

I snapped. At Dr. T. My voice rang out over the entire waiting room. *sigh* I feel bad about it, but then, there’s my problem in one go. See? I am not stable.

To be fair to myself, it was a wind-up. My appointment time came and went. I waited patiently for 15 minutes, knowing he’d been five minutes late before. By 25 minutes, I was truly wondering if he was ill and not working. Asked at the front desk, interrupted by a small child whose question over his magazine was oh so much more important than anything any adult could be asking about (the child was not yelled at, tho that took every ounce of my self control). No, Dr. T is here; he’s just busy, please wait. Hmph. Took a seat again, waited another five minutes, this time with zero patience: sighing, checking the time on my phone, rolling my eyes, tapping my feet, and muttering under my breath. Sent off a text to my bro; the plan had been for my bro to head off and order some Chinese food while I was at the doc’s and then we’d meet back home and eat. With me cooling my heels for 40 minutes I didn’t know when I’d get out. Finally, Dr. T. came and greeted me. And that’s when it happened.

Dr. T is Asian, so he’s a bit shorter than I am. So there I am, in the waiting room, towering over this man, angry as all hell. Oh, and I was angry! Really damned angry at that point. Didn’t even LOOK at him, just had that clipped anger in my voice that I know – I know! – sounds precisely like my mother (oooh, I hate myself just thinking about that). He apologized. Twice. Even pulled up his computer schedule to prove to me he’d written the time down incorrectly – that’s how angry I was. I told him my Dutch was horrible, and it was. I tried. Tried to hear, tried to speak. Most of his words went over my head. Too much, too fast. He said we’d keep the appointment short since he was late, and I was thankful for that, at least. Caught the gist of a sentence or two: how have you been? Told him. Got a lot more words thrown at me. Then he talked about my medication. Heard ‘double to 10 milligrams’. He spent time assuring me that I’d been on 10 mg in Ireland, it was nothing to worry about. I know. I know. I also know he was quick to up my meds because of my mood.

Fifteen minutes later I was on my way home. The cynic in me noted how Dr. T got away light today: full pay for a 15 minute session. Can’t quite shake that one, tho I know it’s mean and petty of me.

And for fuck’s sake! It seems I can blast off to the moon, go hyper speed, but all of that – all of it! – is marked as ‘depression’. Really? Really really? The sweating hands, the short and bad sleep, the racing thoughts. That’s depression? Have you redefined the word? Um, okay. You’re the doc. But you’re sure? Okay, okay. I’ll take the pills.

My next appointment is set for the end of May. He’s out on holiday or some such thing; the explanation came in Dutch and I only caught part of it. I left, a little apprehensive. Managed to tell him my script is being produced, and I’m worried about myself this year due to work load and excitement levels. By the end of May I could be well into it. Wound up beyond what he’s seen me before. Maybe that’s what needs to happen. It’s not like I want to go there. I’ll be working as hard as I can to stay stable, but… It’s a big project. I know what I’m like.

So, you know…fair warning, Dr. T. You caught the edge of the beast’s teeth yesterday. You do not want that beast biting into your flesh.

Things I need to do: Finish my current book (20 pages left) and get it back to the library before I get a late fee. Buy that CD I talked about last month while I’m downtown at the library. Get back to the gym, back to my exercise routine. Comb through my lighting and sound notes, checking all the page numbers. Cull through the dialogue for the recorded voice in part one, tightening up the lines. Contact the group and nudge them to get their asses in gear for auditions. Laundry, cleaning. It’s a packed weekend for me.

Also need to get back to the dentist. That tooth is too high and it hurts every time I bite down. Oh, hell! And I need to check at the doc’s office about the last test I had. Don’t want to do either of those things.

Can’t I just sit here and magically have these things taken care of?

No-o-ope. Don’t have the mother or that kind of cash to make it happen.

Meh. This is the part of being an adult I don’t like. It’s up to you. I’m beginning to realize it’s the fact my mother never let me make any decisions that’s been the most damaging. I had little to no say in what I wore or how my hair looked for years. I was banned from getting a job as a teen and told to concentrate on my studies. I was told what friends to have, how to act, what to do, how to feel, even what I should want. Little surprise I now find it difficult as hell to make up my own mind.

Well…here I am. Imperfect and totally flawed. I never feel like I’m quite done, if you know what I mean. Too many rough spots left all over my marble. Too many poorly patched scars.

Can I love this ugliness that I am?

I’m trying.

Change what you can

Self-care: 1. Anxiety: 0.

Went to see my GP this morning about my stomach problems. It’s a long time coming; been having bouts on and off for at least 6 months now. I apologized for that. She laughed – I doubt she has many patients who apologize for NOT coming in right away. Anyhoo. She’s testing for celiac disease and blood in my stool. Joy. I’ve a bruise on my arm from my vein bleeding (ouch) and a packet-load of info in Dutch to read.

Still not sleeping great. Waking up too early, but I can’t seem to stay up any later to shift my timing. I am annoyed with myself every time I see 5 a.m. I tell myself to turn over, get some more rest – but then my head starts, and I toss, and turn… It’s worthless to stay there. Aggravating because it reminds me I can’t sleep and I want to. Better to get up and do something. Anything.

On the heels of yesterday, when I felt bloody damned discouraged with Dutch because I’d received my homework back littered with corrections, I feel better today. The nurse who took my blood talked Dutch with me, gave me a few words, and was just very kind and understanding. I understood her better than I would have 6 months ago, and I’m reminding myself of my progress. I do not expect perfection from myself. I’m not perfect in English. But I’d like to get a good deal closer to perfection than I currently am.

Hm. Bringing up my homework reminds me of my first thought when I looked at it: Damn woman! You were manic as hell when you wrote this. My teachers are right; I’m making mistakes on stuff that I shouldn’t.

The thought’s occurred to me that I’m more depressed than I realize. I saw a chart a few days ago…it showed what depression was supposed to be like. Emptiness, self-hate, rage, sorrow. All on the chart. I wondered if, once my rage and self hate were calmed, I’d feel even more depressed because that’s what’s really underneath it all.

Or maybe I just need a higher dosage of meds.

…Ach, it’s not a subject I like to think about. Which tells me it’s very possibly my problem (or one of them)…

One of the other students in class told me I shouldn’t write so much. You won’t make so many mistakes if you don’t write such long stories, she told me. This from the student who had me held up as an example by our teacher: (Beeps) writes longer stories for practice. This week, she wrote a child’s story about a mouse and a squirrel. You should try that, too… So, you know, take it with a grain of salt because I’m sure she didn’t like hearing that. Still. I got frustrated and angry. Defensive. I told her I’m a writer, I must write, it’s what I do, and I want the practice. My underlying message: fuck you if you don’t want to do the work. I do; it’s important to me and nothing you say will stop that.

I will not submit to that fucking competitive pressure bullshit! Heard that in school: you’re breaking the bell curve. Give the rest of us a break. What about me? What about my learning curve? Should I just sit around and twiddle my thumbs because the rest of you can’t keep up with me? Why should I hold myself back? Because you suddenly feel it’s some sort of competition and you’re not up to specs?

Goddamn! People don’t own that shit.

…And it isn’t easy to take. Not for me. ‘Cause I know where this goes: my isolation. Oh, they might always talk to me, but their real agenda is to use my superior knowledge to check their answers against. I’m the barrier between the teachers and the rest of the group. Already I get it: the questions, the people leaning over to look at my papers. I dislike that intensely. I feel it puts double pressure on me: I have to be right for the teachers AND the other students because I’ve performed so well. My teachers, at least, have taken my anxiety to heart. They no longer pressure me to answer if I say I don’t know. That, of course, will cause more problems in the long run because this slightly special treatment will be noticed by the others.

I keep reminding everyone I make mistakes. I don’t know. I can only do my best.

…And, you know…how long have you lived in this country? Twenty-two years? And you still talk that poorly? You still can’t read, you still can’t sound words out? I mean…Good Goddess! I would have thought some of that would have just seeped in over the years. I’m working my ass off every minute of the day to listen, learn, keep up. Don’t come at me with your hidden agenda fucking suggestions on how I should approach MY learning when you’re just so fucking lazy you won’t even make an effort!!

Oh, I’m fucking angry about that – !

What are we gonna do today, Brain? Same thing we do every day, Pinky: try to calm the fuck down. To wit: gym, reading, games, tv. Next week is holiday for Easter, so I’ve a two week gap. Thursday is rehearsal for Amsterdam – still have to run my bleeding lines, but I’m not thinking about that today. Just…calm. Settle. I took a big step this morning and my system is feeling it. Yesterday riled me up. I keep shifting between hope and despondency, and my body gets a jot of adrenaline every fucking time. Still haven’t been able to eat anything yet today.

Answer: take control. Maybe you can’t control your emotions or your body right now, but you can control the lighting in the room. You can control what’s on tv, the sound and sights around you.

Change what you can.

Tell him

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

The harder I try, the faster I go

Where is my baseline? When I’m depressed, I think ‘yep, this is where I normally live’, but when I’m manic I think ‘yep, this is where I’m meant to live’ and honestly, I just don’t know. I don’t know I know what it’s like to be happy or excited without being manic. I don’t know I know what it’s like to be sad or blue without being depressed. I don’t know that I’ve spent one minute of my life in a “normal” human mode without an extreme taking over.

My fears and frustrations did what they always end up doing to me: they pushed me into action. In the last 48 hours I’ve designed and prepped a flyer for my play; designed and prepped a teaser video for said play; brainstormed on marketing and advertising strategies (three pages worth); searched in English and Dutch for venues, bloggers, and anything remotely connected with theatre and the arts; and brainstormed, researched, and decided upon a tag line for the entire production. That’s in addition to reading several chapters in my book, writing three pages of narrative in Dutch, finishing my homework, getting to the gym, and keeping up on the housework.

Just a little manic (and yes, that’s sarcastic, I’m out in the fucking stratosphere, people).

In some ways, this is just my life. My pattern is to think for a long time. It looks like I’m doing jack shit, but in truth I’m working my ass off contemplating whatever it is I’ve got in my sights. When I finally do make a move, I’ve thought it out so completely that it goes at lightening speed. The flyer I designed was a perfect example: thought about it for days but the physical process of putting it together took me less than 30 minutes, and that includes searching for and manipulating a copyright free picture to use in the background. Same with the teaser video. Boom, boom, boom – one, two, three – and it’s done. Now both projects must sit on my desktop because neither can be released before I have performance dates and venues. … But, yeah. I’m always in feast or famine mode. It’s the natural of the way I work. Catch me in famine mode and you’ll think I spend my days sitting around on my ass playing games and watching tv. Catch me in feast mode and you’ll think I never sit down nor stop working.


The internet cut me off. Yeah. Even the Universe is flipping telling me to STOP.

Trying to divvy up my time. An hour here, an hour there. Move around and don’t stay with anything too long. It isn’t really working. I’m fighting it, wanting to keep going once I get going. Or I get up and try something else to little effect and return to my obsession. Try this, write that idea down, search that. If I don’t slow down I’ll have all the ‘jobs’ finished before I even talk to the director about the production.

And no matter what I cajole my body into doing, my head stays on topic, never leaving it for long, never ceasing to think of new ideas, new approaches, new considerations. Mentally, I like being here. It is full of hope and energy. I also know it’s a danger point.

Food is never far from my thoughts these days. Don’t skip meals. Eat something. Mornings I feel like I have to shove food down my throat. Evenings I feel like I can’t eat enough. Been trying to just go with the flow as best as possible, but working out at the gym or any other afternoon activity throws a wrench into it: go too hard in the afternoon and I drop. Ergo, I need food before I do my afternoon activities. But I then I’m shoving food again, feeling like I’m eating unnecessarily when I’m not hungry. Tried riding out the morning and eating after the gym, which works to an extent. It screws up my dinner time, tho, and I don’t like that. The experience just serves to bring me back to the beginning: gods, I wish I didn’t have to eat at all.

Fucking three dimensional carbon based life forms! What a wet sack of shit we’re all caught in. My body just slows me down. The pain, the need to sleep, to rest, to eat. It disrupts my work, and that irritates me. I do my best to remind myself that this is reality as I know it; the animal is part of me, treat it like a well loved pet rather than an often kicked dog. Gah! It ain’t easy.

Thinking about tackling those big cleaning jobs around the house, the ones I do once every six months or so. It’s time; the place needs it. It would also be something else to keep me occupied and at least physically away from obsessing (and it would allow me ample time to just think about things). That’s hardly ‘rustig’, tho. My best bet is to try reading again, tho lately I’m so squirrelly I have a difficult time sitting even for that.

I can feel my routine break down. See it, even. I was so stable for so long. Get up, eat oatmeal, exercise, Dutch, afternoon writing, evening tv, sleep. Now, it’s all out the window. Can’t eat in the mornings, exercise is a vague maybe, Dutch homework is still a drag tho reading has become a joy, my only writing is my obsessive marketing information collection, evening tv is on but largely unwatched because I’m fucking obsessed and only thinking of my work, and sleep is a toss and turn and check the clock to see if I can get up and start again.

I’ve been here before. I know what this is.

And the harder I try to slow down, the faster I go…

The animal

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

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

It’s a constant trigger.

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

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

It is sickening.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That part of us we can’t escape.

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

The animal.

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

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…

Yellow Card

Patterns. If you don’t see them in your life, you are truly lost. And if you do see them, you run the risk of madness trying to figure out the ‘why’.

Very aware this morning that I’m reacting exactly as I did as a kid. Hurt me, and I withdraw. I don’t say ‘ow’, I don’t put up a fight verbally or mentally, I just never forgive you. Ever. Why didn’t you speak up? Gee, I don’t know. Why do you lack such basic human decency that you think what you did was acceptable?

I’ve never found explaining myself to be of much use. People do what people do. Oh, you might embarrass them for a moment. Make them blush, stammer, even apologize. But then they’re right back at it. It has become a habit; it is their pattern. People are, above all else, lazy. They do not want to challenge themselves, they do not want to make real changes to their lives. So they’ll hear your explanation, and if they want to continue using you in the future they’ll go through the motions of apologizing and promising to change. But very little changes.

Most of the time, I chalk this up to ignorance. It is a fact of my life that I must, on a daily basis, deal with people who just aren’t as bright as I am. That doesn’t mean they don’t know more about a certain subject than I do, nor does that mean they’re wrong in any manner. But they’re slow. Slow as molasses on an icy cold January morning. I feel slow and stupid most of the time, and I catch on at lightning speed compared to some. So, sure. I could lay out my line of reasoning. I could explain why I was hurt, what’s bothering me, etc. But they won’t get it. They’ll blow over it, make fun of it, make me a laughing stock for even bringing it up, keep it as one more thing to whip out every time I open my mouth for the next thousand years, but they won’t get it. That stems from their inability to look for their own answers. They can’t tear down that paper thin ego they’ve built up because they’ve hidden too much behind it – and they’re terrified. Everybody goes through this. I’ve gone through it, and expect to keep going through it at various times of my life. It’s a denial, because to admit the truth would be to reveal the ugly side of our own nature.

That has been my reality. All my life. I’ve felt damned. Intelligent enough to see the patterns, to recognize what’s going on, but not verbose enough or bright enough or good enough to be able to convey the message. It’s very frustrating. I have yet to find the words that capture what I’m trying to say.

Caught this morning in repetitive thoughts. Tomorrow is class, and the negative scenarios are blooming in my brain like deadly flowers. Obviously, a part of me is trying to protect myself. I’m trying to show myself every single way I think things can go wrong, so I can be ‘mentally prepared’. Angry retorts are on my tongue. The best I can do is imagine myself falling quiet. An old habit. An ancient pattern. It does not leave me feeling good, but then, I can’t imagine this and leave myself feeling good. I am always left angry, or frustrated and near tears. The best I’ve been able to imagine involves scathing sarcasm. That, at least, allows me to get out my pent up anger and my message to fuck off without screaming. But I don’t want to do that. I don’t want to react that way. More withdrawal: I see myself sitting quietly, barely speaking, and reading my book during the break. It’s the only way I know how to protect myself and everyone else at the same time. …That’s a statement that’s difficult to get beyond. It’s so. fucking. true.

I’ve judged myself as dangerous to the masses, so I’ve withdrawn. Have I always done that? …My memory wants to tell me it was a two-way street. Hurt by someone, withdraw. Hurt by another, withdraw more. Certainly, that was the pattern at home. Don’t talk about how much mommy hurt you. Here’s a present, go play. Alone. In the corner. Just so long as you don’t bother mommy anymore. And maybe that’s how it began. I would have had four years of that instilled in me before I was sent into the world. It’s a powerfully reinforced cycle.

People have told me I need to pick apart this pattern. That it builds walls. I must speak up, say what I need to say. Stay calm, don’t get angry. But I am angry, and I don’t know how not to be unless you give me time and space to calm down. That much, I’ve learned. Sometimes the best thing for me is to walk away before saying anything else. Take a walk. Have a smoke. Write. Get a handle on what I’m going through before I try to explain it. Very few people allow me that. My brother does. He knows this about me. He doesn’t like it, but he does respect it because when he lets me do it, we can get back together and really talk without all that anger.

Hey, cheer up, Beeps. You naturally went to what you needed: time and silence. Your instincts on this were 100% accurate. You’re just missing a teensy, tiny bit: asking for that space. I know! You shouldn’t have to ask for it. But this is the real world, and you do. You don’t have to explain yourself. You don’t have to bare you soul to the world. You just have to ask for a little time and space.

Advice to myself: talk to your teachers. Tell them. Develop a cue you can use in class that just says I’m frustrated and angry, so please just pass me by right now.

Avoid the worst. Give ’em a yellow card.

The last vestige

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

Gods, healing is gross.

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

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

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

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

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

That might explain it

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

That might explain it…