Fill it up

Saturday. Summer heat is here. Nights are still blessedly cool, but you can tell the dog days are coming: the shady areas under trees are no longer colder than the sunshine. The earth doesn’t have to suck up every bit of warmth to wake up and get the day started. It’s warm already.

There are a very slim few weeks after the bitter cold leaves and before the real heat sets in when I feel GOOD. That time is now. Taking advantage of it by walking outside in the sun with no jacket on. So pleasant! To not shiver when a breeze blows; ach! That’s a slice of heaven.

Began a bit of research for my next writing project. Reading what’s available on the web. Taking notes. Not really believing it because, well, it’s on the WEB. The web is not an accredited source, which is pretty evident once you begin taking notes and find that just about everything out there contradicts some other information.

Working to get the hate out of my heart. And oh, how I hate these days! There are more than a few people I’d gladly kill. Blow them the fuck away because I think the world actually would be a better place without them.

I’m not the fucking messiah. I can’t turn the other cheek (it’s black and bruised and torn). And unlike Sting, I can’t write an upbeat pop song about it.

Woke up and realized I’ve decided to tell my long term FB pen-pal he can go hang himself. Haven’t done it yet. Haven’t decided on the exact wording. But I can’t be friends with someone who voted to destroy the environment, illegally withdraw human rights from millions of people, and restore male dominance over a woman’s body. This decision goes against my people-pleasing. It’s hard to tell him to fuck off. But…I just can’t imagine continuing any discourse with this person. I don’t want to tell him anything about myself. He’s violated my trust, as surely as if he’d raped me himself.

Hm. Maybe that’s how I should put it. Think he’d get it?

Reading Dutch now with little hiccups. Still many words I wonder about. Do my best to catch the meaning from the sentences. I think I’ve read enough to get a flow going. My inner voice speaks the words out (sometimes VERY slowly, especially if it’s one of those 36 character compound words the Dutch love so very much). Not sure I’m pronouncing some things correctly – syllable emphasis is everything, and when I’ve got four or five syllables to choose from…well, YOU tell me which is correct. And naturally, being a story, it’s all past tense verbs. But my grammar is improving. That was evident in Friday’s language lesson. I heard less correction from my teachers, and saw more nods and smiles. Maybe my Thursday teacher doesn’t like me – I don’t really know, and probably never will. But there’s no reason for me to feel like an idiot. I’ve been studying with volunteers in a haphazardly taught program for two years and I’m doing pretty well. Yeah, the book I’m reading is “only for teens” and maybe the way I pronounce some words does reveal my American roots (two comments from Thursday that are still bugging me), but I’m making progress.

That’s good. Think of positives.

Smoking less. That’s because I made hash brownies. Still. It earns a check mark. Getting fresh air and regular movement. Not my heavy duty work outs, but maybe that’s a good thing, too. Pretty much pain free. Can walk, bend, turn, lift, and use my hands without wincing. Definite positive. Still got great hearing. Ignore the ringing; ignore my stray thoughts that make me wonder if I’m hearing all the life getting sucked from the planet. I can hear, and hear well. Positive.

Now all I need to do is fill up my time…

Un-Merry merry-go-round

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I can talk small or I can talk big. Small: internal. Big: world. Both affect the other; my internal talk colors the exterior world and the world weighs heavily on my internal dialogue.

These days, my bro cuts me off a lot. Then again, I’m angry a lot. I have a lot to be angry about. And since there’s not a proper word for how I feel, I find I have to make one up. There’s only one combination of letters that do it, too. T.R.U.M.P. You’ve been trumped. Or trump you! My only resort is to turn the oompa-loompa’s name into a verb because it’s the only combination of letters that puts the vile taste of feces in my mouth, forcing a gag response. Trump. Now there’s a five letter word that’s worse than any other, in any language.

Violence springs to mind easily. Bringing certain people up in the crosshairs. Certain buildings being torn down. Oh, let’s be honest – I want to crucify a few monsters. Hang them up and dance around laughing as their blood drips down on my head. I make no bones about that level of hate: I’ve always had it. Always struggled with it. Now that hate has been unleashed as the new accessory must-have for 2017, I find little reason to contain that side of me.

Oh, to be 30 years younger and still mobile! What a great amount of ass I’d kick!

…Ah, but I’m too old at this point to sustain that level of hate for long. For one, I don’t like the way it makes me feel – tense, angry, ready to kill. For another, it really does color my reality; I jump out in anger rather than see things as they are, and make everything worse because of it. And it’s no way to live. Living in anger isn’t living at all. I know that. It’s just very, very difficult to let go of….

Been stalling out on making my script corrections. A day break is stretching out for a long, long time – or so it seems. I acknowledge I’m in hyper-mode. Time no longer moves properly for me. It darts here, then drags there. Always in the back of my mind is the knowledge that when the corrections are done, it’s time to try to send it out – and that’s what’s holding me up. Fear of sending it out. Fear it’s a piece of crap. Fear of rejection. I’ll get over it, no doubt. Always do. But it IS a mountain I have to climb, and I find the silhouette clearly delineated in mind: it seems bigger and colder than the mountains I’ve climbed before. I’m afraid somewhere in my head I’ve set myself up to think this is my last shot, my last hope of finding something I’m good at. And if I bugger it…I don’t want to fall into the same old pattern of self-doubt and depression.

Haven’t heard anything from the director, who said he was going to read it days ago.

Said it before; I’ll say it again: thank goddess for the gym. Sometimes I’m afraid of what I look like as I work. My thoughts wander freely, and more than once I’ve caught myself smiling or frowning, completely unconnected to what I’m doing. And I know what I look like when anger flits across my face; it’s been likened to a thundercloud. Imagine it: a 51 year old woman sweating up a storm on this machine or that machine, alternately smiling, frowning, and wearing a look that strikes fear into just about anyone who sees it. I must look insane.

Screwed up my fysio appointment yesterday. In my defense, his ‘3’ did look like a sloppy ‘5’ at a fast glance. Somehow I got 15:00 in my head as the time, and no matter how many times I looked at my appointment card that’s what I saw. That’s what I wrote down and noted on my computer. I was even ready to argue the point, when he caught me in the waiting room and let me know I’d missed my time – right up ’til I pulled it out and took a better look at it. Then it was clearly marked as 13:00, not 15:00 as I’d thought. Geez! Felt the idiot. Tune in next week: same Bat-time, same Bat-channel.

The world seems full of pink hats and orange fake tans. It’s caught up in a sea-grey metal box and oozing pus. I am so tired of it, I almost wish the war would just start already. Fire the first shot; let’s stop with all this bullshit pretending. The world is ripe. Almost rotten with hate.

*sigh* Goddamn it. Didn’t want to go there.

Yet how can I not? How can we not talk politics these days, when every decision comes down to life or death for someone? That IS what we’re discussing. Cut medical aid, and someone dies. Cut food stamps, and someone dies. Cut help for the disabled, the poor, the homeless, and someone dies. Send troops and someone dies. Set up puppet regimes and someone dies. Slash personal freedoms, restrict the press, and jail those who oppose you and someone dies. Call for complete anarchy, mob rule, and someone dies.

Do you really understand that?

And do you understand that the further marginalized someone is, the closer they are to being that ‘someone’ who dies? Do you care?

Maybe you can’t care until you’re there. In those shoes. Destitute, unloved, unwanted. Too many people are terrified of that, and it IS a thing to be terrified of. And that is what needs to change.

I may be forever cursed with an excess of hate in me. I acknowledge that. I acknowledge my hotheadedness, my stubbornness, my fear.

I. will. not. act on it.

What a very un-merry merry-go-round.

Take your truth and shove it

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And so it begins.

Such joy to poke my head into the new year and find everyone is leaching hate out of every pore of their bodies. Saw a vid of a mentally challenged individual being tortured by a group of haters. Read some hateful words from a gay asshole who supports Trump. Breezed by reports of right wing haters calling for a murderer in Israel to be let off.

No wonder I fucking hide from the world. The news is so bad these days, so base, I find myself turning my head away even as I read the articles.

This should come as no surprise to anyone. The gates of hell have been opened with the rise of the right wing. We have allowed the ignorant to take control, the small spirited to lead the way. How quickly they drag us all down. How quickly hate has become the norm. Twitter is news. Not being educated on the facts is commendable, laudable – even desirable.

It really has become a dog-eat-dog world.

My mood has been low since I finished the script. For one, I’ve know it well enough that it’s lost its edge for me; I can’t tell if it’s funny anymore. I’ve also been experiencing my usual self-doubts post project: it’s shit, no one will like it, all it will get me is rejection upon rejection, why bother. Throw into that mix a sprinkle of not hearing too much from friends, and I’m sitting on the bottom of the lake, struggling to make it up for another breath.

I feel a fool. A fat, old fool, who’s been kidding herself that her writing is any good, her work means anything…even that she’s got people out there who care about her.

The logical side of my brain is railing off the physical aspects: over the past two days I’ve cut back on caffeine and smoke, plus I’m off my exercise routine. None of that can be discounted. All of that needs to be addressed first. Which means sitting through it. A few days of squirrelly behavior from cutting back on coffee and joints. A bit of reluctance in getting myself back to the gym.

As for people, I’m well aware most aren’t back to their usual shin-digs post celebrations. Many people are probably feeling pretty shitty – now’s the time when resolutions begin to break and dissolve. Now’s the time all the shiny lights are coming down. Now’s the time when the winter cold and dark set in for the last time before spring, and they do so possessively, jealously. It will seem twice as cold and twice as dark, and spring will feel a long way off.

We’re all feelin’ it.

And what’s there to say? Shall we all talk about the despair we feel over this world that’s come about? Shall we huddle together in small groups, commiserating, while the other half shouts taunts at us for the color of our skin, the sex of our bodies, the faith we’ve chosen, the beliefs we hold?

I have as much hate in my heart as any hard line right-winger. I keep choosing – every damned minute of every damned day – to NOT act on it, NOT let it out, NOT hurt others in the way I know I could hurt them just to release my own pent up feelings. But never take that as a pacifist statement. In theory, I am a pacifist. In practice, not so much. I have zero qualms over fighting to defend myself or others. I don’t think I’m particularly effective as a fighter. But if the day comes, and I face that choice…I’ll stand and fight. Probably go down, too. But I’ll stand and fight.

And I won’t be fighting for future generations. I have no stake in them. No children, no younger person I put above the rest. Frankly, I could give a damn if no one’s left at the end of it, if we exterminate ourselves. Good riddance. The Earth would be much, much healthier without humans on it.

No. I’ll be fighting because their primal hate awakens my own primal hate, and hate must eventually fight hate. It’s the smallest of reasons to fight. The least laudable, the reason no one wants to admit to. But I’ll admit it.

I am already small, and un-laudable.

…See? Pretty down on myself.

A few more hours of online formatting and I’ll be ready to print my script. I’ve already culled through the hundreds of theater groups calling for scripts; the list is down to 40. Some wanted only regional playwrights, others only writers of Muslim descent or African American descent, or gay perspectives, or all female casts. Others said blatantly: no old and tired stories of this or that; surprise us, give us the unexpected….My story isn’t that surprising or unexpected. It’s just my story. A simple little thing, meant to entertain. Make people laugh. Be easy to do, with a small cast and minimal set needs.

And then there’s the logistics of it all. Print up the script innumerable times, because although we’re in the digital age and everyone’s connected to everything, theaters still want the old hard copy version posted through the mail. That’s money for printing, and money for postage. Every time. Some even demand a reading fee! You can bet your bottom dollar I’ll be sending first to those groups who accept digital copies, no matter where they are nor how small they might be. Ugh! And then I have to write a synopsis, and a CV for myself. A CV for one of my pseudonyms. Never know if I should include only the work I’ve done under the pseudonym or all my stuff. Since this particular pseudonym only has one publishing credit to her name, I’m toying with the idea of doing what I never do: puffing it up. It’s all in the spin, isn’t it? The performance wasn’t small, it was ‘personal and intimate’. The stories aren’t unpublished, they’re ‘currently under negotiation’.

And the world…you’re not being hateful, you’re being ‘honest and truthful’, right?

You can take your truth and shove it.

Small flies of annoyance

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About 5 in the evening yesterday my ‘not as tough as the swimming pool’ workout put me down. It was like a creeper bud: took a long time after the initial incident before I felt what I put my body through. By 9 I said goodnight, brushed my teeth, and don’t even remember falling asleep because it happened so damned fast.

I did get out for errands in the afternoon, too. Down to the market to buy stuff for dinner, back up to make the sauce. Down to the next shopping area over to buy some coffee on safe, lug it back to the apartment. Didn’t do the stairs – at all. I was concerned I may have injured my knee with some of the movements in the gym; it was a bit painful (just exercise; better today). Even stuck to my commitment and did my language lessons.

Saw only 4 stubs in the ashtrays this morning. No wonder I feel a little headachy.

My FB comment has, of course, drawn comments. Most people who know me know it’s one of those small explosions I do once in a while. That burst of anger that comes out fast and is, to the unobservant, uncalled for. My uncle has questioned me on it – again, of course. I’m trying to think of something that is (1) clear, (2) calm, and (3) unquestionable as a reply. Frankly, if you have to question why a woman fears Trump getting into office, well, I think your IQ must be somewhere around 80 then, right? And I’m gonna be completely un-PC right now: if you support Trump, you can’t call yourself a woman. You may have a vagina, but you’re not a woman. You’re a dude. Not even a guy, but a dude. No sane woman would stand up and say ‘Yes! Yes, please pay me less than a man even though I have the same qualifications. Please grab my pussy; it makes me excited. Please call me a dog and a whore – I like it and I call women dogs and whores myself. And of course if a woman claims she’s been sexually assaulted she’s a liar and to blame for the whole incident herself.’ No. You’re insane. Certifiable. Go seek help. And stay the fuck away from me.

And speaking of un-PC, I’m gonna share another very un-PC thought. I’m damned angry over people like Bruce/Caitlyn Jenner. I don’t care if they want to fork out money to have their dicks cut off. What I’m angry about is that they support gender bias through they’re “portrayal” of womanhood – primped, pushed up, and padded. I mean, if one of them – ONE OF THEM – when through the surgery and became anything close to a real woman – meaning no make-up, no push-ups, no this or that because that shit is fucking EXHAUSTING, just be a PERSON – I wouldn’t be on a tirade. But they don’t. Look at what society thinks a woman is: she must wear a dress, she must wear make-up, she must wear high heels, she must show cleavage, she must try to look sexy at all costs. Excuse me, but that shit’s got NOTHING to do with being a woman. That narrowed, bigoted, biased view – that stereotype – is proven out every time someone goes through sex identity surgery and comes out looking like a magazine cover.

How fucking dare you!

Goddamn it.

Am I the only one seeing this shit?

Society’s fucked, the planet is fucked, and none of us have to worry about going to hell because we’re already there. Give me one good reason – a good one, mind you – for any of these lines we’re drawing in the sand. Because I sure as fuck can’t figure one out.

So glad I’m going in the water today. Might sit on the bottom of the pool, holding my breath. Think for a moment or two about breathing in liquid because why, why, why go on when there’s so much shit piled up?

Goddess, I hate my family. Hate them to the core of me. Hate them beyond redemption. No wonder I have such a screwed up idea about “love”. I was made to say that word to all these people I can’t stand. I love you. Every holiday. Didn’t matter what they did or said; I had to always say that.

I can’t love someone who tells me in no uncertain terms that they think I’m less than. Put whatever you want in that comparison; I’ve heard them all. And I’ve always come out wanting in the judgmental eyes of my family.

Ach! Shoulda just stayed off Fuckbook. Shoulda just kept quiet – again. Shoulda, shoulda, shoulda.

In this maelstrom, I’ve been trying to breathe. Find that calm spot. You might have noticed I’ve got a bit of anger coming up. I’ve noticed that, too. And yes, I’m doing my damnedest to not bite everyone’s head off but it’s getting fucking difficult. Real difficult.

I guess this is the wall. There’s always a wall. In everything. A time when everything feels too much. A time when you so desperately want to give in. The wall. Christ, I’m fucking tired of facing these.

Didn’t take long to hit it, did it?

…No. No, it didn’t.

Right. Temporary set-backs. Small flies of annoyance. Things trying to distract me. Ohm. I don’t have to respond. Ohm. I have the luxury of staying off social media and not opening my email. Ohm. No one is gonna force me to talk to anyone I don’t want to. Ohm.

And as for small flies of annoyance, I need to remember this: flies are born in shit. They live one fucking day and then they die and return to shit.

Ohm.

Instinctual

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Wednesday must be the day marked in my uncle’s calendar to get under my skin. This morning I received 5 notifications of comments on my FB posts by the man. A quick scan revealed half are admonishing, half argumentative. Don’t know if I’ll have the strength of character to go out to FB today and deal with it. I DID have the strength to just hit the delete button a lot while checking my email.

Still choosing to not hate – tho that’s a challenge. I do recognize the difference between being angry and hating; I am clear: I HATE my family. Many I would not lend a hand to if I found them dying on the side of the road. Hate is an all pervasive shut down. It’s an I don’t care WHAT happens to you feeling. Anger is anger, but doesn’t prevent me from experiencing that basic empathy and sympathy I have for most living things. HATE prevents me from feeling anything close to that. So I acknowledge my hate. I hate my family – or most of them.

But I won’t let it envelope me.

It IS gratifying, after so many years of being verbally subjugated at the hands of “loved ones”, to hear the gasps of shock from other people when I describe my family. These days, saying that most of my family will be supporting Trump in the next election is enough. I got that yesterday from my physiotherapist. He couldn’t believe it. Right now I’m thinking of some other shocked responses I’ve received when discussing my family. These are the responses and the people who led me to look at my childhood as truly abusive. And I found their assessment to be correct: I suffered abuse at the hands of my family. That’s still a new thought for me. The first time I let myself ponder it, I was scared. Really scared. Now…I find it a strange sense of strength and comfort. It doesn’t absolve ME of the decisions I made later on in life. Those are mine. But it DOES absolve me of the crime of thinking what I was doing was the only way, or the right way.

The hardest part about all of this is fully embracing the idea that I’m NOT a piece of shit. The damage to my self confidence has been the worst. At my core, I believe I am worthless. THAT is the fault of my family.

The question now is, what am I gonna do about it?

…This is going to come back to a basic binary thing again, isn’t it? I choose to believe I am worthless, or not. Goddamn it. Why is it that the simplest of choices are the hardest?

Man! I feel un-enlightened this morning.

I am getting out of this box today. Not sure exactly what I’ll do, other than a few short errands. But I AM getting out.

Happy to say my back is getting better. Though I’ve had some stiffness post walking, the joints are mobile. My physiotherapist feels I’ve just got to retrain everything now that it’s in proper alignment. I can do that. Eight days to my appointment with my rheumatologist. We’ll talk about the effects of summertime on me, maybe get a shot, ask about wrist braces. Ugh…tho I must admit, a shot this time would be my third booster shot in a row. I don’t know how many boosters I get before we just up the meds.

I DO need to move a bit better to get proper exercise.

Thinking about asking for more pain relief, too. Taking Tramadol and paracetamol AND diazepam for my back and STILL having pain just seems too many pills in exchange for where I was.

It DID take two weeks of my life. Three before I felt I could really walk again.

And my wrist took seven days. Today is the first day I have full movement again.

That’s…too much time. The cost of pain is beginning to outweigh the dangers of increased meds.

Damn! I said HAPPY and then petered out into ick. Discipline that mind!

Sunshine and lollies. Dancing elves and garden gnomes…Not really working. I’m either not high enough or it’s just a load of bollox.

Something more substantial, than. People who’ve been kind to me for absolutely no reason. Times and places I’ve made a difference in other people’s lives. The thank you’s I’ve received. The life I saved. The little bullied boy. Not one of THEM would say I was worthless. No. That little boy…he may still think of me, as I of him. As I think of all of them. So many are nameless, short encounters.

I find it ironic that the moments that mean the most to me, that spring to mind and fill me up with something that drives out all hate, all doubt, are also the ones that are singular. These are not people I have in my life as friends or family. They are strangers, all of them, yet I am closer to them – and would run to help any one of them – faster than I would my family.

Maybe some of us are built for families, for that close knit clan. And maybe some of us are built for other things. To be those individuals who step in and make a difference in strangers’ lives. Our clan is looser; it’s not tied by blood but by something else. Something intangible. But it is there, and we take action to guard our clan. Why I chose to step into these particular individual’s lives is a bit of a mystery, even to me. Looking back, I know I couldn’t sit still during those moments. I was compelled to act. I never asked for anything. Not even a continued connection with these individuals. Somehow, though…somehow I knew THEY were my family. They were the ones I needed to protect. It’s so deep in me that I don’t even question it.

It’s instinctual.

I choose

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Back to rage.

Dreams of killing. Not randomly; there’s only one bitch on my list that deserves such up close and personal hatred: my sister. Little does she know how fucking fortunate she is. If I was on the same continent as she, I wouldn’t be writing. I’d be taking action.

Today I want to plunge a knife into her fat stomach. Feel the blade go into her flesh, right up to the hilt. Watch the blood, feel its heat on my hands. See the terror in her eyes. I want her to die, die, die. Slowly. Painfully. With full knowledge that she’s the biggest bitch on this planet, that she deserves to die slowly and painfully because she’s worth nothing more.

The part of me that revels in thoughts like that scares me. It’s capable of anything.

Yes, I saw something from my sister in my email. It was attached to a family email. An innocuous statement that really did have nothing to do with me (rare, from her). Just seeing her name was enough to make me hate this much again. Doesn’t matter what she said. Doesn’t matter what eleven words she used to form the sentence in her message.

I hate her. Beyond reason.

Kudos to me; when the fucking thing came thru I deleted it as fast as I could. Didn’t matter, of course. I saw her name and that was enough. My temper flared, my fantasy factory was lit, and here I am fucking RELISHING the thought of killing another human.

So much for my lofty ideals.

It’s stuff like that – like my hate – that tells me I’ve still got a long way to go. I’m still damaged. Maybe I’m not as damaged as I like to think; after all, I’m not acting out on it. You haven’t seen the news button on your browser go red over ME. And you won’t; not any time soon.

But make no mistake: my desire for peace does not rule out my ability to make war. I am very capable of that. Very capable of killing. We all are. It’s just a matter of finding the right pressure point.

…Ah, yes. The first crack of thunder this morning outside my window. How bloody appropriate, thank you very much.

I am so GLAD I’m getting out of the house today. Don’t care if it bleeding rains on me the whole time. Just get me out of this box.

And let me leave my rage here. *crack BOOM* (nothing like a good sound track to your writing)

On the bottom shelf of my room, wrapped in a silk handkerchief, sits an old deck of Tarot cards. I haven’t used them in years. But when I did, when I was younger, I often drew The Fool. In my foolhardy youth, I thought I understood. But I didn’t.

Today I feel The Fool. Fully. How often I’ve stepped off that cliff without looking!

How bittersweet the gift of hindsight. *rumble, rumble*

This rage I feel…I could wrap it up in oilskin and carry it with me. Cradle it, nurture it. Suckle the beast until it leapt from my arms to sink its teeth into someone else’s neck. Let it spread like the disease it is. Let it fester.

Let it all burn. *wet sounds from the street outside*

Somehow I’m riding the crest of the wave this morning. I can SEE how this is my choice. How it’s always BEEN my choice.

Even those times when I felt I had no control.

*distant rumbles; the storm has passed*

I choose to let it go.

If only our moments of epiphany could be encased in something to keep them fresh and alive. This is the easy part; the hard stuff comes later.

*utter silence. even the traffic outside has ceased*

…Just took a moment to make some sound waves in the room. I spoke the words ‘I choose to let it go’ and then continued:

I choose to let it go. The hatred I feel for my sister. The rage, the pain, the sorrow. Even the hope for something better, something different between us. I choose to let it go….Not for her, but for me. To save me. I choose to let it go for me.

I think I just got it.

And my time is up. My brother is awake and will enter this room in mere moments. That’s okay.

Today will be a challenge, like any day. But I’ve made my choice. Marked my ballot. Voted for the other guy.

Hate has a place in me. It has a place in all of us. But hate need not rule me. I can be strong, I can take a stand, I can FIGHT…but I don’t need to hate. Not anyone. Not even HER. I doubt I will ever be able to say anything kind about my sister. There’s not much kindness in her. But letting her ugliness ruin my life means just that. It RUINS my life. I don’t want my life in ruins.

I choose.

So history tells us

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Maybe I shouldn’t say anything anymore. Someone overhears me, muttering in a corner, and somehow they think it’s free and open season on conversation. So they respond with a comment, which then brings someone else in to make a different point. Ye gods. Next thing I know there’s a fight going on caused by my ONE muttering. Had I said nothing, never been overheard, maybe everyone would have gone on their merry way and no one would walk away with a bruised ego. As it is, I have an old Uni friend and my uncle arguing on FB at the moment. Of course it’s political. Seems everything is political right now, or turned into a political argument. And both of them are pointing fingers at the other one, saying it’s your fault things are so bad in the US.

MY comment – the original muttering – was that ALL American citizens better re-think what the fuck they’re doing. Not Republicans. Not Democrats. Every. single. citizen. But no. In the US, it’s got to be them against us. Always has been, and probably always will be. Want to know WHY the US has a two party system? Because it falls into the easy ‘them or us’ category. It makes it easy to pit people against each other, draw lines in the sand, start fights.

Divide and conquer. That’s what the fat cats have done, and boy! Do they have YOU over a barrel.

By keeping one side chanting ‘USA, USA’ and the other side shouting ‘Black Lives Matter’, no real issues get addressed. Health care, once a hot topic in the states, isn’t discussed right now though I’ve heard umpteen complaints over the problems in the system Obama founded. And it should be.

The United States has the most expensive health care in the world. And it’s not very good. The doctors aren’t good. The board that watches docs and kicks out the quacks isn’t good. The drugs you get – IF you can get any medication, which seems to be damned difficult unless you’re asking to get hooked on some opioid – are horrendously expensive.

They keep telling you it’s great. I’m telling you it isn’t.

I would have thought when Michael Moore took a bunch of people down to CUBA to get their health care problems addressed in Sicko that more people would have sat up and said ‘Cuba? Cuba has better health care than the states?’ but it seems they didn’t.

I remember the time I had to go to hospital after getting mugged and dragged down the street. Not my choice; I got banged on my head and my sister insisted I get checked for a concussion. I spent over an hour on a gurney, waiting to be seen. When I finally WAS checked, it took a whole 20 minutes – 15 of which was given over to a class of med students who came in to look at my uneven pupils, a semi-rare condition I was born with. A week later I was slapped with a $2000 bill.

My physiotherapist apologizes to me for charging €31 for a half hour session.

Even in Ireland, where health care was FAR more expensive than here in the Netherlands, it was far LESS than in the states. A visit to my GP cost €21 each time in Ireland. Last time I saw a GP in the states it was $80 – and that was 25 years ago.

And health insurance? I think my policy is costing around €130 a month. When I was in my 20s and HEALTHY Blue Cross Blue Shield cost $300 a month.

Let’s just think for a minute. If everyone in your country is sick, disabled, in pain, and unwell, how high do you think your production will be? How about the quality of your products? People make mistakes when they’re not feeling well. Now think about a healthy nation. A nation where everyone gets taken care of. How much do you think they’ll be capable of? And how high will the quality get?

This is basic stuff. One plus one equals two. Why can’t you see that?

Let me make myself clear: this is NOT the fault of the doctors, nurses, and health care professionals in the field. It’s the fault of the ENTIRE SYSTEM. A system that asks young people to burden themselves with hundreds of thousands of dollars of debt from school. A system that sees the health of its citizens as an opportunity to make a buck. If you are poor, uneducated, or disabled, you’re not really ‘part of the system’. You’re just a burden. The scapegoat of society, the blame for all ills of the nation. Never mind what your POTENTIAL is; right now you’re a drain on resources. That makes you bad. All of you, from your head to your toe, from your childhood to your death – BAD. You stink from it, and it’s a stink that will never wash off.

This football team maniacal feeling of ‘kill the other guy’ isn’t new. Nor is the ‘if you don’t like it, get the hell out’ line. In fact, I heard the second line enough that I did just that – got the hell out. I’m not alone. The US has had a record number of people giving up their citizenship for new nationalities.

If you seek out comparisons in history, you might find the disturbing fact that all totalitarian systems had an exodus of intellectuals prior to the final crack down.

History repeats itself.

We are growing more divisive at a time when we need to come together. This phenomenon isn’t happening only in the states; here in NL we have Geert Wilders, who’s been likened as the Trump of the Netherlands. In Britain, it’s Nigel Farage. France, Marine Le Pen. Organizations like the Sons of Odin – basically vigilante groups – are gaining ground.

Things are spiraling out of control. Everyone’s trying to say it’s not so bad, they’ve got a way to fix it. Everyone is lying. It IS that bad, and you can’t fix it. Not fast, and not easy. There is no action you can take that won’t have negative consequences somewhere. Politicians like to espouse simple lines and simple solutions. They act as if we live in an open ended universe, where all assets are unlimited as long as you keep working or digging for them.

The truth is, there’s a limit. This isn’t an open ended system. It’s closed. We use it up, that’s it. There is no more. No way to fix it. If you take more than you need, someone goes without. THAT’S the true law of the planet.

And like children, some people just can’t keep their hands out of the cookie jar. They must take, they must comment, they must incite violence.

This world is not theirs alone. Injustice always topples. Always. And hate will always instigate hate.

So history tells us…

If I Care to Care

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Oh, I got it bad: cyber addiction. Perhaps more properly put, I’ve got computer addiction. Without the keys readily available to clackity-clack under my fingers I may lose my mind.

Tried to stay away from the computer yesterday, as a test. If it’s gonna be gone for two weeks I’ll need to get used to it. Didn’t make it further than an hour before I was back in front of my screen, googling this and playing that. *sigh* I AM spoiled. Got a big ass iMac with a 20″ screen. My hands have the luxury of a full keyboard and my eyes don’t need to work too hard. What can I say? I like it. I’ve got my iPod and my smart phone – both of which I can take out on the web. But they’ve got small brains, and the response time is very slow – or it feels like it in the age of instant gratification. Let’s face it: microwaves, internet, smart phones and cars and tvs (oh my!) – we’re all used to getting what we want NOW. And sometime along the way, waiting for three minutes became a big deal, a long time, a bloody LIFETIME. What’s taking so long? Why can’t this thing move faster? We demand information, entertainment, and food in an instant.

I’m no better. I remember my mother tried to teach me patience. She used to punish me when I got too hyper by making me sit still for set lengths of time. Get too excited? Sit down and be calm. Get REAL hyper over something? Grounded in the house for a few nights until I settle. Get sick because I got too hyper over something too long? Then it’s my own damn fault for being ill and I barely deserved the minimum amount of care a sick child needs. And still I moved too fast, got too excited, couldn’t settle down. It was like I was WAITING for the computer revolution, waiting for microwaves and smart phones to satisfy my inner id. Gimme now, now, now. Don’t be slow about it and sure as hell don’t freeze up.

Anyway. I got options for when my computer goes in. Smart phone, iPod, my brother’s computer. And I’ve gaming options as well: other computers in the house (ancient tho they may be) and a couple of things on my phone.

What a terrible thing to admit to having problems keeping it together. That’s what I had to do yesterday. After blogging I headed out for a walk, and I realized I had to verbalize my rickety mood to my brother. I came back, waited for an appropriate time, and said ‘I’m having problems keeping the depression at bay’. My brother’s answer sent a chill through me: I know. Right now I can’t figure out what’s worse: the fact that depression keeps biting my ass or the fact that I’m not as good at hiding it as I might have hoped.

But hey. We’re talking about my brother. He knows me better than anyone in the world.

Been fighting the good fight. Keep managing to pull myself back from that horrid soul sucking sorrow. Today might be tougher than usual. It’s pissing rain outside, which means getting out for a walk to clear my brain won’t be easy. Or at least, it won’t be dry (the cat in me is arching her back at all that wet). It’s also the day before my GP visit, which I’m diligently trying to NOT think about. And my body decided to get up early; six hours was apparently all I needed (or so I thought at 5 a.m.).

Found a file deep in my computer. I wrote it in 2014. It’s title is ‘never open’ – so of course I did. It is a hate filled thing. Every letter typed is filled with tiny rage bits – I can almost see them leap off the screen at me. What shocked me was how thoroughly I’d forgotten all about it; this incident that sparked a two page missive of napalm dripping words was completely absent in my memory until I re-read the file. This was me, before blogging, before really thinking about what was going on with me, back when I just stewed and spewed. It has no resolution, no understanding in it. Just blame, and hate hurt. Difficult to read. For now, it’s going into my ‘home therapy’ folder. I know there’s a few more rogue files like that in my system or on the back-up brain. Times I tried to write things out. I don’t think today is the day to find and read them, but it is a task I’ll keep in mind.

Pfft! Fuck it. Man, I’m in a weird spot right now. All shivery and un-solid on the inside. Maybe confronting the rage in those rogue files is a bit much for me. That’s okay. Am I listening? It’s okay. I don’t have to do it today. I don’t even have to DO it. All I have to be aware of is their existence. They’re there, if I care to care. But I am NOT under any obligation to read my own words. I do not need to remember old wounds or re-experience anything in order to try to settle it or wrap my brain around it. I can do that shit when I’m 80. Or not. No one said I had to die with complete self-awareness. I don’t win a special prize if I get it. And understanding won’t take the pain away. It just makes it easier to stop knee-jerk reactions that create similar circumstances over and over in my life. I still gotta slog it out.

If I care to care.

The Paint is Coming Off

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I am full of rest and chicken soup. Still not healthy, but on my way. Just to make sure all of you love my bro even more, yes, he ran down to the store and bought fresh ingredients at noon so he could whip together a hearty soup for dinner. What a guy.

Films were on telly all day yesterday, whether or not my eyes were open for them. I’d recorded two Hitchcock films: M is for Murder and Rear Window. Something about 50s films that just sets me to sleep. Not only does the picture have that soft film look (I LIKE the soft film look, morons; don’t talk to me about HD this or that!) it also has the 50s soft audio compression. No hard edges of sound, no blaring horns or piercing screams or earth rumbling booms. It’s easy to sleep to, unlike modern films that have such tight compression everything has a high end tinge to it (brr! my ears hurt just thinking about that).

I tried some other films but couldn’t deal with the hate portrayed. Taken 2 got erased about 25 minutes into it. Really? You’re going to show an old man who doesn’t give a fuck that his son was selling human beings into slavery, just that he died and therefore deserves revenge not only on the man who pulled the trigger but also his entire family? I know there are people like that out there – they should all DIE, DIE, DIE – but I don’t want to see it. Gets me too angry. Gets me to the point where I’ll say something entirely unpopular and risk catching hell for it.

Every child in the world should be taken AWAY from their parents and raised in a group with proper supervision. One on one supervision, fine. But no one should know who they’ve given birth to. That way, you gotta treat EVERYONE well because you might be shitting on your son or daughter or mother or father. Yes, there are a few cases where the chemical imbalance in a person’s brain is so severe it causes extreme behavior, but for the most part, MONSTERS ARE MADE, not born.

Why exactly is it that we demand adoptive parents go through a rigorous screening process, but anyone can pop one out and not be questioned as to whether or not they’re capable of raising a child?!? What the fuck is that? Why do we allow this shitty behavior to be passed down generation after generation? We only allow it to spread that way – one parent can fuck up 10 goddamn kids for the rest of their fucking lives. Then they all go and have 10 fucking kids and by the time you know it, we have a fucking social epidemic on our hands.

And this attitude that the flesh of your flesh is more important or worthy than anyone else SIMPLY because you share DNA with them is fucking ludicrous. And don’t fucking come at me with ‘if you had kids you’d understand’. FUCK YOU! As far as I’m concerned, every human on this fucking planet is my child (whether or not I’m older than they are) because everything I do has the potential to fucking teach someone else something. I can pass on any of my views or beliefs to ANYONE, not just those of my own DNA. So you’re all my children. Even the assholes. And I say, get rid of the assholes. Or at least separate them from future generations so they don’t keep infecting hate over and over again.

Let’s face it. I think my sister and older brother in the states are both assholes, and I would be in the front firing line for both of them. DNA doesn’t matter; just get rid of them because they breed hate in themselves and other people. Put my nephew in there too; he’s a hate monger. Take HIS kid away – maybe that child is young enough to help. The rest aren’t.

*sigh* And I know. By doing that, I’d breed a different kind of hate. A hate of hate. I’m just so fucking frustrated!

Maybe coming from a family where my mom would have given me up in a nanosecond to save her husband makes me a bit cold and calculating about this subject. I like to think I could have done what I wanted to and been who I wanted to be if I hadn’t been under my mother’s control. I have not fulfilled my potential as a human being in this lifetime. I chose to cripple myself and do what I was told to do because I wanted so much to be loved, and I thought that was the only way. If only. If only I had been taken away and raised by someone else. Ah, with my luck it would have been some psychos. Or more psycho than what I dealt with in the first place.

Fuck it all. I’m on the tail end of life. You guys can fucking figure this one out for me.

Btw, yesterday’s count was 1.3 joints.

The count is coming down; the paint is coming off. I’m not a nice person underneath.

 

Birthing Basilisks

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Here ya go, mom:

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

Basilisk, indeed.

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