Can’t see the forest

And so…

Did some pacing, and some self-talk therapy. Needed to walk out those feelings that were overwhelming me. Got to the gym, burned hard and didn’t tear up once. Back home to hit my homework. Meh. Will I ever learn this language well enough that I don’t have to look up umpteen frigging words in my dictionary every time I do homework? Begrudgingly, I’ll admit my comprehension in general is higher. But there are words I’ve done before in homework, and I just can’t retain their meaning. Don’t know why, but every damned time I think ‘Oh, shit! That word! I know it. What the fuck does it mean again?’ It’s slow going.

Have replayed Friday in my mind so often I’m growing a bit paranoid. Did I go overboard? Ye gods! STOP IT! Stop thinking about it, analyzing it from every little angle. It was fine; you were fine! Stop…looking for something to throw you. Hate it when I do that. And I do it more often than I want to admit.

Now it’s back to practicalities. Get prepped for the premiere. Try on my one good dress (almost vintage now, at 28 years old) and see if it still fits. Shoes are a priority: I only have sneakers and ankle boots. Clean the jewelry I think I’m gonna wear. Think about what the hell I can do with my hair. Wear it up? I’m tempted. There’s so much of it, tho. Will I have the time and funds to get it done? Nice thought, but doubtful. My brother has already been generous with extra money for shoes and a dress if needed; this month is financially tight, as every month seems to be. I can’t ask for more, nor do I feel right splashing out a lot on myself. I’ll try to make do.

I look forward to a day when getting my hair done isn’t viewed as ‘splashing out on myself’.

Smoking: been uppermost in my mind. I am hyper conscious of every time I smoke. Beginning to put it off. Wait a bit longer each time. No great strides, but a bit of progress. A little bit less than the day before. I’ll take it.

…Have to admit to something difficult now. I’m disappointed, and I shouldn’t be. Or, that’s what I’m feeling. …*sigh*… Right. I’ve already acknowledged that even tho I’ve broken off contact with many members of my family, I still want their praise. That’s a common theme in my life. So it shouldn’t be so hard for me to say I’m disappointed that not one member of my DNA family whom I have so many frigging problems with said ANYTHING about the film trailer I posted on FB. Even the ones I still have contact with – no likes, no thumbs up, nothing. Nadda, with a silent exclamation point because it’s that damned quiet. It is difficult, tho. I feel like it’s not appropriate. I made the choice, I cut them off – what the hell am I bitching about now? But if I’m not honest about my conflicting emotions and nonsensical desires, well, what the hell am I writing this for? …Right? (Asked with a desperate need for confirmation..)

Shit, Beeps. You’re looking in the wrong direction…

Remember? Don’t look back. Your elders will never give you what you want. Look forward. Look to the children. It’s they who are excited over you and your knowledge. They’re the ones to call you a role model. You can never be that to your elders. Never, ever, ever. Let it go. And take what you’re given, because what you’re given is precious and wonderful. S looks at me and wonders why I give myself such a hard time. You’re so beautiful, and talented, and brilliant! she tells me. Everything I wanted my mother to say to me. Everything she never said. Take it, Beeps. Without reservation, without self degradation. Hold your head up, smile, and take it as it’s meant. This is your payoff, finally. Allow yourself to enjoy it.

I give myself permission to be happy. I give myself permission to be happy…

People say ‘give it time’. Whatever the hurt or problem, ‘give it time’ is the answer. What people really mean is ‘have more patience with yourself’. And that is far harder than giving it time. Time you can while away through many shiny distractions. But patience for yourself! Now, that’s something you’ve got to work on. Consciously. It is a moment by moment thing, and it’s tough. Doesn’t help that while you learn your new conditions or language or habits, time drags. Tick, tick, tick…Your days become filled with the ticking of the clock, counting off every begrudged minute devoted to whatever it is you’re trying to heal from or learn or change. Once you’ve got it, that stops happening. Time goes back to normal. Sometimes, it even speeds up. But until then…it’s just a slog.

Why do the good and fun things in life seem to fly by so quickly, while the horrid things we’d rather not put up with go on and on and on?

If that holds true, this week should last a few months. I’ve got my language lesson (not ready for it, but then I don’t know that I ever will be), shopping for shoes (ugh. don’t even go there.), and a dental appointment for a mouth guard fitting (dread; more crap in my mouth). Must call about my orthopedics – that’s a double whammy: Dutch on the phone combined with shoes angst. Find out if I’m too fat for my good dress or not (MEGA dread).

Hm. Well that list gets me back to my normal anxiety/stress level. *ironic chuckle*

I walked into this year thinking it was all gonna pop for me. Everything just go, go, go. Now, I don’t know. Now I’m in the daily muck of it all, and I’m getting lost in the small shit.

I can’t see the forest for the trees.

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The verbal truth

Having to rethink the Dutch people.

It’s easy to see the Netherlands as a fairy-land. The manicured landscapes, the oh-so-cute buildings stacked one atop the other, the canals. It’s easy to overlook, as a visitor, the graffiti or the garbage, the pushy tourists or short tempered natives. Especially if you partake at the coffeeshops. Then it all blends into one glorious haze. The language becomes the tram lines, the tram lines become your croissant and coffee breakfast, and your breakfast becomes the experience. It is something you cannot pick apart. You cannot explain the difference in food quality without delving into food regulations. And you can’t talk about food regulations without addressing the overriding social structure of humanism. Back home, you just shake your head and tell people ‘it’s different’.

And, it is different. Coming from the US, the Netherlands seems a doll-house world. The “wide open spaces” of the US (aka, suburban sprawl) are replaced by neat, tight neighborhoods clustered around parks, playgrounds, and needed services. I am still struck by the Dutch use of space: toilets in unexpected areas, steps up or down to add variety, whole floors of buildings hanging in the air as if ready to fall. They mix these tight, convoluted spaces with clean-lined furnishings, and the overall effect is one of spaciousness. As a first time visitor I was amazed at how much storage space was available in their rather tiny homes, just as I was amazed at how much orange taste they got in a glass of fresh squeezed juice.

I looked at this land and thought: Wow. Nice. I want to live there.

There is a polished edge to life here, a smoothed surface on everything. The food is better. The transport is better. The internet is better. The prices are better. The clubs are better. Everything is that bit up. Nothing can just ‘get by’; there’s too much competition. Before you know it, you’re used to the well presented top quality plates at restaurants, the cleanliness of the metro and public buildings, the efficiency and work ethic presented to you in every field.

But the Dutch are quick to say they’ve got problems. Things they’re not happy about. For some, that’s basic: government and taxes. Most, however, point vaguely to less concrete issues: inequalities, rising violence, kids left behind in the system. They seem to think first of the big picture, the stuff that affects everyone and their society as a whole. The small stuff – personal issues like how much disposable income they have every month – comes later.

For three years, I’ve sampled life here on the edges. Kind of getting involved, but the language held me back. You can do that. You can totally get by with zero Dutch. It won’t always be easy, mind you, but you can do it. But if you really want to climb into Dutch living, you’ve got to embrace the language.

Now that I’m there, it seems I can’t be held back. I want more Dutch films. And not just for the language learning. What I’m seeing, what I’m hearing, is teaching me far more than my visits and spaced-out walking around for three years. Art reflects life and vice versa.

Last night’s film… My brother was unashamedly in tears. It was a film about bullying, and so inclusive in its story and so well executed that – even tho it was geared towards the late teen crowd – I can’t imagine it NOT resonating with everyone. I was…stunned. On a couple of levels. First, it portrayed an environment I thought beyond the Dutch. An environment in which adults ignored the evidence, people turned away and said nothing. In other words, what I would consider a typical American mindset: it’s none of my business. Or, worse (since the object of bullying was an overweight kid), he/she deserves it. Having lived in this doll house cocoon, imagining that all of that was far, far away from me…well, it was a slap in my face. A wake up call. A realization that yes, it can even happen here. And no, I’m not so dense as to think that there aren’t nasty people everywhere on this planet. That much seems obvious. What I’m shocked at is this totality: the victim, the bullies, the other kids, the parents, the teachers. The small, unspoken collusions needed to set up this story in the first place. It speaks of darker problems. Larger issues, harder to tackle issues. Why? Because the bullies were shown in their own homes. A few scenes showed a life most people would want to escape. They did not wear black capes; they were not irredeemable. Just the opposite. Hateful actions, from characters you ended up feeling sorry for. And that brings me to my second level of astonishment: the unblinking stare these artists used in bringing out this story. No holds barred. No lines crossed, either: it was neither over the top nor schmaltzy. But they were not afraid to show us the hateful things. The terrible things. It was as if the filmmakers said ‘This is what’s happening. No frills, no added oomph. This is it. Look at it.’ And it was all the more powerful for that understated, quiet demand.

This is what I admire. That forthright attitude. The outspokenness. The bluntness.

Yet I must grow accustomed to truth-speaking. I do it in my writing, but verbally, I lag behind. I stutter, I avoid topics, I outright lie if I feel under too much pressure. No! Really! It’s fine. I’m fine! All the while I’m dying inside.

There is a toughness to the Dutch I didn’t anticipate. It is not a hard slap in your face toughness, but a softer kind. A ‘I’ll tell you the truth because we’re both worth it’ attitude. More than the grammar or the words themselves, it is that part of Dutch that intimidates me. It is that part of life that intimidates me.

The verbal truth.

Dick Driven

BOOM!

The fireworks have begun, despite (boom!) the many neighborhood bans on them. Seems the more bans pop up, the more (boom!) stores sell ’em. So now it’s the pissing contest, with each and every yahoo (boom!) countering someone else’s fireworks as if to say: Yeah, mine’s the biggest.

This is gonna go on for awhile.

My writer’s email account is under maintenance. Mm. Means something might be there and not showing up. Can’t say anything for sure until I hear. Doing my best to not haunt it, but…it ain’t easy.

No word from friends, either. I expect they’re all out having fun. I hope.

Took the morphine down to 2 a day. The pain recedes a bit more each morning. That’s encouraging.

Still manic. Seeing but not seeing, hearing but not hearing. Problematic when my brother tells me something, then leaves, and I can’t remember where he went or when he’s returning.

Bored out of my fucking skull with tv. Nothing new, so we’ve been watching from our collection. Last night’s selection was Hobo with a Shotgun. I enjoyed it for its splat element, its over the top chroma push and panto acting. I didn’t enjoy the blatant dick story: the only women in the film were non-descript mothers who stood protesting violence, or hookers. Nothing else. And only one woman – no, check that, two; the nurse was female – had dialogue. It was dick-story city, testosterone driven drivel that was really repulsive. Could not get past it during last night’s viewing. Made me doubly proud of my own work: solid stories in which the main characters happen to be women. They could be male, as well. It makes no difference to the basic story. It’s not about women’s problems with men, or pregnant women, or women bitching about relationships. It’s just a story. No women’s issues undercurrents, although they’re present in a light degree because they’re always present in women’s lives.

Similarly, I’ve been having issues with reading the Dune series. Good Goddess! Always the male lead, the male who ‘can see where women can’t’, the male who drives the entire fucking thing. Women are victims of time and space, their own frailties and the men who enforce the law. *vomit* Same shit made me stop reading CS Lewis.

And every time a man writes a woman’s story, it ends up like Ultraviolet. I want to like that film. But it’s based on what every man assumes is the ultimate pinnacle for every woman: motherhood. What. the. fuck? You spend all that money and time making a film and THAT’S your fucking message? That motherhood is the saving grace of every female? That’s as bad as Grease.

I will jump all over ANYONE’S ass who calls me ‘the mistress of suspense’ or makes any other reference to me being a female. Screw you; I’m a writer. Sexless. It makes no fucking difference! Let’s throw out the bullshit: words like actress. Why? Why aren’t we all just actors? Why the sex difference? It shows up a lot in Dutch, and I find it irritating. Different words for female teachers, female this, female that – it’s a not-so-subtle enforced distance from men.

Men who support that shit…You can all go suck your own dicks. I sure as fuck won’t.

…Yeah, yeah. I’m on a rant. And I’m becoming an entrenched feminist. The times make the woman…

*sigh* It doesn’t help that lately I’ve been reading a story from my friend J. It’s…female strong. Female strong from a homosexual male’s perspective. It doesn’t ring true. In some ways it’s as clunky and offensive as a heterosexual male’s take on women. And I don’t know how to tell him that. Plus, well…all the intensive writing and editing I’ve done has made me sensitive to certain problems. Passive writing. Inclusion of all the senses. Truth is, I’m not even half way through the story and I’ve already a long page of notes for him. He’s a good writer. Excellent when it comes to stuff like film reviews. But he’s too cerebral for novel writing – at least, to my tastes. And while I understand he’s writing fantasy, his narrative continues in the same pondering sort of tense as his dialogue, and it becomes too much. I think his stuff could be real good, and break out of his cult fan base, but only if he addresses some of this. I just don’t know how to say it…

And doesn’t that make me sound arrogant? …On the other hand, if I notice it and really do want to help (which I do), shouldn’t I say something? This is stuff I had pointed out to me. Not nicely. If I can convey the info without hurting people the way I was hurt, well, that’s good, right? I mean, I’ve run into writers to whom I’ve had to say: run your stuff through spell check first. And they don’t. You can’t help people like that. They do what they do. But J’s my friend. He’s promising as a writer. …Fuck. Let’s face it: I don’t want to risk losing him as a friend. I don’t want to hurt him.

Honesty again, huh? Oh, Universe. I woulda thought you might give me a few days off from that. It IS a holiday, after all.

BOOM!

…Yeah, it is. And as long as that’s going on, I’m hibernating. Napping while it’s quiet. Chillin’. Making no decisions more pressing than what’s for dinner.

And finding something (boom!) that isn’t dick driven (boom!) to watch.

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.

Scrape it off

So.

I’ve noticed a sick tendency in myself. I think about my new friends from the film, or the experiences I had, and the right side of my face hurts. It’s abundantly clear to me I’m clenching my jaw because I’m getting so much incoming wonderfulness. And that, people, sucks.

For now, I’m riding meds. Saw the doc. First thing out of her mouth: ‘You can open your eye again’. Did not know I was doing that, but a quick consultation with my bro confirmed it; the pain made me crunch my right eye closed. Three a day on the morphine pills. Do not even think about any less right now – and that’s with verbal confirmation from the doc, who assured me I’ve got an open ‘script on those pills at the moment. She didn’t say TMJ, but she did talk about a physical therapist who specializes in jaw manipulation, which is part of the treatment course for TMJ. She wants one more check from the dentist, to make sure all is as is should be with my teeth. She also warned me she’ll be on holiday by the time I see the dentist, so she’s preparing and leaving a letter of recommendation for the physical therapist. In other words, she believes me. Thank the Goddess.

Now I’ve just got to decide what to do. I’ll follow thru with the physical element: the dentist, the anticipated fittings for a mouth guard, the physical therapy. But…I’m pretty sure I know what set this off. What’s continuing to set it off. And therein, lies my decision.

I could ignore the reason and simply drug this away. Carry an open ‘script for morphine and take as desired. They’d let me. Once you hit a certain age, the docs stop fighting you so much on drugging away the pain.

But that would mean I’d repeat what I just went thru. The pain. Doesn’t matter if I can drug it away. That amount of pain makes time stop. A minute is a lifetime. Funny thing, that.

I have had lifetimes of pain.

Too many lifetimes.

So. Decision time. Don’t need to jump on anything or seek out a shrink right now. But if I want friends and love in my life, I need to accept it without hurting myself. Right now, it seems I can’t do that.

*sigh* My brother has also rightly pointed out that I was more manic than he’s ever seen me, and that’s saying something. I looked over my posts during and leading up to the film. Over the top. I knew it, did my best to stay on top of it, but it was riding me – not the other way around.

Fuck. Nothing like a lot of pain to make me finally seek out help I probably needed fucking decades ago.

…A road is traveled by putting one foot in front of the other. You don’t have to move fast, or take big steps. You just have to put one foot in front of the other. Remember that.

Hm. What do you know? Pain. Crops up lately every time I hit on something, and I’ve been hitting on a lot lately.

I could base my therapy on this shit.

Still squirrelly. Don’t want to admit it, but I am. I’m either knocked out from the pills or squirming in my chair. That ain’t relaxed. And this post ain’t helping.

Gonna go back to the big chair. Put my feet up and a movie on. Set an alarm to take my pills on time. Screw you, epiphanies. Screw you, self awareness. You’ve put me into overload. The animal can’t take it anymore. I’m calling a stop to it. You hear me? It stops. Now.

…Better.

My only focus is feeling better. Sleeping thru the night. Eating properly. Drinking enough water. Taking my pills on time, so I can do the aforementioned. Everything else gets scraped into the wastebasket. All the gunk and goo, the spilled blood and guts, the vomit…scrape it off. Down to the final molecule.

My writing speaks for me

Whirlwind. The dust bunnies are settling (no, I didn’t get to them) now that it’s over. What was the reason? One day of massively concentrated writing.

Taman is essentially done. A couple of typos I caught on the last read thru. But the extra scene, the additional dialogue to spin out enough time so it didn’t seem like everything happened in two days, and a few references to modify the tone here and there…that’s done. Finito. In a few days’ time I’ll take the pdf from the system and wipe it from my page.

Good on me. Good on me for thinking ahead. Had some time after the gym yesterday (never really feel like taking on a big project post workout) so I buzzed around the internet, searching for theatrical props suppliers. Wanted to know what sort of costs I was running up in the thriller, asking for a gun and prop knives. Found some articles that made me think we might not be able to get said props here in NL. Asked the group, and sure enough, it’s a big hassle. Toy guns are okay. Prop guns are not. I’m assuming at this point that prop knives are just as big a hassle. What I’ve been reading seems to indicate that.

So, knives are out. Oh, sure, maybe we could find a rubber one, but I wanted retractable knives to stab. Just wouldn’t be the same. That makes Act 2 tough: how do the two siblings kill each other? I’m thinking poison, voluntarily taken… Sad to think Act 3 might feel a little cheap using a toy gun. But I gotta have a gun. I’ve thought and thought about it, and the gun is…it’s poetic. It’s poetic and frightening and terribly sad all at the same time. The last scene just wouldn’t be the same without it.

Sat in my chair last night during telly, half watching what was on, half listing out all the ways to kill someone without using guns or knives. I like electrocution. It carries the possibility of a good scene. But it implies forethought, and these killers do not think ahead. They just kill, using whatever is at hand. Beating someone to death is basic – and I’ll use it. It will take more physical acting than I’d anticipated – I’ve got a fight scene, but not a fight to the death. Most importantly, tho, I don’t want to double up on deaths. I don’t want everyone to die from gunshots, or stab wounds, or strangulation. I want variety. Total variety.

Gotta say, spending my time looking at all the things in a room I could kill someone with is…weird. I feel a little weird doing it.

….Hm. Too bad nothing I’m writing is near water. Drowning is always a spectacular death…

On land, without forethought, I’ve got strangulation, suffocation, poisoning (a little forethought there, but I can make it work), beating to death (body), pushing their eyes into the brain (difficult to pull off without FX), pushing someone off a height, hitting them over the head hard enough with an object… There’s always variations, too.

And there’s a thought! Can we get break away bottles to use rather than the guns??? I could make that work. Easy. Make a note to check.

…Now that I think about it, I could write a drowning scene. It only takes a few inches of water to drown someone. It can be done in a sink. Hm.

Rather morbid thinking for 7:30 in the morning.

When I’m done rambling, I gots Dutch to do. Meh. Not looking forward to it. I’d rather sit and pontificate on paper. But I need to look at those verbs, and write out my homework. It gets two hours of my time before class. No more.

My bro’s been proclaiming (loudly): Don’t forget to say ‘you’re number two’. I think he’s put that in my brain at least a dozen times since my crying jag. Still don’t know how to properly say it in Dutch; suppose I should try and look it up. The idea behind it is that I’m a writer. I write. Do not ever ask me to give up my writing. Ever. For anything. Because everything comes second or lower. This is an idea I need to communicate to my Monday teachers. I enjoy being challenged – but do NOT grill me or act disappointed when I say ‘I was writing’ and didn’t study. You do not come first; you are second at best. Third, if I’m honest, because I’ll blow off all my Dutch including my class to act.

And I do not want to hear ‘you’ll never get the language if you don’t stop using English’. I’ve heard that nugget of donkey shit already. No. I’ll take longer to learn to the language if I keep using English. It’s not fucking impossible, and I won’t believe it is.

And you know what? I’m cocky enough this morning to say that I’ll eventually get the writing side of Dutch enough to do my thing with it. Maybe I’ll never speak like a native. I think I could live with that, if my writing passed the mark.

I’ve never been real good at off the cuff. I can do it, and if it’s a subject I’m knowledgeable about, I can be intimidating. But…ask me how I’m feeling, what I’m thinking at any one moment… Then I stumble. Then I say things poorly. I can’t seem to find the words to explain myself clearly; I’m too caught up in the jumble.

Which is why I write. It gives me time to think. Time to lay out my ideas – as much for me to see as for the world. Once I’ve done that, I can be as bluntly honest and quick on explanation as anyone. But not before. My verbal communication has never been strong.

My writing speaks for me.

I’m learning

The only time during the last 24 hours that my head has managed to shut the fuck up has been when my distinctly short sleep post performance caught up with me and I dozed off from exhaustion. Other than that, it’s been nag, nag, nag…

I be the Queen of Second Guessing.

The words ‘I need a little sunshine in my life’ escaped my lips sometime around midday. At that moment, ‘a little sunshine’ consisted of a lemon popsicle, licked and slurped like I was a five year old. Part of me noted it, noted my falling mood, noted, too, the yellow I use more and more around me and in my wardrobe to help keep my fickle mind from falling into the depths of depression.

This is the backlash from time off at the gym. No endorphin rush. I’m jonesing. Jonesing so bad I don’t even know I’m jonesing…

My ankle is still ‘soft’ and painful when I take a step.

On the up side (keep looking at it, even if you’re not there), my day off yesterday helped my injuries. My hand is only bruised now – an ugly bruise, spreading from my fingers all the way down the side of my hand – and the swelling is gone. And, hey! My ankle didn’t hurt when I turned over in bed…or not too much. It’s an improvement.

Managed to write my letter yesterday. Took over an hour. Tried just writing it, then checking later on google translate. Some sentences I nailed, some were horribly wrong. All things considered, not too bad. Could be better, but I can say that about a lot of things. Did my best to devote some brain power to memorizing those irregular verbs. But it was an uphill battle against exhaustion, my head-speak, and a hangover. Hopefully I’ll retain some memory of at least seeing the words…

This morning I’ve a dental appointment. Now there’s something I blocked from my memory until the play was over. Ugh. Well, it’s only a cleaning and hopefully now that I’m back on track with dental checks it’ll go quickly and without any pain problems hiccups. Will have to take my school stuff to the dentist’s and leave from there in order to make class on time. Lovely. Get my teeth polished up so I can go somewhere and have a crappy cup of coffee served up that’ll just coat those clean teeth with brown gunk. Hm. Maybe I’ll just say no to that coffee. Then again, I was up early and will probably need the caffeine to get thru all the Dutch in the afternoon. …Time for a Red Bull run?

Been thinking about my honesty-blurting. Realized I got no filters in some places. Hit the right word, and everything comes out of me – no holds barred. I know that’s weird. Especially when you I do that with people who are essentially acquaintances. But I consider it a step up. It’s honest. Maybe it’s harsh, maybe I’ve no social graces anymore, but I’m being honest. Case in point: I remembered (oh, Goddess! The self-flagellation I’ve committed over this one!) that during the evening’s celebrations I came out with my stunned reaction to their casual money conversations. Admitted to envy. Someone – my acting partner, who seems very attuned to my moods – apologized. We didn’t mean to make you feel bad. Oh, fuck! I remember back-tracking a little, or trying to. Then I stopped myself, admitted to the envy, how that kind of spur of the moment travel to another country to buy 16 bottles of expensive wine was just beyond my means. How I couldn’t actually imagine that kind of living. I am deeply embarrassed to have said all that. Deeply embarrassed. …But it’s true. Where and when I was raised…well, put it this way: my parents had to work all the time to afford a little more. A little more to me meant things like a summer cabin to go to over the weekends (said cabin being uninsulated and very, very ‘rustic’ in amenities), or camping in the mountains with our cousins. It did not entail my parents whim-purchasing expensive items. Those were planned and budgeted for, sometimes for years. Holidays were part of that ‘expensive item’ thing; even our simple weekends or camping out (eating mac ‘n’ cheese, because that’s what we could afford) had to be budgeted. …And we were thought of as wealthy because we had that cabin with barely running water and bats in the walls, because we could drive non-stop out to the mountains and go cheap, cheap, cheap for a few weeks in the summer. I caught a lot of flack at school for that stuff. Later, my parents experienced an increase in wealth (their first stock market haul). We began taking holidays other places, staying in cheap hotels. My dad bought his first sailboat – barely 25 feet, not in good condition, and he couldn’t afford to keep it tied up at the marina. None of that helped at school. I was under constant pressure from the kids to not have too much. I was called a princess and stuck-up. And so I began to think what my parents had was a lot. That we were rich, that I was stuck-up, that I was spoiled. But…we weren’t. I wasn’t. And I’m not. My eyes have been opened to the first layer of what ‘rich’ really is, and we weren’t even in the neighborhood.

Here, I suppose, lies the crux of the middle-class: we are shamed by both sides. I was shamed in my youth for having too much. Now I am shamed for having too little.

…I knew finding my balance post-production was going to be tough. Did not expect any perception-altering revelations. I suppose that, more than anything shows it.

I’m learning.

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…

There’s already enough

Heavy sigh.

If I were to take as long healing from all the crap I got growing up as it took to brainwash me into thinking I was a piece of shit, I’d be 76 and counting before I got over it. That’s the thought that elicited the heavy sigh, a depressed feeling, and anger over time never fucking being on my side.

I hate my family.

Gods…I know I look awful when I’m at the gym. Catch myself too often too deep into emotion. I tear up, my face turns red – I’m sure I look either like I’m about to have a heart attack or a nervous breakdown. Or both. It’s what happens. My body moves, stuff shifts and suddenly I am overwhelmed by memories and emotions. Therapists really should think about doing sessions during work-outs. At least in my case.

Gotta go through it. Free up whatever got blocked. Breathe. Fucking breathe. That’s the only thing I can think of, when it hits me. My feet move, time ticks on, but I’m unaware of any of it. Just stuck somewhere deep in a half hidden memory that’s full of old, built up muck. I’ve only impressions left over. Impressions of regret, and anger. Why did it go down that way? Why couldn’t I have been one of the lucky ones born into a family that cared?

Don’t talk to me about fate. I’ve always felt like I’m paying forward in this life, and it sucks. I was never a kid who enjoyed frying ants or ripping off the wings of flies. I don’t have that mean streak in me. If I’d been a shit in a previous life, wouldn’t it have shown up early on? I think so. But I was that weird kid who’d get up at 4 am to sing the sun up. I talked to trees, and cried over injustices.

And if the secret to reaching zen is dealing with people shitting on you all the time, I must be some freaking holy zen master.

So why do I find all of this so fucking difficult?

Haven’t I learned anything?

But, hey. I don’t have social niceties. Was never taught them. Don’t get hidden agendas, or most faux pas (what IS the plural on that, anyway?). And if I had a nickel for every time I heard about how ‘different’ I was…well, I still wouldn’t be rich. But I could buy a cheap meal for myself.

So what’s stuck in my craw today?

Other than the welling up of old memories and feelings, I guess I’d have to say it was what happened at my language lesson. Yeesh. You know, questioning any of this makes me wonder if I’m not just some drama queen timing things out and demanding my fair share of attention. Nonetheless, I noticed a definite difference between how I am treated and how my fellow student is treated. The effect was heightened for me because we had another new volunteer teacher sit in with us, to learn how a lesson might be. I think she looked at me twice. The remainder of her eye contact was reserved for my fellow student. And rightly so; the majority of conversation took place between my teacher, the newbie, and the other student. I was not included. I was not asked questions. I searched for things to say, to include myself…didn’t feel it was well received. They turned, they listened, but they didn’t follow up with statements or questions. Am I being paranoid? So difficult to tell. The other student is not as far along as me, and both instructors might have felt she needed more practice speaking. That’s logical. Still. I’ve an undeniable feeling that something else is going on, something I’m not catching onto. I hate that.

Mm. That’s the second thing I’ve said I hate.

Decided something. Had a weird few minutes during the script read through. I was outside with the director and someone the director knew was leaving. The guy asked me – twice – if I was the director’s wife. My reaction: laughter. I’ve thought a lot about that, and realized it might have sounded derisive to the director. Like I was laughing at the idea that we could be married because I found him unattractive or whatever. I wasn’t; I was laughing over the idea of anyone even conceiving ME of being capable of marrying someone. I’m just a bit worried that my hilarity will be taken the wrong way, and I don’t want any misunderstandings over my lack of social skills. So I’m gonna bring it up to him. Remind him of that moment and explain myself because I didn’t at the time. And I don’t need anyone else thinking I’m a shit.

There’s already enough.

Seems that way to me

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Sat looking at the WP link on my browser. Why bother? Then I remembered that I don’t do it for you, I do it for me. I write for me. Yes, it’s depressing to get up, open up my email, and see 23 messages that have jack shit to do with me come in. They’re all ads, or notifications that groups I never said I wanted to be part of out on FB have new posts. It’s depressing to know this is public, to know people see it, and to know no one gives a shit. Doubly depressing right now, as no matter how much I tell myself to forget about waiting to hear from the director I find myself still hoping, each time I open up my computer, that I’ll see something from him.

Still waiting on my immigration card, too, which has become an ironic activity in the last few days with 45’s new executive order (45 refers to the Great Orange Oompa-Loompa running LaLa Land; new nickname I heard and I love it). Goddess! To feel guilty over having the damned opportunity to even be here! Thank you, 45, for ruining everything you could in 24 hours. You’re one hell of a bulldozer.

To the American lawyer in the Hague who falsely accused the Dutch police of racially motivated violence: why did you do that? Why do you live here and not speak a word of Dutch? Go home, girl. You don’t belong in this society. That much is obvious if you don’t even try. I just can’t wrap my head around why you’d lie about something so big. Are you trying to make problems here? Trying to stir up racial violence? That’s what it sounds like. The video shows the police didn’t hurt you at all. Just the opposite: you put up a fight against them. For Christ’s sake! You’re a bleeding lawyer! Didn’t it ever occur to your legal mind that maybe, just maybe, the police wanted to see your identification? Duh-uh! Like, that’s the first thing out of their mouths in ANY country. So let me give back some of the shit I got: if you don’t like it, get the fuck out – but don’t stir up trouble where there’s none.

Yesterday was a bust; ended up slothing. Tv, juice, films, sleep. Guess I needed it. Wasn’t until 9 p.m. that my headache finally left. And I slept a deep, long sleep last night on top of my afternoon naps.

Wish I had more in me to give. The org that runs my Friday lessons is asking for volunteer help in lieu of cash for our lessons. Come in, they say. Help in the kitchen, with admin, with cleaning, with shopping, with visiting the elderly. Loads of stuff, much of which interests me. Doing anything will squeeze my time, though. If I volunteer, it will be with the same attitude I bring to class: it’s a commitment, and not one I’ll walk away from lightly. That means I’ll keep showing up, week after week. So I need to consider my long term schedule. Mornings are out; those are filled with exercise, language classes, and doctor’s visits. That leaves afternoons – which means cutting into some other time slot I’ve got marked in my head; on my own language work, or writing, or just chilling out. And I need to remember that sometime this season the theater group will be getting together. That’s early evenings, and there’s travel time and making sure I’ve had dinner and down time prior to leaving. Juggling my exercises, doctor’s appointments, language classes, and theater rehearsals is tough enough. Asking me to add in another commitment, every week….I see overload on my horizon. And overload comes so easily, so naturally to me anyway, I’m hesitant to add anything that might set it off.

…I’m not good in groups. Don’t know how to act. If I’m me, completely, I’m told I come off as bossy and ‘know it all’. If I hold back, hesitate to participate, I get bored easily and my concentration wanders. And let’s face it: human interaction is not my strong suit. Not in the real world, one on one. On paper; great. Face to face and my people pleasing kicks in, or my triggers are tripped, or my magpie mind flits around so quickly no one can keep up and I’m thought ‘eccentric’ at best. I want to work well in groups. Part of my theater work has been just that – my attempt to integrate myself in a new group. To work with them, socialize with them, maybe find one person who might make that leap from associate to friend. Let’s face it: I’ve been griping and moaning about my group interactions as soon as I began. Some of it’s very exciting. Much of it I don’t understand. I don’t understand the compunction to say one thing and do another, and it feels like that’s what I run into a lot in groups. People who say they’ll take care of something, say they’ll do something, then they don’t. How do I react to that? Do I confront? My confrontations look angry, because generally I wait and wait until I’m at the boiling point before I confront. I don’t like confrontations. Why? Because I don’t like hearing the truths uttered at that point. I’ve been told I focus on the negative, and I know I do, but deep inside me is the belief that people’s TRUE view of you, themselves, and the world comes out in moments of anger. These hateful, hurtful things truly do lie deep inside people. For instance: I really do want my sister to die. Just die. I hate her that much. And she really does think me a lying, cheating bitch. But I’ve heard plenty of people – seen it even in films, read it in books, written it myself – who forgive. Who accept the ‘I’m sorry’, no matter what was said. While I accept that people are sorry for letting those hateful things come out of their mouths, I don’t accept their denial of their truth. “I didn’t mean it.” Yes you did. You think it all the time, it lives in the back of your mind. You meant it, alright. You just didn’t want it to damage the relationship beyond repair, so you regret saying it. But I must question why people feel that way. What’s so valuable in a relationship with an obviously inferior person? Why, the opportunity to exploit them in some manner. That seems the obvious answer to me, because that’s what’s happened to me. And I don’t see those things in people. I’m blind, mostly, to that side of their nature until after I’m left empty and used.

How do I change that? Can I somehow teach myself to see people that way? Isn’t that true cynicism, to always look for ulterior motives?

Do I even want to become that person, who sees hidden agendas and the wolf’s smile behind every sheepskin?

What is this I’m chasing? Is it something that never existed in the first place? Is there no honesty in the world? No safety? No real communication? Is it all innuendo and metaphor?

Seems that way to me.