Wasting my time…

6 p.m. I opened the curtains in the living room for the first time since closing them that same morning. ‘So this is what I’ve been shutting out all day,’ I said as I looked at a dense wall of fog outside. It was as if the weather had picked up on my mood and decided to be gloomy and depressed in allegiance to my suffering.

Kept up the pretense of going to the gym until early afternoon. Then I caved. Honestly, I was farting so much and so loudly I was afraid to go anywhere in public because I just couldn’t control it. And like my self esteem needs to let a loud one rip somewhere! Yeah. Then I’d be known as ‘that old fart lady’ forevermore…

Have an appointment to take care of my orthopedics. Did not take the challenge upon myself to call them; they called me for a customer satisfaction check. And, of course, to try and sell me on another pair of shoes. I don’t want another pair of shoes from them. I want the shoes I have from them to work well. And I’m not a shoe nut. The two pair I have will probably last five years at least. When I’m home (and I’m home a lot), I’m in socks only. Ah, yes. Another opportunity to practice saying ‘no’. Better get used to it. The Universe will keep throwing that one at me until I become an old hand at it.

Reluctant to admit I once again woke up thinking about my family. Was running all the times they forgot about me and left me out. Not just as a kid, either. As an adult. It’s a very sore point for me. Ach, I shoulda just left when they did that. Walked out and left them to it. But I kept feeling like it was my fault, like I had to keep putting myself out there. I wanted them to want me there. I wanted to be included, be part of the group, have fun with them. Dr T suggested to me that my perceptions might be off, that maybe I’m taking things the wrong way because of this filter I’ve got. Maybe. Maybe they didn’t laugh as derisively at me as I remember, but I remember it as cruel and cold. And it isn’t one time I’m talking about. It’s several. Often. Almost every time the family gathered together.

I don’t know that I’ll ever feel like I have anything to offer anyone. The very idea that someone might find me attractive, want to date or even (ha HA!) marry me is overwhelmingly hilarious. Oh, I can be fun. Understanding. A good friend once in a while. But…I’ve too much rejection in my history to ever expect anything else. I come at people knowing they will be in my life for only a small portion of time. I try to enjoy their company while they’re there. But I know circumstances will change, or they will move on, or something else will happen, and in a year or a month I won’t hear from them, won’t see them, won’t be close to them anymore. I’m not rich. I’m not the prettiest nor the smartest. I’m not the best at anything, and downright lousy at some things. And I’ve got a lot of baggage. So…no. I don’t know why anyone would stick around in my life.

My bro, of course, is the one exception to that. He’s so much a part of my life it feels like he’s a phantom limb, or another brain. That worries me, too. What happens if…well, something happens? I’m trying to build a support network. Other people in my life I can talk to, spend time with, etc. It isn’t easy. Adult friendship is like the tide: sometimes it’s at a high point and sometimes a low point. It comes and goes. Maybe that’s us second guessing ourselves, feeling embarrassed over how vulnerable we allowed ourselves to become. We share intensely, then pull back in awkwardness, unsure of what to do next. Trying lately to be a bit more focused on others when I’m with them. Hear them; don’t think about what you might want to say. Question them; everyone wants to talk about themselves. Be warm, be kind, be thoughtful. I still lack a LOT of social graces, but if I can at least come from a place of gentle kindness I can’t go too wrong.

…Six hours sleep. Again. I’m really beginning to hate 5 a.m….

Things to note: I’m sitting up straighter. Really got into the habit of hunching over. I find myself automatically sitting up, stretching out my back. Not crying. Still angry, but not crying. Trying to do my best with food. It seems I’m either ravenously hungry or couldn’t touch a bite; there’s never anything in between. Making sure to eat a small something a couple of times a day, like it or not. Cutting back on caffeine. And suffering the headaches. But any stomach problem will benefit from cutting back on caffeine.

Hope to get out for some fresh air today. No promises; I was pretty gung-ho yesterday before the gas kicked in. Would like to do some reading today, too. I find Dutch a bit more difficult right now. Slowing down to absorb the words is a real challenge, and I don’t feel like challenging myself even more. Just want to sleep. Rest. Every time I try, though, my body heats up or my head starts to whirl around in a circular thought pattern.

Can’t stick to any agenda, so out the window with all of them. Down to the basics: getting past this minute, then the next, and so on. I don’t like it. At all. I want to fly. This…this is dragging my ass across wet grass. I’m too tired just managing to do anything else.

And I feel like I’m wasting my time…


Playing with others

Ah, yes. Medication is like a tiny assistant you swallow. It helps you stay calm. It doesn’t override every bloody thing that happens. It doesn’t mean you can stop trying.

It’s too early, and I’m up again. But yesterday was my work with the director, so I’m not shocked. I was wound up as the time approached, wound up during the meeting, wound up after the meeting, wound up during sleep (can’t even count how many times I woke up biting down hard on my mouth guard), and now I’m awake – begrudgingly. For the record, 5 a.m. Better than 3 a.m., tho not by much.

Ach…I still can’t say with 100% certainty that we’ll do my script. The cast is large, and if we can’t find enough good people…well, the director said he’d rather not do it than do it with a shit cast. I am exactly where I don’t want to be: stuck in flux, with no certainties to hang my hat on. …No. Not true. I can hang my hat on the fact that the director really wants to do the script, he really likes the story, and he thinks we’re capable of doing it. Whether or not the production comes off shouldn’t be my main focus. Right. Hang on to that, Beeps. Your work is appreciated.

It was fun, yesterday, working. We pulled everything apart; took 5 hours. I was prepared to make major concessions. Geared up for major re-writes. What I heard was stuff like “I don’t think you need the word ‘on’ in this sentence” or “Did you see that typo here?” Minor corrections, minor adjustments. A few hours and it should be done. Mostly, we talked about what I didn’t write: the back stories of characters, the hidden ideas in the scripts. We discussed sound: how to approach it, what to mix together, what we needed for the venues. I was shocked when the director brought up the possibility of adding a video element to the show. Last discussion I’d had about adding video was that it’s expensive to do so the group just didn’t do it. But, hey! At this point, it’s the director talking to the board. He’s selling his vision, and if that includes video, let him argue the point. I’d love to do it. I wanted to get my hands on a camera anyway. Showed the director my rough cut trailer for YouTube, which he loved, and the flyer. As I explained my reasoning on the flyer layout, he just grinned and nodded. ‘I was thinking of something similar,’ he said. Our ideas were in-line for many elements, and my bro ended up chiming in some key ideas we all loved.

lol. And one mystery solved. I’d been wondering why the director kept saying my work was like Lovecraft, and yesterday I heard that reasoning. He feels Lovecraft wrote about things that just exist. They are not evil; they simply are. We’re terrified by what these things do, but they’re not malicious. They’re more like children, simply not knowing what they do is harmful. I laughed when he told me all this, because it’s bang on. I hadn’t torn apart Lovecraft to realize all that, but I knew it about my own work. I’ve written demons from Hell whom you’ll end up loving and cheering on, murderous elementals whom you’ll identify with and bear no ill will towards, and now the thriller trilogy with what ends up being, in short, a force of nature. Things that are just evil…they don’t really scare me. I’m sure they would, if they popped up in my life, but…outright evil is easy to combat. You know you have to fight it. What do you do with something that just is? What do you do with that grey area? How do you react when the unimaginable is stated in the softest and most reasonable voice? I find that disconnectedness more terrifying than fire and brimstone. I suppose that says a lot about me.

…In some ways, I feel like yesterday was the shrink session I really didn’t get with Dr. T. I am painfully aware my writing tells all to anyone clever enough to read between the lines. That knowledge knots my stomach and makes me wince. Discussing the back history of each character, bringing up what’s driving all of them…naturally, I was discussing myself on many levels. The director chuckled many times. He pointed out snippets of dialogue, things like ‘yes, here’s where her narcissism comes in’ or ‘you have a lot of psychologically based male/female dialogue here’. He questioned me on some statements, and I found myself very able to defend my reasoning. One thing in particular was a married couple exchange. A few things are clear to me, in retrospect. One, the director isn’t an outright narcissist. He didn’t know the moves. Two, he doesn’t know any outright narcissists because he didn’t know the psych behind it. Three, I heard a click in his brain when he asked me ‘How many Jims did you know?’ (Jim being the cheating husband), and I quickly said ‘too many’. We discussed self harm, suicidal thoughts, uncontrolled rage, helplessness, fear, obsession – all of them in the third person, all of them safely, all of them in regard to the story and the characters I wrote. I even started the meeting like a therapy session, with a warning that (a) I was really manic about the production and (b) I have control issues, so fair warning, and I’ll do my best to let go.

Most of all, tho, I stressed the idea that I know the power of a group. I don’t want to control every element. I don’t want to make every decision. I’ve got a lot of good ideas, and I want to put them to use, but I also want to have other people in on it. Have their ideas expand mine. Let them flesh in the corners I left dark.

Does this mean I’ve finally learned how to play with others?

Dr. T and me

My brother was worried. Half an hour before my appointment and I was what he calls ‘ballistic’. Unlike other instances, I didn’t leave super early because the health center I was headed to was so close to the house.

Walked in to the place, looked around, read a reassuring sign near the entrance that said if you have an appointment just take a seat in the waiting room. There was a mother and kid waiting, too, and the kid was playing with a block set. When the towering block the kid made fell over I jumped three inches and flinched (side note: the mother noticed and asked the kid to play more quietly; bless her). I was worried I’d misread the Dutch, that I went to the wrong address. As 10:00 (my appointment time) came and went, my anxiety ramped up. But I held still, and waited. Told myself I’d checked on this dozens of times and there was nothing that would indicate I had to go to a special location, and doctors are always late.

At 10:05 Dr. T entered the waiting room and just said ‘Is someone waiting for Dr. T?’ No calling of my name aloud, for which I was thankful. I was led to the back of the building, far away from the prying eyes of the people sitting in the waiting room. Did the standard ‘I don’t speak Dutch well, but I’ll try’ sentence. Handed him the letter from my GP, took a deep breath, and it began…

For not having been able to prepare anything ahead of time because I felt so sick every time I tried, I did well. Kept calm, listened closely. I knew, kind of, what he’d say. He’d talk about his treatment options, how this wasn’t a quick fix, how we needed to work as a team – and on all of that, I was correct. I told him about the last few months culminating in the tooth extraction. I told him about the headaches, the sleep problems, the food problems, the crying, the suicidal thoughts, and the need to write before I could speak. Then I told him about the mania. The obsession. At one point I got so wound up I stood up from the chair and paced around, mimicking things. He asked about my family’s history with mental health. It’s all undiagnosed, I told him, then said ADHD and depression. Oh! I interrupted myself, I also have a cousin who, when he was 15, grabbed a gun and took his family hostage, but I don’t know what you’d call that (my causal replay of this scene later for my bro sent him into spasms of laughter due to my half innocent/half devilish delivery).

Dr. T took a lot of notes. What I see now is depression. The possibility of bipolar… he scanned through the letter from my GP …no one has monitored this long term, and that’s what I need to do. What you’re describing is called bipolar phase II with hypomanic episodes. We need to approach this slowly. Right now, you’re depressed. You know that and I can see that. So let’s treat the depression first. We’ll get together regularly and monitor you. If you start to become hypomanic, we’ll deal with that at that time, okay?

I nodded. He put me back on Lexapro (or Escitalopram, as they call it here), my old favorite from my time in Ireland. Part of me felt hungry for it, if you can feel hungry for a drug. We made an appointment to see each other in two weeks, and I left with my prescription in hand. Stopped at the pharmacy on the way home and got the script filled. Popped into the store and picked up something to eat.

The pills are smaller than I remember, but then, different manufacturer. And I’m not complaining; I have too many horse pills I need to take already. Did not want to wait, so now noon is my pill time.

The day wore away. I spent most of it under a blanket watching tv. My stomach was still upset, I felt cold and shivery, and things just weren’t right with my body. Dinner came, still no appetite. My brother chided me: you’ve got to eat. Yeah, I know. I ate mechanically, not really wanting it. Worried about how I was going to feel later on when my system started pouring chemicals into my stomach and bowels to digest.

It was around 7 p.m. when I started to feel it. It began as a slight tickle just below my solar plexus, like I had a nymph inside me trying to cheer me up. My brother made a joke, and out it came – a laugh so long and hard I had to stop it midway because I really couldn’t catch my breath. And I kept laughing like that, deep and long, throughout the night. It’s the drug kicking in, I said. I know docs would poo-poo that. Tell me it takes at least 24 hours to feel it. Yeah, yeah. I know my body. It was the drug. I sat there, enjoying the tv but mostly enjoying the feeling of my body relaxing. I could tell my stomach and bowels were settling and unwinding. I could feel the weight on my chest begin to lift. I even found I had more of an appetite, and had a bowl of cereal.

This morning: nine hours of good sleep. No bedcovers thrown off, no pillows scrunched up or on the floor. Just nine good hours and a gentle coming to. No tears, no anger, just slowly waking up. My bowels are almost back to normal, so says my toilet bowl (can’t tell you how good THAT feels). I’ve a slight headache, but I’m pulling back on caffeine right now, so that’s not unexpected. I can do things today. Really get something done because I don’t feel so damned sick.

That’s good. I feel like I was listened to. I was heard (really heard, not someone saying “I hear you” which just irritates the fuck out of me). I feel like he saw me, saw I was suffering, and like any good doctor should, set about doing his best to alleviate my suffering. He’ll monitor me; I’m safe in doing this. And hey! I’ll finally be able to find out of this massive influx of energy is normal or not. Had to tell him I don’t know if I know what normal feels like.

But we’ll figure it out. The two of us: Dr. T and me.

No one can tell I’m crying when I walk in the rain

It’s 5 a.m. and no huge surprise that I can’t sleep.

In less than 5 hours I’m meeting someone who will probably be a part of my medical team for many years to come. The only way I’ve been able to look at it is that it’s like my RA. It’s incurable, I’ll never be able to stop treating it, never be able to stop seeing doctors about it, and I’ll just have to live with it and all the new complications it brings.

Keep thinking about people. The Dutch just don’t lose it like Americans, so it’s been a while since I’ve been treated to a public display that makes me think ‘wow, they let you loose from that straitjacket a little early’, but I see it all the time on tv. How do they let these people walk around? Why hasn’t it been universally recognized that they’ve got some real issues going and it would better to just deal with them? But, no. The absurd is commonplace now. This unhinged behavior has now come under the mantle of ‘free speech’ and allows everything from outright hate, bigotry and chauvinism to total narcissism. We feed the id, stuffing it with everything possible in order to avoid thinking about how fucking miserable we all are and how shitty life really is. I realize the only difference between them and me is that I recognize I’m miserable, but then, I’ve been asking for a lobotomy in one manner or another since I was 10.

Maybe that’s all mental un-health is. Recognizing how miserable you are. It sure doesn’t hang off of actual behavior unless you go on some killing spree. It sure doesn’t go off social ‘norms’ because they’re always changing and the people who don’t adhere to them aren’t just carted away. There’s no mentally healthy person on this planet to point to as an example. Even the doctor I’m going to see this morning has his issues and problems. He probably sees a shrink on his own; usually, that’s part of the job. Gods, please don’t let him be a closet chauvinist! I just can’t deal with that right now.

Right. So…imagine him in his underwear. Or sitting on the toilet. No one can be intimidating with their pants around their ankles. He’s just a person, with his own problems and issues. He’s been trained to communicate well, but he’s just a person, and people fuck up. Try to remember that. Today is no big deal. A meet ‘n greet. He’s got to get to know you, and you’ve got to get to know him. Don’t unload like a dump truck the moment the door closes. You acknowledge this is going to be long term, so act accordingly.

It’s okay to be cautious.

Another headache, or the same one that never really went away. Don’t know nor care. Just an observation. Same with my continued gut problem, tho that, I’m happy to say, is getting better.

Came to this morning, tossed and turned. Found my bed a mess: covers half off, pillows scrunched up or on the floor. I am aware my nights have been very hectic. Sleep is where I seem to confront my big stuff, and that’s the real problem. I’m not getting proper rest, I’m hurting myself, and I don’t seem to be working thru it. Didn’t help that as I lay there, tears came to my eyes and spilled down my cheeks. First. thing. in. the morning. That happens so often to me… I hate it. I know I must get up; continuing to lay there just makes things worse. But then I’m up in the middle of the night, which does nothing to help me feel rested.

…Felt bolstered to get a positive comment on a FB post about my upcoming performance. It came from the producer of a film I worked on, which doubles its weight in my mind. Wow. Yeah. I’ve done films. Plural. Keep that in mind. The comment was to my acting, which strokes my ego just so fine today. Yes, thank you. Thank you for the acknowledgement. I feel I don’t get enough of that in my life, so THANK YOU! for telling me you think I act well. Don’t feel quite comfortable saying ‘I’m a good actress’. Not this morning. But I’m comfortable enough acknowledging someone else’s opinion of my work. It’s a bit of yeah, not everybody thinks I’m shit feeling.

*sigh* I’m all over the place, aren’t I? I’m not even addressing the crying this morning other than noting it. What can I say? That it’s just become a fact of life for me? It’s not an every day occurrence, but it happens often enough that I’m not surprised by it. Maybe that’s what happens when you ignore it, tho. Your body ups the anti to get your attention.

Which is where I currently find myself.

Good Goddess, someone read this and learn from my mistakes because it sure as hell seems like I didn’t!

…Once in a while I ponder the idea that I’m leaving my own legacy behind. As an adherent to the idea of reincarnation, I like to imagine that someday I’ll stumble across my own words, my own work, and find myself again. I’ve run across things that make me hum. Totally, head to toe, vibrate with a deep…a deep what? Longing? Love? Something between the two? It resonates with me, and makes me feel like I’ve found a long-missed piece of a jigsaw puzzle I’m putting together. That’s the best way I can put it.

…I’m not real good at accepting help. I know that. People…tend to confuse me. I often do better if I’m just left alone to suss it out by myself. I do need to learn how to ask for help, tho. Especially when I need it. And I need it now. Not begrudging help, doled out with marks on a chalkboard adding up how much I owe in return. Not weak help, like a slimy fish handed to you that’s still alive and immediately slips out of your fingers. I need help like I’ve rarely received it before, and I need to let myself be helped.

….It’s raining. Well. There’s one good thing.

No one can tell I’m crying when I walk in the rain.

The freak factor

Bleh. It’s 4 in the morning and I’m up. Sweated up my pj’s. Headache. Oh, I’m tired – but I can’t sleep. Welcome to withdrawal. I’ve been so damned harsh on myself lately that I went a little too far with quitting/cutting back. Shoulda been a bit easier on myself.

So. The dentist gave me the all clear. Told me ‘try not to worry’. Oh, Gods. Try not to worry. If I was given a nickel every time I heard that, I’d be rich. He did remove my stitches, saying the area around the thread was red and a little infected. That hurt. When he gave me a syringe with specific instructions on how to clean the wound and said ‘it’s gonna hurt when you do this’ I thought: well, at least he’s honest. But he was honest on the cautious side; it doesn’t hurt at all compared to him pulling those stitches out.

*sigh* And last night as I put my mouth guard in, I saw a hole in the guard. Right where all the problems are. Must have bit right thru it. Physical evidence of what my subconscious mind is willing to do to me doesn’t make me feel any better.

Thought a lot yesterday about my post. I realized I really don’t refer to myself by my given name any more. At 30, I chose a stage name. Something I liked, someone I wanted to be. I took it as my own. As I writer, I have an entirely different pen name. Even out here, I prefer to call myself Beeps. Anything but the name my mother gave me. It struck me that maybe that was a mistake. Maybe I wasn’t really getting thru to the little girl in me, because the little girl (like it or not) identified with the name her mother gave her. Trying to call myself by that childhood diminutive when I talk to myself. I keep forgetting and reverting back to one of my adult names. Then I correct myself. Doing a lot of hugging myself, stroking my upper arms, rocking in my chair. Comfort actions, all.

Crap. How the hell did I get here? How the hell did I slip past so fucking much and end up such a complete mess?

…Right. That isn’t gonna help. You feel sick. Okay. You’re in a shitty place. Okay. You know what this is. Your body’s suffering nicotine withdrawal. You’ve done really, really well on cutting back. But you never said you’d quit entirely. Cut yourself some slack. Everyone says ‘tough it out’ but they don’t have to live it, do they? No. They go home to their comfortable houses with their comfortable lives and their comfortable sleep patterns that never, ever get disturbed.

Smoke something. Get rid of the worst of the headache. Get rid of the worst of the nausea.

Hell! I haven’t even been able to enjoy reading Matilda because I’ve felt so off. That makes me sadder than anything.

This isn’t a failure. This isn’t a failure. There is no failure. How do you feel in your skin? Horrible? Then take care of yourself. Get yourself past right now. You have two choices: freak out, or deal. I know you want to freak out. I know. You don’t just want to, you feel like you gotta. But freaking out is gonna make it worse.

…Counter intuitive to all those therapists out there, not breathing is helpful. All that deep breathing crap when I’m tight in my body makes me feel like I’m gasping for air, trying to breathe deep and relax. I’ve always run contrary, so try the opposite. Exhale, and hold. Notice you’re still here. Nothing’s happened. …Can’t say my body feels too much more relaxed but it does help on the freak factor.

And as the clock ticks toward five, controlling the freak factor is all I’m after.

3 a.m. crisis

3 a.m. Up for an hour, tossing and turning in bed. Why is my bed the last place I want to sleep?

Fuck it. Get up. On with the lights, on with the tv. Distract myself until I can’t keep my eyes open anymore.

…Truth is, I got another blast from the past yesterday on FB. Someone out my past found me and commented on a post I made. He looks familiar, but I can’t place him. That’s bugging me enough. Add onto that his niggling comment: Is that why you left us, K? Whoa. Who’s “us”? And who are you, man who rings a bell in my head but whom I can’t place, to suddenly show up in my life and ask why I left anyone or anything?

Have this horrible feeling I might have fucked him. Or done a lot of drugs with him. Or both. Are there men in my past who I’ve forgotten? Sure. I was wasted thru most of my 20s. Desperate for attention, really low self esteem…you know the pattern. I was it. It’s not something I’m proud of, but I’m not so ashamed of it I can’t talk about it. I find it sad above anything else. Sad that the people around cared so little they sat back, watched me try to destroy myself, and did nothing but heap shame, guilt, and blame on me for doing it. But I surely don’t expect random men from my past to pop up in my life 30 years down the road and throw some bullshit comment my way. It took two, asshole.

The name he used when referencing me gives away a certain time period or obvious family connections. That’s one plus on changing my nickname so bleeding often. My given name is one that has a minimum of four diminutives, and I’ve spent certain periods of my life using each and every one of them – each very distinctive. So either this guy knows my oldest brother, who’s always used that version of my name, or he met me when I was at Uni the second time ’round. Could not find a connection between my oldest brother and him, so I’m guessing it’s during Uni. That puts it between ’92 and ’96.

T, my adoptive brother I live with, was not happy when I told him about the comment. He’s on alert right away. My life before I reconnected with T was…chaotic. Unhealthy to the extreme. Got mixed up with a lot of users and abusers. T knows that. He helped me out of it. Gave me a safe place. Talked to me in the middle of the night when I woke up from nightmares. Told me it was okay. Honestly, he saved my life. I had no one else.

…This is a mystery I’m not willing to solve. I’m not willing to open up a conversation with this dude to find out where I know him from. I’m not willing to relive those memories. They are there, and I don’t deny them. But many have nightmarish qualities I’d rather not revisit. Things were bad. For all I bitch and moan about my head now, it was worse then. And the reality I surrounded myself with was degrading. I degraded myself. No denying it. Again, I find that sad more than anything else.

*sigh* Either leave it, or delete it. And you know which one you should do: delete. Block, if necessary. You know how those klingons keep clinging on.

Right. *yawn* Guess that was it, since now I’m feeling tired.

One more 3 a.m. crisis handled.


Are we having fun yet?

It’s been a few months since I got hot under the collar from something my family did, so I guess it’s time. At the moment, it’s a FB push for a thumbs down so they can publicly let anyone and everyone know what idiots (their word, not mine) they are. This little tantrum campaign is headed up by – you guessed it – my uncle. He tagged me in the initial post, and asked for comments. So I gave him one.

I told him that in the social climate today, trolling others and calling (or implying) them to be “idiots” was mean. Simply mean, with no redeeming value. In my opinion, it shows an inability to form a coherent argument, a complete lack of logic, and a childishness one could only expect from life-long narcissists. Am I surprised? No. This is my family, my blood. I know what shits they are.

Trolls. White supremacists. Greedy mother fuckers you don’t want on your side, or as friends.

Goddess, I hate my DNA! Still don’t know how I managed to survive that upbringing.

…Oh, yeah. I drank. A lot.

Sometimes I think I should of just picked up one of the family’s guns and gone on a rampage. Taken care of all these headaches at once. But I’ve long noted the reluctance of we grandchildren to reproduce. Seems most of us got the message, somehow: the family’s fucked; don’t have any more kids. Three did not get the message – all male. No wonder. It’s not like it’s difficult for them to have kids. But I worry about these few surviving remnants. This is a toxic family, a family bred for war and violence. Their message is” hate yourself, then hate the world”.

If I received a message later today that every single family member – close to me or far extended – DIED all on the same day, I don’t think even one tear would fall from my eye. That, of course, is for my mother’s family. My father’s family never was a family. I never even knew most of them, and those I did know I only met once. Perhaps politics and ethics were a part of that: those of my father’s family I’ve reconnected with are as liberal and tree-hugging as myself. I am more at ‘home’ talking with these near strangers than I am in deep conversation with my mother’s side.

…Took care of myself yesterday, as promised. It was boring. I was boring. But, so far, I’ve hung onto good health.

Been tired without a good reason lately. Don’t know if it’s the weather, or my RA, or just ME. Sleep sounds great, but I hit my bed and sleep isn’t as easy to find as it should be…In my armchair, it’s a whole other ball of wax. Out like a light as quickly as snapping your fingers. Ah, aging! Another delightful thing for you to look forward to, like your pubic hair marching down your legs and growing grey. All that shit no one tells you.

Are we having fun yet?

Snap, crackle, pop

Rehearsal was cancelled. My acting partner and I are leap years ahead of the other pairs; our lines are memorized and we’re down to perfecting our choreography on stage. So, the director decided to use the evening with another pair because they needed more work.

Yesterday was frustrating. I was antsy, and found it difficult to relax. I needed to relax. Needed to sleep more, too, but no matter how much my body was screaming out for me to chill and take a nap, I just couldn’t let go of that last bit of tension. Tried everything – cool compress, dark room, the drone of a highly compressed tv show on low volume to cover up ambient noise… While it helped me relax a bit, the Sandman refused to do his thang, and after twenty minutes I just got up to shuffle through the day.

Problems with Celtx. I noticed they not only put restrictions on how many scripts I can enter under the “free” system, they’ve now also dicked me by making it bloody impossible to tag a new project as a theatre script unless I have zero projects in my folder. That means working on one script and one script only, clearing it out totally before I can move onto the next. [Btw, if I don’t get my stuff into theatre script mode, I can’t tag lines as Acts, and can’t properly format it.] I’m more than angry over this blatant manipulation. Had an automatic pop-up window harass me, insisting I MUST pay, MUST subscribe, cough up three hundred dollars for a year. Finally backed out of it, but if I have to tussle with that kind of shit every time I sign in I may end up finding a different platform to work on.

Really hope I re-visit these words after a very successful year and get a chuckle out of my angst.

Today’s my one-on-one language lesson. Well…maybe the other student will show. She showed about half the time last year (or maybe a little less; my mind has cemented in the idea these are MY one-on-one lessons, and she’s the extra student). Whatever. I’ll make mistakes, and be reminded how tough this language is. I know that, and expect it. Not really ready to pick all that up again. I know I need to. I know how important it is. But I find it similar to doing my nails. It sounds like a good idea, and even I enjoy the results. But it takes loads of time. Time away from writing, or playing, or sleeping, or whatever. Time I really don’t want to give right now. And even if I’m in the mood, clearing up a space in my schedule (don’t laugh; I know I don’t have a life but in my brain I still have a ‘schedule’) as well as prepping my brain and my ear to hear Dutch is difficult.

And I still find it so sloggy.

Meantime, with my blatant procrastination, things are piling up. Dust bunnies and errands, ideas and (a few) regrets. Not getting to the gym as much as I should (regret). Still need to brave the phone and make an appointment to get my orthopedics adjusted (errand). Not sure if I should just dive into the narrative for the next script (idea). And, well, dust bunnies…No more need be said about that.

Trying a crazy idea to help the perpetual bags under my eyes. I’ve read that happens when you’re older. The fat pockets can fall under your eyes and make them look baggy. Chalk up one more horror no one likes to talk about! I’ve done compresses, bought gels and lotions…nothing helps. So, I’m trying something logic says should have an effect, though I can find no mention of it. Then again, I’ve learned how much is stricken from records. How much information is blocked on a regular basis so big corporations can sell you products that really don’t work. …I’ll give my experiment 30 days. No harm done if nothing happens. But if it works…well, I’m poor enough and angry enough (and old enough, at this point) that I’ll make you pay to learn it. Through the nose.

…Ah, well. One can dream, right?

Been haunting my emails, looking for feedback on my work. Naturally, my email account is scheduled to be worked on in a few days. Probably right about the time someone tries to contact me. Frustrating. I should just ignore the world. They’ll get back to me when they get back to me.

My brother says I’ve been kind of manic the last weeks. He says my writing makes me moody. Can’t say he’s wrong. I have been kind of manic, and I am moody. More stuff is coming out in my writing than I’m aware of.

Gotta take a mental step back. Running around like a bull in a china shop because NO ONE can move fast enough for me, or get things done quickly enough, or just be as on the ball as I want them to be…Well, that’s counter productive, and I know it. I shouldn’t expect other people to just be ‘on’. It’s asking too much, especially when my brain pops around like Rice Krispies in milk.

Snap, crackle, pop.

The Old Fashioned Way

Three a.m. …Three a.m.!

I tried to stay in bed. Honest I did. But the season’s first buzzing insect came in and dive bombed my ear – probably something that, if I heard like a normal human being, wouldn’t bother me but I DON’T hear like a normal human being – and that was it; I couldn’t stand the noise, my head started to race and after an hour of tossing and turning I said fuck it and got up. If I’m dead tired by the time my lesson begins, I just won’t go.

In that strange way that my life persists in unfolding, waking up so early was a good thing. My bro left the windows open last night, and guess what’s happening outside the windows? Yep. Full on storm. I’d have had a very wet kitchen and living room if I hadn’t got up.

As it is, I sit now in the dark, a cup of coffee and a smoke by my hands, listening to the howling winds and pounding rains.

…C’mon. Gimme some thunder and lightening.

Got to the gym on Tuesday, felt damned good about it, too – evidenced by my post. La-de-dah. Is it perhaps possible to have TWO good days in a row? Or is that just way out of line?

Wrestling with formatting the script. Damn, damn, damn. Now I remember why I searched out software for my computer. Bleeding frustrating internet connection and cloud service! Meh. Sorry; I know I sound like a crotchety old lady when I talk about technology these days. But REALLY?!? I’ve lived long enough to see phone service start from shit, go to great, then go back to SHIT with the advent of mobiles. I was there at the hail of the business computer system. Oh, we’ll go paperless, they said. You know what happened? Twice as much paper was WASTED because of the manner that everything got printed out, and copies had to be run because COMPUTERS FUCK UP. And audio? Children, don’t even get me started. I know y’all can’t hear, anyway.

Grumble, grumble, grouse, and bitch.

You know, progress is a clear step forward. Not half a step forward while your other foot slides back into the muck. Humanity’s slipping. Sacrificing quality for speed. Not a big surprise. So many on the planet think it’s okay to sacrifice all sorts of things for another buck.

Haven’t you paid attention? You don’t have more time with all these electronic gadgets. You aren’t better informed. Just the opposite. You’re down to reading tweets as news, and spend all your time with your heads buried in your phones playing games or messaging or doing some bullshit that’s NOT NEEDED.

Like anyone CARES you just took the biggest dump of your life.

Goddamn it!

……Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. I hate starting a day this way. 

Prospects for going to class are diminishing rapidly. *sigh* All I want to do at this point is get my head on straight. After that – class or no class, sleep or no sleep, gym or no gym, work or no work – doesn’t matter.

Oh, I’m off. Well off. Bad dream? Some storm rider, come into my dreams thru the window? Don’t remember. Only remember the buzzing insect, the tossing and turning, then the storm.

It’s a mini bad day. I get them once in a while. Only real solution is the old fashioned one: let it run its course. Get up when I can’t sleep. Write. Watch tv. Nap when I can. My entire schedule will get turned topsy turvy, but them’s the breaks. I’ve tried these days the other way: pushing thru. Does not work well. I snap and bite and generally drive people off. Better to hermit the day away, and fall asleep to the pounding rain.

Responsibility for the Now


After an hour of tossing and turning in my bed, trying to recapture that elusive thing we call sleep, I got up. There’s only so much hoping you can do; for me, that’s about a dozen turns on either side: left, right, no left again ’cause it’ll be so much more comfortable, damn it! try the right again – and so on.

For some strange reason, I can’t get George Michael singing ‘Wake Me Up Before You Go Go’ out of my head.

And I’m not even a big George Michael fan.

Sticking in my craw: a little tidbit I floated past my bro yesterday afternoon, as we SIM’d and gamed our way through the late afternoon with South Park playing on the telly. South Park – which is truly our repository of all social commentary – gave me the clue (again). I realized that Americans tend to think of their country like a sports club – go team, no matter what. That’s not right. A country is supposed to be a group of people who work together for their common good. I mean, if everyone’s just out for themselves, it’s hardly a country, right? Just a bunch of yahoos grabbing everything they can. Sounds like the Old West, which, btw, was a territory. Not a country, not a nation, not even states yet – just a territory. No. A country works together. A country realizes the benefits to such things as proper infrastructure (roads, trains). A country realizes they need to keep their people healthy in order to continue producing. It’s a simple matter of economics.

But Americans….They’re very much the half naked painted fat guys you see at the Superbowl, drunk out of their minds on a cold winter’s day, screaming for their team to kill, kill, destroy the other side. They have a sense of victory when someone from the other side gets taken off the field with an injury. They are small, and petty, and demand daily confirmation that they’re the biggest and baddest bully on the block.

The only thing Americans come together for is mayhem.

Other than that, they’ll let you rot. No money, no help. You can die right outside the hospital grounds and no one will lift a finger. I tell that to people here, and they don’t quite believe me, just as they don’t quite believe me when I tell them that American food products that carry the word ‘cellulose’ contain wood pulp.

When I speak of Americans, I also speak of my family. The two are intertwined; it was my family who raised me on the motto ‘If you don’t like it here, get the fuck out’. This despite a firm and rather desperate need to keep all their children from entering the armed service – the most patriotic thing you can do, according to their lip service. But not for them. No! My eldest brother even made sure to pave the way for his son way back in ’00. Contacted me and planned an escape route up to Canada, where I was living, in order for his son to escape a possible reinstatement of American conscription. It didn’t happen at the time, but my point stands: typical two faced behavior from my family. Say one thing, do another.

Sometimes I wonder how I learned to function at all with those people around me.

I know just a few days ago I was saying how understanding and compassionate I felt towards my family. I know this is a flip. I don’t know why, particularly. The news has been bad for quite some time now. Nothing jumps out at me, nothing is bugging me, other than George Michael (still singing) and my irritation towards Americans and, thus, my kin. It simply IS today.

Formatting on the script is complete. I’ve got a PDF waiting to be printed at the library. I hemmed and hoed, re-read the script again, made a few on the fly subtle changes, and walked away completely convinced I don’t have a cohesive story at all, I haven’t made my point, and it’s not very good. I’ll call it the final stage of editing madness, and it’s a thoroughly unpleasant malady to suffer from. The only real remedy is rest, the one thing I find myself incapable of doing. I am a manic sloth; antsy to sit and waste my time with games, ready to lie down in bed yet unable to stay there.

Wake me up, before you go, go….

I wanna go. Why is the world asleep? Because it’s dark? Hardly a reason! Wake up! Wake up! Open your shops, start the coffee, make some noise. If I ever buy fireworks for New Years, I’ll get up early one morning like this and set a few off. Just because I can.

Gods. And it’s Sunday! A day when people are even slower than usual.

Naturally, this will throw my whole day and perhaps my entire week off. My sleep patterns will be off, one way or another. My routine is set for a shake-up, too, with an old friend breezing thru the city for two days on a whirlwind tour.

Trigger, trigger, trigger, down the line.

Ah. Old friend. Memories. Been looking at those with different eyes lately. Eyes through which I see myself differently. It’s not a pleasant picture. The beginning of accepting that I chose this. One form or another, I chose it. I chose each little step along the way, all adding up to the big NOW. And I think about the blaming I’ve done. Sure, it would have been nice to grow up in a supportive family. A family that doesn’t play narcissistic games. But how long can I point my finger at my family, my mother, my sister, my brother, and say ‘this is because of you, because of how you treated me’? Yes, what happened back then influenced the decisions I made, and in that respect, they are responsible for a lot of shit. I’m afraid I may never be free of that influence. That scares me more than anything.

But the now…that’s mine. I can destroy it, or I can play with it. I can make friends, or create enemies. I can look back, or plan for the future.

The responsibility for the now weighs heavily on me today.