I've been thinking about you all day. I haven't been able to stop thinking about you, actually. After that first moment of grogginess and mental cursing of the alarm clock this morning, I was thinking about how plesantly you surprised me last night. It's been going through my mind when I am not actively focused on things like the lesson I'm explaining to students or trying not to trip over the random crap left thrown in the halls.
I suppose I am doing a decent job of hiding how distracted I've been today. I wasn't so distracted that it was dangerous for me to drive home after work. I'm not so distracted that I am unable to sit here and type this little note to you. But, I wasn't really listening to the other women I eat lunch with gossip about the television shows. I didn't really pay too much attention to how the social buzz in the hallway changes as the day progresses in the school. I kept thinking about you.
The one thing that continued to run through my mind was the feeling of your lips on my skin and the sound of your voice as you whispered to me. It still makes me shiver and my heart pound. I'm not sure what more to say with out proving embaressing.
roses
Wednesday, November 29, 2006
Tuesday, November 28, 2006
A point of contemplation - restraint...
Working in a spirit of restraint, I find ecstacy. I live in the moments of freedom where I am bound, body straining, lungs heaving and mental focus is a torture. The task of self discipline, self mastery becomes spiritual in that place of lust. Even as the ecstasy of letting go comes to me, my barriers are torn away and I'm left more pure, more genuine me. My masks, behind which I hide, are shattered, molded to fit a different form then mine.
I find freedom in having the self discipline broken, that sweet release of pure energy. For the art of the spiritual lies in it's paradox.
Oh, submission, that is another joy I find such delight in it. To give myself fully to another. To honor myself with the gift of one who is worthy of me. For in giving myself to them and their acceptance, I find I am recieving them. There is something sacred in the gift of each other that two people make in the bedroom. It is not mearly lust that spurs this gift on but some sacred duty. This duty is to love and be loved in return.
Sex is but a natural progression of this love. Yest, I know there are other ways to describe and aspire to show this burgeoning love. For love is an emotion and the human mind can convey emotion in an infanite array of ways, not all using the human body. But love, why is it so sacred? what makes it so holy? why is it a gift, a thing most precious. Just as we all need food and shelter to live and be healthy, so too do we need human contact and love to do so.
It is a rare soul that can live as an aescetic and alone. These hardy souls are voyagers into the place of spirit that few venture to. For their chosen companion is themselves. That is not my place. i love the warm circle of my husband's arms far too much to give it up and be alone. I strive, however, to succeed alone. I struggle to adapt myself to the silence of an empty room and the presence of only myself, not one stick of furniture or bare flickering of a candle. But it is hard. Such places of silence do exist, but rare is the mood that brings me there.
The white silence of fury brings me there. I have come to fear that place because warm compassion does not seem to exist, only cold logic and lightning's power. Some day, I shall yet master it. Fear is no man's friend, not when it is your master. Yet, when you strive to conqure it and take it into you as a part o yourself, your soul, fear becomes a wise counselor, warning you of dangers and ill consequences.
I find freedom in having the self discipline broken, that sweet release of pure energy. For the art of the spiritual lies in it's paradox.
Oh, submission, that is another joy I find such delight in it. To give myself fully to another. To honor myself with the gift of one who is worthy of me. For in giving myself to them and their acceptance, I find I am recieving them. There is something sacred in the gift of each other that two people make in the bedroom. It is not mearly lust that spurs this gift on but some sacred duty. This duty is to love and be loved in return.
Sex is but a natural progression of this love. Yest, I know there are other ways to describe and aspire to show this burgeoning love. For love is an emotion and the human mind can convey emotion in an infanite array of ways, not all using the human body. But love, why is it so sacred? what makes it so holy? why is it a gift, a thing most precious. Just as we all need food and shelter to live and be healthy, so too do we need human contact and love to do so.
It is a rare soul that can live as an aescetic and alone. These hardy souls are voyagers into the place of spirit that few venture to. For their chosen companion is themselves. That is not my place. i love the warm circle of my husband's arms far too much to give it up and be alone. I strive, however, to succeed alone. I struggle to adapt myself to the silence of an empty room and the presence of only myself, not one stick of furniture or bare flickering of a candle. But it is hard. Such places of silence do exist, but rare is the mood that brings me there.
The white silence of fury brings me there. I have come to fear that place because warm compassion does not seem to exist, only cold logic and lightning's power. Some day, I shall yet master it. Fear is no man's friend, not when it is your master. Yet, when you strive to conqure it and take it into you as a part o yourself, your soul, fear becomes a wise counselor, warning you of dangers and ill consequences.
Love letters... 1
I wrote this yesterday as I was waiting for you. I suspect that you will probably read it at work. And I suspect that it will be the least potentially offensive item seen on a computer screen around those parts. :) That said, I hope it doesn't make you blush too much.
********* Love Letter no. 1 *********
All I can think about is how much I want you. My body aches for your touch. The wamrth of your voice as you see my tears of fustration slides more seductively over my senses then the finest of silks. I crave you like an addiction. every inch of my flesh cries out for your touch just as every fiber of my soul screams to surrender to you.
Again and again, we go through this tortured, treasured ritual of devotion. By submitting to you, I come home to myself. In accepting my surrender, I can see peace returning to your soul.
********* Love Letter no. 1 *********
All I can think about is how much I want you. My body aches for your touch. The wamrth of your voice as you see my tears of fustration slides more seductively over my senses then the finest of silks. I crave you like an addiction. every inch of my flesh cries out for your touch just as every fiber of my soul screams to surrender to you.
Again and again, we go through this tortured, treasured ritual of devotion. By submitting to you, I come home to myself. In accepting my surrender, I can see peace returning to your soul.
Monday, November 27, 2006
Just a note...
[deleted]
We discussed this last night.
You're right, I do need to stop torturing myself.
Gods, I hope I figure out how.
We discussed this last night.
You're right, I do need to stop torturing myself.
Gods, I hope I figure out how.
Wednesday, November 22, 2006
Productive... maybe, let's not get too hasty in labling this.
My progress today on gifts for Christmas/Yule:
1. My paternal Grandfather's book on Aviation
2. Youngest neices's toy kitties
3. Husband's aunt's flavored vinegars & oils
4. Husband's other aunt's dried chilies & cinnamon & flavored vinegar
5. Sister-in-law's bath spa set
6. Mother-in-law's bath spa set
7. Mom's roosters
8. Husband's Grandmother's framed photo of us
9. My maternal Grandmother's framed photo of us
10. My paternal Grandmother's windchimes
all complete
To be completed:
1. Brother's roll up tool kit
2. Neice's heart pillow
3. Copies of photo CDs, with lables for 23 ppl (approx.)
4. Framed photos for 7 people
5. Mini-photo album for my father
6. Brother's painting of daughters
7. Altar cloth for Stargazer
8. Mini-sampler for friend
9. Calligraphy for friend
10. Sister-in-law's scrapbooking supply case
11. Neice's lap quilt
12. Cookies & candies for 15 ppl (approx.)
13. Book of poems for Mom
14. Fabric doll for neice
It may be that I'm half way through the making of things and purchasing of things at this time, but it doesn't feel that way. :p Good thing I've got an organized list of how hubby can help with this. If we're lucky, we can swing this with out having to actually go out shopping. A little later, I'll be taking on the challenge of sending out roughly 60 holiday cards...
I need to purchase some printable lables for addressing. I think I'll be typing up a holiday letter to stick into each card rather then writing a note in each. Make it less of a problem with writer's cramp.
Tomorrow, however, in the morning, I need to make that pumpkin pie. Here's hoping that goes well.
1. My paternal Grandfather's book on Aviation
2. Youngest neices's toy kitties
3. Husband's aunt's flavored vinegars & oils
4. Husband's other aunt's dried chilies & cinnamon & flavored vinegar
5. Sister-in-law's bath spa set
6. Mother-in-law's bath spa set
7. Mom's roosters
8. Husband's Grandmother's framed photo of us
9. My maternal Grandmother's framed photo of us
10. My paternal Grandmother's windchimes
all complete
To be completed:
1. Brother's roll up tool kit
2. Neice's heart pillow
3. Copies of photo CDs, with lables for 23 ppl (approx.)
4. Framed photos for 7 people
5. Mini-photo album for my father
6. Brother's painting of daughters
7. Altar cloth for Stargazer
8. Mini-sampler for friend
9. Calligraphy for friend
10. Sister-in-law's scrapbooking supply case
11. Neice's lap quilt
12. Cookies & candies for 15 ppl (approx.)
13. Book of poems for Mom
14. Fabric doll for neice
It may be that I'm half way through the making of things and purchasing of things at this time, but it doesn't feel that way. :p Good thing I've got an organized list of how hubby can help with this. If we're lucky, we can swing this with out having to actually go out shopping. A little later, I'll be taking on the challenge of sending out roughly 60 holiday cards...
I need to purchase some printable lables for addressing. I think I'll be typing up a holiday letter to stick into each card rather then writing a note in each. Make it less of a problem with writer's cramp.
Tomorrow, however, in the morning, I need to make that pumpkin pie. Here's hoping that goes well.
Saturday, November 18, 2006
Some days, I know too much....
This was in response to another person's comment about murder.
Now, tell me... am I delving too deeply for character development?
Now, I'm of two minds on how to respond to this. On one hand, I find myself thinking that murderers are among the lowest forms of life upon this earth, especially those of this particular nature. I'm, however, biased in this stance, due to the fact that my Uncle was murdered by a student of his. As a result of my bias, I hold murderers in a high degree of contempt and revile them as a lower class of being then rapists or violent pedophiliacs.
The other thought that I have is how a person who operates like that would engage in such things is because they viewed it as the fastest route to accomplish some goal. Perhaps it was wealth, perhaps it was the elimination of a person whom you believed was a rival on the verge of destroying your efforts. I could think up many different possible motives for such an act. To commit murder, especially an act of murder that is not blatently obvious as a crime comitted in high passion, one must beable to separate themselves from their victims. There needs to be a sufficent breach between the concepts of "person" and "thing" that your former friend is now worth less to you then a dog.
Such individuals are frequently described in the media as sociopaths or psychopaths, but it's not an accurate description of the psychological "problem" at play here. It's actually a form of anti-social disorder. Anti-social disorder doesn't mearly mean that you have a strong vein of misanthropy but that you can not identify at all with the social group, in this case. Usually, the killers who have such a form of anti-social disorder also have some form of meglomania. I think it is a way that the ego/mind/brain (what ever damn term you want) compensates for the radical and unhealthy split that is present there.
These people have two different general groups that they come in. One is a very suave and seemingly socially sophisitacated, where as the other is the sterotypical serial killer who lives off in the boonies with their rusty axe, waiting to snap and kill all people in a 30 mile radius. The schisim that is observed in most muderers who have anti-social disorder is a result of an early childhood psychological trauma. It's frequently traced to some form of problems with: gender indentification, sexual orientation identification, or pathological abuse by another. They may or may not have a history of violence that is to an extent that it is recorded in public record by way of police reports.
More often then not, however, it is usually such that the violence is expressed in means that are easily hidden or explained away in childhood. "Boys will be boys." or "Oh, they all go through that phase." As these people grow into maturity, they realize that the tendancies that they have are not such that would allow them to function well in society. This serves to further alienate them and widen the breach between "people" and "things" in their minds. From what I've been able to determine in my research, it's about the age of late teens early 20s that this thought pattern (which initally was a defense mechanisim for coping with the childhood trauma) is finally completed and entrenched in the mind.
Then, you have the development of the two groups of killers. One group will say "fuck it, these mongrels can't handle it, then too damn bad." They continue to satisfy the violent urges, which usually are either compulsive efforts to ease some form of psychological angst or reinactment of the childhood trauma. These ones become the sterotypical axe murderer in the woods.
The others work to hide their tendancies in a fustrated effort to work with society at large. They will either express their tendancies via fantasies and through vicarious living in violent media/graphic materials/literature or through the subtle continuation of their earlier methods. Unfortunately, in either group, they become resistant to the earlier method of assuaging the growing fixation upon sadisim and need to become more elaborate to satisfy the psychological "need".
In many respect, the act of killing is just another way to get a fix for their need. This person may have been some one who kicked the dog, beat his wife, and eventually graduated to murder because of the growing compulsion. Unfortunately, this "need" is a fustrated attempt to address something that can be resolved via psychotherapy and can be overcome or rechanneled into more .... constructive outlets.
Now, tell me... am I delving too deeply for character development?
Eulogy for a Stranger
This is a eulogy for a man whom I have barely met. This is a man whom the sanctimonious prayer-mongers will forget. A face seen in a crowd, a chance association, one who will not be mourned when he is gone for they never realized his vibrancy. I met him recently in the midst of doing the most heroic thing most un-heroically, living.
His head was bowed with some hidden grief and I simply could not pass by. I looked at him and saw a companion soul torn by misery's twin sister, despair. I strived to act upon the natural compassion in my heart. Listening to my intuition, I gave him the rough equivalent of child's friendship gift with the words that it would help. Some time passed and I did not see him. I still thought of this somber, suffering man and voiced a silent prayer for him each time.
Now, I have seen my stoic friend again. I have learned that he is dying. My heart was wrenched with grief beyond words. This vibrant, witty man whom shone with a light of fascination even in the depths of horror and heartbreak ... this valiant soul would soon no longer be walking the earth with us. It was with a smile to ease the horror and grief that most obviously shone in my face that he said that he was not afraid.
It was something he had to say three times until I understood it. He wasn't afraid. Indeed, in his face, I saw only peace. He was accepting it, living with it as we would the rain. That is what gave me courage. Even now, he walks among us but not, a figure of anonymity, and sheer courage unparalleled by any I have met. In our friendship, how ever brief it shall be, I have this one regret, that I don't know your name.
All I can add is this:
Thank you, my friend, and when it is time to rest, be at peace. All the world's sorrows will no longer plague you and you shall abide at the place of love, if no where else, then in my own heart. Blessed be, my brother, let us all live with your courage.
His head was bowed with some hidden grief and I simply could not pass by. I looked at him and saw a companion soul torn by misery's twin sister, despair. I strived to act upon the natural compassion in my heart. Listening to my intuition, I gave him the rough equivalent of child's friendship gift with the words that it would help. Some time passed and I did not see him. I still thought of this somber, suffering man and voiced a silent prayer for him each time.
Now, I have seen my stoic friend again. I have learned that he is dying. My heart was wrenched with grief beyond words. This vibrant, witty man whom shone with a light of fascination even in the depths of horror and heartbreak ... this valiant soul would soon no longer be walking the earth with us. It was with a smile to ease the horror and grief that most obviously shone in my face that he said that he was not afraid.
It was something he had to say three times until I understood it. He wasn't afraid. Indeed, in his face, I saw only peace. He was accepting it, living with it as we would the rain. That is what gave me courage. Even now, he walks among us but not, a figure of anonymity, and sheer courage unparalleled by any I have met. In our friendship, how ever brief it shall be, I have this one regret, that I don't know your name.
All I can add is this:
Thank you, my friend, and when it is time to rest, be at peace. All the world's sorrows will no longer plague you and you shall abide at the place of love, if no where else, then in my own heart. Blessed be, my brother, let us all live with your courage.
Friday, November 10, 2006
sore and sleepy
Well, my back is still kinda stiff from the exercizing I did yesterday.
It's a good thing I exercized. It's a bad thing I'm so damn out of shape. I suppose the fact that I did laundry and hefted the clothes down stairs and up did me some good. I just don't feel like it.
It's the feeling like you've been beaten with a broomstick wrapped in towels or something simmilar. The muscles ache down deep inside but only when you move them a certian way or exercize them for a little too long. My back is kinda weak due to my poor posture, so my exercizes and efforts to maintain correct posture have given me a sore back today.
I still miss my honey, but he'll be home soon. His flight is within the next few hours and then tomorrow morning he's home. I'm still rather tired, but I only got 3.5 hours of sleep last night. Perhaps I will wake up to him walking into the bedroom. That'd be wonderful.
All of that said, I think I'll slack on putting the laundry away and washing dishes until the morning and go to bed.
It's a good thing I exercized. It's a bad thing I'm so damn out of shape. I suppose the fact that I did laundry and hefted the clothes down stairs and up did me some good. I just don't feel like it.
It's the feeling like you've been beaten with a broomstick wrapped in towels or something simmilar. The muscles ache down deep inside but only when you move them a certian way or exercize them for a little too long. My back is kinda weak due to my poor posture, so my exercizes and efforts to maintain correct posture have given me a sore back today.
I still miss my honey, but he'll be home soon. His flight is within the next few hours and then tomorrow morning he's home. I'm still rather tired, but I only got 3.5 hours of sleep last night. Perhaps I will wake up to him walking into the bedroom. That'd be wonderful.
All of that said, I think I'll slack on putting the laundry away and washing dishes until the morning and go to bed.
Wednesday, November 08, 2006
no inspired title today
I feel a mixture of diappointment, sorrow, and hope. The disappointment is due to the fact that in many respect my birthday was a bust. I was looking forward to a romantic dinner, flowers, and some personal time with my husband. Life happened and I sort of got one out of three.
The responsible adult in me says that I can't really be too upset. Part of this is what I got for saying "Sure, he can have dinner with us." and part of it is just that life threw us all a curve ball. Getting ready at the last minute for a trip across the country that you found out about that afternoon can make any guy's day crazy. When it happens on a particularly busy day that is also your wife's birthday, it just makes you feel like a complete heel. But, that was what happened, and I felt pity for his boss being told he had to fend for himself for dinner last night.
End result of this is: Hubby didn't have time to get me flowers, though he really wanted to. Dinner was excellent, the restaraunt was plesant, but the guys talked shop in an attempt to ease their nervousness about this trip. Walmart didn't help us much for two reasons. 1. It had to be designed by some one that has no concept of how people shop. Everything was impossible to find easily, thus I wasted 2 hours of my life in high heels wandering around that store searching for what seemed like 4 hours. 2. The customer service desk's concept of customer service is "we're too lazy, do it your damn self." I'm pretty sure that my dear husband will be ranting about that in the near future.
As my husband was forced to repeat the 2 hour search for required items, after a 20 min game of listening to hold music as the customer service desk mocks you, I packed his suitcase and got everything ready for this morning. I fell asleep at 1:20 in the morning. He got home close to 3 am, only to have to wake up roughly 3.5 hours later. I'm amazed he actually woke up. Though I wonder if he actually slept, because he seemed rather nervous about this meeting.
I feel sorrow because of the fact that he had to go out to the otherside of the nation in a flying tincan held up in the air by a reinforced plank with a gas tank and motors attached. I don't worry about airplanes much, but because of my ever present anxiety that the people I love will be taken out of my life by a sadistic or amoral/insane diety, I worry. It doesn't help that I have a fairly good understanding of what happens when there is a catastrophic failure of equipment on an aircraft. Any person knows the answer to that, you don't even need complicated mathematics or much understanding of physics to do it. What goes up, will come down. The question is how controlled the descent is and how fast is it.
I'm sad because he's far away fom me and will be until some time late afternoon/early evening Friday. I'm anxious because he's far away from me and I can't reassure myself at the end of the day that he's ok. It's a huge anxiety problem that I usually don't have to think about because I see him everyday and there's not a lot of threats to our relationship. It may be that we'll drive each other crazy and lead to mutually assured destruction, but aside from that, I think we're ok.
The hope is from the children I work with. On my birthday, they threw me a surprise birthday party complete with cake and card. Both of which they had made themselves. These kids range from profoundly mentally retarded to severely learning disabled but functionally normal. The child who has been skipping school actually came into school to wish me a happy birthday that day as well. It was a delightful surprise, even more so when he showed up at school today. Who knows, maeby he will actually come to school on a regular basis. We'll see.
And then there was today, where one of the high functioning mentally retarded children tried out for cheerleading. I know, it sounds like a disaster in the making, but it actually went really well. She completely botched 90% of the routine that they did for the tryouts, but that was due to her disorder. And she was the loudest of the cheers and completely spot on for that. The physical therapist thinks we can help her with the simple routines and I think that'd be great for her. But this isn't what gives me hope for mankind. It was the fact that *all* of the girls trying out for the squad were offering her words of encouragement and doing everything they could to help her out. Not just at the tryouts but all of the last week and a half that they were getting ready for them.
It warms my heart when I see instances like that.
I think I'll end this on a happy note and make a much needed phone call. Stargazer, I hope this brightens your day a little bit, because I know the earlier portion probably didn't.
The responsible adult in me says that I can't really be too upset. Part of this is what I got for saying "Sure, he can have dinner with us." and part of it is just that life threw us all a curve ball. Getting ready at the last minute for a trip across the country that you found out about that afternoon can make any guy's day crazy. When it happens on a particularly busy day that is also your wife's birthday, it just makes you feel like a complete heel. But, that was what happened, and I felt pity for his boss being told he had to fend for himself for dinner last night.
End result of this is: Hubby didn't have time to get me flowers, though he really wanted to. Dinner was excellent, the restaraunt was plesant, but the guys talked shop in an attempt to ease their nervousness about this trip. Walmart didn't help us much for two reasons. 1. It had to be designed by some one that has no concept of how people shop. Everything was impossible to find easily, thus I wasted 2 hours of my life in high heels wandering around that store searching for what seemed like 4 hours. 2. The customer service desk's concept of customer service is "we're too lazy, do it your damn self." I'm pretty sure that my dear husband will be ranting about that in the near future.
As my husband was forced to repeat the 2 hour search for required items, after a 20 min game of listening to hold music as the customer service desk mocks you, I packed his suitcase and got everything ready for this morning. I fell asleep at 1:20 in the morning. He got home close to 3 am, only to have to wake up roughly 3.5 hours later. I'm amazed he actually woke up. Though I wonder if he actually slept, because he seemed rather nervous about this meeting.
I feel sorrow because of the fact that he had to go out to the otherside of the nation in a flying tincan held up in the air by a reinforced plank with a gas tank and motors attached. I don't worry about airplanes much, but because of my ever present anxiety that the people I love will be taken out of my life by a sadistic or amoral/insane diety, I worry. It doesn't help that I have a fairly good understanding of what happens when there is a catastrophic failure of equipment on an aircraft. Any person knows the answer to that, you don't even need complicated mathematics or much understanding of physics to do it. What goes up, will come down. The question is how controlled the descent is and how fast is it.
I'm sad because he's far away fom me and will be until some time late afternoon/early evening Friday. I'm anxious because he's far away from me and I can't reassure myself at the end of the day that he's ok. It's a huge anxiety problem that I usually don't have to think about because I see him everyday and there's not a lot of threats to our relationship. It may be that we'll drive each other crazy and lead to mutually assured destruction, but aside from that, I think we're ok.
The hope is from the children I work with. On my birthday, they threw me a surprise birthday party complete with cake and card. Both of which they had made themselves. These kids range from profoundly mentally retarded to severely learning disabled but functionally normal. The child who has been skipping school actually came into school to wish me a happy birthday that day as well. It was a delightful surprise, even more so when he showed up at school today. Who knows, maeby he will actually come to school on a regular basis. We'll see.
And then there was today, where one of the high functioning mentally retarded children tried out for cheerleading. I know, it sounds like a disaster in the making, but it actually went really well. She completely botched 90% of the routine that they did for the tryouts, but that was due to her disorder. And she was the loudest of the cheers and completely spot on for that. The physical therapist thinks we can help her with the simple routines and I think that'd be great for her. But this isn't what gives me hope for mankind. It was the fact that *all* of the girls trying out for the squad were offering her words of encouragement and doing everything they could to help her out. Not just at the tryouts but all of the last week and a half that they were getting ready for them.
It warms my heart when I see instances like that.
I think I'll end this on a happy note and make a much needed phone call. Stargazer, I hope this brightens your day a little bit, because I know the earlier portion probably didn't.
Saturday, November 04, 2006
Some whining about my birthday.
Yeah, I've been doing alot of it of late. It's oddly helping me to whine on here, so I'm not going to apologize.
My birthday is coming up. Just like my darling husband wants to have people make a big deal over his birthday but refuses to admit it, I suppose I feel the same way. I'm just embaressed by it. I mean, I'm a grown woman and almost 30. I shouldn't be wanting something foolish like a surprise party or an ice cream cake or something. Most of the time, that's something that little kids are looking forward to and they eventually grow out of that phase.
Not that those are what I'm precicely hoping for down in the heart of hearts. It's just the first thing that popped to mind because it was something that I wanted at one point when I was younger. This does revolve around my childhood because of one simple fact. Each and every birthday party I had after the age of 3 sucked, with the exception of probably two or three.
When my 16th birthday rolled around, I was hoping for possibly getting flowers in school like the other girls did. That didn't happen. I was hoping for a big dinner with my favorite food and maeby a party with quite a few friends and a cake. That didn't happen either. It was a dinner out at the local cafeteria style buffet restaraunt and a party that had my immediate family and my boyfriend there. Not the sweet sixteen party that I was hoping for.
The let down of my 16th birthday is really a pretty good description for most of my birthday parties. It doesn't help that I felt obligated to go because most of my family was expecting me to and they didn't really want to be there themselves. I was over joyed that my 18th birthday happened at college. That way I didn't have to deal with yet another sad, drawn out ordeal of familial obligation. My 21st birthday was another birthday that I was glad to have at college.
My family are generally prudes when it comes to alcohol and would have sneered at my drinking anything, even if they were too polite to do so openly. The only downsides of my birthday that year was:
1. Being made to watch Debbie Does Dallas. I can't stand porn, but it was a bit of a gag among the girls.
2. Being too broke to go out and actually do something with the group.
3. Having to study for an exam the next morning.
When I finally got home from college, I dreaded when November came along. I did not want to suffer through another birthday party where people felt like they were being dragged there. I delt with that from the age of 8 until I was 17. Roughly ten years of feeling obligated and disappointed didn't do me much good to look forward to my birthday.
So... if you're one of my local friends, here's what I'm hoping for (not that I'm expecting it because I self-sabotaged by not saying anything before now).
1. A surprise party.
2. Great food (pasta is always a win with me) and a bottle of red wine.
3. Music and everyone having fun.
4. People actually happy to be there and to see me.
I recognize that my birthday is on next tuesday and it's no time to do anything fun. Never mind the headache of election day, it's tuesday. Work days to either side of it, and we all need to be up in the morning. Fun is right out. So.. thanks for listening to my whining and maeby we could do something for next year.
To my friends that are out of town, thanks for listening to me whine.
And to everyone, thanks for giving a damn. It means alot to me. I don't worry about getting older, just about people no longer caring about me. I'd be crushed if all of you suddenly stopped caring or it was revealed that your affection for me was a sham. It matters more to me that you care then making up for my rather sad childhood birthday parties.
My birthday is coming up. Just like my darling husband wants to have people make a big deal over his birthday but refuses to admit it, I suppose I feel the same way. I'm just embaressed by it. I mean, I'm a grown woman and almost 30. I shouldn't be wanting something foolish like a surprise party or an ice cream cake or something. Most of the time, that's something that little kids are looking forward to and they eventually grow out of that phase.
Not that those are what I'm precicely hoping for down in the heart of hearts. It's just the first thing that popped to mind because it was something that I wanted at one point when I was younger. This does revolve around my childhood because of one simple fact. Each and every birthday party I had after the age of 3 sucked, with the exception of probably two or three.
When my 16th birthday rolled around, I was hoping for possibly getting flowers in school like the other girls did. That didn't happen. I was hoping for a big dinner with my favorite food and maeby a party with quite a few friends and a cake. That didn't happen either. It was a dinner out at the local cafeteria style buffet restaraunt and a party that had my immediate family and my boyfriend there. Not the sweet sixteen party that I was hoping for.
The let down of my 16th birthday is really a pretty good description for most of my birthday parties. It doesn't help that I felt obligated to go because most of my family was expecting me to and they didn't really want to be there themselves. I was over joyed that my 18th birthday happened at college. That way I didn't have to deal with yet another sad, drawn out ordeal of familial obligation. My 21st birthday was another birthday that I was glad to have at college.
My family are generally prudes when it comes to alcohol and would have sneered at my drinking anything, even if they were too polite to do so openly. The only downsides of my birthday that year was:
1. Being made to watch Debbie Does Dallas. I can't stand porn, but it was a bit of a gag among the girls.
2. Being too broke to go out and actually do something with the group.
3. Having to study for an exam the next morning.
When I finally got home from college, I dreaded when November came along. I did not want to suffer through another birthday party where people felt like they were being dragged there. I delt with that from the age of 8 until I was 17. Roughly ten years of feeling obligated and disappointed didn't do me much good to look forward to my birthday.
So... if you're one of my local friends, here's what I'm hoping for (not that I'm expecting it because I self-sabotaged by not saying anything before now).
1. A surprise party.
2. Great food (pasta is always a win with me) and a bottle of red wine.
3. Music and everyone having fun.
4. People actually happy to be there and to see me.
I recognize that my birthday is on next tuesday and it's no time to do anything fun. Never mind the headache of election day, it's tuesday. Work days to either side of it, and we all need to be up in the morning. Fun is right out. So.. thanks for listening to my whining and maeby we could do something for next year.
To my friends that are out of town, thanks for listening to me whine.
And to everyone, thanks for giving a damn. It means alot to me. I don't worry about getting older, just about people no longer caring about me. I'd be crushed if all of you suddenly stopped caring or it was revealed that your affection for me was a sham. It matters more to me that you care then making up for my rather sad childhood birthday parties.
Friday, November 03, 2006
look, i'm an author.
http://www.nanowrimo.org/
Ok, Stargazer, I'm going to give this a shot.
Who knows, maeby it will revive my flagging spirits for the fantasy novel I'm working on.
We'll see.
Ok, Stargazer, I'm going to give this a shot.
Who knows, maeby it will revive my flagging spirits for the fantasy novel I'm working on.
We'll see.
Thursday, October 26, 2006
ack
Now that I've forced myself to remain conscious and deal with several things, I am debating if I should go crawl back into bed.
I hate being sick. It makes me not only feel miserable because I"m ill but also like a wretched person.
I hate being sick. It makes me not only feel miserable because I"m ill but also like a wretched person.
An Apology to some of you.
In my recent ramblings, I stated that I have no one I can speak to.
That is not entirely true.
I feel very guilty for speaking with some individuals who have been extremely supportive of me because I feel that I am placing far too much of a burden upon them and that I have no right to do so. Stargazer worries over me far more then I think she will ever be wiling to admit. And Kat, I know you do the same. I try to avoid making Kate worry, though I fail regularly at it because I think she' worries as much as I do.
And then... then there is my husband.
Darling, I know you speak to me often about my anxieties and problems. I'm not going to say that you don't. I think you probably have to deal with my problems the most.
Guilt is a rather shallow word for how I feel about dropping all of these things into your lap. I know how many things you have to worry about and deal with everyday, or at least I have something of a concept of it all. To add to it... well... it makes me feel like a horrible person.
I owe all of you who have been supportive of me an apology. I discredited all of your loving support and efforts to help me. That was wrong of me.
I recognize that I am a fool for feeling the way I do. It's very difficult for me to admit that it is ok for me to get help with my problems. It's even more difficult for me to let the people I love help me because I feel that it is wrong for me to make your lives harder. I don't feel I have the right to make your lives miserible. I feel that going to you in the midst of my huge problems, that aren't really so earth shattering, is wrong because I make you worry for me, I often tax your patience, and can get rather aggrivating with my whining about the same damn problems over again.
I'm not entirely sure what to do about this. I know all of you have been trying for years to convince me that I'm not bad for doing this. I know that you all love me. I know that you all support me and are doing your best to help me when I tell you that there is something wrong.
I just don't know how to get past my anxiety to do so.
I know that I have hurt you all at times in my madness. I know that I have sorrowed you all at times in my grief and that I have even angered you when I get like this. I know that I'll probably do it again, entirely with out meaning to.
And I apologize for it.
I haven't anything else to say, not excuse or anything more. I know it is wrong of me to do so and I am deeply sorry for the pain and distress it may have caused, has caused, and will probably be causing in the future.
That is not entirely true.
I feel very guilty for speaking with some individuals who have been extremely supportive of me because I feel that I am placing far too much of a burden upon them and that I have no right to do so. Stargazer worries over me far more then I think she will ever be wiling to admit. And Kat, I know you do the same. I try to avoid making Kate worry, though I fail regularly at it because I think she' worries as much as I do.
And then... then there is my husband.
Darling, I know you speak to me often about my anxieties and problems. I'm not going to say that you don't. I think you probably have to deal with my problems the most.
Guilt is a rather shallow word for how I feel about dropping all of these things into your lap. I know how many things you have to worry about and deal with everyday, or at least I have something of a concept of it all. To add to it... well... it makes me feel like a horrible person.
I owe all of you who have been supportive of me an apology. I discredited all of your loving support and efforts to help me. That was wrong of me.
I recognize that I am a fool for feeling the way I do. It's very difficult for me to admit that it is ok for me to get help with my problems. It's even more difficult for me to let the people I love help me because I feel that it is wrong for me to make your lives harder. I don't feel I have the right to make your lives miserible. I feel that going to you in the midst of my huge problems, that aren't really so earth shattering, is wrong because I make you worry for me, I often tax your patience, and can get rather aggrivating with my whining about the same damn problems over again.
I'm not entirely sure what to do about this. I know all of you have been trying for years to convince me that I'm not bad for doing this. I know that you all love me. I know that you all support me and are doing your best to help me when I tell you that there is something wrong.
I just don't know how to get past my anxiety to do so.
I know that I have hurt you all at times in my madness. I know that I have sorrowed you all at times in my grief and that I have even angered you when I get like this. I know that I'll probably do it again, entirely with out meaning to.
And I apologize for it.
I haven't anything else to say, not excuse or anything more. I know it is wrong of me to do so and I am deeply sorry for the pain and distress it may have caused, has caused, and will probably be causing in the future.
Monday, October 23, 2006
Pouring my heart out to who? II
I'm sitting here feeling rather cold right now because of this cool weather we've been having of late. I've forced myself to smile and laugh at work. I've forced myself to be cheerful and put on a "happy" face so the mentally challenged children I work with don't get too upset or afraid. I've forced myself to push forward through so many things just to get to this point today. And now, I sit here typing at the computer, cold and miserable.
I hate the cold, it makes my hands hurt. It burns me. As stupid as it may sound, it burns on my skin like hot water and can drive me to tears fairly quickly. And yet I'm over weight by close to 40 pounds (gaining more despite my best efforts), wearing sweaters, and the temperature is just a shade below room temperature in the living room where this computer is right now. It seems to be a metaphore for these horrible feelings that lurk beneath the surface everyday inside me.
At one point, I had a friend of mine theorize that I have seasonal affective disorder because I seemed to get depressed in the winter and the most in February. Ofcourse, that was while I was at college. In the winter and in February, I was dealing with my family. They didn't see me during the summer. In the summer, I was usually fairly miserable as well. Having people who treat you like you're worth about as much as dog-shit, usually does that do you.
Like I said, my family are crazy and not generally that good for me. I think that you've gotten some of that impression from my efforts to recount my childhood memories that are published here. I don't really think that my family knows this blog exists. I don't think that they're ever going to read it. If they do, I don't know what I'll say or do. I'm fairly certian that there will be some version of World War III happening at that time in the social order in that little group.
After all, I'm publishing the dirty laundry out where the whole world can see it. That's a bad thing in the eyes of my family. You keep family stuff in the family and don't talk about it. You talk about it and people will look down on your family and look down on you. Talking about it makes your entire family look bad and can hurt people in your family, even if you don't mean to. So, don't talk about the family.
Sounds kinda like the way some people would describe how the Mob operates, I suppose. But that's what I grew up with and what I'm bucking in some indirect/direct way here. I can't say if it's direct with any sense of confidence because I am not saying the family name or identifying any of the parties I'm referring to. If I were in a counselor's office, I may be naming names, but that information is kept under lock and key. I don't have to worry about my gossiping grandmother getting hold of it and shaming me before the immediate, extended, and all other familial relations that she writes to in her Christmas letter. Not to mention the non-family members that get the letter because they're "friends of the family." Translate that to her friends, and you get the real picture. After all, I've never seen these people except at DAR meetings and then they try to treat me like I'm about 12 or something. With the exception of one, who treats me like a young woman of some substance.
Ronna, I really appreciate that. I know you'll never read this, but I can't fully express how much I appreciate the fact that you treat me as an adult woman that is valueable because of who I am, not who I'm descendant from or related to.
I really hate how I'm always judged against some other person. It's usually:
1. My mother- A woman that is a self-avowed bitch and misanthrope, generally means well and manages to make life extremely uncomfortable for me about 90% of the time when I deal with her because everything comes down to some strange kind of challenge to a pissing contest. I'm still not sure if she loves me. She's been more affectionate since I've virtually cut all contact off with her and my father in an effort to force the relationship to be something she maintains. Ofcourse, I've questioned if she loved and wanted me since I was about 8, too.
2. My aunt- A crazy woman that abuses drugs, manipulates people, and carries herself as though she is entitled to all the luxuries that are available by virtue of her existance. Never mind the fact that she actively enabled the abuse of myself by her wife/lover and attempted to pressure me into silence via shame. I suppose she loves me, in her own fucked up way. I really don't care anymore now that I realize what she did/didn't do when I was younger and it's impacts on my life now.
3. My grandmother- Who is slowly going insane due to Alzheimer's and her own brand of psychological problems, and can't fully grasp the fact that I'm a grown woman leading her own life. I'm not the little girl that needs doted upon or will be slavishly devoted to her. She's torn between feeling hurt and angry with me between recent events with the death of my aunt's lover (which my grandmother blames me for) and the events surrounding the wedding two years ago. The relationship is strained at best. My grandmother is a gossip and a busy body. She feels that she can fix people and makes it her effort to do so, if you want it or not.
4. My great-grandmother Hazel- She died when I was in 3rd or 2nd grade. I can't remember clearly anymore. She was a constant source of comfort and generally acted to keep me away from the insanity of my family when she was well enough to do so. Her decline due to Alzheimer's crushed me and has long since given me a terror beyond words for the concept of losing my mind. Her death broke my heart but I have felt her presence with me over the years. I'm convinced that she's my "gaurdian angel" and has been there to guide me through the years. Hazel was an author, a bit of a poineer, and a feminist before feminisim became all about shattering the glass ceiling and the gonads of men.
I recognize that I am idolizing her a little too much, but I only have a child's memories of her. As I learned about her life, in later years, I have found that much of my idolization was too much romaticism of her life. Hazel lived a hard life that bore her a mixed batch of fruit in the forms of success, joy, and sorrow. She became a pillar of her community and a figure worthy of my admiration thru the triumphs she made in the face of adversity.
While I can be pleased or even flattered to be compared to my great-grandmother's pioneering spirit, my grandmother's compassionate nature, or my mother's strength...
I am generally angered by it. It denies me my rights of passage, my trials and sufferings and the marks they've left on my soul. It robs me of my personhood, regulating me to being a shadow of some one else and not my own person. And so many people in my family do that. I find myself expecting others who may have remotely heard of my family to do the same, and either look at me and see my misanthropic mother or my sycophantic aunt. Either way, I don't expect the image to be pretty or flattering.
With the others who never had encountered my family, I expect the social hell that I went through at school from day one until I graduated high school, and experienced to a lesser degree at college. I positively *hate* the "popular" people for one very simple reason. The "popular" people are bigoted bastards in my experience not even worthy of being spat on. Sure, they may benefit the earth by breathing, contributing fertilizer via fecal matter, and possibly their actions and efforts may be of value, but their value as a person is nil because they're generally malevolent and vicious creatures.
No, I'm not bitter. I'm really not, I'm rather caustic and vitrolic on the matter. I went through hell when I was younger. I listen to the ever so polite rants about how certian behaviors are not tolerated due to their hatred spawned nature and I want to vomit. I had so many ugly rumors circulating about me that I had college students at the state university in town asking me the cost of a blow job when I was twelve. These people shouldn't have even known who I was! I should have been just another ankle-biter of little or no interest, other then a possible source of income in the way of a tutoring or babysitting gig.
I had teachers harassing me, telling me that I was wrong to defend myself when I was assaulted by students because I deserved it. There were so many people saying so many ugly things, it simply had to be true. I was lying when I said that my mother wasn't a prositute or that I didn't do drugs. The other person may have thrown the first punch, but I obviously had to have provoked them or they wouldn't have done it. It wasn't really my lunch money that the person was taking, it was theirs that they were taking back from me because I obviously had stolen it. As my parents were too poor to afford it... and it went on and on.
And all of this harassment that I dealt with, it was supposed to be normal? I was being overly sensitive and thus I had to go to the school shrink? I was the problem?
I'm sorry, but I didn't do a damn thing to provoke having people take meter sticks and lift up my skirt. I didn't provoke having people slam me into lockers, trip me on the bus, push my down stairs, or step on me when I fell to the ground. I didn't do a single damn thing wrong, unless you counted my existing.
So... if you were one of the pretty people and I offended you with this, I'll apologize. You're most likely not one of the bastards that made my life hell when I was younger. You don't deserve to be in the center of my crosshairs on that one. On the bizzare chance that you may be one of those people that I went to school with and you feel that I'm being unfair, that's fine. You can feel that way. At least you got to feel that once in your life, because I felt that way for many years because of you.
...
I'm not sure if this is doing me any good. On one hand, I am expressing this stuff. At the same time... I ... I'm not sure how to look at it. It's keeping the crying jag at bay, but I'm getting indigestion from the anger bubbling up and a headache from the anxiety. God, I wish I had health insurance, then I could go see some one qualified to actually help me with this.
I hate the cold, it makes my hands hurt. It burns me. As stupid as it may sound, it burns on my skin like hot water and can drive me to tears fairly quickly. And yet I'm over weight by close to 40 pounds (gaining more despite my best efforts), wearing sweaters, and the temperature is just a shade below room temperature in the living room where this computer is right now. It seems to be a metaphore for these horrible feelings that lurk beneath the surface everyday inside me.
At one point, I had a friend of mine theorize that I have seasonal affective disorder because I seemed to get depressed in the winter and the most in February. Ofcourse, that was while I was at college. In the winter and in February, I was dealing with my family. They didn't see me during the summer. In the summer, I was usually fairly miserable as well. Having people who treat you like you're worth about as much as dog-shit, usually does that do you.
Like I said, my family are crazy and not generally that good for me. I think that you've gotten some of that impression from my efforts to recount my childhood memories that are published here. I don't really think that my family knows this blog exists. I don't think that they're ever going to read it. If they do, I don't know what I'll say or do. I'm fairly certian that there will be some version of World War III happening at that time in the social order in that little group.
After all, I'm publishing the dirty laundry out where the whole world can see it. That's a bad thing in the eyes of my family. You keep family stuff in the family and don't talk about it. You talk about it and people will look down on your family and look down on you. Talking about it makes your entire family look bad and can hurt people in your family, even if you don't mean to. So, don't talk about the family.
Sounds kinda like the way some people would describe how the Mob operates, I suppose. But that's what I grew up with and what I'm bucking in some indirect/direct way here. I can't say if it's direct with any sense of confidence because I am not saying the family name or identifying any of the parties I'm referring to. If I were in a counselor's office, I may be naming names, but that information is kept under lock and key. I don't have to worry about my gossiping grandmother getting hold of it and shaming me before the immediate, extended, and all other familial relations that she writes to in her Christmas letter. Not to mention the non-family members that get the letter because they're "friends of the family." Translate that to her friends, and you get the real picture. After all, I've never seen these people except at DAR meetings and then they try to treat me like I'm about 12 or something. With the exception of one, who treats me like a young woman of some substance.
Ronna, I really appreciate that. I know you'll never read this, but I can't fully express how much I appreciate the fact that you treat me as an adult woman that is valueable because of who I am, not who I'm descendant from or related to.
I really hate how I'm always judged against some other person. It's usually:
1. My mother- A woman that is a self-avowed bitch and misanthrope, generally means well and manages to make life extremely uncomfortable for me about 90% of the time when I deal with her because everything comes down to some strange kind of challenge to a pissing contest. I'm still not sure if she loves me. She's been more affectionate since I've virtually cut all contact off with her and my father in an effort to force the relationship to be something she maintains. Ofcourse, I've questioned if she loved and wanted me since I was about 8, too.
2. My aunt- A crazy woman that abuses drugs, manipulates people, and carries herself as though she is entitled to all the luxuries that are available by virtue of her existance. Never mind the fact that she actively enabled the abuse of myself by her wife/lover and attempted to pressure me into silence via shame. I suppose she loves me, in her own fucked up way. I really don't care anymore now that I realize what she did/didn't do when I was younger and it's impacts on my life now.
3. My grandmother- Who is slowly going insane due to Alzheimer's and her own brand of psychological problems, and can't fully grasp the fact that I'm a grown woman leading her own life. I'm not the little girl that needs doted upon or will be slavishly devoted to her. She's torn between feeling hurt and angry with me between recent events with the death of my aunt's lover (which my grandmother blames me for) and the events surrounding the wedding two years ago. The relationship is strained at best. My grandmother is a gossip and a busy body. She feels that she can fix people and makes it her effort to do so, if you want it or not.
4. My great-grandmother Hazel- She died when I was in 3rd or 2nd grade. I can't remember clearly anymore. She was a constant source of comfort and generally acted to keep me away from the insanity of my family when she was well enough to do so. Her decline due to Alzheimer's crushed me and has long since given me a terror beyond words for the concept of losing my mind. Her death broke my heart but I have felt her presence with me over the years. I'm convinced that she's my "gaurdian angel" and has been there to guide me through the years. Hazel was an author, a bit of a poineer, and a feminist before feminisim became all about shattering the glass ceiling and the gonads of men.
I recognize that I am idolizing her a little too much, but I only have a child's memories of her. As I learned about her life, in later years, I have found that much of my idolization was too much romaticism of her life. Hazel lived a hard life that bore her a mixed batch of fruit in the forms of success, joy, and sorrow. She became a pillar of her community and a figure worthy of my admiration thru the triumphs she made in the face of adversity.
While I can be pleased or even flattered to be compared to my great-grandmother's pioneering spirit, my grandmother's compassionate nature, or my mother's strength...
I am generally angered by it. It denies me my rights of passage, my trials and sufferings and the marks they've left on my soul. It robs me of my personhood, regulating me to being a shadow of some one else and not my own person. And so many people in my family do that. I find myself expecting others who may have remotely heard of my family to do the same, and either look at me and see my misanthropic mother or my sycophantic aunt. Either way, I don't expect the image to be pretty or flattering.
With the others who never had encountered my family, I expect the social hell that I went through at school from day one until I graduated high school, and experienced to a lesser degree at college. I positively *hate* the "popular" people for one very simple reason. The "popular" people are bigoted bastards in my experience not even worthy of being spat on. Sure, they may benefit the earth by breathing, contributing fertilizer via fecal matter, and possibly their actions and efforts may be of value, but their value as a person is nil because they're generally malevolent and vicious creatures.
No, I'm not bitter. I'm really not, I'm rather caustic and vitrolic on the matter. I went through hell when I was younger. I listen to the ever so polite rants about how certian behaviors are not tolerated due to their hatred spawned nature and I want to vomit. I had so many ugly rumors circulating about me that I had college students at the state university in town asking me the cost of a blow job when I was twelve. These people shouldn't have even known who I was! I should have been just another ankle-biter of little or no interest, other then a possible source of income in the way of a tutoring or babysitting gig.
I had teachers harassing me, telling me that I was wrong to defend myself when I was assaulted by students because I deserved it. There were so many people saying so many ugly things, it simply had to be true. I was lying when I said that my mother wasn't a prositute or that I didn't do drugs. The other person may have thrown the first punch, but I obviously had to have provoked them or they wouldn't have done it. It wasn't really my lunch money that the person was taking, it was theirs that they were taking back from me because I obviously had stolen it. As my parents were too poor to afford it... and it went on and on.
And all of this harassment that I dealt with, it was supposed to be normal? I was being overly sensitive and thus I had to go to the school shrink? I was the problem?
I'm sorry, but I didn't do a damn thing to provoke having people take meter sticks and lift up my skirt. I didn't provoke having people slam me into lockers, trip me on the bus, push my down stairs, or step on me when I fell to the ground. I didn't do a single damn thing wrong, unless you counted my existing.
So... if you were one of the pretty people and I offended you with this, I'll apologize. You're most likely not one of the bastards that made my life hell when I was younger. You don't deserve to be in the center of my crosshairs on that one. On the bizzare chance that you may be one of those people that I went to school with and you feel that I'm being unfair, that's fine. You can feel that way. At least you got to feel that once in your life, because I felt that way for many years because of you.
...
I'm not sure if this is doing me any good. On one hand, I am expressing this stuff. At the same time... I ... I'm not sure how to look at it. It's keeping the crying jag at bay, but I'm getting indigestion from the anger bubbling up and a headache from the anxiety. God, I wish I had health insurance, then I could go see some one qualified to actually help me with this.
Pouring my heart out to who? I
Well, I suppose I have more motivation to type things up on here.
The person that I've been writing letters to describing the things that trigger my anxiety attacks is basically unable to cope with it. He's got his own stresses. I understand that. He's got alot of really crappy stuff to deal with being stuck in prison and having to face down the possiblity of cancer.
It was probably really friggin unrealistic and bitchy of me to expect him to beable to listen to my fears. So, I think I'll just stop writing about them. Or atleast, writing letters to him about them. He's anxious about his mother's health problems, his own health problems, the little brother off in the Marines during a time of war, and the other things I just mentioned. And I've gone and added my anxieties to the list.
I guess that makes me a bad person or something. I don't know. I'm torn between this feeling of bitterness and anger... and... I don't know, resignation and a sense of being proven right. Hell, not everyone can take on the world, put a smile on their face, and be the confessor/confidant of damn near half of the people they know while on the edge of their own anxiety attacks. I suppose I was expecting too much, maeby I'm the only one with that singular talent. Because I'm managing to make it look like I'm not coming apart at the seams except to the ones that I've told how bad I really am.
And even then I don't really say just how bad it is. I just give snippets of it because it overwhelms them to hear it. I manage to get about half to a quarter of it out before I get told they need to move on to a different topic. So I jam the cork into the bottle, choke back the tears and the hurt/angry wail of "What about me? Why do I have to be 'OK' for you? I'm hurting right now! Can't you fucking tell?"
I'm feeling hurt, depressed, and resentful right now. I don't really know what to do about it. I've got some dishes in the other room that needs washed, laundry to fold, needlepoint to stitch, a sweater to crochet, and various other projects and chores to possibly distract me. But it doesn't work. I just hit this point of auto-pilot and I'm not there anymore. Oh, sure I'm doing the work and I'm attentively doing it. You won't see any flaws in it, or at least no more flaws then when I'm completely focused on it.
But I'm not mentally there beyond counting the stitches, untangling the thread, or making sure the dishes get spotless and not dropping them. I've dissociated and am lost in my own mind and the horrible feelings that are plauging me. I'm getting to a point where I've realized that it's not the dissociation where I'm going to hurt myself, it's more along the lines of I'm distracted some how. I'm relieved by that fact, because I'd be terrified if I was on the verge of hurting myself again.
It doesn't help much that I catch myself thinking about hurting myself. Don't let any one tell you that I'm not a stubborn woman or that I am weak-willed. I've caught myself so full of self loathing and the horrible impression that the whole world, including and especially those I love, would be better off with out me that I'm fantasizing about doing things to harm myself. I break myself out of those reveries when I catch myself doing that. In the moments that those thoughts come to me, I can almost feel it happening to me. I see it all so clearly in my mind that it's like some horrible vision or nightmare.
It's enough to make me feel guilty. What right do I have to contemplate taking my own life? What right do I have to damage myself in some fashion? I'm not some horrible person. I don't rape babies or do other acts of animalistic savagery for fun or some sick sense of personal power tripping. I don't engage in sadistic acts to escape my sense of misery. I don't lie, cheat, or steal. I'm an honest person who deeply loves her fellow man.
I have a roof over my head, food to eat, a husband that adores me, friends who love me, and a family (while crazy and generally not good for me) that care deeply for me too. I have so many good things in my life that I have a hard time counting them all. I shouldn't be so damn depressed. I shouldn't want to hurt myself so badly that I can almost taste it. But, for some sad, sad reason, I do. I feel that I need to punish myself for the fact that I'm only human.
As if there's something wrong with it, and I'm flawed or broken for not being "perfect". The sane part of my brain, the part of me that knows I have these good things, that knows I am blessed to live the life I am right now, knows that I'm not guilty of all the hardship in the lives of the people I love. The sane part of me knows that I'm not a horrible person or that I'm like that wretched woman who died recently.
But the things we know and understand with logic rarely match up with what the heart feels or the wounds of our psyche.
In it all, I find myself crying out for something again and again. Something that doesn't happen as often as I need it and it never really did, to be honest.
I just want some one to hold me on their lap, cradled against them, as I weep with this pain. And as they hold me close, tell me I'm safe, that I'm not crazy, and that it really will all be ok. Remind me that I am a good person and that I am loved. Show me that the logical part of my mind really is right, because I doubt myself far too much.
But I guess that's too much to ask for in this world when you're an adult.
Somedays, I miss being a little girl and having my daddy hold me when I got scared like this. Now, I just get people responding to me like my mother. "Suck it up, it's not really that bad. Stop this crap and get over it. You're being dramatic, knock it off."
I'm afraid. I'm so damn afraid but no one holds me anymore. No one tells me it's going to be ok when I want to cry because I'm convinced that the world is going to end if I stumble. I know those times happen when I'm not at home, most of the time. But... It makes me wonder, maeby I really am broken inside and perhaps Mom was right. Perhaps I need to be in an insitution some where.
The person that I've been writing letters to describing the things that trigger my anxiety attacks is basically unable to cope with it. He's got his own stresses. I understand that. He's got alot of really crappy stuff to deal with being stuck in prison and having to face down the possiblity of cancer.
It was probably really friggin unrealistic and bitchy of me to expect him to beable to listen to my fears. So, I think I'll just stop writing about them. Or atleast, writing letters to him about them. He's anxious about his mother's health problems, his own health problems, the little brother off in the Marines during a time of war, and the other things I just mentioned. And I've gone and added my anxieties to the list.
I guess that makes me a bad person or something. I don't know. I'm torn between this feeling of bitterness and anger... and... I don't know, resignation and a sense of being proven right. Hell, not everyone can take on the world, put a smile on their face, and be the confessor/confidant of damn near half of the people they know while on the edge of their own anxiety attacks. I suppose I was expecting too much, maeby I'm the only one with that singular talent. Because I'm managing to make it look like I'm not coming apart at the seams except to the ones that I've told how bad I really am.
And even then I don't really say just how bad it is. I just give snippets of it because it overwhelms them to hear it. I manage to get about half to a quarter of it out before I get told they need to move on to a different topic. So I jam the cork into the bottle, choke back the tears and the hurt/angry wail of "What about me? Why do I have to be 'OK' for you? I'm hurting right now! Can't you fucking tell?"
I'm feeling hurt, depressed, and resentful right now. I don't really know what to do about it. I've got some dishes in the other room that needs washed, laundry to fold, needlepoint to stitch, a sweater to crochet, and various other projects and chores to possibly distract me. But it doesn't work. I just hit this point of auto-pilot and I'm not there anymore. Oh, sure I'm doing the work and I'm attentively doing it. You won't see any flaws in it, or at least no more flaws then when I'm completely focused on it.
But I'm not mentally there beyond counting the stitches, untangling the thread, or making sure the dishes get spotless and not dropping them. I've dissociated and am lost in my own mind and the horrible feelings that are plauging me. I'm getting to a point where I've realized that it's not the dissociation where I'm going to hurt myself, it's more along the lines of I'm distracted some how. I'm relieved by that fact, because I'd be terrified if I was on the verge of hurting myself again.
It doesn't help much that I catch myself thinking about hurting myself. Don't let any one tell you that I'm not a stubborn woman or that I am weak-willed. I've caught myself so full of self loathing and the horrible impression that the whole world, including and especially those I love, would be better off with out me that I'm fantasizing about doing things to harm myself. I break myself out of those reveries when I catch myself doing that. In the moments that those thoughts come to me, I can almost feel it happening to me. I see it all so clearly in my mind that it's like some horrible vision or nightmare.
It's enough to make me feel guilty. What right do I have to contemplate taking my own life? What right do I have to damage myself in some fashion? I'm not some horrible person. I don't rape babies or do other acts of animalistic savagery for fun or some sick sense of personal power tripping. I don't engage in sadistic acts to escape my sense of misery. I don't lie, cheat, or steal. I'm an honest person who deeply loves her fellow man.
I have a roof over my head, food to eat, a husband that adores me, friends who love me, and a family (while crazy and generally not good for me) that care deeply for me too. I have so many good things in my life that I have a hard time counting them all. I shouldn't be so damn depressed. I shouldn't want to hurt myself so badly that I can almost taste it. But, for some sad, sad reason, I do. I feel that I need to punish myself for the fact that I'm only human.
As if there's something wrong with it, and I'm flawed or broken for not being "perfect". The sane part of my brain, the part of me that knows I have these good things, that knows I am blessed to live the life I am right now, knows that I'm not guilty of all the hardship in the lives of the people I love. The sane part of me knows that I'm not a horrible person or that I'm like that wretched woman who died recently.
But the things we know and understand with logic rarely match up with what the heart feels or the wounds of our psyche.
In it all, I find myself crying out for something again and again. Something that doesn't happen as often as I need it and it never really did, to be honest.
I just want some one to hold me on their lap, cradled against them, as I weep with this pain. And as they hold me close, tell me I'm safe, that I'm not crazy, and that it really will all be ok. Remind me that I am a good person and that I am loved. Show me that the logical part of my mind really is right, because I doubt myself far too much.
But I guess that's too much to ask for in this world when you're an adult.
Somedays, I miss being a little girl and having my daddy hold me when I got scared like this. Now, I just get people responding to me like my mother. "Suck it up, it's not really that bad. Stop this crap and get over it. You're being dramatic, knock it off."
I'm afraid. I'm so damn afraid but no one holds me anymore. No one tells me it's going to be ok when I want to cry because I'm convinced that the world is going to end if I stumble. I know those times happen when I'm not at home, most of the time. But... It makes me wonder, maeby I really am broken inside and perhaps Mom was right. Perhaps I need to be in an insitution some where.
Friday, October 13, 2006
What IS the correct response?
The woman who terrorized me for years is now dying as a result of her lifestyle of drug abuse and self-neglect. The psychological damage the woman has caused to myself and so many people in my family would probably cover a third of the DSM IV's list of problems.
When I learned of the fact that she was dying my initial thought was "I knew this was going to happen. Good. It is about time." I'm not sure if that makes me a good person or a wretch. The woman's been quite ill for months if not years now. Now, she's in a vegitative state and her body is being consumed by infection and rotting from the inside out.
This is one half of the couple that I didn't invite to the wedding. The couple that I refused to invite to the wedding and held my ground in the face of all arguments from my family. And, I add with a bitter sense of relief, the woman that I am not related to by blood.
Clear memories of this woman brutalizing me, attempting to drowned me, and generally making my life a confusing hell war with a nagging sense of familial obligation. I'm torn between the feeling of satisfaction that her poisionous life will finally end and guilt for that feeling of satisfaction.
I'm not sure what the proper thing to do here is. I know that Miss Post would probably not approve of my airing the familial dirty laundry here for the whole world to view. Dear Reader, I don't rightly give a damn how Miss Post views the world at the moment, though. Instead, I'm more concerned with how I view the world and the weight of the past years on my mind.
Some days it feels hellish because I'm so emotionally numb and trapped within myself. The memories and the effort to push them aside so I can deal with my day clash with the need to rid myself of the toxic thought patterns and self-image that I've developed as a result of those efforts and the damned memories.
Sometimes, I look forward to Alzheimers, as it would take away this hell. But then I remember, those things were imprinted early and will last long in my psyche. So, I'm damned to remember them until I'm on my death bed. And even then, I am probably going to be torn between the savage joy I feel as the liberation of the demon of dreading her presence in my life and the guilt for rejoicing over another's death.
When I learned of the fact that she was dying my initial thought was "I knew this was going to happen. Good. It is about time." I'm not sure if that makes me a good person or a wretch. The woman's been quite ill for months if not years now. Now, she's in a vegitative state and her body is being consumed by infection and rotting from the inside out.
This is one half of the couple that I didn't invite to the wedding. The couple that I refused to invite to the wedding and held my ground in the face of all arguments from my family. And, I add with a bitter sense of relief, the woman that I am not related to by blood.
Clear memories of this woman brutalizing me, attempting to drowned me, and generally making my life a confusing hell war with a nagging sense of familial obligation. I'm torn between the feeling of satisfaction that her poisionous life will finally end and guilt for that feeling of satisfaction.
I'm not sure what the proper thing to do here is. I know that Miss Post would probably not approve of my airing the familial dirty laundry here for the whole world to view. Dear Reader, I don't rightly give a damn how Miss Post views the world at the moment, though. Instead, I'm more concerned with how I view the world and the weight of the past years on my mind.
Some days it feels hellish because I'm so emotionally numb and trapped within myself. The memories and the effort to push them aside so I can deal with my day clash with the need to rid myself of the toxic thought patterns and self-image that I've developed as a result of those efforts and the damned memories.
Sometimes, I look forward to Alzheimers, as it would take away this hell. But then I remember, those things were imprinted early and will last long in my psyche. So, I'm damned to remember them until I'm on my death bed. And even then, I am probably going to be torn between the savage joy I feel as the liberation of the demon of dreading her presence in my life and the guilt for rejoicing over another's death.
Tuesday, October 10, 2006
Imitation of Whitman...
I sing the land triumphant
Grain bursting in the ear
Grapes heavy on the vine
And apples heavy on the bough
I sing the land triumphant
The fallow doe is sleek and fat
The cattle low and amble in peace
And the river soothes the honest man to sleep
-----
That was all I can recall of the spontanious lyric that came to mind as I was driving come from getting groceries and looking at all the trees in their glory.
----
Do not tell me of how hard times are
Look, let the man who is hungry come
The harvest is in
The corn stands ready
The fruit is heavy
Let the man who is hungry come
He who works shall share
The harvest is in
----
Another lyric that came to mind as I watched some one gathering in their corn this afternoon on my drive home.
Grain bursting in the ear
Grapes heavy on the vine
And apples heavy on the bough
I sing the land triumphant
The fallow doe is sleek and fat
The cattle low and amble in peace
And the river soothes the honest man to sleep
-----
That was all I can recall of the spontanious lyric that came to mind as I was driving come from getting groceries and looking at all the trees in their glory.
----
Do not tell me of how hard times are
Look, let the man who is hungry come
The harvest is in
The corn stands ready
The fruit is heavy
Let the man who is hungry come
He who works shall share
The harvest is in
----
Another lyric that came to mind as I watched some one gathering in their corn this afternoon on my drive home.
Thursday, October 05, 2006
So there!
And my mother accuses me of not behaving like a well bred lady.
| You Are 92% Lady |
 No doubt about it, you are a lady with impeccable etiquette You know how to put others at ease, even if their manners aren't the greatest. |
Memory: pt. 5
I don't want to remember how much I hated being alive when I was in my pre-teen years. My mother doesn't know it, and very few others may either, but when I was in that stretch of time between second and fifth grade, I did think about killing myself. That time where I took the extra dosage of children's Tylenol was a rather pathetic suicide attempt that resulted in my being additionally sleepy. I didn't do like my brother and down half the bottle. Mom freaked out when he did that, screamed at me and proceeded to call poison control. For some reason, it was my fault that my 7 year old brother had gotten his hands on the Tylenol. Never mind the fact that she left it sitting on the table.
So, I had my Mom freaking out with poison control on the line. I was getting yelled at when she was put on hold and then ordered not to move when she was back talking with the nurse or who ever it was over there. Then, Mom got the castor oil, made my brother take a swig of it and sent me to fetch the bucket. Right as rain, he threw up and then everything was fine. Except for the fact that I had to clean up the spot on the floor where he missed the bucket and wipe down the rocking chair that he puked on in the process of missing the bucket. So, I got bitched at and punished for a combination of my mother's own dumb mistake and my brother's insistence that the orange flavored Tylenol was actually candy that magically made him feel better.
Thanks a lot, Mom. That did wonders for my self-esteem. I've lost track of how many stupid schemes like that happened. Maeby it wasn't my brothers drinking or eating something stupid, but they'd do something and I'd catch hell for it along with them. Even if I wasn't there, because I obviously had to have put them up to it since I was the eldest. I am amazed that I didn't get yelled at for when my brother got scalded by the hot water from the tea pot. Mom was visiting with my grandmother. My youngest brother, who was all but 3 years upon this earth at that time, walked up and took a hold of the tablecloth as he grabbed onto Mom's leg. Insisting that Mom pick him up, he pulled on the tablecloth and Mom's pants. The table cloth came down and with it came the hot teapot filled nearly to the brim with hot water.
He screamed. It was a wordless, almost inhuman scream of pain and horror. Mom grabbed him up, rushed to the sink and began to pour cold water on his shoulder. Grandma called 911 and Mom ran with my brother in her arms to the car to take him to the hospital. I and my other brother sat in the dining room watching this drama unfold. When Mom and our youngest sibling was away, grandma began to clean the hot liquid up and then clean the house. I remember watching her as she picked up the shards of the broken teapot. It was a dark blue teapot, oddly enough that looked quite a bit like the one I have now.
The way it looked an eggshell blue on the white of the broken porcelain just shines in my mind. It's funny, that color and his scream stand out more clearly in my mind then my first day of school. I hated school and yet loved it at the same time. My first day, I don't remember the entire day. On the whole, it was one of the worst experiences I've had in my entire life. And for me to still say that 20 years later, well.. It had to be rather awful. It was one singular thing that should have warned me that school was going to be hell.
I got on the bus for the first day of school, dressed in my brand new yellow and pink dress. I had my hair tied up into pig-tails and I wore my brand new rain jacket. It was bright red with lady bugs on it. And I had my purple back-back. I walked up onto the bus and was promptly tripped flat onto my face. Not stumbled and fell over, no some malicious little bastard stuck their foot out and tripped me. The entire bus laughed at me, including the bus driver. I was teased and pushed around for a few minutes, unable to find a seat. Finally, the bus driver pulled the hulking beast of a bus over ordered some one to move over and I had a seat for the ride to school.
As sad as I am to report it, but that set the tone for the rest of my schooling years. I was regularly harassed by my classmates and not a few members of the faculty and staff of the places I went to school. I had kindergarten teachers questioning my intelligence because I was small for my age and born prematurely. I had classmates beating me up and insulting me because I didn't live in town with them. I had a teacher in 2nd grade that regularly punished me for not believing in God. She asked me who made me. I answered that my parents did. The teacher blew her stack and I spent a lot of time out in the hallway with my friend Joanna, who was Jewish.
And I wonder now why I have so much difficulty with things like multiplication. Perhaps if I didn't have a teacher that threw me out of the room for any possible reason she could think of, I may have gotten the basics of multiplication down at some point in time. I got the bullies on the bus that were older then me putting their hands places they weren't supposed to go and threatening to hurt my younger brothers if I told any one. It happened up until my brothers started fighting back, and it happened for a little while after that. You see, since people realized they could harass me until I cried or did what they wanted, because there was more of them then there was of me, they started in on my brothers.
One day, my brothers got mad. So they started fighting back. They saw one of the largest boys on the bus grabbing at me. My brothers threw themselves at him. I joined in the fray. Next thing we knew, I had been knocked to the ground with the beginnings of a fat lip. My youngest brother was kicking and trying to break out of the headlock he had been put into by the offender's friend. And the leader of the group had picked up my other brother by the neck and was slamming him against the window of the bus. The sound of my brother's head hitting the wall of the bus carried awfully well and the bus pulled over in a hurry. A few days later, after my parent's had both had a rather loud argument with the principle of the school, we were pulled out of that school and started at another.
And this incident was one of many that happened on a regular basis as we were attending school. Yet, this was the place where I met the man who is the love of my life. He is one of the few good things that came out of that hellish place that I went to elementary school and high school. When I did fight back, he was right at my side with my brothers and my few friends. As I got older, I lost that fire. But he was still right there with me. I can say it honestly, I was a fool for not telling him that I was in love with him right when I got back to that school at the beginning of high school. I had been, ever since 4th grade, if you can actually believe it.
So, I had my Mom freaking out with poison control on the line. I was getting yelled at when she was put on hold and then ordered not to move when she was back talking with the nurse or who ever it was over there. Then, Mom got the castor oil, made my brother take a swig of it and sent me to fetch the bucket. Right as rain, he threw up and then everything was fine. Except for the fact that I had to clean up the spot on the floor where he missed the bucket and wipe down the rocking chair that he puked on in the process of missing the bucket. So, I got bitched at and punished for a combination of my mother's own dumb mistake and my brother's insistence that the orange flavored Tylenol was actually candy that magically made him feel better.
Thanks a lot, Mom. That did wonders for my self-esteem. I've lost track of how many stupid schemes like that happened. Maeby it wasn't my brothers drinking or eating something stupid, but they'd do something and I'd catch hell for it along with them. Even if I wasn't there, because I obviously had to have put them up to it since I was the eldest. I am amazed that I didn't get yelled at for when my brother got scalded by the hot water from the tea pot. Mom was visiting with my grandmother. My youngest brother, who was all but 3 years upon this earth at that time, walked up and took a hold of the tablecloth as he grabbed onto Mom's leg. Insisting that Mom pick him up, he pulled on the tablecloth and Mom's pants. The table cloth came down and with it came the hot teapot filled nearly to the brim with hot water.
He screamed. It was a wordless, almost inhuman scream of pain and horror. Mom grabbed him up, rushed to the sink and began to pour cold water on his shoulder. Grandma called 911 and Mom ran with my brother in her arms to the car to take him to the hospital. I and my other brother sat in the dining room watching this drama unfold. When Mom and our youngest sibling was away, grandma began to clean the hot liquid up and then clean the house. I remember watching her as she picked up the shards of the broken teapot. It was a dark blue teapot, oddly enough that looked quite a bit like the one I have now.
The way it looked an eggshell blue on the white of the broken porcelain just shines in my mind. It's funny, that color and his scream stand out more clearly in my mind then my first day of school. I hated school and yet loved it at the same time. My first day, I don't remember the entire day. On the whole, it was one of the worst experiences I've had in my entire life. And for me to still say that 20 years later, well.. It had to be rather awful. It was one singular thing that should have warned me that school was going to be hell.
I got on the bus for the first day of school, dressed in my brand new yellow and pink dress. I had my hair tied up into pig-tails and I wore my brand new rain jacket. It was bright red with lady bugs on it. And I had my purple back-back. I walked up onto the bus and was promptly tripped flat onto my face. Not stumbled and fell over, no some malicious little bastard stuck their foot out and tripped me. The entire bus laughed at me, including the bus driver. I was teased and pushed around for a few minutes, unable to find a seat. Finally, the bus driver pulled the hulking beast of a bus over ordered some one to move over and I had a seat for the ride to school.
As sad as I am to report it, but that set the tone for the rest of my schooling years. I was regularly harassed by my classmates and not a few members of the faculty and staff of the places I went to school. I had kindergarten teachers questioning my intelligence because I was small for my age and born prematurely. I had classmates beating me up and insulting me because I didn't live in town with them. I had a teacher in 2nd grade that regularly punished me for not believing in God. She asked me who made me. I answered that my parents did. The teacher blew her stack and I spent a lot of time out in the hallway with my friend Joanna, who was Jewish.
And I wonder now why I have so much difficulty with things like multiplication. Perhaps if I didn't have a teacher that threw me out of the room for any possible reason she could think of, I may have gotten the basics of multiplication down at some point in time. I got the bullies on the bus that were older then me putting their hands places they weren't supposed to go and threatening to hurt my younger brothers if I told any one. It happened up until my brothers started fighting back, and it happened for a little while after that. You see, since people realized they could harass me until I cried or did what they wanted, because there was more of them then there was of me, they started in on my brothers.
One day, my brothers got mad. So they started fighting back. They saw one of the largest boys on the bus grabbing at me. My brothers threw themselves at him. I joined in the fray. Next thing we knew, I had been knocked to the ground with the beginnings of a fat lip. My youngest brother was kicking and trying to break out of the headlock he had been put into by the offender's friend. And the leader of the group had picked up my other brother by the neck and was slamming him against the window of the bus. The sound of my brother's head hitting the wall of the bus carried awfully well and the bus pulled over in a hurry. A few days later, after my parent's had both had a rather loud argument with the principle of the school, we were pulled out of that school and started at another.
And this incident was one of many that happened on a regular basis as we were attending school. Yet, this was the place where I met the man who is the love of my life. He is one of the few good things that came out of that hellish place that I went to elementary school and high school. When I did fight back, he was right at my side with my brothers and my few friends. As I got older, I lost that fire. But he was still right there with me. I can say it honestly, I was a fool for not telling him that I was in love with him right when I got back to that school at the beginning of high school. I had been, ever since 4th grade, if you can actually believe it.
Memory: pt. 4
What disturbed me, and still does, is how you basically needed to get into a pissing contest with her about whose pain was worse. There are only a few times where I didn't get the rant about how her childhood was worse then mine will ever be. One was when I was sick in the hospital with chicken pocks. The other was when my great-grandmother Hazel died. That crushed me, I loved her so much and it was awful to watch as the Alzheimer's disease ate her mind and then her body. Strangely, I do remember the viewing quite clearly. People were telling me how sorry they were for our loss and that they regretted that she died. I kept getting told about how she was at a better place and no longer suffering.
I just nodded sagely, as a child could only attempt to, and didn't say anything. It wasn't that I couldn't believe that she was dead. I knew she was dead. I didn't have great-grandma to tell me stories about how her uncle was mad about the new contraptions called cars scaring the horses or help me steal butter scotch from grandma. But she wasn't gone. From that day forward, I've felt my great-grandmother's presence with me. And, oddly enough, at that time, I couldn't bring myself to tell anyone that great-grandma was still with me. Years later, I said something to my mother, but I was told how it was wishful thinking on my part.
It was all just a wretched joke, in her eyes, because my two wicked aunts were trying to get me to believe in magic. Mom didn't like the idea of my learning about witchcraft or magic. She especially didn't like the idea of my learning it from those two women. I suppose the reason why I went to visit them is because they showered me with affection more frequently then my mother ever did. Of course, with that affection came their efforts to manipulate me into being the tool by which they destroyed my parent's marriage. They hated my father, and probably still do today. As a result, my aunts (one was my aunt and the other is her lover) did things like tell me that I wasn't really my parent's child.
I was told how my mother's real baby had died in the hospital and that I was actually some one else's child. I was told that my mother kept me because she didn't want to make my father angry by getting rid of the kid that she didn't want to begin with. I was encouraged to believe that my mother didn't really want to have a daughter and that she wished I was born male. And then there was the whole concept of how my brothers were loved more then me by one parent or the other.
It's all an accursed mess and I still have a hard time sorting out what I recall and what I don't. The period of time that I'm looking at now is what some people define as middle childhood. Those years between when you start kindergarten and when you go to junior high/middle school. I regularly got jumped by other students at school and beaten up at that age. I fought back a few times but it became clear very quickly that if you defended yourself you were in as much if not more trouble then the bully.
I'm tired but yet I must write. I need to purge this .. boiling hell that's writhing beneath my skin in my blood and brain before I become violently ill or completely useless to the world... or at least useless to myself. It's a hellish muse that lashes at me. I really don't want to commit these atrocities to paper. Who would want to recollect the horrors to have them stare back at them on the clean page? It sullies the paper in ways that no words were ever intended to. And I can't even use this to get some meager measure of restitution. I can't help the terrors that I feel.
I just nodded sagely, as a child could only attempt to, and didn't say anything. It wasn't that I couldn't believe that she was dead. I knew she was dead. I didn't have great-grandma to tell me stories about how her uncle was mad about the new contraptions called cars scaring the horses or help me steal butter scotch from grandma. But she wasn't gone. From that day forward, I've felt my great-grandmother's presence with me. And, oddly enough, at that time, I couldn't bring myself to tell anyone that great-grandma was still with me. Years later, I said something to my mother, but I was told how it was wishful thinking on my part.
It was all just a wretched joke, in her eyes, because my two wicked aunts were trying to get me to believe in magic. Mom didn't like the idea of my learning about witchcraft or magic. She especially didn't like the idea of my learning it from those two women. I suppose the reason why I went to visit them is because they showered me with affection more frequently then my mother ever did. Of course, with that affection came their efforts to manipulate me into being the tool by which they destroyed my parent's marriage. They hated my father, and probably still do today. As a result, my aunts (one was my aunt and the other is her lover) did things like tell me that I wasn't really my parent's child.
I was told how my mother's real baby had died in the hospital and that I was actually some one else's child. I was told that my mother kept me because she didn't want to make my father angry by getting rid of the kid that she didn't want to begin with. I was encouraged to believe that my mother didn't really want to have a daughter and that she wished I was born male. And then there was the whole concept of how my brothers were loved more then me by one parent or the other.
It's all an accursed mess and I still have a hard time sorting out what I recall and what I don't. The period of time that I'm looking at now is what some people define as middle childhood. Those years between when you start kindergarten and when you go to junior high/middle school. I regularly got jumped by other students at school and beaten up at that age. I fought back a few times but it became clear very quickly that if you defended yourself you were in as much if not more trouble then the bully.
I'm tired but yet I must write. I need to purge this .. boiling hell that's writhing beneath my skin in my blood and brain before I become violently ill or completely useless to the world... or at least useless to myself. It's a hellish muse that lashes at me. I really don't want to commit these atrocities to paper. Who would want to recollect the horrors to have them stare back at them on the clean page? It sullies the paper in ways that no words were ever intended to. And I can't even use this to get some meager measure of restitution. I can't help the terrors that I feel.
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