I am a Vengeful Person

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I have looked strange the past 24 hours. I know it. Because every time I remind myself to think success without revenge, I’ve stopped. Frozen completely – even mid-stride. It’s difficult to remember to change my thinking habits, and even harder to do. Each time I have to build it up from the ground – calm, no family, see it, hear it – bit by bit I construct it, view it dispassionately, then I remember I’m mid-stride or mid whatever and I come back to myself with a ‘huh!’. The things I’ve found in my brain have been small. Simple. And success has lost its frenetic energy; it’s become a calm and measured thing. Most measures of success I have for myself as an artist are things I can already lay claim to: having someone moved to tears by my performance, hearing that something I did changed someone’s life. The only thing I’m missing is being able to cover my expenses by my art.

I think you are too hard on yourself. That’s a quote from my very cute physiotherapist, tho I can’t write in his adorable bleeding Dutch accent. He made me laugh. Obviously, I have been myself with him. And obviously, he’s too hard on himself in some ways since he saw it so readily in me. I got him to really open up and talk about football (soccer, if you’re in the states). He’s on a semi-pro team as goalie and admitted that he’s a hard ass when it comes to winning on the field, which is completely counter to the person he presents to the rest of the world. It gave me a good insight to him that he hadn’t let me see before, and honestly, I feel I can relate to him even more now that his veneer of perfection has a dent in it.

Picked up Anna Karenina by Tolstoy. Man, I love Russian writers! I admit it’s difficult to get past the names, but the writing -! Often I have to pause and consider the perfection of the thought presented to me. This book got me from the start, with the first sentence:

All happy families are alike; each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.

That’s a sentence I want tattooed on my bleeding forehead. It’s got to be the single most gorgeous line I’ve ever read, truly yummy in my brain and my soul. Ah! To write like a Russian! Tolstoy just gets me right down to the core.

Went to my language lesson this morning, which more and more often is a one-on-one thing since the other student rarely shows up. I had quite a bit of apprehension: my sick time didn’t include one moment of Dutch, and I felt pretty rusty and out of it. But we kept on, and props to my teacher who found a simpler text for me to read out of. I’m going paragraph by paragraph, getting pronunciation correction when I need it and switching to English when I don’t understand something. Simple things blow me away. In Dutch, you stop something in your mouth rather than put something in your mouth. That kind of stuff trips me up every damned time. Or remembering what lays or what stands on a table. Ach! But I don’t feel so bad about language at the moment, and that’s a new and different (and very welcome) feeling. I’ve been laughing at the irony of reading Tolstoy in English while struggling with Dutch text meant for a nine year old. It’s a perfect example of why I’m frustrated. I enjoy Tolstoy. Really enjoy it. I really enjoy a lot of traditionally ‘hard’ reads. So trust me, struggling to understand simple text is just freaking difficult and to have even the slightest relaxation of that frustration is a cool blessing on my brain.

Tomorrow, of course, I have to deal with a teacher who isn’t so nice to me. But that’s tomorrow, and I refuse to borrow any trouble right now.

What with getting out of the house for hair appointments (yes, it’s done), physiotherapy, and language lessons, I’ve had more fresh air and exercise in the past 24 hours than I’ve had in weeks. It’s served to underscore the fact that I’m not really well yet – I’m damned tired by the end of the day and back to falling asleep in front of the tv. Which is a good reminder, because naturally I’m feeling more and more antsy and a trip to the gym has been crossing my mind with regularity. Not ready for it yet. Maybe next week.

You know…I really don’t know what I’m building here. With the crush on my physiotherapist and my language attempts and all this non-revenge visualization. Not a bleeding clue. I don’t know if I’d go out with my physiotherapist even if he asked me, and believe me, I’ve thought about that one a lot. I don’t know if I’ll ever really feel comfortable with Dutch. Even Dutch people have told me it’s a dull language and English offers so much more expression. And the non-revenge stuff…I’m ashamed to admit to how deep revenge goes in me. How much of a hole is left in my life when I take that out of the equation. Gah! What the hell does that say about me? I don’t like the message. I don’t like what I see.

Maybe that’s my lesson. Maybe it’s been the vengeful part of me I’ve never really liked. Never thought about it that way before. And I know, like an alcoholic, I’ve got to admit it before I can move on.

Hi, I’m Beeps, and I’m a vengeful person.

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On the See-Saw

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Last night I had the frustrating task of figuring out the following cryptic message: It’s got the Doctor Who guy who had armageddon in it. From this, my brother expected me to understand the following: The film we were about to watch, Lesbian Vampire Killers, included in its cast James Corden who starred in the Doctor Who episode ‘The Lodger’ as Doctor Who’s roommate AND who ended up (in another episode) having a baby, Alfie, who like to be called Stormageddon (according to the Doctor).

Sometimes my brother’s short hand way of speaking really makes me want to strangle him.

I have been thinking deep and heavy thoughts. They’re not surface thoughts; those I can at least glimpse as they flit by my mind. These thoughts are too deep to access. They keep me preoccupied no matter what’s going on around me. I sit in front of the tv, offering a smile and/or laugh when my brother does so I don’t seem too off. I don’t really hear what’s going on. In fact, last night I had that weird thing happen to me where English is being spoken but I can’t understand a word of it. It’s just mush, syllables with no particular meaning. Flying over my head, smiles, laughter and mush, as I sit stony faced because some part of my brain is in overtime and I can’t access it.

Really hard to keep my frustration from screaming out of me right now. I gotta stand back a little: I can see this woman who looks unhappy – I know she doesn’t feel that way, but she looks that way from the outside. She is quiet, too quiet….. And with good fucking reason. Every goddamn time I open my fucking mouth my brother INSISTS on making analogies to himself. Yesterday I was talking about my writing, he turned it into a conversation about music. Goddamn it! Sometimes I wish he’d just let my statements stand in the air without comment. I need to tell him something, not have him turn it around so I can relate to him. HEAR me, will you? And I can’t come down on him too hard because he still doesn’t have any goddamn pills from the fucking doctors to slow down his ADHD. I know what the fuck is going on with him. He’s doing fucking great, other than continually interrupting me until I’m ready to crawl out of my fucking skin.

And I’m scared ’cause I want to write again, but not like I did before. I want to write like I WANTED to before, but couldn’t. I feel like I can now. Like I can address some of those dark memories in my head and finally give them the dirt and sweat and cum smeared all over their faces like I remember. I want to write the ugly out, in glorious 3D splat with fountains of shit flying everywhere. No hiding behind humor or metaphor. And I know my brother will hate it. He’s the number one fan of my fiction. My humorous fiction. He asks for more stories from me all the time. And I like to write that, when I’m there. But what’s brewing isn’t funny, it isn’t nice, it isn’t rated YA. It’s gonna be ugly literature, stuff I never wanted to read. Stuff I’m afraid he’ll reject because it’s too raw. I tried to tell him that. I really did. All I got was the music analogy, which frankly lost me after the second sentence. My verbal skills have gone to shit. Or maybe he just doesn’t give me enough time to get things OUT. I don’t know anymore. Too fucking frustrated.

My body still isn’t healthy, which frustrates me more. I guess I’m not over this manic episode after all. Thought I was when I was getting ill; it slowed me down enough to fool me. Now that I’m on the mend I realize I’m not slowed down at all. I want to fly right now, zoom away into words and sounds and never, ever come back down to earth cause why fucking bother? Everything here is too slow.

I am tired and wound up and I need more sleep today, I can tell. Feel like I could lay my head down on my desk right now and snooze for four more hours.

Can’t breathe, can’t breathe, can’t breathe. Been through a whole box of tissues.

Do not want to do today.

Where is my warrior princess? The blood thirsty bitch who screams ‘NEVER!’ as she dives into battle? Must have been up fighting all night. I DID wake up soaked in sweat again. It wasn’t even warm last night, so must have been fighting something.

Do not want to admit this, but I’ll put myself down today. Drug myself out, so I keep calm and get more sleep. I know it ain’t the best way to go. But right now I’m facing drugging myself asleep and resting today, or running too fast and hard and coming up even more ill tomorrow. This is a life long pattern for me, and why I take months to heal from simple illnesses. I’m trying to break myself of it.

Still haven’t made the call yet for a new counseling appointment. I keep telling myself I will when I get better. I’d at least like to be able to hear what’s going on, and right now my ears are still pretty clogged up. All excuses. I’m just avoiding it. It’s the last fucking thing I should be doing, and I’m letting myself do it.

Sometimes the thing I despair the most about it my own perceived weakness. Intellectually, I know that. I know I’m not weak; I am, in fact, the opposite. I can write out an entire argument on my own behalf detailing exactly how strong and brave I am. I could do it right now. My heart still wouldn’t accept it, tho. It’s still sad because some part of me has her hands thrown up in the air again. That ‘I just can’t deal with this shit right now’ attitude that seeps through every facet of my fucking life. And I tell myself it’s just the remnants of my illness. I’m just off my game. But I’m not off my game, I’m on the see-saw. It’s just tipping and teetering, which throws my balance off. Never did have a good sense of balance.

So deep breath, try again.

I acknowledge I’m probably in a mixed episode right now. I acknowledge my emotions are topsy-turvy, that I’ll be up one minute and crying the next. I acknowledge my own frustrations. I acknowledge that I have a problem. That’s ok. It’s ok to have a problem. It’s ok to be frustrated when you’re ill. It’s ok to ask for help.

Trying to decide if I can make a promise to myself today and follow through. And I’m still on the fence. What I want to do is carry through with the idea that’s it’s ok to ask for help. I should stop at the doctor’s office and see if she can see me today. This sinus infection or whatever has been going on for over a week now, and I probably need something to help me heal. Can I bring myself to do that? Face the embarrassment of having to resort to English ’cause I can’t explain all this in Dutch? Face the walk over there, and then maybe the wait or the need to return later in the day when she has some time free? Do I have it in me today to do this for myself?

I will try. I will not promise myself because I don’t know that I’m up to it. But I will try. I will put on my shoes and get dressed before noon. I will walk over to the doctor’s office and ask if she can see me today.

And the see-saw tips down towards exhaustion……