I want to remember

Not certain what I’m feeling. I wanted to come out here and say ‘yep; all is well – I worked out and did some Dutch and tidied up the house and it’s all good’. I did do all that, and I do feel good about it but…and…there’s something else niggling at me, and I can’t quite put my finger on it.

Maybe it’s the recognition of my higher language use. I feel lately like I’m moving beyond the other students. They seem to have problems with things that are very basic, stuff I’m surprised even trips them up. And I know I’m the only real reader in class. Guess I’m feeling like it won’t be too long before I hear ‘you really need to move up a level’ again. And I don’t want to hear that quite yet. I’ve already heard how I could move up, I’m ready and can handle the task. Soon, I’ll have to move up because they’ll be repeating lessons I already know and I’ll be bored. Just have this feeling… Had a couple of word puzzles as homework, and one was particularly tough. I got thru it, but I don’t imagine the other students will have.

Or maybe it’s the whole theatre group thing. Still nothing. May is literally only a few days away and not one plan has been made to even call for auditions. I’m totally uncomfortable with that. And I’m not sure why the group feels they can master my work in less time than they allowed for other plays. Sure, it’s action driven and all that, but most of the group haven’t even read the story yet.

I have not, of course, done the one thing I really need to do: check back with the doctor’s office on the last round of tests. *sigh* Starting with that will probably help. I don’t sit on things well.

Keep forgetting to take my pill. What began at 11 a.m. is now 4 in the afternoon, and I hope it doesn’t swing all the way to my bedtime. I suppose that shows the medicine is working; I’m feeling good enough and engaged enough that I don’t think about it. Still. I do NOT want to miss a day. Don’t think that would help me one bit. Thus far, I’ve only managed to remember taking the damned thing two days in a row at the same time so I’ve no pattern set up to help me remember the ritual. Damn, damn, damn. Not sure what to do to help me remember. Thought about setting my alarm, but then I have to remember to set my alarm every day and turn it off every night so it doesn’t wake me up in the middle of sleep (because yes, I have an old fashioned alarm clock of only 12 hours, not a digital 24 hour clock). Yeesh.

…Guess I’m just feeling my sorrow. That deep disappointment that sits within me. I find the manner of people around me – especially those I grew up with – so utterly fucking disappointing. And it’s not coming from so much a judgmental viewpoint; I’m not saying how horrible they are. It’s more…I keep kind of seeing things thru their eyes. Seeing me thru their eyes, hearing their responses anew from their perspective. I get what they tried to do. I also acknowledge they did a really shitty job of it.

I acknowledge that every time my sister called me a liar, she was loudly proclaiming that is SHE who was the liar. I acknowledge my oldest brother and sister are narcissistic shits. Spoiled fucking rotten, brought up to think they’re the hottest shit on earth and let me tell you, they’ll never let you forget that. Again: they spewed that at me, and I recognize that anything said repeatedly by one person is a better indication of what THEY’RE doing rather than anything else. They are spoiled. They are brats. They are narcissists. They are sluts, and thieves, and liars. I do not like them.

…I do not like them. *sigh* I shoulda run away at 17, when that impulse was so strong in me. Left and never looked back. I stayed to honor my parents. First, my mother – whom I thought I loved, and I suppose underneath all the complicated crap she set up in me I do love her but I’m having a damned hard time feeling it these days. Then my father, and I’ll never regret the time I spent with him or what I did those final weeks of his life. I exposed myself to my siblings’ bullshit on purpose, knowing what I was walking into, counting the cost and finding it worth the price. But it took it’s toll on me. I see that now: the mess of mourning, regret, sorrow, and then the added blame and guilt and anger.

And the deepest sorrow sits in me because I long for what we could have been. We could have been a family that supports each other. I’ve met them now; they’re out there. We could have been a family that stays close, despite geographical distances. Somehow writing to my uncle is more important to my siblings than responding to a message from me, tho I don’t know why and I gave up trying years ago. …I can imagine how we could have been stronger together. Instead, we tore each other apart.

For my part…I’m still too angry. Still too willing to whip out the big guns in my head to use against these two people. To my sister, with a cool disdainful look: Tell me, are you still taking it up the ass or has your boyfriend managed to find your vagina? To my brother, with a sneer: So tell me, how much of your thinking brain did they actually scoop out with that tumor?

That is not someone willing to forgive and forget.

But maybe that’s the difference between us. My siblings do an awful lot to help them forget.

I want to remember.

Advertisements

Beginnings

Beginnings are tough. The first word on a page. The first day of a new job. Seems just about everything in life turns into a metaphoric pair of shoes: you gotta wear ’em in a bit and get used to them. And until you do, you’re a bit uncomfortable. A little too aware of where they are rubbing at your heel or pinching your toes. Hopefully the shoes give a bit with time, and the heel rubbing and toe pinching stops. Meanwhile, you hang in there with that new pair because you just bought them, or they look good, or you so want them to work for you.

My metaphoric new shoes were my return to the gym. I found it tough just walking thru the door because it’s been too long. Kept to the exercise bike and treadmill. Too long = I’m weak as shit, so no big push until I can do the bike and the treadmill without sweating. No weights, either, until I know my wrist won’t start hurting again (this is the third day without pain, and I’m just enjoying it). Felt good to stretch out and use my muscles. But now I’m telling myself how I need to go and do it again and… Ugh. Again? And again and again and again? Is there no end?

…You were expecting an end?

That’s the topper, isn’t it? We live in a false world full of ends. Stories end, films end, days end, years end… But that’s not true. The story continues, the film could go on, and we live in an unending time continuum. It would be better just to say ‘here’s where the story stops’ or ‘here’s where this day becomes the next’. ‘End’ is a misnomer.

We have come to expect ends. An end to life, an end to pain… We tend to call the culmination of our dreams ‘the end’, although it’s really just another beginning. Dieters dream of their restricted meals ending, schoolchildren long for the end of the school year. Focusing on ends pushes our vision into the past: the end of an era, the end of ‘the good old days’, etc. We want to wrap things up in tight bundles: here it is; finite and complete. Take a picture, and bemoan about your memories for the rest of time.

This behavior blinds us to the continuity surrounding us. To the flow. To seeing how one thing leads to another, then another.

Too many people seem to be asking ‘how did we get here?’ when the answer seems obvious to me. Stop viewing time as frozen bits of truth. The past does not contain our truth. It only contains the seed of what we are now, and if you’re blind to that you’ll never recognize it even if it bites you on the nose.

Look to the past to discover who you are. Look to the future to find who you can be.

I have looked to my past. Kept my eyes inwards, downwards, searching, asking. I can’t bemoan any of that right now. It’s served me well in many instances, and made me a better person.

But now I look up. Literally. Used to walk down the street looking down, watching where I put my foot so I didn’t trip or turn an ankle. Now I look at the sky and trees. It’s amazing what I see when I stop looking at the ground. I forgot the world held so much color and variety.

Often I’ve been called a ‘starter’ rather than a ‘finisher’. I can finish projects – make no mistake about that. But I’ve started more than I’ve finished. In the past, that’s been used against me. Shamed me. This morning I can only see my behavior as evidence of my underlying optimism. I kept starting. Kept trying to reset. Toss away the shame of ‘not finishing’ and see what you were really doing: continual movement, continual attempts to change things in positive manners. Me grasping for me. Oh, little girl! You did so well! You just never gave up, no matter what. You hated yourself, you hated life, you didn’t understand so much, but you just kept at it. … Now, that’s a solid feeling. One that doesn’t flutter in briefly and leave me the next moment. It is deep and heavy, yet light…

I have allowed so much shame to cover me in the hopes that it would bring me love. I let myself be used physically, like a bag of garbage. I let myself be lied about, let the worst be thought about me, without one word of defense. I let others’ judgements rule me: how I should act, what I should want, how I should look or be.

…I suppose in my world, being yelled at for this or that was the only attention I really received. Being good never got it. I was never good enough to be praised for being good, only told I could never be the best, the prettiest, the most talented because there would always be someone better than me. Getting yelled at, though… Now, that I excelled at. I was the worst ever. The most base slut on the planet, the worst drug addict, the biggest liar, the most horrible thief, the worst person you could ever know.

It seems I could be the best at something, then.

…Yikes. That’s a hard one to swallow. Years of bad behavior in a textbook case of an unloved and unwanted child seeking attention.

That’s my seed from the past. It grew me into who I am today. But who I am today, when I step outside the door, is totally up to me. I can go out there loaded for bear, ready to take issue with everyone and everything.

Or I can take my seed and go out with gentle patience and understanding. Knowing my seed can’t grow under certain conditions. It’s part of what it is.

My new beginning.

I need some help today

My computer screams the Golden Question at me. I made a meme for my desktop: bright green and yellow. Can’t miss it. Not sure how long I’ll keep it up, but for now it’s a good reminder. Always asking that question behind my browser, or the files I keep out on my desktop.

Got to the gym. Disappointed to find the CD I bought (and loaded into my iPod) was 20% rockin’ and 80% downtempo. I was hoping for the reverse. I have no need for downtempo music right now. I want tribal beats, and throbbing bass. I want my feet to move, I want to get up out of my chair and go, not sit there and sob, thinking about my past mistakes. Still. It’s new, and I enjoy the EQ of the band. Decided I am too flabby and gone to hit the cross trainer; went to the exercise bikes instead. Just get moving, woman! You’ll pick back up that enthusiasm for the gym if you can just break out of this inertia.

Practiced saying no. I’d told my bro about the Twin Peaks revival on sale, and he calculated and found enough money to purchase it. Yesterday morning he came out with a pre-paid credit card, slapped it down on the table, and proceeded to tell me there was enough cash on it to get the DVDs so I could just head downtown and buy it if I wanted. Although I was pleased and excited, it wasn’t what I was planning on. Suddenly, my day tipped: I felt my head scramble to rearrange all those ‘taking care of myself’ things in order to run downtown. I sighed, and thought. My brother said: You don’t have to go if you don’t want to. I can stop and pick it up. I thought some more, then tried something different: While I’m excited about getting the DVDs, and I want them, I don’t really like unexpected things to pop up in my schedule. I find it unsettling. That still wasn’t clear enough. Do you want me to just pick them up? Deep breath. Yes. Yes, I do.

That was difficult for me. My brother does a lot of the running around for the house: grocery shopping, errands, etc. There are many days I don’t step outside the door. When something like that comes up on a day I know he’s got other plans, I feel like I should go and do whatever he’s suggesting. But I stuck to my guns. Me, me, me. I needed the gym like I sometimes need a shower. I felt it right down to the most inner part of me. Good on me for that!

Watched the first four occurrences of the new Twin Peaks. One can hardly say ‘episodes’, can one? Episodes is an American term reserved for things like Dharma and Greg: simple set-up, repetitive plots, one basic set. David Lynch is an occurrence. It happens. You watch, because you can’t not watch. Lynch has a rare gift, in my opinion. He mixes the surreal with enough easy to understand reality based action to give you a sense that you kind of know what’s going on, but you’re left puzzling over many elements, wondering what symbolism the imagery held (because when Lynch wants you to see symbolism, he makes it bloody obvious that it’s symbolism, even if you don’t get the meaning behind it). Hm. I am not yet at the point where I could write some of the scenes I witnessed last night. Though there’s one thing I would have done differently, if I was Lynch. I would have had Cooper smash that white marble statue he keeps seeing in the red room. Cooper in the red room is very much a visitor, led by others, reacting. After 25 years, I’d think he’d try something different: take action, not just react. But, that’s me. My characters take action, even if that action isn’t the best choice for the moment. Cooper is very passive. I guess that tells me something about Lynch. …I don’t know what to think of the new series yet. I’m geeking out on everyone who’s in it. Thrilled that Lynch and Frost wanted to pick up the thread of the story again. Dyin’ to get further into the story. Happy to be watching such open ended imagery right now; it shuts my head up like nothing else. Huh. What the fuck -? 

…My question for myself today (and a little test I set up for myself) is: Can I ask for help? I left all the housework undone. The place needs a full top to bottom scrub, and it’s a big job. My brother is not scheduled to head off, so he should be here. Now…I want him to get off his ass and hoover the place. I’ll do dusting, and sink and toilet duty. I’d really like to clean my own room, and that’s the only way possible I’ll have enough energy to do it all: with help. Fu-u-uck. Will he just see it if I complain loudly enough? Hm… Maybe. Maybe not. And that’s not the point of the test. The point of the test is to speak up. Say it. You said ‘no’ yesterday, now say ‘please help me’. You can do it.

I’m prompting a very reluctant toddler in my brain. She is pouting and silent. Asking for help is bad. Weak. Something to be avoided. …You know who else did that, right? You know who you’re sounding like more and more, don’t you? And you said a long time ago that you don’t want to be anything like her. You see her flaws more than ever now. Learn from them. Don’t go down the same path.

I guess parents do teach their kids something, even if it’s just the stubborn refusal to end up like their elders.

I need some help today.

And so it goes…

Blank wall. Been trying to remember lately. Nothing worse than trying to force something; it never comes when you want it. I’ve had repressed memories surface. A strange, disjunct experience that disturbed me greatly. I quickly learned to tell myself it was okay, that I was protecting myself until I felt I could handle the memories. I’m telling myself that again. That whatever comes up, it’s okay. I’ll be here for myself.

But there is a wall of grey nothingness. Just…fog. I see that younger me, I feel her. But there’s nothing. No surfaced memories of long repressed angst or abuse. No ‘oh, yes, I remember that incident; it changed my life’. Just that teenaged awareness, that awkwardness, and the same old body issues that have plagued me forever.

Tore through more than 50 pages in my Dutch book yesterday. Now there’s one thing I’ve rediscovered: my obsessive love of a good story. I’m gobbling it up, so enthused I have to share every bit of the adventure with my bro (who is getting sick of hearing about it). In the last 10 years, I set myself the task of reading more ‘classics’. Many I’ve enjoyed, but some have left me feeling like I’m back in school. Read it because. Because it’s listed as a classic, because people talk about it, because. Not because I enjoy it.

I’m loving this book. Both for the story, and for the fact that I’m understanding the language. It’s a reinforcing circle. Haven’t felt this way for…well, since I was a teen.

Forecast today is for snow. The country is on yellow alert. The Midwesterner in me laughs; this country is much like Texas or Florida. They shut down for a dusting. Today we might get 1 to 3 cm. Ooooo! lol. But it’s good warning. They put out alerts because it isn’t the Midwest, and people don’t normally carry shovels and a bag of sand in the trunks of their cars. Same with sidewalks. Shovel…sidewalks? What, are you picking up the cobblestones and re-laying them? This leads to some icy patches until it warms up enough to melt everything. That’s a serious subject for me. Icy patches mean risk of falling and hurting myself. Plans are to get out and do what I need to do early, then return home to snuggle under my blanket and READ.

Have to get back to writing, too. Didn’t finish my homework yet. But later, later…after I find out the next bit of the story. Or maybe after the next chapter. Or…oh, hell! There’s only 50 odd pages left in the book. Just finish it!

…On the heels of rediscovering my love of reading, I’m also rediscovering a very uncomfortable guilt. I feel guilty reading all day. Isn’t that silly? But I was raised that way, getting yelled at if I read books all day long. That probably tells you everything you ever needed to know about my mother: she bloody well yelled at and belittled me for improving my mind. No wonder I’m all hung up about excelling intellectually or just giving myself the pleasure – the pleasure – of reading all afternoon. Unwinding that guilt is tough. It’s all tied up in my mother issues and my feelings of self-worth.

*sigh* I compare myself to others to try and figure out if I’m a wimp or not. I know it isn’t healthy or ‘right’. I’m just admitting to it. Pain levels in particular are something I’ve had to do that with: I was taught my pain was nothing, I shouldn’t even complain about it. Now, as adult, all I get are confirmations that that idea was wrong. Doctors look at me in horror. Everyone asks why I let things get so bad. …The thing that’s strong in my mind this morning is when my mother told me about her bout with shingles. She said it was the most painful experience of her life. Caveat: that was before the cancer. Nonetheless, it’s important. Because I can say with 100% certainty that the pain I complained about and was told I should ignore was much worse than shingles. My mother was the wimp, not me. She was the whiny one, gobbling up pain pills three times too powerful for what she had. She was the one who drugged me as a child. And she drugged me a lot: when I got sick, when I went to the dentist, when she got sick of me. Not when I complained of pain in my hands or feet. No. Those were growing pains, and must simply be endured. Deal. [And…erm…WHO taught me to use drugs recreationally??]

I hope some small part of my mother’s soul is still aware, and knows just how fucking much I hate her for what she did. It was such a head-fuck.

Two days into exercises for my jaw and OW! Took one of my last morphine pills last night because it just had that sharp, painful ache going. I might have to get a refill on those. Do not want to be caught without pain pills and then have it hit me like it did. Haha! And here it is Friday, and me with only two pills left. Better sign into the pharmacy and order them right now.

Ye Gods!

And so it goes…

Save yourself

Slept decently. Yea! Small victories are sometimes the most important.

Woke, however, with one thing on my mind: the friend request on FB from an ex-neighbor who done me wrong. I’ve let it sit for a month, as I do when I’m unsure of what action I should take. I finally woke this morning finding I had something to say.

We are not friends. Not since you so coldly shut me out over the farmers’ market. Why are you asking to be my friend now? Do you think I’d simply forget your refusal to give me a lift, your refusal to talk to me at the time? Do you think friends simply ignore past problems and they’re magically white-washed away?

I was, and still am, hurt over your actions.

In fact, every single one of the women involved in that incident can go to hell. You all wanted to cheat the system, to by-pass the law, to sell illegally, and, most importantly, to sell substandard and dangerous products to the public. I didn’t call in any inspector for you or anyone else at the market, it was for me. Of course the inspector then saw the signs in town, and of course she checked things out. That was her job! And the law. And if people got in hot water because their kitchens were filthy and they were finally found out, it isn’t MY fault. Never was. It’s THEIR fault. Yet, I was blamed and ostracized.

I suppose in a strange way I should say thanks. I didn’t know at the time what a den of thieves and liars I was getting involved with, and that incident showed me beyond a shadow of a doubt that you are people I do not want to associate with.

Live your life out on your tiny plot of land at the end of that peninsula. Take what joy you can from the life you’ve created. I wish you no ill.

But stop asking me to be your friend.

Again, this is sitting on my desktop unsent. I’ll think about it for a few more days before I do anything. All I want from this communication is to state what I feel and think. How easy to tell someone how I feel if I don’t really care about them! Easy! This is it; you fucked up and I’m hurt. Wish I could do that with everybody.

But, I can’t. The more I care, the more I risk by telling my truth. And the more difficult my truth becomes to state.

I don’t trust a lot of people with my truth. That’s a mess. Don’t state the truth, resentment builds, eventually there’s an argument – which I don’t want in the first place. I’m working on it. Still haven’t got to the point I can say something like ‘Ow, that hurts’ when people say hurtful things to me, but the day is coming. I have some fresh, powerful memories of feeling good about myself and being around positive people. That helps immensely. I’m less likely to take shit right now because I’ve had a taste of what good relations feel like.

And I don’t want to be angry about this. I don’t want to stand up for myself with a red face, yelling or screaming.

I just want to be able to stand.

…That’s not asking too much, is it?

*sigh* And the thought occurs that I may have to do this over and over. Tell my truth to the people I was too afraid to say it to before. Seems to keep cropping up. Just when I think I’ve shaken off the last of my past, someone comes creeping back with a message or a friend request. …The weirdest part is that I know I’m making this harder than it needs to be. I’m the one reluctant to take the chance. And I’m the one who needs to be brave right now. Do it. I risk nothing by stating my truth; they’re already out of my life.

Shatter that last barrier.

No. more. abuse. Not physical, not mental, not spiritual. I have my foothold now. I know what it’s supposed to look and feel like. I found that ‘click’ with people I’ve been so desperately searching for. They’ve made me see a part of me I didn’t know I kept hidden. And they loved it, and loved me, and I loved them in return.

Your family shouldn’t hold you back. Your friends shouldn’t drag you down. If you’re out there in whatever time and space you occupy and the people around you make you continuously feel shitty about yourself, get the fuck out. Now. Don’t think about what you’ll be losing. You’re trained to think that way. You’ve been conditioned, subordinated, brainwashed. Just get the fuck out. You’ve a lifetime to sort thru everything, so give yourself that lifetime. Get. out.

And yes, you’ll be called a runner. A coward, for leaving. These people will try to shame you even as you attempt to save yourself. Ignore them. Leave. Cut all ties. Change your name. Whatever you have to do to get away from them, do it.

Save yourself.

Try, learn, and do better

I really must learn to stay off social media.

Found a FB post from my eldest bro. He left a comment on his own page – not tagged to me, not sent to me – saying ‘happy birthday to my little sister even tho ya don’t give a fuck about yer American family’.

Do not want to admit it, but my heart is beating damned fast right now. And my angry replies are bubbling to the forefront – “listen, you sexist racist bigoted mother fucker…”.

Wish crap like that didn’t affect me. At all. Wish I could have seen it and coolly just moved on. Still want to defend myself, lash out, blame, make them SEE. Since I know going direct to the source is a waste of my time, I came out here. To be safe. To say what I needed to say.

Ow.

Odd how, even knowing what a piece of shit I’m dealing with, I let it affect me. I guess that’s programming at its basest level.

Here is my flaw: I want too much to be loved. And I’ve been made to feel that it’s my fault that I don’t get what I want from my family. They were never wrong. They ARE never wrong. It’s me. My fault for wanting, my fault for feeling, my fault for thinking and hoping.

I have met strangers who were kinder to me than you. People who wanted nothing from me, and gave me everything. And you dare to call me family? You dare to approach me with guilt and shame, bullying and controlling tactics? You hurt me, I walk away, and I am accused non-stop of being a child, being wrong, being whatever it is you call me in the depths of your oh-so-perverted mind. Fuck you ’til the end of time. I hate you. With every fiber of my being, I hate what you are, what you stand for. Your ignorance, your total disregard for anyone other than yourself, your fixation on money, money, money, your blatant LACK of caring on the most basic of levels. You have no right to shame me, you piece of shit.

…My oldest brother will die before hearing from me. That’s his punishment. And maybe some people think I’ve no right to mete out my own punishment. Maybe that’s even true. But I’m tired of waiting for the Universe or some Goddess to make things right. I don’t want to strike out; that will be detrimental to my own psyche and THAT is what I’m concentrating on. Not him or his “feelings”. I’ve no time for the latent incest-ridden fantasies my eldest brother holds.

And yeah, that shows a distinct lack of character on my part. I’ve witnessed people stand in the midst of an emotional storm and keep their balance. It can be done. Those that have done it have earned great respect from me. They’ve shown me what can be done, if you stay centered and grounded. I want to be like that. To be able to have my say, take the backlash, smile sadly and turn away without hurting anyone.

I ain’t got enough drugs to make that happen.

So I protect myself and everyone else by staying silent. I say nothing, again.

You know…I should at least give myself credit for having the strength to do that. To walk away, rather than engage.

Good. on. me.

In 20 minutes, I need to begin verb conjugation. Write out the irregular verbs. Again. Try to mash them into my brain one more time. I will get this. I will get this!! Try, make mistakes, learn, do it better next time. That’s the level I’m reduced to. No grand schemes, no lofty goals. Just try, learn, and do better.

Yep. That’s a good motto for today.

Dead from the belly-button both ways

Your brain isn’t broken. It’s not! It’s impossible, so just stop saying it.

Do not know how long I worked on Dutch yesterday. I can tell you I began before my brother came out for breakfast, and finished just before dinner. Several times walking away in there; I kept telling myself I’d done enough, stop, take a break. I’d get up, walk away for half an hour…then come back and do more. Couldn’t stop. Don’t know if it was guilt from not doing enough last week or just stubbornness.

And I looked up every word I didn’t know. Wrestled with every sentence to fully understand the little turns of phrase. I even bloody well wrote my little story for next week, keeping it short, keeping it simple, and doing my best at every turn to use our current homework words.

Determined to make notes on what my instructor tells me today, but not necessarily change my answers. Last week she let four mistakes slip by her. She’s not infallible, and unless I really understand her corrections I’m not making them. Better to learn from my mistakes than give a wrong answer she told me to write down – that just frustrates the hell out of me, because I have no justifications or logic behind my answer other than ‘my instructor told me that was right’, which is NO justification at all.

I DID take the time to read part three of my thriller trilogy. Just enjoyed it. Think I want to expand one scene, add a bit to it and give one character a few more lines. Other than that, it’s ready to go. It’s tense and creepy (just what I wanted) and other than having to buy a prop gun for the finale, it doesn’t call for much in the way of props.

Also took the time to walk my agenda out. Gotta light a fire under my ass. Time is slipping away from me. To make my commitment to the group and present them with a finished draft of the trilogy, I’ll have to write non-stop over Xmas. So, this weekend I have to start correcting Taman. Can’t put it off any longer. Need it done and off the system so I can move on.

Trying to stop saying ‘I’m doing my best’. I’m always doing my best, but it’s beginning to sound like an excuse. I’m one of those people who always did well at whatever she tackled, so it’s difficult for me to accept my errors and mistakes. Trying to make sure I always AM doing my best: putting in the time and doing as much as I can without driving myself insane. Or making myself ill.

Feels like I have very little me time. Which is silly, because everything I do I do for me, but… I guess I’ve grown accustomed to having ample time to sit and think. About stories, about the news, about my past, about life. That’s the time that’s disappearing. While I agree I need a balance – time to think AND things to do – I don’t know where that balance is. And let’s face it: I tend to overdo things. Exercise? I have to go run myself into the ground. Dutch? I want to master everything overnight. Writing? Days lost in a concentrative trance. I don’t do things on a small level. So I’m naturally worried about overload. That side of me that bites and growls, that side of me that people stare at…

And there’s my problem. I lost in for a short time in Monday’s class, and one of the instructors shot me that look. If you’re a person who loses it on occasion, I’m sure you know the look I’m talking about. That startled deer in the headlights gaze: frozen in surprise, with just a hint of fear showing somewhere around the eyes.

I have made an oath to not do that kind of thing a million times. And a million times, I’ve broken that oath.

That’s what’s bugging me. I did it again. (Can you smell the blame?)

Fuck.

Maybe I do need medication. Lately… Let’s just say I’ve had this small stream of people’s facial reactions run in a loop in my brain. Those startled looks I get, all piled up, one after the other. I feel wrong. It’s my fault. My fault that I do it, my fault that I’m too fucking chicken shit to go thru the whole process and find a medication that works for me. And I just think, you really never feel this way? It’s hard for me to grasp. No. Not just hard; impossible. I can’t imagine it. Can’t imagine being so balanced, so calm, so together that I never lose it.

Where’s the bloody passion? It just makes me want to grab people and shake them. Shake them and shake them and shake them until their eyeballs fall out of their sockets. Feel something, damn it! React! Wake the fuck up!

I realize a society based on passionate people would be very chaotic. But sometimes it feels like I’m the only person awake on this planet. Everybody else is asleep. Busy in their little worlds, with their little dreams. They see but don’t see, hear but don’t hear, care but don’t care. And while I can blissfully experience that kind of distraction while obsessing over something like my work, I cannot fathom being there 24/7.

To quote my dad, you’re all dead from the belly-button both ways.

I’ll take the stars

Well. I took my time off right to the edge. Don’t think I could have sat around on my ass for another hour without going ballistic. Headed to the gym, ready to kill anyone in my way or myself if no easy victim showed up between home and there. Did not hold back – couldn’t hold back. Impressed myself with my iron stomach muscles, easily lifting both legs off the floor and holding for a count of 10. Impressed myself again on the cross trainer, blowing thru an 8 minute kilometer and topping 3.7 km at 30 minutes. And then the free weights – DAMN, girl! Is that muscle I see in your arms? Lift, lift, pant, think about the meaning of life, lift, pant some more.

I’m going back for more today.

My rheumatologist is happy. My condition is stable, and my joints show no signs of decay since my last x-rays. Yippee. Even said I could try to take the methotrexate down if I felt up to it. Assured her that although my hair loss continues, I know I can’t go without these drugs – and if I do go bald, I’m tattooing my entire head. Got that gold star I always want from someone plastered on my forehead: good on me for exercising, good on me for weight loss, good on me for doing so much. I needed that.

Upset with myself. Realize I’ve got a mother-thing going with one of my teachers. They gave us a spot check test just before class ended – those pesky irregular verbs. Oh, the look of disappointment that crossed my teacher’s face when I didn’t get the answer correct! And the gut wrenching hit of guilt that washed over me – I didn’t do enough, I didn’t try hard enough, I’m not good enough or smart enough or – … That shit has got to stop. Right here and now. I am NOT learning Dutch from a mother substitute. I refuse. For the last 36 hours I’ve been telling myself I’m doing what I can, when I can. I’m learning faster and faster, more and more. I’ll get it. I’ll get it. But Gods! It feels like one of my old nightmares. I get surrounded by these huge, disappointed faces (in my head; I’m not actually surrounded by monster faces – tho mentally, that’s the picture I have). I feel small, ashamed, and trapped. It’s not a good combination. Working to shrink those disappointed faces down to mini-size. Being as triggered as I am, it’s a real challenge.

Bolstering myself up with my newly grown confidence in my English writing. Think I’ll take time – this morning, while it’s quiet – to read part three. Haven’t had the time to do so since I banged out the first draft. I’m already reviewing it in my head, making mental notes of changes to add. But I want to just experience it, front to end, without interruption. How well did I capture what I see?

Had a good, long, hearty laugh yesterday. Was talking to my bro (big surprise) about social situations. We’ve both got our problems. Mentioned my lack of filters, how I can’t stop blurting out these deep truths. My brother laughed, and said ‘What do you expect? You learned your social skills from an agoraphobe.’ Yeah. Dad was very anti-social. More than six people in a room and he got real nervous. As a kid, I didn’t realize this. I knew Dad was less social than my mother. But he didn’t talk about it. It wasn’t until I was 15 or 16 and we had tickets to a show downtown that I realized Dad had problems in public situations. He became more and more wound up the further into the city we drove. He was tense, angry, swearing a lot. After the show was even worse: the crowd let out, and I thought Dad was going to have an heart attack. And Dad…he said whatever was on his mind. I grew up thinking politics, religion, and sex were good to go topics at a dinner table. Had a lot of missteps with friends and acquaintances. Still do. Dad welcomed my input, welcomed me to these cultural and philosophical debates. Even, I think, wanted me to speak my mind. Why was that? Now that I think about it, why did he do that? I’m replaying memories in my head right now, and I see him encouraging me to lay out a sound argument. Back up my statements with facts. I don’t remember him acting that way with anyone else in the family. My oldest brother would say something in support of what Dad said. He’d get a nod, maybe an additional exclamation. My sister would add in her two cents: generally a snide comment, again in support of my father’s statement. And then Dad would look at me. Challenge me with his eyes. Say it, his eyes would plead. Bring out your views. Tell me how wrong I am. As I grew older, these debates would get hotter. My logic improved, my access to facts to back up my statements was wider, and I think I was cutting too close to the center at times.

Did my father think that at some point I’d change? That money would change me? Or was that part of the original challenge I read in his eyes: can you stay true to who you are right now for your entire life? Can you hold onto your innocence, your faith, your dreams, in the face of everything life has to throw at you?

In the end, Dad was very clear about what he wanted for me. I want you to be happy, he said. Over and over. Not rich, not famous, not thin, not smart, not skilled, not useful, but happy. I know happiness is a mode of travel, not a destination. I can look at life with stars in my eyes or a sour pussed expression that will ruin everything before I even touch it.

I’ll take the stars.

Melancholy

Managed to get through my weekend chores. The house is tidy, the laundry is done, even scrubbed out the bathroom. And I didn’t just sit on my ass, either. Got to the gym. Steady, though not all-out, exercise.

What I didn’t do is rehearse. That’s slightly bothersome. However, my logical side argued that (1) tonight’s version is a one-off, (2) I might not incorporate any of tonight’s ideas into the actual performance, and (3) until I hear some laughs, I can’t make any decisions on my look or voice or actions. Besides, I know myself. It’ll just pop out of me at the right time.

It always does.

Feel a bit foolish these last few days. I’m watching the news about the hurricane – like there’s something I’ll accomplish just by watching. It also feels ghoulish. I tune in to find out how bad it is. And while part of me (a hard and angry part) feels vindictive joy over stupid Americans getting theirs, another part of me knows how wrong that feeling is. There are good people out there, too. I find it a pity that water doesn’t discriminate. If it took only the bad people, if it ruined only the greedy, I could feel joy without guilt. But it doesn’t.

…Recorded and watched a tv broadcast of Tommy. Hadn’t seen it since I was a child. Wasn’t sure how I felt about it. I remember thinking it was strange, and not really understanding the subtext. I get now why I didn’t really like it – the music sucks. Many songs are nothing more than a 16 bar progressive riff repeated ad infinitum until the music stops. The lyrics are hackneyed and lame. And while the visuals might have been cutting edge at the time, they look amateur and laughable now. Had to search out statements made about the original opera – what the hell was Townsend driving at? Found an article that came out on the heels of the album release. Full of bullshit (in my opinion). After watching and listening with my adult’s eyes and ear, what I saw was Townsend’s great opus to homosexuality. Oh, he couched it in a Jesus metaphor. I’ll give you. But peel that away and this is what I saw: a thinly veiled account (factual? only Townsend can say) of a childhood filled with verbal, mental, and sexual abuse. The child grows ‘deaf, dumb, and blind’ – non-communicative. Why? Perhaps a secret so dark the author was unwilling to own up to it back then? The lyrics in the final piece are questionable, too. ‘Gazing at you, I get the heat’? ‘I get excitement at your feet’? Hm. …Perhaps I’m overstepping, but now that I’ve seen this link it’s all I can see. *sigh* And still, against all popular culture, I’ve got to say I didn’t like it. It bored me.

Seems like the world has gone quiet. Oh, if you want hurricane info it’s there aplenty. But don’t tell me North Korea has gone silent, or things are peaceful in the middle east. Crap is still going on. We’re just not hearing about it. I don’t like that. I understand overriding concerns, etc. etc. – but if humanity is ever to learn bloody anything, we’ve got to realize the story doesn’t stop at the end of the damned article! The news shows us pictures of refugees, or people in natural disasters, and we think ‘oh, how sad, how pitiful’. Some people send money, others prayers. All are thinking ‘what if that was me?’. So I know North Korea is still a problem. I know war is still raging in places I’ve never even heard of. I’m not gonna forget about them just because a big storm moved in to toss Miami’s buildings around like toy blocks. But the media! …If parents are partially to blame for the problems of their children, certainly media is partially to blame for the current short attention span of humanity. We’ve taken it down to tweets and comments. Hot topics only! Don’t give us yesterday’s news; we’re bored by that already! Ho, hum, and yeah, yeah.

Fucking twits.

I am so glad I never had children! I just don’t see things getting better. …Watched 2012 last night, because after all the hurricane updates I was in the mood for a big disaster film. And you know…humanity has the bad habit of imaging its end as a huge disaster. Big upheavals, trying times (usually with the hero living thru it, along with his future mate). We don’t imagine it as dying with a whimper. Simply dying out. No. The continents shift, biblical floods occur, the tops of mountains blow off, aliens travel thousands of light years to blow up American iconic buildings, but simply die out -? Not in our vocabulary. And that’s a weakness. We fail to see our real pitfalls, and these overblown disaster stories, while entertaining, do nothing but blind us to reality. They ignite our imaginations, yes…but in the wrong direction.

There is a story brewing in my brain. It’s been there for a while; six months, at least. It’s not heroic. And it’s not pretty. It has burning, and gasping for air. It has the basest, the ugliest side of humanity laid spread eagle for all to consume. No matter how many times I put it aside, and think, Not yet! Not yet!, it returns to me. The tale of dying out. Of the problems we caused being too big for us to solve. Of our future generations’ sentence: to pay the price for the industrial revolution, and the associated pollution allowed to spread and infect every particle of the planet that gave us life. It’s not a tale to push an environmental agenda, or a feminist agenda, or a political agenda – despite the obvious set-up. It’s a sad, bleak tale about the end. No fireworks, no opportunity for last minute heroics because there’s nothing anyone can do but die.

…Shit. Now I’ve made myself melancholy. *sigh* Better go turn on cartoons and start playing…

It ain’t my fault

Ugh. Let’s vent.

Merry, merry. My return to morning posts has generated a few more readers. That’s what I’d hoped. I mean, writing English while in the EU…there’s got to be a joke in there somewhere, tho being as I’m living it right now, I can’t see it. My goal was to reach more English speakers and, thank you, it seems I’m doing that.

…Which leads me to my first vent. Some likes on yesterday’s post (now dim in my memory, after 24 hours of crunching more words out of my brain) made me go back and read my own words. All well and good, and a little stroke to my ego because I thought the post was pretty good, too. But it made me notice the advert WP puts on the bottom of my page (making money off my words, while simultaneously wanting to charge me money every month so I can get a piece of the ad revenue). And what lay there, asking/begging/demanding you go and check it out, even pony up some funds to buy? Scrivener. That software I gave a go, the shit that’s not worth even the trial version (if you’re a playwright) because it lacks the standard formatting 99.9% of places want.

Ye Gods….really?

Second vent: news. Nothing new about that. I’m not even reading the articles anymore, just skimming the titles. Trying to keep up on world news while not being triggered. Tough. Wish there weren’t so many pix of 45 out there. Is it possible to snap a photo of him when he DOESN’T look like a self-satisfied snobby bastard? Doesn’t seem to be.

Third vent: this current “free speech” bullshit the far right in the US is pulling. Let’s be clear: there is no free speech. There isn’t even any freedom. Not in the US, not anywhere. If the US had free speech, why did everyone come down on a certain female comedian when an obviously staged and comedic photograph came out with her holding 45’s head? Oh, no! I believe she got fired for that one. I believe she got death threats. And she sure as fuck got shamed beyond reason for it. Yet, that was her free speech. And the far right, who are now screaming that they should be able to call anyone anything, they should be able to say these people are all lazy, or rapists, or criminals – they’re the ones who put this pressure on her. …More than that, even. “Freedom” would be you’re able to do whatever the fuck you want (that is, actually, the way I’ve heard most right-wingers define it). So from that stance, it must mean you support the laziness, the raping, and the criminal behavior. They should all be free to do that, right? Oh! And how about pedophilia? That would be covered under your definition, as well. My point is that NO society is absolutely “free”, and thinking that you are is a child’s fantasy. For every individual to be free, societies would fall – because absolute individual freedom is counter to civilization. It’s an ‘all for me’ attitude, and that kind of thinking does not build roads, or schools, or hospitals. It does not pay a fair wage; it may not even pay its bills at all. It’s the kind of thinking that serial killers and narcissists have.

Fourth vent. A lovely link to a nonsense feature on the internet about how someone ran 1000 Hollywood scripts through a computer program to “find out” that women’s roles have, on average, thousands of fewer lines of dialogue than men, that taking women out of most stories doesn’t change the tale, and that women are underrepresented and dissed in almost every fucking way. Again, seriously? Can I be angry and bold enough to say I bet it was a man who came up with this idea? Because women have been saying that for ages and not taken seriously. The only reason I can think of why this particular bullshit shows up as “news” is because it’s a man’s study. A man’s article.

…And all that before 7 in the morning.

Other: worked on my script. Read it through, made a few changes. Prepped up a different script to send out again. Got to the gym, did my thing. Got on the scale, horror, horror…After all my sweating and straining, the damned scale said I lost a grand total of .3 kilo. That’s not even a pound. For months of hard work. The thought hit me that I should begin to accept my body for what it is. I’m not 20, or even 30 anymore. I’m 50+. That big number that always seems to have so many black colored birthday wishes in greetings card shops. Time to let that size 10 ideal go…

Had a thought strike me as I sat on the thinking chair (toilet). Yesterday I talked about reconciliation, and how I yearn for it. And I do. But I also realized that in my life, I’ve been the one to walk away from people. I’ve done it to protect myself, because being in their presence meant continual dissing and put-downs on a level I found very self-destructive. Of course, they faulted me for it. I’m the baby for walking away and terminating communication. I’m at fault. But I’ve never been able to make them see that loving someone means you make a choice. A choice about how much hurt you’ll take from someone. Everyone will, eventually, hurt you. They leave, they die, you argue, they betray you – something will happen, and you’ll feel let down. It’s inevitable. So for me, loving someone has meant I have to know where that line in the sand is drawn; what kinds of abuse I’ll take from people and still care. My family has crossed that line so many times, in so many ways, I can no longer trust any of them. Because even if I try to talk to them about it, all I get is blame, blame, blame – it’s my fault.

And it ain’t my fault.