Light ’em up

Smoke ’em if you got ’em! Happy 420.

Got in one good pacing session. The weather’s been hot, and my bro has been hanging around a bit more to avoid the sun so I haven’t had many opportunities to get up and talk out everything pouring thru my head. Have one storyline roughed in, another half there with ideas and questions: very productive for one pacing session (granted, it lasted about 2 hours).

Ratta-tat-tat-brrrr-ratta-tat-tat. My brother had to come out from his room four times yesterday to comment on my tapping feet. Just…kept doing it. All afternoon. Please remember to tell your psychiatrist about this when you see him next. Yeah. He’ll probably say it’s depression. That’s what everyone says about everything I say: it’s depression. Depression. Fast feet? Depression. Sweating hands? Depression. Poor sleep? Depression. Repetitive thoughts? Depression. I’m beginning to wonder why I bother mentioning anything. They’ve pegged me, and until they see obvious shit in front of their own eyes they won’t change their minds.

Must. let. go. I’m obsessing over the production. Bless my bro’s heart, he recognized that yesterday and did his best to talk me down. He let me go thru my concerns, talk about the sound layering, the recordings needed, and my worry over time and overloading him. He replied (confidently; damn! I wish I could do that) that he could get all the sound done in one week if push came to shove. And he reminded me that I’ve passed the baton. He’s the sound director, and the director is the director. Let go. If they say they can do it within the time frame they’re setting, they can do it. That’s tough. Had a lot of people let me down. Drop things at the last minute, then look at me like ‘well, if you want it done, do it yourself’. The only thing I know for sure that works is immersing myself in a new story – which is why I took off all restrictions on myself and paced things out. I thought I’d want to be clear headed and focused on the production, but I find my laser beam concentration too much. I’ve got to distract myself.

Still cooking things up in my brain, so my body’s been allowed to be the slug. Sit. Go thru the motions of playing solitaire. Unfocused eyes on the tv. Uncomprehending hearing. My bro is indulging me. Encouraging me, even. He sees the obsession and the manic traits even if the doc doesn’t.

My phone rang about 10 minutes before my pizza was delivered. I knew before looking at it that it was S. She’s the only one who calls me. Bless her, she was trying to multi-task a bit; she called me while she was on the train. Unfortunately, the noise made for a difficult phone call. I hung in there, responding between bites on my pizza. I know that’s an instance I should probably say ‘could you call me back in half an hour? my pizza just came’, but I can’t. I have so few friends and people in my life, and I know how busy they all are. I’m grateful for whenever S’s calls come, whether it’s 10 minutes before my pizza or just after I’ve turned the light out in my room and I’m ready to sleep. Plus, I know it’s my schedule that’s weird and off. Sometimes I’m sleeping at 6 in the evening. Sometimes I eat dinner at 3 in the afternoon. So I do my best to accommodate those phone calls because…well…I don’t get many. And I know I’m the oddball.

Anyway, she’s fine. Busy. Happy at her internship. I’m so thrilled for her! A bit jealous, too. Or envious. Wishing I could be in her shoes – trained in what she loves, just heading out and beginning. If she doesn’t succumb to hating herself, she can go far. I find it interesting to hear her. We’ve talked deeply enough that I know a few of her issues, and she mine. We connect on several levels; our problems aren’t dissimilar. It is almost as if I’m talking to a younger version of myself. She’s half on the track and half lost. She knows she struggles with depression and self hate, but she thinks repeating those tried and true memes will get her thru her shit. Had a good laugh (internally) when she told me: It’s all in your head. Yes. Depression is all in your head. But she seems to want me to be able to talk things out and get to an ‘end’ (or perhaps she’s hoping to see that so it gives her hope that her own issues will, eventually, come to an ‘end’). I have not the heart to tell her there is no end to it. And I do not have the courage to let her see the hag in me: that older, wiser woman with keen perception. I allow her to tell me her youthful wisdom, full of hope and rainbows. I do not point out the deeper issues I see lurking behind her words or actions. To me, they are obvious. She is on the right track; she’s told me about the competitiveness between herself and her older sister. That was my first step, too. I recognize the overeating, the family issues behind the nice facade (no diss on her family; I’ve met her parents and they’re both very pleasant to strangers but it’s obvious to me she’s not getting what she needs from them).

Well. You’re the wordsmith. What would you have listened to when you were her age? You can’t tread her journey for her. You can’t put her feet down on the right path. She’s got to do that. The only thing you can do is try to illuminate her mind. Connect with her. Let her know she’s not alone.

Light ’em up.

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Balance

It is NOT just withdrawal. Nope. Indulged after my 4am freak storm. While I felt a bit better, it didn’t stop the feeling of a knife sliding into my temple. It’s a light sensation compared to what I’ve been through but still there. No…this isn’t just withdrawal. This is something else. Neuralgia? Maybe. Not for me to diagnose. Just for me to live through.

My biggest fear in all of this is they’ll end up saying ‘it’s stress’. And then every time I complain about something, that’ll be their first go-to explanation. It’s a discount. And it’s why I don’t go to the doc with every single complaint. I know my body reacts to stress. I know about sleep problems, digestion problems, headaches, etc. because I’ve lived it. This ain’t any of that. Or if it is, it’s at a new, hitherto unexperienced level. That’s scary. Just contemplating it is scary.

Woke up to a shitload of crap in my inbox. Mostly junk. But one email from the theatre group. It was ‘Hey everybody! The date for watching the video is coming up fast. Where are we meeting?’ I didn’t even know the date was coming up fast; no one told me a date had been decided on. I sent a note back saying ‘Didn’t know the date had been set. I know I’m not on your social network, but please let me know when and where. I’d like to see the video with everyone.’ Hope that wasn’t mean or nasty. Didn’t mean it to be. But…really! I have to roll my eyes with these people. They’re all so “connected” yet they can’t keep me informed? If they used the tools they tout, like Facebook (which we’re all on), this wouldn’t happen. It’s their insistence that FB is old school and out of date that creates this situation with me out of the loop. In my eyes, that’s one more way to just exclude me. You’re old school, you’re out of date, no one uses that anymore. Then why try to use it to advertise the group? Why claim you’ll communicate thru one medium and then throw that away and make it difficult by using another medium that not everyone in the group has?

…Gods. Whatever. I’m not putting all my eggs in that basket.

Been talking with my bro about producing my scripts via his company. He’s under pressure to produce something, some product that uses Dutch people and is done right here. I want to see my work done. Yesterday we got a flyer from a place within walking distance that’s got sound proofed rehearsal rooms and a small recording studio. Our home studio is…well, shoved in a corner, under wraps, and currently needs some repairs to be back to 100% usefulness. This new place advertises room rates that we could afford. My brother is beginning to be excited. I’ve been spending loads of time on YouTube, culling through all the unsolved mysteries and creepy stories looking for new subject matter. Why not do my scripts? We can monetize them on-line. Frankly, I’m sick and tired of hearing about internet millionaires while simultaneously seeing such a small trickle of income reach me. So the talk is now of renting rooms, finding actors, producing my scripts. My thriller trilogy is so sound intensive it can easily be turned into an audio script. And I’ve already got a radio script set to produce. Find a few creepy pictures to accompany the productions, and viola. The idea hits all the bases: my brother’s need to produce something here using Dutch people, my desire to have my work done, it’s within our financial abilities, and it’ll be something that can generate some money.

I like that. Something real I can hang my hat on. Something I know I can trust. Not blindly sending out, never hearing squat again. Not teasing me, almost making the cut. Not dependent on some mysterious board decision or someone else’s assessment of whether or not they can pull it off. The sound can be exactly what I want. Oh, I know how to make you shiver!

Managed to get back to reading Dutch. My language skills are weird. Don’t know if everyone goes through this or not. It’s like puzzle pieces falling into place. I look at the sentences; sometimes I get it right away and sometimes not, depending on the words used. If I don’t get it, I stare. I re-read. And then it kind of slides into place. Something clicks in my head, and I get it. I don’t know how I’m doing it. But every time I do do it and run to my dictionary to check and see if I’ve got it right, I’ve got it right. Reminding myself I did this with English. I have one or two memories of doing it. As a kid I didn’t question that kind of nonverbal understanding. As an adult, it scares me a bit. Makes me question myself. I keep asking ‘is that right?’ But the words are coming. My head gobbles them up, whether or not I want it to. I can feel it. A word becomes a stand-out for me. I become uncomfortably aware of it in all its versions. Slowly the meaning gets seared into my brain. It’s weird. Just plain weird. I’m not getting the language from repetition, tho that helps in recognition. It’s something deeper than repetition. Once again, I can’t explain it because I just don’t have the right words. Or maybe the right words don’t exist, at least in English. Maybe I’ll find them in Dutch.

Want to get out of the house today, if my stomach lets me. Go for some fresh air and walk around the neighborhood. I know I need it.

I’ve been off for months.

I need to re-establish balance.

No one else will

WARNING: RAGE DUMP.

Sick. I feel sick. All the time. It’s a side effect of the antibiotics I’m on: upset stomach and diarrhea. Right now I’m running to the toilet so fast I’m not sure I even want to step outside the house. Does not help that I can still see an infection in my mouth. I’m gonna have to go back to the dentist. And he’s gonna want to tinker more. And I don’t want him to.

Wondering if I’m just old now. If I’ve reached that point when all my teeth just have to come out because I’m fucking falling apart. I ain’t dying; no such fucking luck. I know the signs of the body going into shut-down, and I’m not there. I’ve still got color in my cheeks and red lips. Which means one thing: I gotta suffer thru it. No matter what. Death ain’t that close.

Telling myself I’ve one day more on my anti-biotic. Telling myself that this IS livable, many people have false teeth and live a full life. Telling myself all that and more, but between the number the pills are doing on my stomach and my anxiety I’m not in a good place.

And the world ain’t helping.

Had a call from my GP about the morphine pills. I asked for another refill; not getting it, unless I go in and explain myself to the doc. Been on them “too long”. It was hard enough to ask for help in the first place. I don’t feel worth it. I’ll just sit here and let the pain come until I can’t take it anymore, then go to hospital and cry and scream. It’s all I deserve anyway.

…Fucking yeah. Fucking really depressed this morning. I know it. I know I’ve been battling it back for days.

News just heaps more anxiety and hate on my head. Can I call like I see it? I’d like to get three people I can think of out of the states. Then bomb it. Totally. Wipe it out. Kill everyone. They’re a mad bunch of psychopaths who are ruining the world. Let’s do everyone a favor and stop it. I sure as fuck don’t want to keep hearing about how they love their guns and hate their children. And the rest of the world wonders why American children who escape that prison hate their country and their ‘people’ so fucking much.

You know what I heard the other day? That Americans made a ‘mistake’. That’s how 45 was referred to, as a ‘little mistake’. Yeah. Electing a dictator was a ‘little mistake’. Electing a man who’s proud of the fact he’s a sexual predator was a ‘little mistake’. Electing a racist liar was a ‘little mistake’.

The sheer wall of ignorant hatred coming from the US is stifling. Horrifying.

And yeah, you’d better keep me out of those borders. ‘Cause if I have to go back, I ain’t goin’ down alone. Got it?

Goddess damn them all!

…*sigh*… And the sheer hypocrisy over the fact that no one seems, on a day to day basis, to get it. How can you be happy when there’s all this shit in the world? How can you feel good about yourself when you support an autocratic, dictatorial regime? How can you feel so ‘right’? Doesn’t it bother you that slavery still exists? Doesn’t it bother you that kids are killing kids? Doesn’t it bother you that human life is so fucking cheap we’ve got throw away people? But no. Those of you who can hold your shield of denial tight in your little hands are ‘okay’ and ‘normal’. I, who feel everything, am ‘wrong’ and ‘abnormal’.

I fucking hate the bell curve.

Just because I grew up in a time when most people were clinically insane makes me the odd one out. Doesn’t matter if their view on the world is skewed; it’s the ‘norm’, that high point of the bell curve that most people fall under and anything else is outside that norm and must be, by definition, ‘wrong’. There’s an old saying that a one eyed man in a land of the blind would be king, but that’s not correct. A one eyed man in a land of the blind would be locked up and medicated because no one else would be experiencing what he’s experiencing and thus he would be deemed ‘insane’. Doctors would spend their lifetimes trying to teach the seeing man that he’s just imagining it, or that he needs to breathe through it, or that if he just talks about his mother or father or the boy who bullied him enough everything will be fine and he’ll stop seeing what he’s seeing.

THAT is how I view the world. You’re fucked, not me. I’ve been asking for a lobotomy or some sort of equivalent on and off for years because it seems to me that’s what it’ll take for me to forget all the horror on this planet and just fucking smile and talk about the latest tv episode of the latest show everyone has to fucking watch like fucking zombies without a fucking thought in their own fucking heads. Go on. Maybe then I’ll smile as I kneel down to suck you off, you fuckers. Maybe then I’ll forget how much I hate you. Maybe then I’ll think like you: that sex is the pinnacle of human existence. That’s it. Just sex. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Up the ass, in the vagina, in the mouth, just fuck everything and everyone as hard and as fast as you fucking can because that’s it. There is no more, no greater reason, nothing more to aspire to. Forget intellect. Forget spirituality. Humanity is all about the orgy. Blood and semen and sweat mixed, violence and sex mixed, all in one big groaning and gyrating ball of legs and arms.

You’re all so empty.

Rx: smoke a joint, woman. I know; yesterday wasn’t good on smoke. And we both know it’s not an ideal solution. But remember our number one priority? Take care of ourselves. You’re on the edge of busting a gut, or making yourself so sick from anger and anxiety that you’ll cause real long term problems. You’re gonna feel better once the meds are done. You will live through whatever comes your way. Smoking now, or smoking today, isn’t gonna change much. So take care of yourself right now.

No one else will.

 

Please hear me

Oh, blessed silence! Why do people have to make so much damned noise the moment they wake up? TV goes on, radio goes on, coffee maker goes on, shower goes on, and talk, talk, talk. Some people seem to go from the quiet of sleep to full volume in under ten seconds.

How can you even think?

Amazed at how well my face/empty tooth slot is doing. Seems to swell up a bit during the day with talking, and it’s still tender. But damn! Healing very well, very fast. Happy about that.

Happy about not smoking much, too. It’s pretty easy for me to sit and not smoke for most of the day. I’m allowing myself one to two Js if I want, tho I know it’s better if I don’t. But I am no longer reaching towards an ashtray every ten minutes to grab a joint and take a hit. That action is already gone. Want to stay at this level. Only smoke a J in the evening – one J – while I watch tv? Only think about a second joint if I’m really fucking upset and out of sorts and I’ve already tried my reading and game playing and other distractions? Yeah, that’s pretty fucking good.

Finished my book in Dutch. Just in time to turn it in during class. Began reading the CS Lewis I checked from the library. That’s tougher, and I might just return it and find something else. I don’t mind reading something that every few paragraphs throws me a word or phrase I don’t understand. But when that frequency jumps to every sentence, I find it hard to keep going. It becomes a drag, stopping and looking up every word, trying to figure out these long Dutch sentences. My head shuts down, and I don’t want to read. And I want to want to read.

Anxiety is very high. Keep reminding myself to relax my shoulders, let them drop naturally. Five minutes later and I’ve got my shoulders hunched up again. Keep breathing deeply, trying to reset or find some zen point. Must not be doing it right, because it’s not sticking at all. And I never really do relax.

Thinking about real goals. Concrete goals, not that thin soup of ‘I want to be happy’. What a fucking lame request. ‘I want to be happy’. Too vague, and not enough signposts to even know if I’ve reached my goal or not. I don’t know what the fuck happy looks like. Last time I thought I was in the ballpark of happy I clenched my jaw until I hurt like hell and ended up breaking one of my teeth. That doesn’t sound happy to me, and that’s the closest I think I’ve got.

So. Simple, but concrete goals. First: really relax. Really feel all my muscles turn to mush. Really let myself sleep just as long as I want. I want 24 hours (minimum) without finding I’m holding my shoulders tight, without having to deep breathe through anxiety, without that sick feeling in my stomach. I’ve gotta know what that physically feels like, ’cause right now I’m clueless. Second: chill. I’d like to walk out my front door without my heart rate jumping up into the hundreds because I’m afraid. Sometimes Often that happens with simple things, like going to the supermarket or the gym. It makes life difficult. Third: I want the first two goals without turning me into a zombie. I want to still be able to think, to do my homework, to write. Don’t chain my mind down. It’ll make it worse in the long run.

Everything else is kind of gravy.

Things I don’t want to hear: I don’t want to hear this is a long process. I don’t want to hear I’ll ‘have to talk it out eventually’. I don’t want to be told what to do, how to act, what to eat. I don’t want to be told what I already know, either. No tired old memes thrown out at me verbally because you don’t know what the fuck else to say. I don’t want to be ignored. If I say I do something (or don’t do something) I’m being honest. Remember honesty? It’s something old fashioned, and I’m old fashioned, so I still do it. Don’t nag at me about something I’ve already told you I’m all over. It tells me you don’t believe me, and if you don’t believe me, why the fuck should I believe you?

Suggestions: Refer to any appointments with the psychiatrist as ‘check-ups’. Just a verbal check, seeing how I’m doing, a little chat, and that’s it. No in depth therapy. Nope. Just a chat. That doesn’t scare me. I’ll chat away about all sorts of things. That’s never been the problem, and anyone who’s talked with me in the last six months knows that. I’ll talk about the abuse, my lack of self confidence, the mania and the depression.

Most of all: don’t push me. I am a stubborn animal. I don’t mean to be, but when someone tells me I must or I will no matter what, I balk. Dig my feet in and say ‘No!’ Case in point: my dad always harped at me that I’d have to learn how to drink coffee. Outcome? I wouldn’t even try coffee before I was 30. Don’t tell me what I must do, because I’ll do my damnedest to avoid it.

I want help I can accept. If you make it into something I can’t accept it’ll just frustrate me and make me quit. So, chats. Check-ups. Nothing heavy. Don’t say long term.

Please, please, don’t freak me out any more than I am.

And…allow me time. Allow me thought. I do things differently. Just accept that, okay? I’ve heard it for 52 years. I’m okay with it. I need YOU to be okay with it, too.

This is me asking for what I need.

Please hear me.

Hang in there

Bad things come in three. I was told that as a child and, strange though it seems, it’s held true in my life.

Today’s calamity: a broken molar and infection. Just back from the dentist. Found the infection last night, headed off first thing today. It’s not at the root, and there’s nothing they can do about the break, so it’s out with it. The doc said I have to go to hospital for the procedure, that he was afraid if he did it there’d be complications and I’d end up at hospital anyway.

Oh, yes. Let’s compound my dental horror with a phone call in Dutch. Got through it, though. I have an appointment in two weeks, and hope between a little bit of good luck and my pain pills that I can make it to the appointment without my face ballooning up or me screaming in agony.

Hell.

And that’s on top of me gathering up every ounce of courage yesterday and making that appointment with the psychiatrist (set for 22 March).

Gods. Getting old sucks.

My bro has an appointment here with some web consultants this morning, so I’m not smoking in the house. And I cut my smoking short outside the house, because it’s early and everyone’s dragging toddlers and small children around to school or creches. Ye Gods! Nothing will make you feel more like a drug addict than standing outside a building at 9 am. blowing a joint as people take their kids to school.

Doing my best to be brave. Really, really afraid right now. Doodbang (scared to death), as the Dutch say. Best to distract myself as much as possible.

I’m not fucking around; took a pain pill when I got back from the dentist and I will continue to gobble them the moment I feel any bit of pain from my jaw. Fuck it. I’ll deal with any backlash from a morphine spree once the problem is solved. Just wanted to be absolutely fucking clear on that.

Managed to bumble through the remainder of my homework. My brain worked hard to understand the article and accompanying questions. Don’t know that I actually got it; I’ll find that out on Monday. But I gave it a go, and didn’t just throw my hands up in the air and NOT do it. I get points for trying, right?

Finished Roald Dahl, started on the second book. So far, so good. It’s a story. Some of what I was reading was nothing more than lines of sentences strung together. No adjectives, no motives, no reasoning. Just ‘he did this; he said that’. SNORE. I know that’s the soup de jour in literature, particularly American literature, but SNORE! I find it boring. If the moon doesn’t sail or the stars don’t twinkle…well, it’ ain’t my world. Go live in your grown-up, no frills, everything in shades of grey with lashings of sadomasochism shit hole of a world. Go fuck each other, lie to each other, betray each other, cheat, steal, and be the horrors that every mother everywhere dreads.

I reject that. Totally.

…Still have not made a phone call to get my orthopedics adjusted. lol. Seems like small shit now.

I can and will rise above this. It’s not the end of the world, not the end of my life. It will not cripple me nor destroy me. It’s just one of those things. A hiccup, a bad fall, an accident. Not my fault, not anyone’s fault (except, perhaps, the hack dentists my mother took me to when I was young who just drilled my teeth mercilessly).

Got a tension headache. Again. Made mention to my jaw physiotherapist about having cluster headaches; she told me that’s definitely stress and tension. Meh. Maybe you should just take my brain out and solve the whole bleeding problem at once! No more thinking, no more stress, no more pain. Wouldn’t that be nice?

…Fuck.

Now I sit, waiting. Waiting for the dentist appointment at the hospital, waiting for the psychiatrist appointment… I do not like waiting. Especially when I’m afraid, and I’m afraid of both these things. My brother is doing what he can to help me. Hugs, understanding, all of it. I don’t know how I got so lucky with him. But thank you again, Universe, for making it so.

Hang in there, baby. I remember seeing the poster above (or one very much like it) in my grade school office. It was new back then and I found myself liking the adults in the office all the more for putting it up. It made them a little more human; up ’til that point I didn’t know adults might feel that way. Certainly my robotic female parental unit never gave any hint of feeling that way (or feeling much of anything, actually). *sigh* Is everything going to keep reinforcing this child-like feeling in me? Like, for the rest of eternity?

Or is this just the Universe telling me I am a child? Or that I need to grow up? Or that it’s all okay and I just need to accept it? Please! Can you spell it out in the sky with letters fifty feet high? Everywhere I turn I get triggered. I am so tired of trying to be adult. Of trying to be brave. I just don’t want to do it anymore. I want to cry and shake and be held, and hear ‘it’ll all be okay’ and BELIEVE it.

The best I can do right now is keep telling myself to hang in there.

Hang in there.

Hang in there…

That might explain it

I am here only to bitch and moan and scream. All those things I’d like to do on other social platforms because that’s where it gets triggered. All those things I don’t do on other social platforms because I don’t want to deal with the back-talk, the trolling, or the other unwanted fucking bullshit.

First up: women who support 45. *ahem* Go and kill yourselves. Quickly. It will save me from murdering you, so look on it as if you’re doing God’s work, which you seem SO fucking concerned with even though your God makes you an outcast for your sex, your God MUST be called “Lord” or “Him” or “He”, your God of course had to send down a son because daughters are fucking worthless (right?), your God who is a man first and always and will never, ever let you forget it. Get down on your knees and suck Him (and that ‘Him’ stands BOTH your male Gods including the one in the White House) off. You utterly disgusting whores, so eager for a pat on your head from your Daddy or your husband that you’ll give up every ounce of decency in you just to have it.

Second: England. Congratulations on confirming in my mind, at least, that you ARE the pedophile capital of the world. The amount of ‘adults’ who engage in this behavior in your country is fucking staggering. And it’s pretty obvious that all your women are lying whores who deserve to be raped – or at least that’s your attitude. You’re letting the worst serial rapist in your history out of jail. Free. Guess his victims just don’t fucking count. They all wanted it anyway, didn’t they? Just like those kids you fucked. Those kids wanted it, too. They dressed provocatively, didn’t they? You just couldn’t help it. Your dicks got hard and, well, you’ve got to find SOMEPLACE to put a hard dick, don’t you? And, after all, that’s what women are made for – even if the ‘woman’ in question is only 5 or 6, or really a boy who won’t fight you too much because they can’t.

Third: the 1%. The day is coming, people. Your throats will all be cut. You will be left penniless. The masses will wake up to the fallacy of ‘divine right by birth’. You take, you keep, you hoard, and you laugh at the rest of us when we complain. You have no rights to what you claim is yours. Contrary to popular belief, the old idiom of ‘you can’t take it with you’ still holds true. If you can’t take it with you, you don’t own it. So no, you don’t own your land or your homes or your car or the workers whom you treat as slaves. You don’t own the government, or government officials, or the stock market. You are greedy fucks who stop up the progress of the world. You are the WORST of this terrible parasitic species called human, and on my list you’re number one to be shot even tho you only show up as my number three gripe this morning.

Fourth: the U.S. My only answer is this: napalm, and lots of it.

AAAAAARGH!

…I am frustrated and anxious, thus you get a tirade this morning. I know it. Continuing to hold smoking to a lower level despite feeling so homicidal. Have not yet gone off on anyone. That statement makes it sound like I expect to go off, and I guess I do. It’s my pattern. A pattern I’ve tried to break for a long time without success. I consider that a personal failure. …I must be at least a bit crazy, because I keep trying. Even tho I know I haven’t done it yet, even tho I don’t even know HOW to do it. Breathe, they tell me. Hell, I’m breathing! Sometimes damned hard from my anger. Can we get something a little more concrete to work on? Telling me to breathe just doesn’t cut it. And putting on that sanctimonious attitude and telling me it’ll all be okay if I just breathe only makes me want to shove breathing up your ass so far you’ll be belching from your sphincter for the rest of your natural life.

*big exhale* Yes, I’m currently smoking. I said I was keeping it under control, not quitting, and if anything serves as evidence of needing to calm the fuck down, it’s my post first thing this morning.

I’ve been diligent this weekend. Worked steadily. My homework is done. I’ve finished the latest Dutch book I was given to read. I’ve prepped up an article to share with the class. This morning I’ll conjugate irregular verbs while eating my oatmeal. In addition, I’ve watched Dutch programs or films every day to reinforce hearing the language. Also managed to clean up the house, finish off laundry, check on times and routes for Tuesday, SMS’d S about Tuesday, sent a message off to my insurance company about the increased coverage I need, sent a note to the theatre group telling them I’m done with the story and ready to share it, and even got to the gym. That’s diligence!

I should be happy as a clam (tho why clams are so damned happy, I’ll never know). S assured me in her message that I’m always welcome in her home. That warmed my heart. She’s been caught up in last minute homework projects, so we haven’t had a good chat yet. But looks like I’ll head up there on Tuesday so she can do my make-up. I’m sitting pretty with language, having done all that work. Should do just fine in class today. I’ve got what I need for Tuesday: the outfit, directions, back-up plans, and money on my OV chip card. My back isn’t hurting me, and my jaw pain is very low to non-existent.

One weird thing. I’ve got two sets of bite marks on my shoulder. Too big for an insect.

Maybe an angry imp bit me at night while I slept.

That might explain it…

Fabulous

The first thing I did this morning was reach up to drag my heavy, long hair out of my face. Then I realized – it’s short.

Somehow, I always ask for the impossible. I always want a color they can’t give me, in this case auburn because I went too dark and no hairstylist wants to bleach my already dry and thirsty hair. They did manage to find a nice in-between, a lighter and redder color they added to the roots and brought through to the ends to blend it all. But I did it again with the cut. Brought in several pix of asymmetrical haircuts, which I just love on me; looks so much better than perfect symmetrical cuts. Then it was snip, snip, snip. Several inches hit the floor in the first pass. I went to a student academy, ’cause prices are half what I’d pay in a regular salon. So I had my stylist/student, three teachers, and a professional stylist puttering with my hair, talking about the length, the fall, the curve. Took more than two hours, but it was worth it. My hair hangs pixie-like and free, curving around my face gently to set it off, and falls gracefully a few inches to the right leaving a long lock that winds around into one gorgeous curl.

Maybe I’m the one person in a hundred thousand who still wants asymmetrical cuts. Or maybe it’s because I walked in there with such long, shaggy hair and it was such a dramatic make-over. I don’t know. But, as usual, I garnered a LOT of attention at the salon. Not just from the teachers, but also from the other students who kept watching the process of my new look getting sculpted out of the old. Are you sure you want this? Have you gone this short before? I found their questions funny. I wanted to say yes, I’m 52 and have done everything with my hair before you were born, dearie. Shaved, purple, multi-colored, rat-tails, super spiky short, long curly locks, blond, brunette, and red-head: you name it, I’ve done it at some point.

And oh! I’m not getting rid of this cut anytime soon. I’ll work hard to maintain it, as a matter of fact – which is not something I’ve said in a while. I like it. Brings back memories of my first asymmetrical cut when I was 17. My mother wanted to send me back to the salon (in fact, she wanted to send me back to HER salon, not one of my choosing). C was very noncommittal with me on most things, never showing too much approval or disapproval no matter what. But that hair! She hated it. Really, really, hated it. Nagged at me every time I wore it in a manner that emphasized that off-set cut. Pin it up, she’d tell me. No one will hire you with that hair. Eventually, she wore me down. I got a job in an office, and cut it.

Now, I’ve no one to tell me to cut it differently. No one to nag at me how it’s not normal, or how someone my age or weight or whatever shouldn’t have hair like this. I did not expect to feel so giddy. So free and uninhibited. Nor did I expect to write over 500 words about my hair.

…I’ve a long list of stuff. Things I need to do, things that have happened that nagged at me over the past day or two… But the headlines, of course, are where my immediate concern lies: government shutdown. Not sure how that will affect my brother’s pension, but I don’t expect it to be good. Refuse to panic or worry. There will be time enough for that later. And if something drastic happens…well, I expect a bit of understanding and slack here. I hope. It’s not something I want to discuss much, because that riles me up and gets me worrying. Just noting it’s happening and I’m doing my best not to freak.

Concerned, also, about the premiere. Getting up there, timing, the outfit, finding the place… The list on that goes on and on, too. I will be alone in a not-so-familiar city. Alone and dressed to the nines. At night, and it’ll probably be raining. Need to check with S about helping with my make-up. I don’t want to intrude; sounded like she’s gonna have loads of family at her place that evening. If I do go and get her help, I’ll more likely have time to kill because I’ll want to not step on any family gathering so I’ll be there early. My bro suggested I just head to a coffeeshop to smoke. I just don’t know: me, in fancy dress, with sparkling jewelry and full on make-up, walking into a coffeeshop to smoke weed. It’s more everyone else’s reaction I’m thinking of…not that I make a habit of it, but please! I’d stare at me if I walked in looking like that. Then there’s just the ick factor: coffeeshops tend to be a bit less clean than other Dutch establishments. The bathrooms can be…not nice. And there’s always the concern about burning my outfit from some falling ash. I’ve kept this dress in good condition this long, and I don’t want to lose it because I felt like having a hit or two before the premiere. Similar concerns with getting a bite to eat: messing the dress, smearing the make-up, and dealing with food stuck in my teeth. Um…nope. Drinks? That’s my best bet of staying neat and tidy. Also my best bet at getting out of hand because I don’t drink anymore and a couple of beers will put me under the table. I have this vision of me standing alone in a corner (so I don’t wrinkle the dress), drinking water through a straw (to keep the make-up perfect) for an hour or more in a quiet, out of the way nothing place. Sounds boring.

But I’ll look fabulous.

Give me strength

The dress fits. More than a quarter century on, and the dress fits. More than pleased; no need to spend funds on another outfit. Just shoes, and I can go cheap with those. Basic black pumps, no frills, low heels. Yippee.

Language lesson was far less of a drudge than I’d feared. I enjoyed it, as a matter of fact. Probably because I worked hard, I understood what was said, what was read, what was expected of me and I answered correctly 98% if the time. It’s a rare thing for me to make a mistake on my homework now. And I’ve moved into understanding nuances of words.

Got back the Dutch kids’ story, with corrections. Again, less than I’d feared. For 12 pages of handwritten material, I made very few mistakes – and those I did make, once pointed out to me, were obvious.

Pulled info on screenplay formatting, and began roughing a few lines in. I’m enjoying re-thinking the script, visualizing what I could do with a camera and editing rather than live action stage actors. It’ll be a nice project to putter on in between everything else.

Doing my best to cut back on smoking. Ugh. This is one I do NOT want to do. However. I need the time, the brain power, and the money in other areas right now, so cut back it is. Want to ride that line between cutting back and irritation; no need to make myself into a total bitch at the moment. I’ll self medicate as I feel I need. But ONLY when I need.

Followed up on our health insurance changes. Think I’ve got all the info we need to make a decision. I feel sort of dumb; in the end, getting thru it wasn’t that tough, and I’ve been dragging my feet for three years on this. Still. My language ability took a big leap recently, so I won’t be too hard on myself. Six months ago and this breezy attitude of ‘it wasn’t so difficult’ would not have surfaced – I was still mired in trying to understand.

More Dutch films. Ran ‘Sint’ last night with Dutch subtitles. Heard more. Understood more. But oh! I’m so happy I ended up here, in Rotterdam, rather than Amsterdam. Amsterdammers drop the last syllable of every word. No idea how they can tell the proper verb form on anything. It all sounds identical. And no wonder some immigrants just begin putting an ‘ah’ sound on the end of every word. It’s what it sounds like. Unfortunately for me, Amsterdam is still the center of the world here, so I need to learn their dialect because it’s in every radio broadcast, film, and tv program.

Getting close to asking someone why there are close to zero Dutch programs other than talk shows. Oh, their talk shows. Panels of people that discuss this or that. Close to 100% of what they do. No soaps, no sit-coms, no dramas. Panel shows and game shows. Snore! Why not a story? Why not something more? They’ve got the skills in media. Their films are top quality, and the stories they tell in film are wonderful. So why not tv?

Woke up crying. Don’t ask me why; I’ve already blocked the thoughts from my mind. But tears were there. Telling myself to hang on. It’s okay. Just part of the process, right? Pain leaks out of us in every sort of manner. This morning, it was tears from my eyes. This afternoon it might mean me feeling like shit because I still haven’t heard whisper one on anything I’ve sent out. And tonight I might snap at my brother because I feel unheard or unappreciated. Never happy about that, and I try to not turn my hurt on others. But it happens, and I realize why it’s happening. Too much pain. Something’s got to give.

Need to get to the gym. Put money on my metro card, and go hunting for shoes. See if the building has enough hot water to take a shower today. And go thru some more Dutch (already put in over an hour this morning).

*sigh* I feel disconnected from myself. And this, too, shall pass… Withdrawal. Yep. Feelin’ it already. I really miss my morning smoke.

Goddess, give me strength.

Can’t see the forest

And so…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I can’t see the forest for the trees.

Zin

The Dutch call it ‘zin’. Zeal. Zest for life. Interest in things other than how much toe jam has built up under your big toenail.

I felt it flood back in me yesterday. Got on the cross trainer. Took it slow; it’s been a month and I’ve been smoking like a chimney. Got my heart rate up to the 140s, did my 30 minutes, and ended up picking up speed throughout so I did a decent distance.

Wish I could say it’s been pain free, but it hasn’t been. My back is still a problem, and if I chew regular food on the right side, that tooth hurts. Gods. Like I want to tell the fucking dentist THAT. I’m afraid it will result in more tinkering, which will mean more pain, and more money because Goddess knows the damned dentist won’t do anything for fucking free even if he’s screwed up your teeth and it’s probably all his fault anyway. I don’t want to pay either price.

Today I see my very cute physiotherapist. I always look forward to that. Half physio, half head shrink session – I come out of his office feeling better physically and mentally. Good. Feels like I need to bounce a few things off someone other than me or my bro. Get an outsider’s take on things. …Okay, there’s really only one thing I need to bounce off him. Therapy. I’ve got a push me/pull me thing going with the idea. Part of me stubbornly says NO with absolute authority, the other recognizes that I really might need someone to talk to. Every time I think I’ve made up my mind, the other part of me starts acting up, talking loudly in my brain, giving me every reason to change my decision. I can’t seem to stick to my choice. More: I don’t know how to commit to that course of action.

Was pleased to find my least favorite pair of jeans (the stretchy kind that always feels a size or two too small for my hips) not only slid on easily, but buttoned up without pulling the fabric together. Geez. Lose a few pounds and those hated pants become not so bad to wear. Not so pleased to know the weight loss comes from just not eating. Had at least a week there when I wasn’t eating much of anything, and another two weeks with food intake very low due to mouth/head pain. I’d like to lose the weight without feeling like I need to go extreme with my measures. That doesn’t seem to work so well for me. Keep things steady with diet and exercise and my body stubbornly refuses to let go of one ounce. Go extreme, and the weight drops off me. Bugger.

No word on anything I’ve written. Really would have expected to hear something from the local director by now. He’s had the full trilogy for 10 days. Have paranoia creeping up on me. Everybody hates it. Hates me for something I said or did. I’m on the out, and no one will tell me. The local group won’t do it, the US group thinks I was too pushy in even offering it, and S hates me for the comments I made on her writing. Reminding myself of all those things you have to remind yourself of when paranoia grips you: I’m not seeing the whole picture, all sorts of things could have happened in other people’s lives to slow the process, take a deep breath, dude – you’re being paranoid.

The factory that is my brain is always going. Three shifts, round the clock. Ideas are beginning to take shape. I’m beginning to feel that excitement that takes hold me when I’m working on a story. Before I allow myself to dive into it, tho, I must take care of some outside things. Get back to J on his story. Do that work my bro asked me to take care of. Think about and do Dutch. And get back into exercise full swing. I really want to say fuck it to all of that and just sit here, smoke J after J as I spin out my tales. Allow myself to fall back into it. Trying to be more than that, tho. Trying to be a good person, a good sister, and a good student. My writing is in direct conflict with those goals. I am selfish when I write. I don’t think about other people; don’t even listen to other people. Only my inner voice, the writer: she gets all my attention, and she’s an attention hog. But she only works with imaginary people, whom she can control totally. I want the full monty, with real people. That takes work. So my brain is on notice: half speed only. If you work, you work in private. On the back burner, quietly simmering. Someone else is taking the forefront for a while, and if you can’t outright support her the least you can do is shut the fuck up.

I need to stop smoking so much. Burning thru stuff. Not only is it bad for my health, it’s bad for my pocketbook. If I want to get my hair cut this year (and I’d desperately like my hair cut soon), I need to cut back. If I want to buy some new clothes, I need to cut back. Ipso facto. Smoking is currently the biggest expense in my life. But I’m also terribly bored, which leads to me wanting to smoke more. It’s a vicious circle. I cannot do some things, like Dutch, non-stop. It’s counter productive to my learning. And I don’t have much to do if I’m not writing. Exercise, sure. But that’s a short time period each day. There are hours to fill before and after. And then there’s my general health to consider: get out more, do more, and I fall ill more easily – which sends me right back into hermit mode.

So…I got the ‘zin’…what now?