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.
roses
Tuesday, November 28, 2006
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.
Memory: pt. 3
My aunts are clearly villainesses, though as a child I hadn't any bit of a clue as to the fact. You figure if some one tries to drowned you repeatedly, it's a sign that they've got a heavy dose of evil (or at least insanity) in their heart. I'm getting ahead of myself... or perhaps not. I never really did plan out a structure or any form of organization to this thing. I keep telling myself that I need to write this chronologically but it doesn't really make much difference. It's not as if these events build much upon each other. In some ways, I am writing this as I remember things, so you may get a glimpse of how my mind works. You also will see how disjointed my writing is in the face of "real" life and my fears of putting this down on paper/internet/appropriate media format.
Why, you may ask, am I afraid to put these things to paper? Well, in part, because of all the grief I got for even talking about these problems when I was younger. I regularly was told by my family and others around me that I shouldn't talk about these things. On one hand, you have the potential for familial embarrassment, which can prove extremely problematic in a small town like where I grew up. On the other hand, there is the need to keep certain things quiet so that no one comes to question or investigate these things.
After all, who talks about their uncle propositioning them or asking overly personal questions about their direct knowledge about sex? Who talks about their teacher punishing them for no reason other then the fact that they weren't Christian? No one really wants to hear about how the bigger kids on the bus pushed you around and some of them put their hands places that only you could touch. No one should know about the doctor's assistant placing his hands on your vulva during a physical in the school nurse's office. Not like they'd believe you, you're only a kid. To make matters even worse, your not just a kid, but you're a girl. You're going to be making all sorts of wild claims for attention because that's what girls do, right?
So, I spent the vast majority of my middle childhood being abused by many different people in many different ways. At the same time, I also had to keep huge secrets. For example, when I was in 3rd grade, my mother had an affair. It lasted for most of a summer with a friend of the family's at the time. I had to keep that secret. If it's ever mentioned to her, she'll deny it and then blow up at me for accusing her of something so horrible. It'd be a fast way to destroy my relationship with my mother and there by destroying my relationship with my father.
If Mom terrorized us, then Dad was the voice of reason and our refuge. Mom's temper was and still is infamous. On a fairly regular basis, she'd throw pots across the house in a fit of anger with my father's actions. These weren't just the aluminum pots. This also included the 3 to 4 pound cast iron frying pans. Many times, my brothers and I kissed the earth as the black whirling frying pan of death flew over our heads. I know if it connected, one if not all of us would have suffered severe trauma to the head. But it didn't make much of a difference, Mom was mad and when she got mad she threw things.
So, we spent a lot of time outside when we were younger. I look back on it all and I'm still amazed that Mom didn't throw steak knives or everything that was in the butcher's block. Looking back on it all, I suppose that Mom was going through her crazy lady phase like I did when I started to work on getting over the crap that the one bastard I was with in High School did to me. It doesn't excuse her behavior, but it does explain some of it, I guess. I mean, if you're dealing with the fact that you were grievously abused as a child by men and you're lashing out at men in the midst of the confusion you're going through, you'll probably line your husband up in the cross hairs. And Mom was abused, it's not some kinda line or anything. She had her jaw broken by her father essentially for the fun of it.
Why, you may ask, am I afraid to put these things to paper? Well, in part, because of all the grief I got for even talking about these problems when I was younger. I regularly was told by my family and others around me that I shouldn't talk about these things. On one hand, you have the potential for familial embarrassment, which can prove extremely problematic in a small town like where I grew up. On the other hand, there is the need to keep certain things quiet so that no one comes to question or investigate these things.
After all, who talks about their uncle propositioning them or asking overly personal questions about their direct knowledge about sex? Who talks about their teacher punishing them for no reason other then the fact that they weren't Christian? No one really wants to hear about how the bigger kids on the bus pushed you around and some of them put their hands places that only you could touch. No one should know about the doctor's assistant placing his hands on your vulva during a physical in the school nurse's office. Not like they'd believe you, you're only a kid. To make matters even worse, your not just a kid, but you're a girl. You're going to be making all sorts of wild claims for attention because that's what girls do, right?
So, I spent the vast majority of my middle childhood being abused by many different people in many different ways. At the same time, I also had to keep huge secrets. For example, when I was in 3rd grade, my mother had an affair. It lasted for most of a summer with a friend of the family's at the time. I had to keep that secret. If it's ever mentioned to her, she'll deny it and then blow up at me for accusing her of something so horrible. It'd be a fast way to destroy my relationship with my mother and there by destroying my relationship with my father.
If Mom terrorized us, then Dad was the voice of reason and our refuge. Mom's temper was and still is infamous. On a fairly regular basis, she'd throw pots across the house in a fit of anger with my father's actions. These weren't just the aluminum pots. This also included the 3 to 4 pound cast iron frying pans. Many times, my brothers and I kissed the earth as the black whirling frying pan of death flew over our heads. I know if it connected, one if not all of us would have suffered severe trauma to the head. But it didn't make much of a difference, Mom was mad and when she got mad she threw things.
So, we spent a lot of time outside when we were younger. I look back on it all and I'm still amazed that Mom didn't throw steak knives or everything that was in the butcher's block. Looking back on it all, I suppose that Mom was going through her crazy lady phase like I did when I started to work on getting over the crap that the one bastard I was with in High School did to me. It doesn't excuse her behavior, but it does explain some of it, I guess. I mean, if you're dealing with the fact that you were grievously abused as a child by men and you're lashing out at men in the midst of the confusion you're going through, you'll probably line your husband up in the cross hairs. And Mom was abused, it's not some kinda line or anything. She had her jaw broken by her father essentially for the fun of it.
Memory: pt. 2
As a girl, I had a happy childhood despite the many minor tragedies that happened. I can't exactly claim them to be major tragedies because they didn't afflict the entire nation, just myself and my kin. One of my earliest memories is riding in a stroller at some kind of balloon rally. The stroller was yellow and orange check with clear vinyl "windows" and a crochet trim with pom- poms along the top. My father was carrying my brother on his shoulders and I was in the stroller as my mother was pushing it. I was looking out to my right and I saw a hot air balloon in the colors of the rainbow. It is still one of my fondest memories. I believe that I was three at the time, but I'm not entirely sure.
To this day, my mother insists that I am wrong and that my parents never owned a stroller like that. Now, as I look back over the years, I realize that we were probably down in Florida when this happened. Mom was possibly pregnant with my youngest brother at the time, but I'm not sure. It's sad when you're told constantly that your earliest memory is incorrect. It makes you question other memories at times. But, to be fully honest, I can't exactly declare that this memory I have just shared with you is incorrectly recalled. You can't falsely recollect the scent/taste of clay dust mixed with straw. You can't falsely remember the patterning of a balloon or the way the heat made the very air shimmer. Or the smell/taste of warm vinyl and cotton. Some things can't be imagined. I attempted to argue with my mother on this point but she refuses to listen or even consider the possibility that I was right.
You'll find my mother is something of an antagonist and protagonist in my life. She is a very devoted mother who loves her children dearly, but for the sake of everything holy, don't cross her or be around when she has her crazy days. The woman's worse then a fistful of angry hornets then. I love my mother, I truly and honestly do. I love her quite deeply. But I've always questioned her love for me. Even today, with the intellectual understanding that my mother does love me in her own strange way, I question if she truly does.
To this day, my mother insists that I am wrong and that my parents never owned a stroller like that. Now, as I look back over the years, I realize that we were probably down in Florida when this happened. Mom was possibly pregnant with my youngest brother at the time, but I'm not sure. It's sad when you're told constantly that your earliest memory is incorrect. It makes you question other memories at times. But, to be fully honest, I can't exactly declare that this memory I have just shared with you is incorrectly recalled. You can't falsely recollect the scent/taste of clay dust mixed with straw. You can't falsely remember the patterning of a balloon or the way the heat made the very air shimmer. Or the smell/taste of warm vinyl and cotton. Some things can't be imagined. I attempted to argue with my mother on this point but she refuses to listen or even consider the possibility that I was right.
You'll find my mother is something of an antagonist and protagonist in my life. She is a very devoted mother who loves her children dearly, but for the sake of everything holy, don't cross her or be around when she has her crazy days. The woman's worse then a fistful of angry hornets then. I love my mother, I truly and honestly do. I love her quite deeply. But I've always questioned her love for me. Even today, with the intellectual understanding that my mother does love me in her own strange way, I question if she truly does.
Memory: pt. 1
Sometimes we are called by something no higher then ourselves to recite. We keenly feel our flaws and failures. We cry out that we haven't the ability to sing, play music, or other wise fulfill the command. As that calling to us becomes more potent and present in our lives, a pressure builds within us and we soon find ourselves squirming with the pain of hindering expression. It's like the foulest of gas pains, but in an emotional sense, I suppose. Time and again, I find myself urged to recite my own memories. I resist the urges with a frantic terror that probably baffles many. Like a fool, I decry the pains of refusing this creative urge and I often go so far as to state that they are something different. A creative block and depression are my personal forms of that emotional set of "gas" pains.
Like bad gas, when the pressure hits a certain point, it will release explosively. Some times, it's a burst of tears and wailing. Other times, it is in a particularly vivid series of paintings spawned by the raging emotions within me. For a long time, I regulated writing to be my expressive focus for things aside from this emotional burning within me. It was eased from time to time with my dabblings in poetry, but I maintained a wall between prose and poetry for my expression of this anguish with in me. Now, I realize that continuing to do so is only going to serve to deepen the pains within me and this blockage will extend for so long that I'll be unable to fulfill the dreams I have as an author.
So, I present this humble expression. This is not going to be pretty. There are many ugly and horrific things lurking behind my life that I am going to give voice to in the desperate hope that it breaks the death's hold they have on me. Terror has long been a constant companion. It's not the warm fuzzy blanket companion, as some like to present it, a comforting habit that serves some buried psychological pleasure center that's been wired wrong. It's that monkey on my back, strangling me slowly every day. I didn't even need to go to the wastes that Sinbad visited or go through the effort of attempting to steal a Roc's egg to acquire this hellish little creature. I was simply thrust into a world that gifted it to me. I'm perhaps possessed of a morbid bit of luck, but I honestly don't know. Even as I have terror as my constant companion, I also have love with me at all times. Perhaps it resembles something less akin to the luck of the infamous Murphy and is more like Pandora's box. I'll let you decide as I present my tale.
Like bad gas, when the pressure hits a certain point, it will release explosively. Some times, it's a burst of tears and wailing. Other times, it is in a particularly vivid series of paintings spawned by the raging emotions within me. For a long time, I regulated writing to be my expressive focus for things aside from this emotional burning within me. It was eased from time to time with my dabblings in poetry, but I maintained a wall between prose and poetry for my expression of this anguish with in me. Now, I realize that continuing to do so is only going to serve to deepen the pains within me and this blockage will extend for so long that I'll be unable to fulfill the dreams I have as an author.
So, I present this humble expression. This is not going to be pretty. There are many ugly and horrific things lurking behind my life that I am going to give voice to in the desperate hope that it breaks the death's hold they have on me. Terror has long been a constant companion. It's not the warm fuzzy blanket companion, as some like to present it, a comforting habit that serves some buried psychological pleasure center that's been wired wrong. It's that monkey on my back, strangling me slowly every day. I didn't even need to go to the wastes that Sinbad visited or go through the effort of attempting to steal a Roc's egg to acquire this hellish little creature. I was simply thrust into a world that gifted it to me. I'm perhaps possessed of a morbid bit of luck, but I honestly don't know. Even as I have terror as my constant companion, I also have love with me at all times. Perhaps it resembles something less akin to the luck of the infamous Murphy and is more like Pandora's box. I'll let you decide as I present my tale.
Thursday, September 28, 2006
Flickers of Hope failing before Apathy's cold wind.
Sounds rather dramatic, I suppose, but it seems to suit what I've been struggling with all day. It's a sad fact that there are young people in this great nation of ours who are so greviously harassed by their classmates that they'd give up their education for the sake of avoiding said harassment. Today, I encountered such a child that was also troubled by the regular abuse from his parents for his poor performance in school.
The boy feels that everywhere he turns, he is an object of scorn and criticisim. He feels that his plans for the future are impractical, thus expecting himself to be in jail is a more reasonable thing. It doesn't help that he has legitimate problems academically speaking. Dyslexia is a hellish thing and when it reduces a 17 yr old's reading ability down to that of a 2nd or 3rd grade student's, you can pretty well bet that it's going to be rough, to say the least, for the child in question. Add to this an environment of hostility and harassment, which I have witnessed in effect around this boy and others in the school, and any hopes of academic success for such a child will drop considerably.
Even more so when your parent's idea of encouraging you to do better is a cocktail of bribery (do it and you get to watch pay-per-view porn) and beatings. And this was what I encountered today. Now, aside from the boy's run ins with the law for petty theft and repeated incidents of minor vandalism, he's a good kid. He engages in these acts for attention and to stand at the head of his current group of friends. It's a sad thing when a boy must committ crimes to be a leader in his group of friends. It's an even more unfortunate thing when a boy feels that his life is damned before it even truly begins.
It breaks my heart to see this young man on the road to a life of hardship and suffering. I know a young man that was once at this same point. He made bad decisions and acted with the raw courage and bravado that this young man is right now. That landed him in prision. He's almost half way through his time. He's lost so many opportunities. He's already recieving criticisim for his past actions and current situation from people around. His parents have the misfortune of listening to whispered comments if this wayward son ever comes up in discussion. Now, there is another young man of the same headstrong dispositon.
This young man, who has a heart of gold when you get past the bravado, comes from a home life that is worse then the prisioner had. He is making several of the same mistakes. Gods willing, this 17 yr old will wake up and change his ways. I can't help him, though I desperately want to. It makes me feel so sad, angry, and ashamed to be unable to do anything for this young man who is throwing his future away.
He's worth a hell of alot more then these people that are making him feel like a peice of human garbage.
How the hell do you show some one that?
The boy feels that everywhere he turns, he is an object of scorn and criticisim. He feels that his plans for the future are impractical, thus expecting himself to be in jail is a more reasonable thing. It doesn't help that he has legitimate problems academically speaking. Dyslexia is a hellish thing and when it reduces a 17 yr old's reading ability down to that of a 2nd or 3rd grade student's, you can pretty well bet that it's going to be rough, to say the least, for the child in question. Add to this an environment of hostility and harassment, which I have witnessed in effect around this boy and others in the school, and any hopes of academic success for such a child will drop considerably.
Even more so when your parent's idea of encouraging you to do better is a cocktail of bribery (do it and you get to watch pay-per-view porn) and beatings. And this was what I encountered today. Now, aside from the boy's run ins with the law for petty theft and repeated incidents of minor vandalism, he's a good kid. He engages in these acts for attention and to stand at the head of his current group of friends. It's a sad thing when a boy must committ crimes to be a leader in his group of friends. It's an even more unfortunate thing when a boy feels that his life is damned before it even truly begins.
It breaks my heart to see this young man on the road to a life of hardship and suffering. I know a young man that was once at this same point. He made bad decisions and acted with the raw courage and bravado that this young man is right now. That landed him in prision. He's almost half way through his time. He's lost so many opportunities. He's already recieving criticisim for his past actions and current situation from people around. His parents have the misfortune of listening to whispered comments if this wayward son ever comes up in discussion. Now, there is another young man of the same headstrong dispositon.
This young man, who has a heart of gold when you get past the bravado, comes from a home life that is worse then the prisioner had. He is making several of the same mistakes. Gods willing, this 17 yr old will wake up and change his ways. I can't help him, though I desperately want to. It makes me feel so sad, angry, and ashamed to be unable to do anything for this young man who is throwing his future away.
He's worth a hell of alot more then these people that are making him feel like a peice of human garbage.
How the hell do you show some one that?
Saturday, September 23, 2006
Thoughts...
Currently, my darling husband is napping. I was trying to wake him up earlier but I've since decided to give up on it. He'll wake up when he's ready.
I've spent my time reading through his blog. As I'm doing so, I am struck yet again by the sensitivity and depth with which he writes. I sincerely hope that the comments that he has recieved from several individuals recently helps him to recognize that he is a fabulous writer.
As I type this, I'm trying so hard not to listen to an argument that happened between the landlord and the guy who lives upstairs. I like to think that I am generally a tolerant person and that I haven't much in the way of malice in my heart. Malice usually leads to indigestion and ulcers. Usually a miserable state of affairs, so I strive not to indulge in it and attempt to avoid cultivating it. That said, apart of me flared up quickly with the hope that this man is going to get thrown out of the apartment.
I'm torn between horror that such a wish so quickly flew to mind and embaressment that I have admitted it to the whole world. My streak of malice towards this man is not based in something foolishly repulsive like his race or his religion. It's not petty and based upon his profession or his style of clothes. No, my malice is based upon his lecherous conduct towards myself. I have taken to avoiding going out and delighting in the sunlight on afternoon walks when I get home from work for fear that this man may start following me. The times where he has spoken to me, I get looked over like I'm a peice of meat. The expression of "feeling his eyes on me" wasn't in that nice happy connotation, as it usually is in reference to my husband.
Now, I know, somewhere there is some one that will read these words and say "Well, you choose to feel that way when this man looks at you. Just ignore him." That's a rather trite thing to say and it completely devalues my position here. While I conced that we choose how we respond to a situation, I don't think that ignoring the feeling or this man will resolve the issue. This man makes me frightened. I have had him say to me that he's seen me around town, stating that he's watched me go about my daily business frequently. When I lived in Wellsville, NY, this man lived there as well. He watched me and followed me around town on a semi-regular basis there as well.
Now, he lives upstairs from me. I can not ignore the feeling of danger that comes from this. When he has friends over and they happen to see me out and about, all of them watch me the way that preditors watch their prey. I am torn between anger and a desire to run and hide from their eyes. I know the moment a hand was set upon my person, I'd be quick to tear it off at the shoulder. I can't shake the feeling, however, that when I'm home alone and this man is upstairs that I need to lock the door and keep a heavy or sharp object within reach. He's a quiet and generally polite tenant. My argument isn't such that I can exactly talk to the landlord about it.
So, I grin and bear it. But I don't like it. I've thought about throwing some magic at it, as I am a witch. But then I say to myself, what if that is something that hastens the whole mess turning into a disaster. So, I swallow the urges to drop bindings on him and cast some kind of working to drive him away from here. Each time he stares lecherously at me, however, it becomes harder not to do so.
Somedays, apart of me hates men. Then I realize it's not men I hate, it's the ones that view women as objects to be consumed and used to fulfill their appetites that I hate. And there is a disgustingly large number of them in the world. I hate those men.
I've spent my time reading through his blog. As I'm doing so, I am struck yet again by the sensitivity and depth with which he writes. I sincerely hope that the comments that he has recieved from several individuals recently helps him to recognize that he is a fabulous writer.
As I type this, I'm trying so hard not to listen to an argument that happened between the landlord and the guy who lives upstairs. I like to think that I am generally a tolerant person and that I haven't much in the way of malice in my heart. Malice usually leads to indigestion and ulcers. Usually a miserable state of affairs, so I strive not to indulge in it and attempt to avoid cultivating it. That said, apart of me flared up quickly with the hope that this man is going to get thrown out of the apartment.
I'm torn between horror that such a wish so quickly flew to mind and embaressment that I have admitted it to the whole world. My streak of malice towards this man is not based in something foolishly repulsive like his race or his religion. It's not petty and based upon his profession or his style of clothes. No, my malice is based upon his lecherous conduct towards myself. I have taken to avoiding going out and delighting in the sunlight on afternoon walks when I get home from work for fear that this man may start following me. The times where he has spoken to me, I get looked over like I'm a peice of meat. The expression of "feeling his eyes on me" wasn't in that nice happy connotation, as it usually is in reference to my husband.
Now, I know, somewhere there is some one that will read these words and say "Well, you choose to feel that way when this man looks at you. Just ignore him." That's a rather trite thing to say and it completely devalues my position here. While I conced that we choose how we respond to a situation, I don't think that ignoring the feeling or this man will resolve the issue. This man makes me frightened. I have had him say to me that he's seen me around town, stating that he's watched me go about my daily business frequently. When I lived in Wellsville, NY, this man lived there as well. He watched me and followed me around town on a semi-regular basis there as well.
Now, he lives upstairs from me. I can not ignore the feeling of danger that comes from this. When he has friends over and they happen to see me out and about, all of them watch me the way that preditors watch their prey. I am torn between anger and a desire to run and hide from their eyes. I know the moment a hand was set upon my person, I'd be quick to tear it off at the shoulder. I can't shake the feeling, however, that when I'm home alone and this man is upstairs that I need to lock the door and keep a heavy or sharp object within reach. He's a quiet and generally polite tenant. My argument isn't such that I can exactly talk to the landlord about it.
So, I grin and bear it. But I don't like it. I've thought about throwing some magic at it, as I am a witch. But then I say to myself, what if that is something that hastens the whole mess turning into a disaster. So, I swallow the urges to drop bindings on him and cast some kind of working to drive him away from here. Each time he stares lecherously at me, however, it becomes harder not to do so.
Somedays, apart of me hates men. Then I realize it's not men I hate, it's the ones that view women as objects to be consumed and used to fulfill their appetites that I hate. And there is a disgustingly large number of them in the world. I hate those men.
Minor amusement to assuage apathy
Pithy humor and sarcasam are the soul of wit.
Who's Your Happy Bunny?
Along with pyromaniac lived vicariously through Google Videos and witnessing stupid human tricks.
No.. I don't get misanthropic when I'm feeling down, I really don't. I'm like this 90% of the time and I just don't show it.
Well, no, not really, but it feels like that some times.
Who's Your Happy Bunny?
Along with pyromaniac lived vicariously through Google Videos and witnessing stupid human tricks.
No.. I don't get misanthropic when I'm feeling down, I really don't. I'm like this 90% of the time and I just don't show it.
Well, no, not really, but it feels like that some times.
Why I haven't posted in a while...
There's no great and grand theory of life that I'm going to drop down here onto the internet for an explination of why I haven't been posting things for you, gentle Reader. While I could say something poetic and try to deflect you away from the real problem, I owe you honesty in my writing. Integrity as an author is among my highest ideals and aspirations. When I write non-fiction, honesty and truth are vital. I hate lies.
Unfortunately, lies have been what's been keeping me away fro writing for you, gentle Reader. I've been facing a whole host of lies about my youth. It's horrifying to realize that your childhood was far darker then you wished to say it was. There was a streatch of several years that I didn't remember from when I was a little girl. Now the blockage is cleared and those memories are flooding forth.
Memories of abuse at the hands of family, teachers, and others who I trusted. I'm not entirely sure how to cope with this pain. I feel torn between grief, rage and utter dispair. I'm at a loss for words and yet overwhelmed and burdened with this sad, sad story to tell. Some day, perhaps, I'll exhaust this bitter well that keeps being funded from the black spring of repressed memory. Then, I may have the good fortune of not having my work shaded by sorrow.
Unfortunately, lies have been what's been keeping me away fro writing for you, gentle Reader. I've been facing a whole host of lies about my youth. It's horrifying to realize that your childhood was far darker then you wished to say it was. There was a streatch of several years that I didn't remember from when I was a little girl. Now the blockage is cleared and those memories are flooding forth.
Memories of abuse at the hands of family, teachers, and others who I trusted. I'm not entirely sure how to cope with this pain. I feel torn between grief, rage and utter dispair. I'm at a loss for words and yet overwhelmed and burdened with this sad, sad story to tell. Some day, perhaps, I'll exhaust this bitter well that keeps being funded from the black spring of repressed memory. Then, I may have the good fortune of not having my work shaded by sorrow.
Tuesday, September 05, 2006
1st day of school for the '06-'07 year
And I feel like a zombie now that the day is done.
:p
I hate waking up at 6 am.
Ok, I think I'm done griping.
I'll post something more interesting later. :)
:p
I hate waking up at 6 am.
Ok, I think I'm done griping.
I'll post something more interesting later. :)
Monday, August 28, 2006
Poetry submission.
I am something of a poet. I've just submitted a poem to Why Are We in Iraq? This is an excellent opportunity for the artists and writers of our society (described by some as the soul and conscience of our society) to discuss this matter.
I hope that others will post here as well. Perhaps we can discuss this matter via our art and literature. Perhaps we can reach a point of understanding of the madness engulfing the world before we are too embroiled in what looks to be turning into World War Three.
I hope that others will post here as well. Perhaps we can discuss this matter via our art and literature. Perhaps we can reach a point of understanding of the madness engulfing the world before we are too embroiled in what looks to be turning into World War Three.
Thursday, August 24, 2006
Reading journal updates...
Well, I've spent the last few days updating my reading journal.
I hope that those of you who desire to read it find it at least marginally interesting. All of the things presented there are old material.
I don't have anything I'm currently reading. I plan on changing that as soon as I find something interesting. :)
The most recent item posted dates to April '05.
http:cydira.livejournal.com
I hope that those of you who desire to read it find it at least marginally interesting. All of the things presented there are old material.
I don't have anything I'm currently reading. I plan on changing that as soon as I find something interesting. :)
The most recent item posted dates to April '05.
http:cydira.livejournal.com
Saturday, August 12, 2006
Insomnia sucks.
ack... I've been up since 10 am friday, it's now 8 am saturday. :p
I *so* can't sleep.
This bites.
I *so* can't sleep.
This bites.
Monday, July 31, 2006
Amazing poetry.
The Missing - Philippa Boyens
Héo naefre wacode dægréd
Tó bisig mid dægeweorcum
Ac oft héo wacode sunnanwanung
Ðonne nihtciele créap geond móras
And on ðaere hwile
Héo dréag ðá losinga
Earla ðinga ðe héo forléas.
Héo swá oft dréag hire sáwle sincende
Héo ne cúðe hire heortan lust.
Look the translation up. This is amazing.
Tuesday, July 25, 2006
Knight in Shining Armor
An excerpt from a poem I adore.
A bow-shot from her bower-eaves,
He rode between the barley sheaves,
The sun came dazzling thro' the leaves,
And flamed upon the brazen greaves
Of bold Sir Lancelot.
A red-cross knight for ever kneel'd
To a lady in his shield,
That sparkled on the yellow field,
Beside remote Shalott.The gemmy bridle glitter'd free,
Like to some branch of stars we see
Hung in the golden Galaxy.
The bridle bells rang merrily
As he rode down to Camelot:
And from his blazon'd baldric slung
A mighty silver bugle hung,
And as he rode his armor rung
Beside remote Shalott.All in the blue unclouded weather
Thick-jewell'd shone the saddle-leather,
The helmet and the helmet-feather
Burn'd like one burning flame together,
As he rode down to Camelot.
As often thro' the purple night,
Below the starry clusters bright,
Some bearded meteor, burning bright,
Moves over still Shalott.His broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd;
On burnish'd hooves his war-horse trode;
From underneath his helmet flow'd
His coal-black curls as on he rode,
As he rode down to Camelot.
From the bank and from the river
He flashed into the crystal mirror,
"Tirra lirra," by the river
Sang Sir Lancelot.
Wednesday, July 19, 2006
I am at a loss for a title...
Ok, so I'm a geek. I'll admit it.
I didn't fully realize the extent of it until I did the following:
As I was outlining my manuscript in the effort to make editing easier I had to do something to make it easier to visualize how the battle was unfolding for a scene.
First I attempted to role-play the scene. It worked in the past when I had a difficult time determining how situations unfolded in something I was writing. Initial evidence that I am a gamer and I play in a LARP. Sad thing is, I've been doing this long before I started LARPing. When most children stopped playing pretend, I continued doing so for the sake of improving my writing.
Now that you all know *that* dark secret...
This didn't work entirely. Made it clear for me to understand how the action unfolded for one character, but not the scene. So I made my second attempt...
I took out some graph paper and drew a diagram. Have you ever played a tabletop role-play game? Like Dungeons & Dragons? Well, I had a flash back to my highschool days as a DM. (That's Dungeon Master for the unititiated. Also known as GOD or Games Operation Director.)
The sad part of all this, I've realized that I will probably need to continue this geekery to get my battle scenes consistant in my manuscript.
...
Boy am I glad that I'm home alone as I'm writing. I'd be embaressing if I got caught doing this. :P
I didn't fully realize the extent of it until I did the following:
As I was outlining my manuscript in the effort to make editing easier I had to do something to make it easier to visualize how the battle was unfolding for a scene.
First I attempted to role-play the scene. It worked in the past when I had a difficult time determining how situations unfolded in something I was writing. Initial evidence that I am a gamer and I play in a LARP. Sad thing is, I've been doing this long before I started LARPing. When most children stopped playing pretend, I continued doing so for the sake of improving my writing.
Now that you all know *that* dark secret...
This didn't work entirely. Made it clear for me to understand how the action unfolded for one character, but not the scene. So I made my second attempt...
I took out some graph paper and drew a diagram. Have you ever played a tabletop role-play game? Like Dungeons & Dragons? Well, I had a flash back to my highschool days as a DM. (That's Dungeon Master for the unititiated. Also known as GOD or Games Operation Director.)
The sad part of all this, I've realized that I will probably need to continue this geekery to get my battle scenes consistant in my manuscript.
...
Boy am I glad that I'm home alone as I'm writing. I'd be embaressing if I got caught doing this. :P
Tuesday, July 18, 2006
What I'm currently doing:
1. Rocking out to Led Zepplin's Kashmir. :)
2. Digesting lunch of ramen noodles and salad w/ a side of V8: Spicy & Hot
3. Taking a break from building an outline for the beast of a manuscript I've been fighting with
4. Wondering what the heck I'm going to make for dinner tonight
5. Debating if I should drag out the sewing machine I'm borrowing and do some mending
6. Contemplating folding and putting away laundry
7. Refusing to wash dishes until 5 pm
...
I think that about covers it. :p
Last night, I had a minor anxiety attack. It was horrid. After Dan and I talked for a bit, I then chatted with Stargazer. Out of it all came one rather prevelant theme:
Stop fighting to make things happen before they should.
I feel like a crazy lady about 80% of the time recently. It's made it hard for me to do much of anything, let alone get serious progress made on my fantasy manuscript. Combined with this recent spat of hot weather, I've been having nightmares again. Odd things that I can't fully remember, leaving me only with this unreasoning bit of terror that I need to cover myself with blankets and hide my feet.
Yeah, I don't get it either. It was a little fear during the night that I had as a child. Not quite being afraid of the monster under the bed, but something simmilar. To say the least, I'm having to struggle along with that fear. It's way too hot for me to put a blanket over myself. Somehow, I managed to keep the sheet on me. I didn't sleep well last night. When I woke up at 9:30 this morning, 2 hours later then I planned on, I was rather well wrapped in that thing. :P I think it took me about ten minutes to untangle myself.
As I do my best to follow the advice of all of my wonderful friends (thanks again Andrew!) I hope that these fears will ease up some. If not, well... I may be writing gibberish up here as I will have lost my marbles.
2. Digesting lunch of ramen noodles and salad w/ a side of V8: Spicy & Hot
3. Taking a break from building an outline for the beast of a manuscript I've been fighting with
4. Wondering what the heck I'm going to make for dinner tonight
5. Debating if I should drag out the sewing machine I'm borrowing and do some mending
6. Contemplating folding and putting away laundry
7. Refusing to wash dishes until 5 pm
...
I think that about covers it. :p
Last night, I had a minor anxiety attack. It was horrid. After Dan and I talked for a bit, I then chatted with Stargazer. Out of it all came one rather prevelant theme:
Stop fighting to make things happen before they should.
I feel like a crazy lady about 80% of the time recently. It's made it hard for me to do much of anything, let alone get serious progress made on my fantasy manuscript. Combined with this recent spat of hot weather, I've been having nightmares again. Odd things that I can't fully remember, leaving me only with this unreasoning bit of terror that I need to cover myself with blankets and hide my feet.
Yeah, I don't get it either. It was a little fear during the night that I had as a child. Not quite being afraid of the monster under the bed, but something simmilar. To say the least, I'm having to struggle along with that fear. It's way too hot for me to put a blanket over myself. Somehow, I managed to keep the sheet on me. I didn't sleep well last night. When I woke up at 9:30 this morning, 2 hours later then I planned on, I was rather well wrapped in that thing. :P I think it took me about ten minutes to untangle myself.
As I do my best to follow the advice of all of my wonderful friends (thanks again Andrew!) I hope that these fears will ease up some. If not, well... I may be writing gibberish up here as I will have lost my marbles.
Wednesday, July 12, 2006
okay... this is odd...
I'm probably a bigger space geek then the next gal. My primary argument on the whole Wal-Mart business is that they'd be producing more light pollution in my neighborhood, unlike my neighbors.
But this inflatable spacecraft concept? This is crazy. It's like trying to go to the ocean with a rubber dinghy. You just don't do it and expect to survive.
What are they going to think of next?
But this inflatable spacecraft concept? This is crazy. It's like trying to go to the ocean with a rubber dinghy. You just don't do it and expect to survive.
What are they going to think of next?
Thursday, July 06, 2006
The image says it all
Which tarot card are you?
Stargazer, I *know* you're cracking up at this. :)
I was doing a search to find more places seeking tarot readers and stumbled on to this site to determine what card you were most like. This was the result.
You ever get the feeling that the Divine is laughing?
Monday, July 03, 2006
email is not always reliable
As I have now gotten home, I discovered that there was a comment in reply to my most recent posts. As I approved the comment for publishing (thank you very much for your kind wishes Heidenhamer btw) I discovered that there were other comments awaiting publication.
Comments that never reached me. Some days, technology is conspiring against me. I'm certian of it. I am even more convinced that what my husband does for work is truly the Black arts and I am the barest version of a neophyte.
computers = evil
me using computers = mickey mouse playing with magic ala fantasia
computer acting up = brooms taking over the world
And that's my story and I'm sticking to it! :)
Comments that never reached me. Some days, technology is conspiring against me. I'm certian of it. I am even more convinced that what my husband does for work is truly the Black arts and I am the barest version of a neophyte.
computers = evil
me using computers = mickey mouse playing with magic ala fantasia
computer acting up = brooms taking over the world
And that's my story and I'm sticking to it! :)
update/ranting - writing/job stuff
Well, it's summer and I'm currently looking for work. I've been looking at the job market around here and becoming increasingly ... upset. I attempted to do a position as a temporary employee at a factory. It was one of the worst work experiences of my life. It was a wonderful learning experience: I hate working in a factory. I'm amazed that I lasted a month. It really is one of those jobs where you either enjoy it or hate it from day one.
Now, dear Reader, I know you are curious as to why I'm upset with my local job market. The reason is because there is one type of job that is overwhelmingly present as a temporary position available: factory work. I know just how much I abhorr factory work. There are people that can do it, actually enjoy if not love it, and are quite good at it. My brother is a stellar example of it. God love him for it, but I just can't do it. So, I'm still looking. Nothing's exactly available in the clerical sector except for those temp-perm positions. I could do that, but then I'd need to give up that lovely job in the fall.
Things can change any day, though, so I keep looking. It's odd when not even the grocery store is hiring for help, though. If I'm lucky, I may get that diswasher position at the restaraunt down the street. If I'm really lucky, I may get that tarot reader job that I applied for on-line. Yes, you read that correctly, tarot reader. One of my hobbies is reading tarot. I've been doing it for about ten years now. I've been told that I'm quite good. So, I figure I'll take a swing at doing this tarot reading professionally. It may make a nice little thing to do on the side as school gets back into session. I know that there's a few people that manage to make enough money to support themselves and live in a comfortable life style reading cards. It's a niche market that not too many people fill around here in western NY.
Even as I am trying to muddle my way through the job market, I have been working on my writing. I am editing my fantasy novel. It is slowly progressing. I am still baffled by the fact that I need to add material. It doesn't usually happen that way in something I write. I am usually taking material out when I edit. I have the synopsis drafted out. I need to actually sit down and type it up. I'm rather terrified of doing so, however.
I will confess, I am utterly terrified of sending out my manuscript. My terror, however, is not so much of being rejected but of being a brilliant succcess. It is an unreasonable terror. I know that I can produce additional books in this particular story line. I've got the plot maps for 17 books sitting on my desk at home right now as I am typing this. I'm just afraid that I'll really screw up with having more money and put us into insane debt. I think what I'm going to do is let my husband worry about the money when it comes in. I'll just write. After all, he's better at math then I am. :)
At the same time that I'm working on this fantasy novel, I have other writing projects that I am working on. I have a children's book aimed at the toddler age group that I have half completed. It's a rather cute little story about a catapiller's chrysalis process. The concept has been done to death and yet it still sells. So, I'm going to write it. The kids at the daycare kept asking me to write a children's book after I started drawing pictures for them and telling them stories. I can't ignore it. I also have my neices that I need to write something for.
Another juvinile book that I'm working on is a reprise of a story that I wrote when I was a child. This is being elaborated upon and improved. The basic storyline and character concepts remain the same, however. The interesting thing about this story is that I had it published in a magazine as a girl. I am considering going thru my old material from when I was in junior high and late elementary school (what this particular item dates to) and scrounging up a few more peices to reinvent. This item is still in the intial stages, though.
Finally, I have a magnum opus (perhaps) of my geekery at work. No, not that marvelous theory proving Enstine wrong. I'm still working on the math for that. When I manage it, then I will present it and pick up my Nobel Prize. What I am working on is the factual history of the relgion of Witchcraft (also known as Wicca/Old Religion/the Craft/etc.). Stargazer is helping me out with this, the wonderful doll that she is. Fortunately, she and I are of the same mindset on this particular project. Collaboration is going to be most interesting. I've floated out the idea of sending this down to the wonderful nuns that educated us at college with the note attached "Here's that doctoral thesis you were asking about."
(Once, my relgion instructor asked me what I was reading and I explained that I was doing personal research. I then explained that I had about 5 yrs of research in. She asked me when I was publishing my thesis.)
Now, dear Reader, I know you are curious as to why I'm upset with my local job market. The reason is because there is one type of job that is overwhelmingly present as a temporary position available: factory work. I know just how much I abhorr factory work. There are people that can do it, actually enjoy if not love it, and are quite good at it. My brother is a stellar example of it. God love him for it, but I just can't do it. So, I'm still looking. Nothing's exactly available in the clerical sector except for those temp-perm positions. I could do that, but then I'd need to give up that lovely job in the fall.
Things can change any day, though, so I keep looking. It's odd when not even the grocery store is hiring for help, though. If I'm lucky, I may get that diswasher position at the restaraunt down the street. If I'm really lucky, I may get that tarot reader job that I applied for on-line. Yes, you read that correctly, tarot reader. One of my hobbies is reading tarot. I've been doing it for about ten years now. I've been told that I'm quite good. So, I figure I'll take a swing at doing this tarot reading professionally. It may make a nice little thing to do on the side as school gets back into session. I know that there's a few people that manage to make enough money to support themselves and live in a comfortable life style reading cards. It's a niche market that not too many people fill around here in western NY.
Even as I am trying to muddle my way through the job market, I have been working on my writing. I am editing my fantasy novel. It is slowly progressing. I am still baffled by the fact that I need to add material. It doesn't usually happen that way in something I write. I am usually taking material out when I edit. I have the synopsis drafted out. I need to actually sit down and type it up. I'm rather terrified of doing so, however.
I will confess, I am utterly terrified of sending out my manuscript. My terror, however, is not so much of being rejected but of being a brilliant succcess. It is an unreasonable terror. I know that I can produce additional books in this particular story line. I've got the plot maps for 17 books sitting on my desk at home right now as I am typing this. I'm just afraid that I'll really screw up with having more money and put us into insane debt. I think what I'm going to do is let my husband worry about the money when it comes in. I'll just write. After all, he's better at math then I am. :)
At the same time that I'm working on this fantasy novel, I have other writing projects that I am working on. I have a children's book aimed at the toddler age group that I have half completed. It's a rather cute little story about a catapiller's chrysalis process. The concept has been done to death and yet it still sells. So, I'm going to write it. The kids at the daycare kept asking me to write a children's book after I started drawing pictures for them and telling them stories. I can't ignore it. I also have my neices that I need to write something for.
Another juvinile book that I'm working on is a reprise of a story that I wrote when I was a child. This is being elaborated upon and improved. The basic storyline and character concepts remain the same, however. The interesting thing about this story is that I had it published in a magazine as a girl. I am considering going thru my old material from when I was in junior high and late elementary school (what this particular item dates to) and scrounging up a few more peices to reinvent. This item is still in the intial stages, though.
Finally, I have a magnum opus (perhaps) of my geekery at work. No, not that marvelous theory proving Enstine wrong. I'm still working on the math for that. When I manage it, then I will present it and pick up my Nobel Prize. What I am working on is the factual history of the relgion of Witchcraft (also known as Wicca/Old Religion/the Craft/etc.). Stargazer is helping me out with this, the wonderful doll that she is. Fortunately, she and I are of the same mindset on this particular project. Collaboration is going to be most interesting. I've floated out the idea of sending this down to the wonderful nuns that educated us at college with the note attached "Here's that doctoral thesis you were asking about."
(Once, my relgion instructor asked me what I was reading and I explained that I was doing personal research. I then explained that I had about 5 yrs of research in. She asked me when I was publishing my thesis.)
update/ranting - health
Like I said earlier, my health is "ok" with the exception of a problem. I have polycystic ovary syndrom. I've known this for years, but I didn't understand it.
"Why?" you ask.
Well, dear Reader, it is because most doctors are generally money grubbing morons with little if any sense of doing the right thing anymore. It is an exceptionally bitter statement, I know, but as you read on, I suspect you will understand where I am coming from on this matter. You may, possibly, even empathise with is. First, to those members of the medical community that may have taken some measure of offense at what I just said, I apologize for offending you. Please note the clause "most" is used in the earlier statement, not "all." I recognize that such blanket statements are invariably false. (Irony = using a blanket statement to denounce blanket statements)
My wonderful doctor, when I was diagnosed with PCOS explained to me that it causes me to have light facial hair and cysts upon my ovaries. I was told that it required hormone therapy to control the problem and it was the reason why my menstrual cycle was so horribly messed up. Over the last 5 (approximately) years, I had that simple understanding. I told myself, "Well, you don't need to fear being sterile. You just get cysts from time to time. It's not so horribly bad."
Mind you, as a child and for many years, I was terrified that I would not beable to have children due to the genetic complications that I've inherited from my maternal line. During the last 3 years, I had managed to actually convince myself of that earlier semi-positive statement. My occasional terrors were precicely that, occasional terror. Then, my dear and darling husband and I started to try to have a child.
That started back towards the end of last year. During March, I started to have problems. I had missed my period and I also felt like I had the beginnings of a cyst. I didn't worry about it, because I said "Hey, it may be that I'm pregnant." I did one of those wonderful stick tests, but no dice. I shrugged and proceeded not to worry about it. April came along, and that feeling of having a cyst had gotten worse. Also, no menstrual flow. I tried another test but it came up negative. So, I called my doctor.
As far as doctors go, I have to say that my current general practitioner is probably the best that I've had. He's right up there with the lung specialist that made it possible for me to breathe easily again with out the assistance of an Oxygen bottle at myside. He did a quick exam, deemed that an ultrasound was in order after doing a urine test and determining that I was not pregnant. In the midst of this period of time, I am having all the little stomach problems that go with having a cyst.
By this point of time, it is now the middle of May. No period, I'm utterly freaked out. Doing my best to remain calm, despite my obvious discomfort, and failing miserably. My dear friend Stargazer and my darling husband can attest to that. I was on the verge of anxiety attacks several times. The day of the ultrasound, the cyst pops. I have never had the experiance of having a cyst pop while I was conscious. I have had them rupture while I was sleeping and wake up roughly 8 hours later with my side feeling sore, almost like a bruise.
I was doubled over in pain so intense that I was immediately in tears. Two Aleve did nothing to it. It was 8 am and we were getting ready to go to work on a Friday morning. That didn't happen. Hubby and I first rushed to the doctor's office. We discovered that the office was closed on Fridays. So, we went to the other office that was affiliated. I was seen after a short wait where I recieved uneasy looks from the others in the waiting room. I suspect my face was white as a sheet at the time. A few gentle probing pokes, my nearly shouting in pain, and the time of the ultrasound was moved up. It also went from the standard investigation of the region of the ovaries and uterus to a full abdominal ultrasound.
So, we get into the car and stand on the gas all the way to the City. We just manage to get to the center for the ultrasound/radiology company (that's affiliated with the health care provider organization that my doctor is a part of) in time for my schedualed appointment. By this time, roughly three hours have passed. The pain has moved from feeling like some one had taken a hot poker and shoved it into my guts and twirled it around like spaghetti to just feeling like some one had taken a knife and done so. Still wretched, but not to the point of doubled over and crying, mostly.
The only word I can use to describe the abdominal ultrasound is excruciating. I had never had one before. I never wish to experience one again. It was most painful. The end of that day, my side had gone to feeling like it was kicked and it was determined that the cyst had ruptured. It was also determined that I had 2 more, much smaller cysts, on the other ovary. So, I got to go to a gynecologist. Not my most favorite thing in the world, but not half as embaressing as going to the dentist.
At the dentist, it's obvious that I take poor care of my teeth. The gynecologist is usually fairly happy to see that I take good care of my body, teeth not withstanding. Does the drama end here, with the specialist? No. I'm never that lucky. Life simply is not easy. Don't ever assume there will be a simple answer for me. Just ask my friend Stargazer, who complains every time I ask for a tarot reading "No, not the major arcana again!"
I had the dubious joy of being told by *this* doctor (ironically enough the one that had done the surgery to remove my cyst 5 yrs ago and diagnosed me) that we could not be sure that I had PCOS. We needed to do tests. I was upset, but I went forward with the tests. Tests that included one for my insulin levels, which had not been explained to me. I didn't understand the role that test would have for me in this situation. Thus, I engaged in another fit of anxiety.
After roughly a week of anxiety, I managed to not flip out. I also made sure I had a list of questions with me to get answers out of the gynocologist. (She walked in as I was writing the last few down and as she answered, I made sure I took notes!) I had the entire matter explained to me. I also had the less then stellar joy of being told that my insulin levels were off. I am hypoglycemic. Or at least, that's the diagnosis that can be made given the current tests.
I get to go and have another battery of tests done this week. I'm not looking forward to it. I freaked out initially, went to my general practitioner and said "Ok, what do I do to keep from getting diabetes?" After I had it explained to me the general changes I needed to make to my diet and that I should wait on the panic until after the fasting tests are done, I've calmed down some.
And I made the mistake of asking the Gods for some additional motivation to take care of my health and lose the extra weight I had. I'm not sure if I should be happy with this because I now know that I have a problem or upset because I am going to have to give up some of my favorite foods.
"Why?" you ask.
Well, dear Reader, it is because most doctors are generally money grubbing morons with little if any sense of doing the right thing anymore. It is an exceptionally bitter statement, I know, but as you read on, I suspect you will understand where I am coming from on this matter. You may, possibly, even empathise with is. First, to those members of the medical community that may have taken some measure of offense at what I just said, I apologize for offending you. Please note the clause "most" is used in the earlier statement, not "all." I recognize that such blanket statements are invariably false. (Irony = using a blanket statement to denounce blanket statements)
My wonderful doctor, when I was diagnosed with PCOS explained to me that it causes me to have light facial hair and cysts upon my ovaries. I was told that it required hormone therapy to control the problem and it was the reason why my menstrual cycle was so horribly messed up. Over the last 5 (approximately) years, I had that simple understanding. I told myself, "Well, you don't need to fear being sterile. You just get cysts from time to time. It's not so horribly bad."
Mind you, as a child and for many years, I was terrified that I would not beable to have children due to the genetic complications that I've inherited from my maternal line. During the last 3 years, I had managed to actually convince myself of that earlier semi-positive statement. My occasional terrors were precicely that, occasional terror. Then, my dear and darling husband and I started to try to have a child.
That started back towards the end of last year. During March, I started to have problems. I had missed my period and I also felt like I had the beginnings of a cyst. I didn't worry about it, because I said "Hey, it may be that I'm pregnant." I did one of those wonderful stick tests, but no dice. I shrugged and proceeded not to worry about it. April came along, and that feeling of having a cyst had gotten worse. Also, no menstrual flow. I tried another test but it came up negative. So, I called my doctor.
As far as doctors go, I have to say that my current general practitioner is probably the best that I've had. He's right up there with the lung specialist that made it possible for me to breathe easily again with out the assistance of an Oxygen bottle at myside. He did a quick exam, deemed that an ultrasound was in order after doing a urine test and determining that I was not pregnant. In the midst of this period of time, I am having all the little stomach problems that go with having a cyst.
By this point of time, it is now the middle of May. No period, I'm utterly freaked out. Doing my best to remain calm, despite my obvious discomfort, and failing miserably. My dear friend Stargazer and my darling husband can attest to that. I was on the verge of anxiety attacks several times. The day of the ultrasound, the cyst pops. I have never had the experiance of having a cyst pop while I was conscious. I have had them rupture while I was sleeping and wake up roughly 8 hours later with my side feeling sore, almost like a bruise.
I was doubled over in pain so intense that I was immediately in tears. Two Aleve did nothing to it. It was 8 am and we were getting ready to go to work on a Friday morning. That didn't happen. Hubby and I first rushed to the doctor's office. We discovered that the office was closed on Fridays. So, we went to the other office that was affiliated. I was seen after a short wait where I recieved uneasy looks from the others in the waiting room. I suspect my face was white as a sheet at the time. A few gentle probing pokes, my nearly shouting in pain, and the time of the ultrasound was moved up. It also went from the standard investigation of the region of the ovaries and uterus to a full abdominal ultrasound.
So, we get into the car and stand on the gas all the way to the City. We just manage to get to the center for the ultrasound/radiology company (that's affiliated with the health care provider organization that my doctor is a part of) in time for my schedualed appointment. By this time, roughly three hours have passed. The pain has moved from feeling like some one had taken a hot poker and shoved it into my guts and twirled it around like spaghetti to just feeling like some one had taken a knife and done so. Still wretched, but not to the point of doubled over and crying, mostly.
The only word I can use to describe the abdominal ultrasound is excruciating. I had never had one before. I never wish to experience one again. It was most painful. The end of that day, my side had gone to feeling like it was kicked and it was determined that the cyst had ruptured. It was also determined that I had 2 more, much smaller cysts, on the other ovary. So, I got to go to a gynecologist. Not my most favorite thing in the world, but not half as embaressing as going to the dentist.
At the dentist, it's obvious that I take poor care of my teeth. The gynecologist is usually fairly happy to see that I take good care of my body, teeth not withstanding. Does the drama end here, with the specialist? No. I'm never that lucky. Life simply is not easy. Don't ever assume there will be a simple answer for me. Just ask my friend Stargazer, who complains every time I ask for a tarot reading "No, not the major arcana again!"
I had the dubious joy of being told by *this* doctor (ironically enough the one that had done the surgery to remove my cyst 5 yrs ago and diagnosed me) that we could not be sure that I had PCOS. We needed to do tests. I was upset, but I went forward with the tests. Tests that included one for my insulin levels, which had not been explained to me. I didn't understand the role that test would have for me in this situation. Thus, I engaged in another fit of anxiety.
After roughly a week of anxiety, I managed to not flip out. I also made sure I had a list of questions with me to get answers out of the gynocologist. (She walked in as I was writing the last few down and as she answered, I made sure I took notes!) I had the entire matter explained to me. I also had the less then stellar joy of being told that my insulin levels were off. I am hypoglycemic. Or at least, that's the diagnosis that can be made given the current tests.
I get to go and have another battery of tests done this week. I'm not looking forward to it. I freaked out initially, went to my general practitioner and said "Ok, what do I do to keep from getting diabetes?" After I had it explained to me the general changes I needed to make to my diet and that I should wait on the panic until after the fasting tests are done, I've calmed down some.
And I made the mistake of asking the Gods for some additional motivation to take care of my health and lose the extra weight I had. I'm not sure if I should be happy with this because I now know that I have a problem or upset because I am going to have to give up some of my favorite foods.
update/ranting - read if you really want to
I suppose since there is a remote possiblity of my having readership, I should probably post *something* to prevent people from assuming that I've some how died. Currently, I'm in "ok" health. There's something of a problem, but that will be ranted in it's own little post. The marriage is sound and we both seem to still be quite happy with each other, though I think that fling with the computer is more serious then I expected initially.
A little over a week ago, the school year ended for the middle school that I was a teacher's aid at. I was given the little mum that apparently I was the only one to keep alive in the room and lots of good wishes for the summer. As it stands right now, I am expected to be back in the fall, they just have to decide what student I will be placed with. The principal of the school all but promised that I'd be there in the fall. At about the end of the summer, I'll find out what room/student I'm assigned to. I expect it to be the same child.
He was a sweet kid, when he felt like it. His biggest problem isn't the ADD or his reading/visual disorder. It's a self-dicipline matter. He kept throwing tantrums and his mother would keep treating him to things like watching tv all day and ice cream when he was thrown out of school for the week. It made me .... upset. While I respect that it is not my child, nor is it my place to tell the woman how to raise her child, I have to admit it made me more then a little angry. Capitulating to children isn't exactly a healthy thing.
It doesn't encourage them to take responcibility for their actions and it tells them that they can manipulate adults to get what they want. It lays down the foundation for them to grow into irresponcible adults that attempt to bully, lie, cheat, and fast talk their way thru life. Unless the child in question is going to grow up to be a politician, those life skills aren't exactly going to serve them well. Even more so, when the parent is enabling said child to avoid doing school work that is within their abilities and hindering their intellectual growth and development of vital skills for entering the workforce.
[pauses to take deep breath, hold and exhale to the count of 3.... 2..... 1]
To put that lightly, I'm a little upset with that. It made me angry. Almost as angry as learning that a child had been sexually assaulted on the school bus on their way to school by older children. Almost as angry as learning that a child would intentionally not do their homework and get into trouble so they would have somewhere to be after school, instead of home alone. Those two things made me livid, the first... it just made me quite angry. Some how, and I still don't know how, I managed to remain calm, genial, and plesant. Right up until 5 min after I was home and I then proceeded to rave about that.
So... the school year is ended. I'm now looking for work and doing some work on my fantasy novel. Editing is an interesting experience. Especially when you discover that you have about half of the word-count that you need and your story could use more details. Normally, I'm taking material out when I edit, not adding more to it. Needless to say, my deadline of sending the manuscript out to publishers for review by the beginning of this month did not get met. The story, however, has improved dramatically and will be sent to my beta readers in the near future. Additional ranting/updates follow this one, but are focused more on the individual topics.
A little over a week ago, the school year ended for the middle school that I was a teacher's aid at. I was given the little mum that apparently I was the only one to keep alive in the room and lots of good wishes for the summer. As it stands right now, I am expected to be back in the fall, they just have to decide what student I will be placed with. The principal of the school all but promised that I'd be there in the fall. At about the end of the summer, I'll find out what room/student I'm assigned to. I expect it to be the same child.
He was a sweet kid, when he felt like it. His biggest problem isn't the ADD or his reading/visual disorder. It's a self-dicipline matter. He kept throwing tantrums and his mother would keep treating him to things like watching tv all day and ice cream when he was thrown out of school for the week. It made me .... upset. While I respect that it is not my child, nor is it my place to tell the woman how to raise her child, I have to admit it made me more then a little angry. Capitulating to children isn't exactly a healthy thing.
It doesn't encourage them to take responcibility for their actions and it tells them that they can manipulate adults to get what they want. It lays down the foundation for them to grow into irresponcible adults that attempt to bully, lie, cheat, and fast talk their way thru life. Unless the child in question is going to grow up to be a politician, those life skills aren't exactly going to serve them well. Even more so, when the parent is enabling said child to avoid doing school work that is within their abilities and hindering their intellectual growth and development of vital skills for entering the workforce.
[pauses to take deep breath, hold and exhale to the count of 3.... 2..... 1]
To put that lightly, I'm a little upset with that. It made me angry. Almost as angry as learning that a child had been sexually assaulted on the school bus on their way to school by older children. Almost as angry as learning that a child would intentionally not do their homework and get into trouble so they would have somewhere to be after school, instead of home alone. Those two things made me livid, the first... it just made me quite angry. Some how, and I still don't know how, I managed to remain calm, genial, and plesant. Right up until 5 min after I was home and I then proceeded to rave about that.
So... the school year is ended. I'm now looking for work and doing some work on my fantasy novel. Editing is an interesting experience. Especially when you discover that you have about half of the word-count that you need and your story could use more details. Normally, I'm taking material out when I edit, not adding more to it. Needless to say, my deadline of sending the manuscript out to publishers for review by the beginning of this month did not get met. The story, however, has improved dramatically and will be sent to my beta readers in the near future. Additional ranting/updates follow this one, but are focused more on the individual topics.
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