I was not to blame

When you find yourself in danger, if you cannot fight or flee successfully, freezing is your next best survival instinct.

I’ve been allowing these words to sink in. Yesterday was the first time anyone ever said that to me. Of course, I’d never spoken about the guilt I carry for freezing up during the times I was raped and “allowing” it to happen. I know I did what I did because I was scared to death. But I’ve always had a part of me that said: if you’d have fought harder, it wouldn’t have happened. Dr T set me straight, and it was difficult to hear.

Did not walk into my appointment thinking that was what I’d be talking about. I thought I’d be talking about the sibling rivalry problem between myself and my siblings. But, no. Somehow Dr T got me to open up. Maybe it was because we were talking in Dutch.

I’m practicing saying ‘no’, I told him. But it’s easier in Dutch. I told him I knew how important it was for me to say no and take care of myself first. And then…and then the word ‘verkracht’ (raped) came out, and he asked when and I said it wasn’t so much when as how often, and then I started talking about the stalker and the beatings and how I felt like a caged animal for years. The conversation flowed from Dutch to English to Dutch in a comfortable manner. So now he finally knows that bit about me.

We talked about sexuality, about relationships. Have you been able to have a successful relationship with a man after the rapes? No. No, I haven’t. Not unless I can take sex out of the equation right away. If I can get a guy to just see me as a person, someone to hang out with and eat pizza, it’s fine. If they think me in anyway as a woman, as a female, as attractive – it’s a mess. Treating me nicely, taking me to dinner, asking me to dress up; all of it freaks me out. I suppose the two date rapes that happened to me do not help this situation. *sigh* Never trust a man that drops a hundred bucks on a meal for you. Never. The more they pay, the more the feel they’ve paid for you and the more likely they’ll take what they think they’ve paid for. That’s been my experience.

Did you ever tell anyone? No. None other than my brother, who’s had the overview but not the messy details. And then came the biggie: I thought my family would blame me. And I was right; they would have. They would have blamed my clothing, the fact that I was drinking, the fact that I went out ‘looking for it’.

I once built up the courage to tell my eldest brother that the stalker was hitting me. His response was a cool So? No ‘you’ve got to get out of there’ or ‘how dare he’. Just So? Like I’d just told him a bulb was burnt out in the house or something.

I was right to say nothing. I know I was. With that attitude, all I would have heard was how much of a slut I was, that I was already practically a whore so I might as well make it official, on and on, ad infinitum.

Trust your instincts, Beeps. The doc just told you you have good survival instincts. Trust them.

People here think I exaggerate. About my family, life in the states, etc. I’m not, naturally. A strange thing happens to people. They begin to act like they know an area because they spent a few days on holiday there. I’ve had loads of Europeans say ‘Oh, yes, I know the US’ and then go on to tell me how last year they spent a week in NYC or Boston. I look these people square in the eye and ask ‘If an American spent a week in Amsterdam would you say they know the Netherlands?’ Here in Rotterdam that’s a kicker; no one will say ‘yes’. Then I move on to explaining how large the US is. How different the states are from each other. The language, the customs, the laws, the taxes – all different. And finally I get them to admit that no, they don’t know what they’re talking about. I’m happy that their logic allows them to follow my argument, that they can readily and easily admit their mistakes. I’m not happy that I have to lay the argument out, over and over, to each fool I meet. I feel like I’m having the same conversation continually loop. Goddess! And why do I have to be the one who teaches everyone? Can’t someone else do if for a few decades?

…How do you change the world? One human at a time.


The dregs of a hurricane from the Mediterranean are hitting NL today. High winds, rain. I’d like to get to the gym for a while. Work out and think on Dr T’s words. They’re having a big impact on me. They wash the last self-imposed blame from my body: I was not to blame. Nothing I did merited what happened to me. I went into survival instinct.

And they must have felt my head pulling away, or trying to pull away, as they shoved it down on their cocks deeper and deeper until I felt I was going to gag. They must have felt my fear, my frozen unwantingness. How dry my vagina was. How quickly I left afterwards. My lack of touch, lack of desire. It was all there. And they raped me.

I was not to blame.


I ain’t that dumb

I do not feel like an idiot. That’s gotta be number one today, because so often I do feel stupid. …It’s awful nice not to be beating myself up for something or the other.

Exercise. Back at the gym on my regular rotation. Took the cross-trainer up to level 4 and blew through my first km at 6 minutes 44 seconds. Ran – RAN – more than four km in my 30 minute stint (that includes slowing down for 10 minutes of back peddling). I’m gonna break 5km in 30 minutes before I’m done! Yesterday was tough, naturally. New level, new push, far more aching in my ass muscles. It was worth it.

Language class went well. Maybe my Thursday teacher has been talking to my Monday teachers. Don’t know. What I do know is I was given more time to collect myself before answering, and not once was I given a disappointed look – even if I wasn’t perfect. The other students laughed at me; I was given a very long sentence to read aloud, and kept repeating it to try and pick up the full rhythm of the words. But my teachers nodded at me and smiled in agreement when I said ‘It’s like music’. There’s a cadence to speaking fluently that you need to master. Certain syllables get emphasized in a sentence to help convey meaning. I guess some people never hear that. I can’t help but hear it. …Was satisfied to intercept a look between two other students at one point of the class. We have a know it all (even worse than ME) who interrupts everyone so she can give her answers. I was concerned my irritation with her was purely my thing, my bipolar, my anger. No! Caught that look and I knew – I knew – I wasn’t alone. In fact, one of the people involved in the look caught my eye and smiled, bringing me into the joke. It felt good to be included. Got to say I’m now concerned about this know it all woman. Oh, she irritates the hell out of me. She doesn’t really talk to anyone during break, just sits by herself. But…I can’t help but feel for her. Cultural differences, personal differences…who knows what makes her tick? I don’t. But I do know what it feels like to be on the outside. Too often I’ve been in her shoes – the know it all no one can stand. I just…I don’t know that I want to be the one to work so hard to be nice to her. And…it was so pleasant to sit at a table with several other students, drinking coffee and chatting in Dutch. So light. I want more of that. Is that wrong of me?

…I am THRILLED to find the theatre group has collapsable knives and a prop toy gun. No worrying, no fretting, no re-thinking the death scenes. I can move forward with the thriller trilogy without massive re-writes. Yea! I didn’t really want to give up my final scene with the gun. It’s powerful. And the knives – that’s just icing on the cake. The second act can stand as is.

Ready to finish Taman today and get it off my system. Might even devote ten minutes of brain power to looking at the submission requirements.

And writing… I’m beginning to write in Dutch. I have a little story thought out, front to end. I think I can handle the language needed to write it. It’s a kids’ story, nothing earth shattering. But it’ll be my first attempt at really writing in the language. Strange, thinking in Dutch. Strange, hearing the turns of phrase in my head. Not fully there yet, but I’m close. Very close. I know this will just be another step. There’s still many more to go before I’m fully proficient. But I look forward to really trying my hand at a narrative. My own story, thunk up outta my brain.

Yeah…(extra space left for dreaming my dreams).

Two days ’til I turn 52. Really can’t quite believe that number. I thought I’d be dead by 40. No reason in particular, I just felt I was gonna die rather early. Now I almost feel like I’ve lived beyond my sell-by date. Doesn’t help when I read news of David Cassidy dying. His picture was up on my wall when I was a kid. People my age are dying. Every day. My friends and comrades are vanishing into memory. Makes me think even more over my own mortality. Makes me wonder when my body clock will go off, when I’ll hear the word ‘terminal’. Will I feel ill and tired? Or will it come at me when I’m at the top of my game? It’s the latter I worry about.

Have an appointment with my very cute physiotherapist today. Don’t really feel I need it – and that’s a good thing. I’ll push my next appointment out even further. Maybe I’ll be able to take my visits down to 4 a year. Wish I could break thru the patient-doctor barrier with him – and not just because I find him so damned attractive. He’s a nice guy, and easy to talk with. He could be a friend if the situation were different.

Now there’s something to get me into trouble: friendships with men. I prefer them, on the whole – right up to the point where the man gets a little drunk, or a little bold, and finally says to me that he’s always fancied me and why didn’t we ever hook up? Oh, fuck. I’m leery of that now. ‘Cause it’s just not there. It could be, if I gave up all sorts of ME. I’ve been sexual, and could be again. I just. don’t. wanna.

I operate best as a big kid. Bumbling around, making observations no one wants to hear, learning, watching, digesting it all and spitting it back out. I don’t want to be distracted by grown-up stuff. That’s what makes me feel like an idiot.

And I ain’t that dumb.


Allowed that despair to overtake me yesterday. Just for a moment or two. Enough time to sob deeply and feel a tear drop from my eye. Then I shook myself, sighed, and went to the gym.

Exercise has become a time waster. A thing to keep me from smoking. Not a thing I enjoy. Not a thing I do to get in shape or lose weight. Just a thing that keeps me out of the house, away from my ashtray. The goal is to spend as much of the afternoon at the gym as possible.

Hope to tire myself out. Get back here and almost fall asleep for the rest of the day. Wouldn’t need to smoke then. Wouldn’t need to do anything, other than chill.

Doesn’t quite work, of course. The more I do, the better shape I’m in, the longer it takes to tire me out. Half hour on the cross trainer. Half hour on the treadmill. Half hour on the bikes. Half hour on the free weights. Was surprised all evening long. Kept expecting my eyes to close while watching tv. Nope. Wide awake.

Telling myself I shouldn’t feel all wimpy and weak. My stamina has improved. I’ve moved up settings on everything, including heavier free weights because a 15 year old BOY had to go and pick up the lightest free weights in the gym to exercise. Really, kid? I didn’t want to, but I picked up the 4 kilo weights and started working – after I shot him a dirty look. He’s a healthy BOY CHILD and should be working harder. I’m an OLD WOMAN and should be working less.

Gave a lot of thought to what I wrote about yesterday. Thought so much about it I think I might have handled one of those disagreement points better than usual. It came up in conversation. I could hear it in our words and the slightly harder edge in my brother’s voice. My head said ‘this is one of those times when he feels you’re not hearing him’. So I stopped trying to get my point across. I acknowledged what he said ‘I hear you, and agree’. I dropped the pitch and volume of my voice. And I heard him stumble a moment, expecting a fight and getting none. Then he dropped his voice volume and tone, and suddenly that horrible argument moment was over and done with without our getting into a shouting and/or blaming match.

….And no, it didn’t escape me that in handling and defusing the situation I had zero opportunity to speak my own mind. That could be an issue, so I hope nothing too important comes up. This whole thing began in part because I feel un-listened to. While I’m very pleased to have no arguments or bad feelings to overcome this morning, as far as the subject goes my brother has NO IDEA HOW I FEEL ABOUT IT. He’s assuming I feel one way or another because I haven’t spoken up. But I can’t speak up without causing an argument. And I can’t prevent and argument AND speak up. That’s two conflicting things for me. Either I concentrate on keeping the peace or I speak my mind. And if I continually choose to keep the peace, I end up feeling like my opinions and thoughts don’t matter anyway – which is exactly what started the whole fucking thing in the first place.

Why does this shit always fall to women? I never hear men talk about compromising themselves in order to keep the peace with someone. NEVER. They just bulldoze over. Me, me, me. Hear me. Listen to me. Honor MY fucking opinion. Oh, you have one too? Well, that’s just silly. You should think like me. You do, don’t you? Oh…you don’t? What’s wrong with you?

Round and round. Get ready, women. If you haven’t hit this shit in life yet, prepare yourself. It’s gonna happen, and you’ll be blamed no matter what you do. It’s what men do. How they react. It’s their fragile male egos, which we pamper and coddle because some of us like to get penises shoved up our vaginas. Or maybe all of you put up with it because you think you need men. We don’t, you know. Plenty of sperm in the sperm banks. We can kill every man on this planet and be just fine. Better than fine, with their male egos out of the way. We can make real peace, real change. And never, ever let another person with a penis think they’re better than us. Never, ever let them take over again. Return to a matriarchal society. Burn every book that uses ‘he’ as a gender neutral pronoun or ‘mankind’ to describe humanity. Destroy every testosterone driven film. And yes, cut off all the dicks of every male ever born because frankly I’d find it cathartic.

Right about now is the time when some man usually pops up and asks ‘are you a dyke?’

No, for the record, I’m straight. I just see men the way they really are. Oh, got a problem with that? Can’t reconcile the idea of a strong willed woman who’s not gay? You are so immature.

But that, of course, is just another male put down. Oh, if a woman has a strong opinion, she must be a lesbian. Regular women don’t talk like that. Real women don’t think like that. I’m rolling my eyes as I type.

No wonder I remained single all my life. Sure, part of it was choice. Part of it wasn’t. No one ever wanted to spend their life with me. And I suppose that’s got to do with having a strong opinion. Dad told me long ago that I’d scare men off. Too smart, too opinionated, too outspoken.

Odd, then, because he’s the man who made me this way. Encouraged me to think, to debate, to challenge his viewpoint at every opportunity.

I feel like a freak. Some Francis-stein that’s half modern woman and half old fashioned lady. Don’t know where I fit in, don’t know HOW to fit in.



Busy, busy, busy! Not too busy to smoke too much, mind you. I’ve found the time to do THAT. But I’ve been exercising, going back to language lessons, doing errands, and even baking up a batch of my blueberry muffins. I made a dozen for my bro’s comic book friends, but first my bro had to test one to make sure they were okay, then I tried one, then he tried another one just to make sure the first one wasn’t a fluke. Ah! Good to know I can still bake up one of my specialities and not make a mess of it.

I’ve been vacillating on this whole dating my physiotherapist idea. I need to do the whole pros and cons thing or I’m gonna lose it:


  1. I’m very attracted to him. Very, very attracted.
  2. He’s already seen me with my shirt off, so we’re halfway through the body embarrassment thing.
  3. So far, we converse very easily over a wide variety of topics.


  1. While we can talk freely, we don’t seem to have common interests.
  2. The sex list: grey pubes, dry vag, old case of herpes that I’d have to be honest about.
  3. The age thing.
  4. I’m really afraid of getting hurt.
  5. I don’t see it going anywhere long term.
  6. The natural conflict that arises between the time I need to create art and the time needed to create a relationship.
  7. My smoking. He’s a sport geek. That’s gonna be an issue at some point.

I did my best, and the cons still outweigh the pros 2 to 1. And I’m still tempted to throw caution to the wind regardless of how long the list of cons is on this one. That’s how strong my number one pro is.

Yeah, I’ve got an appointment coming up on Wednesday, so I’m thinking about this stuff again. Been trying (if I’m honest) to find some way of getting around outright asking him. Finding a way to prompt him to ask me. In my head, that takes away the responsibility for anything that happens. Not true, of course. I still hold the power of yes or no. Still, it would be easier for me to give in to my desire if I was positive it was reciprocated. Yeesh! Listen to me! Do I want it to be easy for me to give in on this?

I guess the real answer is…yes.

Just makes me wonder if behind this isn’t some part of me flailing around, looking for something to take me away from my work (because I know when I’m finished, it goes out, and once it’s out, I’m open to rejection again).

Interesting. It’s pretty close to the mark, because a lot of tension eased out of me. It’s also interesting to think my mind has judged the situation and finds less chance of rejection by a young, attractive man than by theatre aficionados. Gods, is that my ego talking? Thinking I can still pull a guy like that? Or is it my insecurities over my work speaking up, echoing all I’ve heard before? Or (because there’s always a third option; I’m just not the best at seeing it), is it a mix of reading the non-verbal cues he’s given me with the long experience of the hardships in the artistic world? Does my subconscious say Hey, kid! This guy is obviously interested in you! You know how writing goes – you put your heart into it and then spend the next five years trying to find someone who thinks as much of it as you do. Why toss five years away when there’s someone right in front of you that you might find great pleasure with? 

What to do? What to do….

The answer is obvious: speak the truth. The truth is, I don’t have many friends and most of my friends are cyber-friends – wonderful, supportive, loving friends, to be sure, but none are here in the flesh with me. He’s said he’s often lonely, sitting in the evening at home with his cat. If nothing else, we could both use a friend. Maybe a friend with benefits; maybe not – I’m not ready to answer that. But I’ve talked over the past few months about reaching out and trying to make friends here. Shouldn’t I be doing that now? I’ve traipsed across a good portion of this planet and let me tell you: you can meet millions of people, but it’s rare to find someone you just click with instantaneously. I don’t know if that’s what this is, or if I’m trying to make it into that because I’m attracted to him. He may be feigning an increased interest in things I mention because he’s attracted to me. If he’s attracted to me.

Jangled fucking mess! Honesty is still the best way forward. It should help me avoid most of the razor wire and land mines.

Now all I need is a bit of courage. That’s a tall order.

Meanwhile….Dare I say it? Two weeks. It’s become a running gag in my life, ever since Arnie’s version of Total Recall. You know the scene: he’s going thru customs and wearing the woman-masque. The masque gets stuck on the ‘two weeks’ reply. My bro and I stoned very hard and MisTee’d (MST3000; look it up) the film one night, and that scene sent us into spasms of laughter. Ever since then, two weeks has haunted me. It crops up so often I’ve begun to think there’s something behind it in numerology. This time, two weeks is a good thing. I’ve two weeks off for the holidays. That means (barring any dates I get may or may not get myself into), I’ve plenty of time to finish my script. I’m thrilled. So happy, as a matter of fact, that I don’t regret (much) giving up my day today to head down to the comic book shop with my bro. Maybe I should whip up another batch of muffins. Fill up the spaces my brother and I created.

😀 Might as well make it 14.

Do Not Disturb


One of the reasons I love Tolstoy is because he claimed his characters ‘got away’ from him; as he wrote, he found his own creations taking over the story, saying and doing unexpected things. Same thing happens to me.

Yesterday I started up on the script again. I figured what the hell – I’m not getting two weeks off for the holidays like I’d hoped, and my head isn’t retaining much of Dutch – so I’ve no reason to wait and nothing stopping me. My well laid plans, the outline I’ve been tinkering with for a month or more, like all plans of mice and men, went down the toilet in the first 200 words.

It’s okay. What I got is funnier than what I planned.

The day was perfect – overcast, so it was naturally dim and put me in the mood. My bro headed off for his weekly sparkling conversation over Marvel Universe chronology at the comic book store, and I was left in blessed dark silence, the perfect environs for me to bring out whatever’s been cooking on my back burner.

What emerged is a new version of the family I’ve portrayed. Any stiffness I may have felt in act one is gone – I tossed out my outline notes and promised myself I wasn’t going to care until I had enough words written to call the script finished. That may have been the best thing I did. I’d been trying to contain the characters in this or that mold, to show that one character was the distant one, one character the nasty one, etc., etc., but people in real life are multi-dimensional, not flat with one major personality trait always at the forefront. By ignoring my own ‘rules’ for the characters, I set them and the script free. The mother character has grown from a distant and uncaring figure to…well, there’s no other way to say it, to a characterized version of the narcissist in my own mother. Her shtick is to moan about how no one appreciates her – an oft repeated line in my own home growing up. The father is cursing more. I hope that doesn’t put off prospective theatre groups, but I can’t write him without plenty of cursing – again, he’s based on my own father, and the curses I write are direct quotes from my dad’s colorful selection of swearing. I haven’t decided if the wife of the eldest son will actually remain in the play – she may get turned into another sister or written out entirely. At least one of my big plot ideas is out the window, too. I’d planned for the mother to announce she was leaving because she’s gay. Instead, I wrote a spat between mother and father that’s far funnier, and again draws on real life – the mother’s denial that her sister is gay. I was able to use what I couldn’t use in my childhood: the family gossip and rumors, the stories of her husband finding her in bed with another woman, etc. None of that could be discussed openly in my family. Nasty comments behind your hand, said in confidence to one other family member – oh, that was fine! Perfectly acceptable! But you couldn’t bring the subject up at the dinner table. I brought it up at the dinner table in the play. I’m bringing up a lot at the dinner table in the play, as a matter of fact. Lots of things I always thought but never said.

Best thing, naturally, was I didn’t even think once about my sexual desires. That’s getting distracting for me, just thinking about sex, sex, sex. I feel like I’m bleeding 20 again. It’s good to know I can shut it off during the creative process.

And smoking – yes, I smoked too much yesterday. I haven’t quite made up my mind that quitting smoking is something I want to do with a Trump presidency. After all, if we’re all going to hell (and I think we will) in the next four years, why not smoke? What’ll it do – kill me early so I don’t have to see the Orange Emperor again? Oh, cry me some crocodile tears and play the world’s smallest violin. Death is an attractive option when that man is out walking the world.

Sunday: the day Doctor Who never lands on because Sundays are boring. Got to agree with him. There’s things I should do, like cleaning the house and reading more Dutch, and then there’s things I could do, like writing more on my script, but the (sad) truth is I’ll probably sit and play on my computer for most of the day. Why not? It’s fun, and considering my base mood runs pretty close to melancholy, a little fun is always a good thing for me. Besides, I know my brother won’t leave the house today and no matter how hard I try I can’t write well with someone else awake and walking around the place. It’s terribly distracting. Not the little noises people make, but just the presence of someone else. Like I can hear their thoughts – not well, just enough to make a background noise that makes hearing my own thoughts difficult. My brother suggested once I try writing in a public place. A public place! So many minds up and active around me, I could never write anything. Maybe a poem. Or half a poem. But not a story.

Let’s face it: if you’re going to give birth to characters so strong willed they wrestle your own story away from you, you’ve got to have a bit of peace and quiet. Giving birth to anything is a difficult and often messy process. I don’t need random on-lookers gawking at me while I do it. Nor interrupting me, and it’s one of those ironic truths to life that when you do get involved – with a story, with a lover, with anything – that’s when people crawl out of the woodwork to interrupt you.

I need one of those ‘Do Not Disturb’ hotel signs to hang around my neck.


Carnal Desire

It’s official. I’m mooning over my physiotherapist. Completely gone, daddy-o. Went so far as to find him on FB. I didn’t hit friend request, just looked at his page. Six out of his nine profile pictures are of him on the field with his football team. Somehow none of those pictures quite captures him; the flatness of the picture doesn’t do his smile justice at all. But for all and any interested, here’s the object of my obsession:


And as I said to a friend this morning, the dude holding him is pretty damned cute, too.

I am on the brink of asking this very cute, much younger man out on a date. Honestly, he’s been intruding on my thoughts so much I think it might be better if I just bit the bullet and found out one way or another how he feels about me. My head is throwing up all sorts of walls. I mean, look at him. As far as I can tell, other than his game-time obsession with winning, he’s as clean-cut as he looks. Very sporty. Obviously very fit. Probably never smoked even once in his life.

I want to lick him from head to toe, then eat him up bite by bite.

Now, that’s been a surprise: how much he’s awakened my sexuality. I thought that part of me was long dead. It’s been 10 years since I’ve met someone I’m this attracted to. I wish it was someone I didn’t have a complicated relationship with. After all, he’s my physiotherapist. I’m pretty sure protocol would prohibit him asking me out, so it’s all on me. The prospect of hearing no, I don’t feel that way about you is really flipping scary. I used to be fearless. Wouldn’t bat an eye. But those were the days I could get four phone numbers in one night. Now, after a ten year dry spell, it feels like there’s a lot more riding on the answer than there used to be.

And damn it!! I’m bleeding well aware that at the moment we have very little in common. He’s a sport geek. I don’t even understand his chosen sport. I mentioned I was reading Anna Karenina; he didn’t know the book, much less Tolstoy. There are some very deep seated foundational differences between us, and that more than anything is putting me off. I know – and have experienced – that some differences can enrich us: as one partner learns about another, their own world expands. It’s not like the two of us can’t talk! That’s all we do during my appointments, other than his manipulations of my body.

But I know all too well what this is: carnal desire. At the end of the day, that’s it. I’d be far more put off if we couldn’t even talk to each other, but I’d be kidding myself and everyone else if I said what I’m feeling is more than that. Don’t know how time outside the bedroom might go. Don’t know that I’d want to spend a lot of time outside the bedroom with him.

If I choose to start riding this roller coaster, will I be able to get off? Could I even say no to those eyes?

Would I even want to?

The Bad, The Good, and The Sexy


Yesterday I wrote. I birthed a flash fiction story. It was like passing a kidney stone. Painful, long process for something so small in the end. I was blubbering like a fool, crying so much I just let the tears fall because otherwise I’d have gone through an entire box of tissues just wiping them away. It’s as raw as you can get, as ugly as the memory that sparked it was. I pulled no punches. Today I kinda feel like a cancerous growth has been surgically removed from me. I’m about 5 pounds lighter. That deep thought process has ended, for now. I got out what had been simmering away and bothering me so much.

While I’m thrilled to have done that, and done it so successfully I can genuinely SMILE again, I am NOT thrilled with some of the shit that’s gone down since I’ve been in la-la land.

The counseling center my brother is going to is the same one I’ve been referred to. Basically, they gotta fix him – and do a fucking good job of it, too – before I make a phone call and let them get their clutches into me. So I’m VERY unhappy to know how unhappy HE is at the moment. He had an appointment yesterday and they’ve told him he must stop smoking marijuana FOR A MONTH before they’ll put him on any medication. A MONTH. 30 fucking days. He won’t fucking LIVE for 30 fucking days with nothing to slow him down. He’ll be bleeding out from his gut before a week goes by. And if somehow he manages to keep his underweight frame alive, he’ll have a fucking psychotic break or some such shit. AND I’LL HAVE TO BE THE ONE HERE WITH HIM, GOING THROUGH IT.

Goddamn fucking doctors telling everyone fucking shitty advice. THEY don’t have to be there when the shit hits the fan. Oh, no. Then it’s make a fucking appointment, sorry, no room today when you have a fucking emergency, you should have thought you’d have an emergency 5 fucking days ago so you could have made your fucking appointment ahead of time. Bullshit.

He got angry at them yesterday; said they did the scribble thing on pads while he yelled at them about not being able to slow down or sleep or rest or eat. He told them they were being judged, which they probably thought was some sort of delusional complex on his part, when he actually meant to say my sister needs help from you motherfuckers, too, and if you don’t pony up and help me, she ain’t comin’ in to hear your shit.


I did manage to get out yesterday to help myself. It wasn’t noon, it was 3 p.m. And I went to the chemist first, to see if there was an over the counter something that could help. Geez, I never looked at the over the counter section before here in NL. You know what they got? Aspirin, paracetamol, TUMS, and candy-coated syrups that don’t do shit for a cough. Didn’t realize they were that tight-assed on meds here. I knew they were tight, but DAMN! That’s tight. So I picked up some more paracetamol and headed to the doctor’s office. Unfortunately, my doc was leaving early ’cause her kid was sick (hmmmm….something going around, then). Seeing her tomorrow morning. I’m feeling a little better each day, but at this rate it’ll be sometime in late September before I feel my ears have finally unclogged….

How strange it is to need to see a doctor for a head cold or sinus infection. I mean, I was always TOLD that in the states – go see your doctor. Eighty bucks for them to take your fucking temperature kept me away from doctors. And that was in the old days. I’m sure it’s more now. I’d do what so many in the states did: go to the local Walgreens and pick up some tincture or pill over the counter. Stay home from work for as long as my checkbook could handle not getting paid, then back to work whether or not I was healthy because damn! You gotta make rent. So I feel kinda stupid for actually going in and making an appointment, because I spent so many years having to disregard my health just to keep alive. But things are different here. Doctors want to see you for every little problem. My doc actually takes notes on my symptoms and progress.  And she’s mastered her caring face; I don’t know if she’s really that empathetic or not, but she can sure put her facial features into a look that reassures me that she’s listening and she gives a damn if I’m in distress. And it helps a LOT to not have to pull out your wallet every time you see the doctor. Doc fees are part of health insurance. I don’t have to even BRING my fucking wallet when I see the doctor. Or pick up meds. It’s all included. (My sincere apologies to everyone who is jealous of my situation. I wish you could all experience this type of social care. I think it’s criminal that you don’t have a system like this. I also think it’s important you understand what other people in the world have access to, so you know what to fight for.)

*sigh* Logistically, there’s just a lot of shit to do right now. Shit like cleaning and dishes and shopping, oh my! Gotta step back up to the fucking plate. Doing a little more each day but still getting my ass kicked with exhaustion after about an hour. Cat napping; out cold for 15 minutes then restless. Getting sick of pounding juice. Feeling like I’m all liquid inside, don’t squeeze too hard or I’ll just piss on the spot. Wish my fairy fucking godmother would get her ass in gear. She’s several decades late, and I could sure use a wave of her magic wand to clear up everything and do my hair in the bargain, too.

And ya know the funniest thing that’s still hanging in my head? Coming back from the doc’s yesterday I passed a jogger who checked my rack. Undeniably; eyes slid down and FASTENED on my tits. Wow. I’m 49, sick as a dog, and a guy is checking out my boobs. Gotta give myself credit again; the upper body work from swimming has done loads to give my chest an extra popped out look, even tho I’m pretty small in breast size. The craziest thing is, I felt this perverse pride when the guy was checking me. Like, I still got it. Old and sick and out of shape and I still got it.

The dame’s still got game, people.