There was no Thanksgiving celebration at my house. I had to be in Houston the next day for chemotherapy. I didn't really care by that time; I'm too far gone the black hole of chemo.
The weird thing about chemo is that I started having an aversion, not to foods consumed the day of or after my treatment, but the day before. Even when I'm not suffering from sores in my mouth and down my throat, I no longer eat barbecue, no cheese and sometimes Olive Garden commercials are a bit much.
My hotel is right across the street from an Olive Garden and a Mexican restaurant. God only knows how the Mexican food has survived the onslaught of chemo.. I live in Texas; I'd have to move to another state if I'd developed some kind of distaste for it. I gave up Starbucks pretty early in the game after having purchased a piece of cinnamon coffee cake the day before one of my treatments. I may never eat coffee cake again. As a matter of fact, I can't even stand to smell it.
I never ever get accustomed to the coldness of the room we have to sit in before they call me back to my little room with its hospital bed, the television and a chair for my mom. Sometimes I spend an hour or ninety minutes in that frigid tundra of a waiting room before they usher me back to where the real pain begins. It always hurts to attach the i.v. to the port in my chest. After that initial pain, everything is fine except for a cold feeling as the drugs flood into my body. On some level below normal consciousness, my body knows what's happening; industrial strength poison is flowing through my veins and internal organs. That knowledge is too frightening for me to allow into my thoughts.. It's really amazing how many carcinogenic chemicals are introduced into your system in order to diagnose, then treat, cancer.
Getting all the chemicals into my body generally takes 45 minutes to an hour. After treatment is over, I sometimes have difficulty making it out of the hospital. The drugs immediately exhaust me and bone pain sets in right away, too. I get out of breath; this person who used to be in such great condition can barely make it down the hallway to get to the escalator that will take me to the valet parking area.
Usually we have breakfast and many appointments leading up to the chemo treatment. Sometimes a full 12 hours elapse before I have anything else to eat. I can't eat at the hospital because the two cafeterias there (really excellent, as far as hospitals go) are so connected to pain that I can't force myself to even pass by them after my treatment is over. The smell nauseates me. Furthermore, they rarely leave me enough time between appointments on chemo days for me to even make it to the cafeteria if I could bring myself to eat something there.
After it's all over (usually around 9:00 p.m.), my mom sometimes has to go pick food up from time to time when I just can't get up and out the hotel door to get something. The restaurant at the hotel is just as noxious as the hospital cafeteria, for exactly the same reason.
The next morning, I don't generally feel nauseated, but I have to eat really bland foods. Comfort foods, except there's really no comfort to be had. I don't generally feel like eating at any time, whether or not it's a chemo day.
I suppose we could have celebrated the holiday in advance, but it would have been a lot of work with very little payoff for me. Hubby doesn't seem to need the ritual of celebration. So there was no turkey at my house for Thanksgiving; just a trip to Houston. Not that I missed it.
29 November 2005
22 June 2005
The Surgeon
"We learn as much from sorrow as from joy, as much from illness as from health, from handicap as from advantage and indeed perhaps more." ~ Pearl S. Buck
I had my follow up appointment with the surgeon yesterday, to discuss what comes next. Shortly after I got there, the male nurse came to escort me to the little room of doom. He didn't have the room cleaned, so there was a flurry of activity while he tidied up. Then he handed me a gown and told me to strip from the waist up and put the gown on, opening to the front. I was a little taken aback, because I thought we were just going to talk and I was certain that talking didn't require upper body nudity. Furthermore, I was wearing a dress, so that meant relative nudity from the waist down, too. I must hae given him a perplexed look because he turned and said to me, "He's going to recheck your breast. That's why you're here."
There was no reason to recheck my breast. It's bruised, but not bleeding and has no signs of infection. Nonetheless, I did as he said and put the stupid gown on. I hopped up on the examination table and tried to find a way to maintain some modesty. There was none.
I sat there for about 20 minutes, giving me ample opportunity to contemplate how much I dislike having a male surgeon. I generally do everything possible to avoid that. They must have had the thermostat set on 90 because it was really hot in that room. My back started hurting after I'd been sitting there for a while with no back support. I brought a book with me so I wouldn't be stuck reading the Sports Illustrated baseball issue from last year. That just added to my difficulties. Finally, I just got down from the examination table and sat on one of the chairs.
Shortly after that, the surgeon came in with my xrays. So I'm standing there, essentially naked, while he talks about the biopsy report, puts one of the xrays on the viewer and talks with me about that. It would be difficult to imagine a way to make myself at ease in that situation.
He's a fast talker, my surgeon. He's obviously not from the south. We whipped through the information, even though my heart skipped a beat when he talked about losing my breast and again when he talked about possible involvement with my lymph nodes. Neither of those things had entered my mind before then. They took my breath away.
The upshot is that I have a couple of weeks to decide what I'm going to do. I've avoided doing research today, because I had to recount the particulars to several of my coworkers and, by that time, I was just sick of even thinking about it. I just wanted to think about something else. Tomorrow is soon enough to plunge into the facts awaiting me.
America held hostage day 1357
Bushism of the day:
"We've got an issue in America ... too many good docs are getting out of business. Too many OB/GYNs aren't able to practice their love with women all across this country."
—Bush, telling a crowd assembled in Poplar Bluff, Mo., about a previously underappreciated domestic problem, Sept. 6.
Source: The Washington Post, "A New Problem, or the Wrong Word?" Dana Milbank, Sept. 7, 2004
Website of the day: Poetry Chaikhana: Sacred Poetry from Around the World
http://www.poetry-chaikhana.com/I/Ikkyu/
I had my follow up appointment with the surgeon yesterday, to discuss what comes next. Shortly after I got there, the male nurse came to escort me to the little room of doom. He didn't have the room cleaned, so there was a flurry of activity while he tidied up. Then he handed me a gown and told me to strip from the waist up and put the gown on, opening to the front. I was a little taken aback, because I thought we were just going to talk and I was certain that talking didn't require upper body nudity. Furthermore, I was wearing a dress, so that meant relative nudity from the waist down, too. I must hae given him a perplexed look because he turned and said to me, "He's going to recheck your breast. That's why you're here."
There was no reason to recheck my breast. It's bruised, but not bleeding and has no signs of infection. Nonetheless, I did as he said and put the stupid gown on. I hopped up on the examination table and tried to find a way to maintain some modesty. There was none.
I sat there for about 20 minutes, giving me ample opportunity to contemplate how much I dislike having a male surgeon. I generally do everything possible to avoid that. They must have had the thermostat set on 90 because it was really hot in that room. My back started hurting after I'd been sitting there for a while with no back support. I brought a book with me so I wouldn't be stuck reading the Sports Illustrated baseball issue from last year. That just added to my difficulties. Finally, I just got down from the examination table and sat on one of the chairs.
Shortly after that, the surgeon came in with my xrays. So I'm standing there, essentially naked, while he talks about the biopsy report, puts one of the xrays on the viewer and talks with me about that. It would be difficult to imagine a way to make myself at ease in that situation.
He's a fast talker, my surgeon. He's obviously not from the south. We whipped through the information, even though my heart skipped a beat when he talked about losing my breast and again when he talked about possible involvement with my lymph nodes. Neither of those things had entered my mind before then. They took my breath away.
The upshot is that I have a couple of weeks to decide what I'm going to do. I've avoided doing research today, because I had to recount the particulars to several of my coworkers and, by that time, I was just sick of even thinking about it. I just wanted to think about something else. Tomorrow is soon enough to plunge into the facts awaiting me.
America held hostage day 1357
Bushism of the day:
"We've got an issue in America ... too many good docs are getting out of business. Too many OB/GYNs aren't able to practice their love with women all across this country."
—Bush, telling a crowd assembled in Poplar Bluff, Mo., about a previously underappreciated domestic problem, Sept. 6.
Source: The Washington Post, "A New Problem, or the Wrong Word?" Dana Milbank, Sept. 7, 2004
Website of the day: Poetry Chaikhana: Sacred Poetry from Around the World
http://www.poetry-chaikhana.com/I/Ikkyu/
14 June 2005
The Surgeon
Worry gives a small thing a big shadow. ~ Swedish Proverb
I saw the surgeon today after one of the worst mornings I've had in a while. I called the Health Resource Center yesterday to arrange to pick up xrays and ultrasound this morning so I could take them to the appointment. My appointment with the surgeon was at 10:15. I figured that if I got the Resource Center around 9:00, it would give me plenty of time to get to the appointment.
I had my mom drop me off so I wouldn't have to park at the Resource Center. She was driving around the block. Forty-five minutes later, I finally walked out with partial x-rays from the past ten years. Two of the x-rays (from some year in the past) were missing. The woman told me someone had checked them out and never returned them. What?
Had it not been for the fact that I was, by that time, running late, I would have had one of my deadly quiet melt downs. Most people who know me try to avoid those because I can be frightening and destructive in the midst of my icy calm.
I took a Xanax on the way to the surgeon's office because, by that time, I was ready to bite through nails (and I do not mean fingernails). They made me take off my shirt and sit there in one of those hospital gown things with the opening in the front. In strolls The Surgeon, a young guy who's probably not from the south. He likes to talk fast, apparently.
He made me look at the x-rays again and told me he doesn't know what the shadow is on the ultrasound. I wish someone would figure out what the hell it is. It's the shadow that frightens me.
We're going to do yet another xray on Friday. This time I'll be lying down, face down on the table, with my breast hanging through a hole. He'll use a computer to pinpoint exactly where to take the biopsy.
I'd just like for this to be over now, please.
America held hostage day 1349
Bushism of the day:
"The CIA laid out several scenarios. It said that life could be lousy, life could be okay, life could be better. And they were just guessing as to what the conditions might be like." —Bush, dismissing a leaked CIA report at a Sept. 21, 2004, meeting with Iraqi Prime Minister Iyad Allawi
Website of the day: 2think.org
http://www.2think.org/
I saw the surgeon today after one of the worst mornings I've had in a while. I called the Health Resource Center yesterday to arrange to pick up xrays and ultrasound this morning so I could take them to the appointment. My appointment with the surgeon was at 10:15. I figured that if I got the Resource Center around 9:00, it would give me plenty of time to get to the appointment.
I had my mom drop me off so I wouldn't have to park at the Resource Center. She was driving around the block. Forty-five minutes later, I finally walked out with partial x-rays from the past ten years. Two of the x-rays (from some year in the past) were missing. The woman told me someone had checked them out and never returned them. What?
Had it not been for the fact that I was, by that time, running late, I would have had one of my deadly quiet melt downs. Most people who know me try to avoid those because I can be frightening and destructive in the midst of my icy calm.
I took a Xanax on the way to the surgeon's office because, by that time, I was ready to bite through nails (and I do not mean fingernails). They made me take off my shirt and sit there in one of those hospital gown things with the opening in the front. In strolls The Surgeon, a young guy who's probably not from the south. He likes to talk fast, apparently.
He made me look at the x-rays again and told me he doesn't know what the shadow is on the ultrasound. I wish someone would figure out what the hell it is. It's the shadow that frightens me.
We're going to do yet another xray on Friday. This time I'll be lying down, face down on the table, with my breast hanging through a hole. He'll use a computer to pinpoint exactly where to take the biopsy.
I'd just like for this to be over now, please.
America held hostage day 1349
Bushism of the day:
"The CIA laid out several scenarios. It said that life could be lousy, life could be okay, life could be better. And they were just guessing as to what the conditions might be like." —Bush, dismissing a leaked CIA report at a Sept. 21, 2004, meeting with Iraqi Prime Minister Iyad Allawi
Website of the day: 2think.org
http://www.2think.org/
10 June 2005
Stressed Out
It's official: I'm stressed out. The way I can tell is that I've started playing mindless computer games over and over and over and....well, you get my point.
08 June 2005
Don't Worry. Be Happy
"When I look back on all these worries, I remember the story of the old man who said on his deathbed that he had had a lot of trouble in his life, most of which had never happened" ~ Winston Churchill
I just got back from having the second mammogram and an ultrasound. I was there for about 2.5 hours, mainly waiting for the radiologist to show up and look at everything. Since he was so late, he invited me back to see the results myself. I could definitely see that there might be something there, but there might not be. He was very reassuring, telling me that he would just feel better if we took it out. I'm good with that.
So now the hospital will type of the report and send it to my gp. She'll call me and refer me to a surgeon, who will then make the final determination regarding what should be done. It sounds like this could take a while.
People keep asking me if I'm flipped out. Well, no, not that I can tell. However, I did have a migraine yesterday, so I'm definitely having some somatic expression of my stress. The good thing about having a hypochondriac father is that I tend to be very low key about health issues. I'll worry about it when there's something definite to worry about.
I forgot to give The Tusk his insulin because I didn't go home for lunch. Hubby dropped me off and picked me up from the hospital so that I wouldn't have to figure out which parking lot to use. When we got home, the minute I walked through the door I remembered the insulin. Luckily, he was hungry, so it didn't take long.
America held hostage day 1343
Bushism of the day: "We've got to get us an energy plan." —Bush, during the same speech, Feb. 4, 2005.
Source: White House web site, Feb. 4, 2005
Website of the day: Petfinders
http://www.petfinder.org/
I just got back from having the second mammogram and an ultrasound. I was there for about 2.5 hours, mainly waiting for the radiologist to show up and look at everything. Since he was so late, he invited me back to see the results myself. I could definitely see that there might be something there, but there might not be. He was very reassuring, telling me that he would just feel better if we took it out. I'm good with that.
So now the hospital will type of the report and send it to my gp. She'll call me and refer me to a surgeon, who will then make the final determination regarding what should be done. It sounds like this could take a while.
People keep asking me if I'm flipped out. Well, no, not that I can tell. However, I did have a migraine yesterday, so I'm definitely having some somatic expression of my stress. The good thing about having a hypochondriac father is that I tend to be very low key about health issues. I'll worry about it when there's something definite to worry about.
I forgot to give The Tusk his insulin because I didn't go home for lunch. Hubby dropped me off and picked me up from the hospital so that I wouldn't have to figure out which parking lot to use. When we got home, the minute I walked through the door I remembered the insulin. Luckily, he was hungry, so it didn't take long.
America held hostage day 1343
Bushism of the day: "We've got to get us an energy plan." —Bush, during the same speech, Feb. 4, 2005.
Source: White House web site, Feb. 4, 2005
Website of the day: Petfinders
http://www.petfinder.org/
06 June 2005
God May Be Punishing Me
"It is a sin to believe evil of others, but it is seldom a mistake." ~ H.L. Mencken
St. D. called me this afternoon to tell me they want to schedule a second mammogram because of some "irregularities." So they're going to do a "compression." Oh jesus that sounds painful. My only concern about it is that god has gotten busy right away with punishing me for taking such inordinate pleasure in Michael Jackson's suffering. I hope not because I'm not sure there's much I can do to temper my enjoyment seeing him walking into the courtroom like he's going to the gallows.
In fact, Michael Jackson is going to the gallows...he's got it absolutely correct. Whether or not he's convicted of anything, his career is dead in the water. He won't be able to find sponsors for any tours he might wish to undertake. (oh that's so funny...Freudian slip.) Furthermore, he's alienated the hand that fed him, the record companies, by trashing Tommy Motola (who the hell knows how that's spelled). Not that they would have been much interested in putting out a new cd anyway. No matter what level of sales he could generate, record companies are not likely to overlook that whole pedophilia thing. It won't matter whether he's convicted.
On the home front, Hubby decided not to go out of town this week. He has to stay here to jump through whatever hoops are required in order to get paid for the documentary and whatever that other thing is that he's doing. He's a happy guy these days. A happy Hubby translates into less stress for me. Yay.
The NBA game over the weekend was a yawner. I look forward to this shit all year long. The least they could do is have some competitive games. I like a number of players on both teams, so I'm not rooting for one side or the other. I have a bad feeling about the finals. I think it's highly likely that series will put me to sleep, too.
Other than that, not much going on. I have a vacation coming up the last week of June. I'm boring myself again. Time to go.
America held hostage day 1341
Bushism of the day:
# "You teach a child to read, and he or her will be able to pass a literacy test."
Source: United Press International, "Bush Proposes Increase in Education Funds," Mark Kukis, Feb. 21, 2001 (I think I may have used this quote before, but it's one of my all time favorites.)
Website of the day; Perspectives on Peace
http://www.peaceed.org/what/whatbr.htm
St. D. called me this afternoon to tell me they want to schedule a second mammogram because of some "irregularities." So they're going to do a "compression." Oh jesus that sounds painful. My only concern about it is that god has gotten busy right away with punishing me for taking such inordinate pleasure in Michael Jackson's suffering. I hope not because I'm not sure there's much I can do to temper my enjoyment seeing him walking into the courtroom like he's going to the gallows.
In fact, Michael Jackson is going to the gallows...he's got it absolutely correct. Whether or not he's convicted of anything, his career is dead in the water. He won't be able to find sponsors for any tours he might wish to undertake. (oh that's so funny...Freudian slip.) Furthermore, he's alienated the hand that fed him, the record companies, by trashing Tommy Motola (who the hell knows how that's spelled). Not that they would have been much interested in putting out a new cd anyway. No matter what level of sales he could generate, record companies are not likely to overlook that whole pedophilia thing. It won't matter whether he's convicted.
On the home front, Hubby decided not to go out of town this week. He has to stay here to jump through whatever hoops are required in order to get paid for the documentary and whatever that other thing is that he's doing. He's a happy guy these days. A happy Hubby translates into less stress for me. Yay.
The NBA game over the weekend was a yawner. I look forward to this shit all year long. The least they could do is have some competitive games. I like a number of players on both teams, so I'm not rooting for one side or the other. I have a bad feeling about the finals. I think it's highly likely that series will put me to sleep, too.
Other than that, not much going on. I have a vacation coming up the last week of June. I'm boring myself again. Time to go.
America held hostage day 1341
Bushism of the day:
# "You teach a child to read, and he or her will be able to pass a literacy test."
Source: United Press International, "Bush Proposes Increase in Education Funds," Mark Kukis, Feb. 21, 2001 (I think I may have used this quote before, but it's one of my all time favorites.)
Website of the day; Perspectives on Peace
http://www.peaceed.org/what/whatbr.htm
01 June 2005
My Dad's Favorite Phrases
"You have to begin to lose your memory, if only in bits and pieces, to realize that memory is what makes our lives. Life without memory is no life at all, just as an intelligence without the possibility of expression is not really an intelligence. Our memory is our coherence, our reason, our feeling, even our action. Without it, we are nothing." ~ Luis Bunuel
"I'll cut your throat." It was one of my father's fave threats, along with "I'll stomp you...." He never finished that sentence. I guess he felt it held more power that way. You could sit around and wonder about where exactly he would start stomping. The end of the cutting and stomping, of course, was dying. I knew that once he got started, he'd never stop until there was some huge bloody mess that someone else would have to clean up because he'd be too busy crying to be of any assistance. He would not be crying for the person lying lifeless on the floor; it would be for good old Ed. Good old Ed never meant to hurt anybody, you know, and now the police would be coming to arrest him.
Of course, no one's throat was ever cut, nor was anyone stomped.... (The ellipsis is in honor of you, Dad, wherever you are.) I always think of it as just dumb luck that it didn't. People were made bloody at my house, have no doubt about that. Knives were brandished (always a favorite), there was always at least one firearm in the house (including a high powered rifle) and there were certainly a fair amount of matches around in case he wished to revisit that method. There was at least one occasion when he thought that he had killed my mother by forcing her to drink massive amounts of alcohol. When he was unable to revive her, he flipped out and started crying and saying he was sorry. I was around ten at the time and he turned to me for help. Good memories.
I was just sitting around my living room last night, waiting for the Heat vs. the Pistons, and suddently the throat cutting statement cropped up. I never think of that without thinking of the stomping threat. It always surprises me how my father's poisonous words have taken root in my brain. When I'm unhappy with myself for one reason or another, they suddenly surface and take my breath away.
In fact, the past is constantly with me. I wish it weren't so. I've tried hard to make it not be so, but my efforts have been in vain. It's always so unpredictable that I don't have any time to psychologically brace myself against the onslaught. Just a word, not even an obvious word like "stomp" or "cut," can fling me backwards in time to events that make my blood run cold.
As if that weren't enough, memories of sexual abuse by my uncle vie for my attention. They're mostly confined to times when I'm making love with my husband or, when I was younger, a boyfriend. Once those memories accost me, it's almost a guarantee that the effort to push them back down will make it impossible for me to have a good time.
There was a time, when I was much younger, when I thought I could just walk away and leave all of these things in the past. I knew the memories would still be there, but I never knew they would take on a life of their own, leaving me with virtually no control over when they might decide to take me by the throat, in a manner of speaking. It helps if I can always manage to have my attention focused on something. Doesn't much matter what, just anything. But even in those moments, something stark and menacing may awaken itself in the depths of my consciousness, shake itself off and come on out into the light. Having arrived, they can be hard to dispel. Often, if I can get one memory to go away, another rushes in through the open door of my consciousness.
At this point, I'm almost certain it will never end. I've heard that people regress into the past when they get very close to death. I've heard that people who've had near death experiences report having a life review as they leave their earthly bodies. My greatest fear of dying is having to relive the horrors of my life one more time. I guess that, for some of us, that's just how it goes. Oh, and by the way, the Pistons won.
America held hostage day 1336
Bushism of the day:
"Some communities, you say, "Hey, American dream," and they go, "What does that mean?"
Source: FDCH Political Transcripts, "George W. Bush Participates in Manchester, New Hampshire Welcome," Oct. 5, 2002
Website of the day; Michi Online
http://www.michionline.org/
"I'll cut your throat." It was one of my father's fave threats, along with "I'll stomp you...." He never finished that sentence. I guess he felt it held more power that way. You could sit around and wonder about where exactly he would start stomping. The end of the cutting and stomping, of course, was dying. I knew that once he got started, he'd never stop until there was some huge bloody mess that someone else would have to clean up because he'd be too busy crying to be of any assistance. He would not be crying for the person lying lifeless on the floor; it would be for good old Ed. Good old Ed never meant to hurt anybody, you know, and now the police would be coming to arrest him.
Of course, no one's throat was ever cut, nor was anyone stomped.... (The ellipsis is in honor of you, Dad, wherever you are.) I always think of it as just dumb luck that it didn't. People were made bloody at my house, have no doubt about that. Knives were brandished (always a favorite), there was always at least one firearm in the house (including a high powered rifle) and there were certainly a fair amount of matches around in case he wished to revisit that method. There was at least one occasion when he thought that he had killed my mother by forcing her to drink massive amounts of alcohol. When he was unable to revive her, he flipped out and started crying and saying he was sorry. I was around ten at the time and he turned to me for help. Good memories.
I was just sitting around my living room last night, waiting for the Heat vs. the Pistons, and suddently the throat cutting statement cropped up. I never think of that without thinking of the stomping threat. It always surprises me how my father's poisonous words have taken root in my brain. When I'm unhappy with myself for one reason or another, they suddenly surface and take my breath away.
In fact, the past is constantly with me. I wish it weren't so. I've tried hard to make it not be so, but my efforts have been in vain. It's always so unpredictable that I don't have any time to psychologically brace myself against the onslaught. Just a word, not even an obvious word like "stomp" or "cut," can fling me backwards in time to events that make my blood run cold.
As if that weren't enough, memories of sexual abuse by my uncle vie for my attention. They're mostly confined to times when I'm making love with my husband or, when I was younger, a boyfriend. Once those memories accost me, it's almost a guarantee that the effort to push them back down will make it impossible for me to have a good time.
There was a time, when I was much younger, when I thought I could just walk away and leave all of these things in the past. I knew the memories would still be there, but I never knew they would take on a life of their own, leaving me with virtually no control over when they might decide to take me by the throat, in a manner of speaking. It helps if I can always manage to have my attention focused on something. Doesn't much matter what, just anything. But even in those moments, something stark and menacing may awaken itself in the depths of my consciousness, shake itself off and come on out into the light. Having arrived, they can be hard to dispel. Often, if I can get one memory to go away, another rushes in through the open door of my consciousness.
At this point, I'm almost certain it will never end. I've heard that people regress into the past when they get very close to death. I've heard that people who've had near death experiences report having a life review as they leave their earthly bodies. My greatest fear of dying is having to relive the horrors of my life one more time. I guess that, for some of us, that's just how it goes. Oh, and by the way, the Pistons won.
America held hostage day 1336
Bushism of the day:
"Some communities, you say, "Hey, American dream," and they go, "What does that mean?"
Source: FDCH Political Transcripts, "George W. Bush Participates in Manchester, New Hampshire Welcome," Oct. 5, 2002
Website of the day; Michi Online
http://www.michionline.org/
26 May 2005
A Distinct Distaste for the Camera Lens
"A photograph can be an instant of life captured for eternity that will never cease looking back at you." ~ Brigitte Bardot
In the past in this weblog, I've recounted some of the facts about my past. I was able to separate myself from the memories--dissociate--and describe my life without emotion. I'm really good at that; I've had a lot of practice. I'm going to try to go back now and talk about how it felt. Be forewarned. It did not feel good.
There aren't many photographs of me. I generally make sure I'm the person holding the camera because I don't like to have photos taken. Occasionally, when forced, when to do otherewise would be misinterpreted, I do my best to smile. I try to stand still and hope it's over soon. It's a little bit like abuse in that way.
The earliest photo I have of myself is when I was just a bundle. My paternal grandmother was holding me in her arms. She still had black hair then. I wasn't visible at all. My favorite kind.
The next photo I still have is when I was around two or three. It must have been just after we moved to Texas because I was decked out in bitty cowboy boots and a cowboy hat. My mother is holding me in her arms and she's wearing this beautiful white wool dress. In all other important respects, the circumstances were exactly the same as they would be in every photograph ever taken while I lived with my parents.
My father had just come over and hit my mom several times, while she was holding me. My memory of that photograph is how angry I was and yet, if you were to see it, you would never guess. I'm looking off into the distance, away from my mother and away from the camera held by my father. Only one of my hands is clenched. I seem to be bemused. I had already learned to dissociate.
Every photograph ever taken of me leads me back to that learned emptiness. I'm smiling, with tears in my eyes, because my father has just come over to hit me. Sometimes he hit me several times. You know, I just wasn't smiling right. I always wondered why he took those photos, what he thought they would conjure up for me in the distant future.
It was like a ritual. Invariably, I would have to be dressed in whatever outfit was newest. My mom had to have my hair curled. Sometimes some makeup was applied. Then the fun began. If he weren't dead, I would ask him about his memories of those pictures. I would ask him if it still made him feel big and powerful to look at the tears in my eyes. I didn't cry in all of them because I was generally so adept at feeling nothing that I could smile anyway. There are a couple, though, when the torture session had been going on for an extended period of time, that you can see some faint trace of emotion.
Fortunately, very few photos of me still exist. I don't know what happened to them. Maybe there just were never many taken, thought that would be unusual for an only child. Maybe over the years, they were forgotten in old houses when we left or thrown away. jI think those explanations reflect the reality of my life. Mostly I was forgotten and my childhood thrown away when I was inconvenient for the adults who ruled my life. I was perpetually inconvenient.
Of course, after I grew up, I had photos taken by friends. There was no one there to hit me. Nonetheless, that brief moment before the shutter clicked, I was always miserable. I never look at the camera. The damage was already done long ago. I no longer needed anyone to hit me because I had been so thoroughly schooled in a special kind of self loathing evoked only by a camera.
I hide those few childhood photos extant even from myself. When I can bear to look at them or when I'm forced to look at them, they make me want to cry. I'm sorry for that little girl. I try hard never to look at them because crying over the past never did me any good. No matter how many tears I shed, there will never be enough to wash away the anguish. I have a distinct distaste for the camera lens.
America held hostage day 1330
Bushism of the day;
"Some communities, you say, "Hey, American dream," and they go, "What does that mean?"
Source: FDCH Political Transcripts, "George W. Bush Participates in Manchester, New Hampshire Welcome," Oct. 5, 2002
Website of the day; Mystic Radio
http://www.mysticradio.com
In the past in this weblog, I've recounted some of the facts about my past. I was able to separate myself from the memories--dissociate--and describe my life without emotion. I'm really good at that; I've had a lot of practice. I'm going to try to go back now and talk about how it felt. Be forewarned. It did not feel good.
There aren't many photographs of me. I generally make sure I'm the person holding the camera because I don't like to have photos taken. Occasionally, when forced, when to do otherewise would be misinterpreted, I do my best to smile. I try to stand still and hope it's over soon. It's a little bit like abuse in that way.
The earliest photo I have of myself is when I was just a bundle. My paternal grandmother was holding me in her arms. She still had black hair then. I wasn't visible at all. My favorite kind.
The next photo I still have is when I was around two or three. It must have been just after we moved to Texas because I was decked out in bitty cowboy boots and a cowboy hat. My mother is holding me in her arms and she's wearing this beautiful white wool dress. In all other important respects, the circumstances were exactly the same as they would be in every photograph ever taken while I lived with my parents.
My father had just come over and hit my mom several times, while she was holding me. My memory of that photograph is how angry I was and yet, if you were to see it, you would never guess. I'm looking off into the distance, away from my mother and away from the camera held by my father. Only one of my hands is clenched. I seem to be bemused. I had already learned to dissociate.
Every photograph ever taken of me leads me back to that learned emptiness. I'm smiling, with tears in my eyes, because my father has just come over to hit me. Sometimes he hit me several times. You know, I just wasn't smiling right. I always wondered why he took those photos, what he thought they would conjure up for me in the distant future.
It was like a ritual. Invariably, I would have to be dressed in whatever outfit was newest. My mom had to have my hair curled. Sometimes some makeup was applied. Then the fun began. If he weren't dead, I would ask him about his memories of those pictures. I would ask him if it still made him feel big and powerful to look at the tears in my eyes. I didn't cry in all of them because I was generally so adept at feeling nothing that I could smile anyway. There are a couple, though, when the torture session had been going on for an extended period of time, that you can see some faint trace of emotion.
Fortunately, very few photos of me still exist. I don't know what happened to them. Maybe there just were never many taken, thought that would be unusual for an only child. Maybe over the years, they were forgotten in old houses when we left or thrown away. jI think those explanations reflect the reality of my life. Mostly I was forgotten and my childhood thrown away when I was inconvenient for the adults who ruled my life. I was perpetually inconvenient.
Of course, after I grew up, I had photos taken by friends. There was no one there to hit me. Nonetheless, that brief moment before the shutter clicked, I was always miserable. I never look at the camera. The damage was already done long ago. I no longer needed anyone to hit me because I had been so thoroughly schooled in a special kind of self loathing evoked only by a camera.
I hide those few childhood photos extant even from myself. When I can bear to look at them or when I'm forced to look at them, they make me want to cry. I'm sorry for that little girl. I try hard never to look at them because crying over the past never did me any good. No matter how many tears I shed, there will never be enough to wash away the anguish. I have a distinct distaste for the camera lens.
America held hostage day 1330
Bushism of the day;
"Some communities, you say, "Hey, American dream," and they go, "What does that mean?"
Source: FDCH Political Transcripts, "George W. Bush Participates in Manchester, New Hampshire Welcome," Oct. 5, 2002
Website of the day; Mystic Radio
http://www.mysticradio.com
25 May 2005
Toilets, Marriage and Lunacy
The right to marry whoever one wishes is an elementary human right compared to which "the right to attend an integrated school, the right to sit where one pleases on a bus, the right to go into any hotel or recreation area or place of amusement, regardless of one's skin or color or race" are minor indeed. Even political rights, like the right to vote, and nearly all other rights enumerated in the Constitution, are secondary to the inalienable human rights to "life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness" proclaimed in the Declaration of Independence; and to this category the right to home and marriage unquestionably belongs. [Dissent, Winter 1959] ~ Hannah Arendt
The plumber has been working on the restroom next door to me. God only knows what he's doing in there, but it sounds like he's ripping everything out and starting over. Now he's talking to Crazy Employee, the admin person, who called him to come out. Like she wants the technical details of why the toilet keeps overflowing. Let's see now, at $85.00 an hour, I'm guessing it's going to require a lot of explaining. I ran into him one other day when he was working on the same toilet. In the past year they've installed about 20 of those flapper thingies. Here's a thought: Buy more expensive flappies.
I have one co-worker, Mr. Moneybags (the Comptroller), who has now hired both of his children. I'm just waiting for the wife to show up because I know she's having some kind of crisis at her job. I don't mind, of course. I'm just waiting for the inevitable nuclear meltdown. That ought to be entertaining. I ended up having a conversation with this colleague this morning. I'm usually successful in avoiding getting trapped with Mr. M., but this morning we were talking about the NBA game last night when he segued into gay marriage. Why. Is this what keeps him awake at night? Several years ago, he told me that he was taking a "personal stand" against homosexuality. He said it like he was so proud of himself for embracing such an unpopular stance. Yeah, like no one else in this country has an irrational hatred for gay people. I'm still dying to know what taking a personal stand looks like. How does he manifest that decision? By whining to me about it?
Anyway, he's all worked up about the gay marriage issue. He thinks the courts are forcing legislators to enact laws requiring gay marriage. I just skipped over that entirely and pointed out to him that prohibiting marriage between members of the same sex is, in fact, discrimination. Appealing to logic, I pointed out to him that, if you just substitute the word "gay" with the words "black person" or "Hispanic person," everything would be abundantly clear to him. He suggested to me that it would be fine with him if they had a civil union, but marriage is only for men and women. Give me a fucking break.
What the hell is the difference between a civil union and marriage? Gay people aren't going to destroy the institution of marriage as we know it. Straight, married people are. I doubt that I need to point out the incredibly high incidence of divorce. I'm not current on the numbers of married people having affairs, but I'm sure it's still a fairly popular sport. In my opinion, it's none of the state's business whom I choose to bond with. I chose not to marry for 18 years, even though I was living monogamously with one man (now my husband) the entire time. I married him because of economic incentives. I still hold the opinion that the government should just butt the fuck out of my private life.
But I digress. I had to just move the conversation in a different direction before my head exploded and Mr. M. found himself covered in brain matter. Then he started talking about the compromise worked out by moderates of both parties, which prevented the fillibuster option from being taken off the table permanently. It just makes me far too weary to even recount that episode of "Talking with a Lunatic." Suffice it to say, I made an exit as soon as I possibly could. I've been holed up in my office for hours now. I'll be coming out at 5:00.
Have I mentioned lately how much I love my job?
America held hostage day 1329
Bushism of the day:
# "One year ago today, the time for excuse-making has come to an end."
Source: Federal News Service, "Remarks by President George W. Bush on Anniversary of No Child Left Behind Act," Jan. 8, 2003
Website of the day: L.A. Times Crossword
http://www.latimes.com/features/puzzles/crosswords/
The plumber has been working on the restroom next door to me. God only knows what he's doing in there, but it sounds like he's ripping everything out and starting over. Now he's talking to Crazy Employee, the admin person, who called him to come out. Like she wants the technical details of why the toilet keeps overflowing. Let's see now, at $85.00 an hour, I'm guessing it's going to require a lot of explaining. I ran into him one other day when he was working on the same toilet. In the past year they've installed about 20 of those flapper thingies. Here's a thought: Buy more expensive flappies.
I have one co-worker, Mr. Moneybags (the Comptroller), who has now hired both of his children. I'm just waiting for the wife to show up because I know she's having some kind of crisis at her job. I don't mind, of course. I'm just waiting for the inevitable nuclear meltdown. That ought to be entertaining. I ended up having a conversation with this colleague this morning. I'm usually successful in avoiding getting trapped with Mr. M., but this morning we were talking about the NBA game last night when he segued into gay marriage. Why. Is this what keeps him awake at night? Several years ago, he told me that he was taking a "personal stand" against homosexuality. He said it like he was so proud of himself for embracing such an unpopular stance. Yeah, like no one else in this country has an irrational hatred for gay people. I'm still dying to know what taking a personal stand looks like. How does he manifest that decision? By whining to me about it?
Anyway, he's all worked up about the gay marriage issue. He thinks the courts are forcing legislators to enact laws requiring gay marriage. I just skipped over that entirely and pointed out to him that prohibiting marriage between members of the same sex is, in fact, discrimination. Appealing to logic, I pointed out to him that, if you just substitute the word "gay" with the words "black person" or "Hispanic person," everything would be abundantly clear to him. He suggested to me that it would be fine with him if they had a civil union, but marriage is only for men and women. Give me a fucking break.
What the hell is the difference between a civil union and marriage? Gay people aren't going to destroy the institution of marriage as we know it. Straight, married people are. I doubt that I need to point out the incredibly high incidence of divorce. I'm not current on the numbers of married people having affairs, but I'm sure it's still a fairly popular sport. In my opinion, it's none of the state's business whom I choose to bond with. I chose not to marry for 18 years, even though I was living monogamously with one man (now my husband) the entire time. I married him because of economic incentives. I still hold the opinion that the government should just butt the fuck out of my private life.
But I digress. I had to just move the conversation in a different direction before my head exploded and Mr. M. found himself covered in brain matter. Then he started talking about the compromise worked out by moderates of both parties, which prevented the fillibuster option from being taken off the table permanently. It just makes me far too weary to even recount that episode of "Talking with a Lunatic." Suffice it to say, I made an exit as soon as I possibly could. I've been holed up in my office for hours now. I'll be coming out at 5:00.
Have I mentioned lately how much I love my job?
America held hostage day 1329
Bushism of the day:
# "One year ago today, the time for excuse-making has come to an end."
Source: Federal News Service, "Remarks by President George W. Bush on Anniversary of No Child Left Behind Act," Jan. 8, 2003
Website of the day: L.A. Times Crossword
http://www.latimes.com/features/puzzles/crosswords/
24 May 2005
Friday
We only regard those unions as real examples of love and real marriages in which a fixed and unalterable decision has been taken. If men or women contemplate an escape, they do not collect all their powers for the task. In none of the serious and important tasks of life do we arrange such a "getaway." We cannot love and be limited. ~ Alfred Adler
Friday turned out to be pretty grim. I spent an hour on the phone with my daughter in law, listening to her talking about her marital problems. You know, I hate to sound like Barbara Bush, but I'm not sure it's appropriate for her to talk with me about it. I mean, I'm not exactly unbiased. I'm not inclined to give advice under any circumstances. Furthermore, she shared information about their sex lives. I mean, would you talk with your step mother in law about having sex with her stepson? I wouldn't do it. I'd find a friend or a therapist or something. Too icky.
My daughter in law asked me to call so that she could get to know me better. Note to self: When all known behavior demonstrates narcissim, be clear that she is not interested in getting to know you.
When I got home after therapy on Friday, my dog was hypoglycemic. He hadn't been up all day. I felt terrible. I don't think he was in danger, but he certainly could have been. I gave him some honey and a piece of meat and he was ready to get up and go for a walk. It's become clear to me that I'm going to have to educate myself about canine diabetes, because my vet isn't very helpful.
I know that doesn't sound earth shaking, but there are other things I'm too tired to take up at the moment.
America held hostage day 1328
Bushism of the day:
"What is life choices about?" —Bush, speaking to student athletes
Source: Federal Document Clearing House, "President Welcomes NCAA Champs," Feb. 24, 2003
Website of the day: Virtual Bubble Wrap
http://www.virtual-bubblewrap.com/
Friday turned out to be pretty grim. I spent an hour on the phone with my daughter in law, listening to her talking about her marital problems. You know, I hate to sound like Barbara Bush, but I'm not sure it's appropriate for her to talk with me about it. I mean, I'm not exactly unbiased. I'm not inclined to give advice under any circumstances. Furthermore, she shared information about their sex lives. I mean, would you talk with your step mother in law about having sex with her stepson? I wouldn't do it. I'd find a friend or a therapist or something. Too icky.
My daughter in law asked me to call so that she could get to know me better. Note to self: When all known behavior demonstrates narcissim, be clear that she is not interested in getting to know you.
When I got home after therapy on Friday, my dog was hypoglycemic. He hadn't been up all day. I felt terrible. I don't think he was in danger, but he certainly could have been. I gave him some honey and a piece of meat and he was ready to get up and go for a walk. It's become clear to me that I'm going to have to educate myself about canine diabetes, because my vet isn't very helpful.
I know that doesn't sound earth shaking, but there are other things I'm too tired to take up at the moment.
America held hostage day 1328
Bushism of the day:
"What is life choices about?" —Bush, speaking to student athletes
Source: Federal Document Clearing House, "President Welcomes NCAA Champs," Feb. 24, 2003
Website of the day: Virtual Bubble Wrap
http://www.virtual-bubblewrap.com/
19 May 2005
I Clearly Just Need to Make a Few More Adjustments
"YEAR, n. A period of three hundred and sixty-five disappointments."
"PRESENT, n. That part of eternity dividing the domain of disappointment from the realm of hope." ~ Ambrose Bierce
This is the way my day is going: I just spent 30 minutes writing an entry and then my computer disappeared it. Like some kind of Nicaraguan death squad. Prior to that, I struggled through my daily fruit chore. Since I was diagnosed with high cholesterol, I've been committed to eating 3 to 5 fruits and vegetables a day. I usually only make it to 4. To eat more would require that I sit around all day, just eating fruits and vegetables. Unfortunately, my schedule doesn't allow that.
Once again, today's apple and orange were crappy. Every weekend, I approach the produce section of my local grocery store with great hope and anticipation that I'll be able to magically light upon some fruit that's actually edible. I've come to terms with the fact that I won't find any really tasty fruit and I've just settled on finding something that doesn't make me gag when I put it in my mouth. Every week, I take a bite from my apple only to find that it's tasteless, sometimes not even crispy and the skin is tough and thick. Do I eat it anyway? Yes I do. I'm committed, you know. After that gastronomical disappointment, I move on to my daily orange. It is invariably fibrous, not sweet and I risk a fingernail or two when I try to peel the stupid thing. (I'm not sure if one actually peels an orange, but this is the only verb I could come up with.) Yes, I eat the damn orange, too. Every week I try different varieties of apples and oranges, but it always ends the same way. Kind of like a one night stand, it's ultimately unsatisfying and you probably could have made a better choice is you'd gone someplace else. I refuse to drive all over town in the hope of finding better fruit, because I'm convinced I'd still end up with crap.
Hubby is meeting with his co-author today to discuss the NPR program they're doing. Close to a year ago, a man who is a major contributor to the arts here in town donated $20K to the local public radio station to do a program based on the book. The station happily stuck that cash right into their nonprofit bank account. At first, the Director said he didn't think they could really do the program. Then he said they probably would, but the authors wouldn't get any money. Now, finally, they are actually going to make the program and, yes, pay the authors. The only snafu left is that they've misplaced $5k. Do these people not get audited? I cannot figure out how you can lose $5K.
As for me, I'm back to being worried about my dog. He had another bout of diarrhea and is not only refusing to eat his prescription food, he won't eat any dog food at all. I've cooked more chicken in the past month than I have in my entire life. So he's getting chicken and rice, 3 times a day, so that he can get his insulin injections. I'm constantly worried that I'm not feeding him enough, that I'm giving him too much insulin for the amount of food he's eating and I anxiously monitor his waste product.
When my father committed suicide, I thought I had finally figured out that I am not in control of anything. I am so with that program when it applies to me. I just float along and whatever happens is just by god going to happen. I get it. But when it comes to other beings, like my dog, I'm still doing my damndest to get the outcome I want. I have an agenda and I'm agressively pursuing it.
The fallacy is that he is going to die. Maybe I can get him well this time, but in two weeks we may be here again. Sooner or later, he's going to go. He's an elderly guy. I always tell myself that as long as I do my very best for him, I can let go when the time comes. Nonetheless, I worry compulsively. I guess this is just another learning experience I've been lucky enough to be handed. I'd really like to just take a break from further emotional growth for a while. Yeah. Like that's ever happened before.
America held hostage day 1323
Bushism of the day:
"What is life choices about?"
—Bush, speaking to student athletes
Source: Federal Document Clearing House, "President Welcomes NCAA Champs," Feb. 24, 2003
Website of the day: Nia: Walk With Us
http://www.introducing.nia-nia.com/tour/whatisnia.html
"PRESENT, n. That part of eternity dividing the domain of disappointment from the realm of hope." ~ Ambrose Bierce
This is the way my day is going: I just spent 30 minutes writing an entry and then my computer disappeared it. Like some kind of Nicaraguan death squad. Prior to that, I struggled through my daily fruit chore. Since I was diagnosed with high cholesterol, I've been committed to eating 3 to 5 fruits and vegetables a day. I usually only make it to 4. To eat more would require that I sit around all day, just eating fruits and vegetables. Unfortunately, my schedule doesn't allow that.
Once again, today's apple and orange were crappy. Every weekend, I approach the produce section of my local grocery store with great hope and anticipation that I'll be able to magically light upon some fruit that's actually edible. I've come to terms with the fact that I won't find any really tasty fruit and I've just settled on finding something that doesn't make me gag when I put it in my mouth. Every week, I take a bite from my apple only to find that it's tasteless, sometimes not even crispy and the skin is tough and thick. Do I eat it anyway? Yes I do. I'm committed, you know. After that gastronomical disappointment, I move on to my daily orange. It is invariably fibrous, not sweet and I risk a fingernail or two when I try to peel the stupid thing. (I'm not sure if one actually peels an orange, but this is the only verb I could come up with.) Yes, I eat the damn orange, too. Every week I try different varieties of apples and oranges, but it always ends the same way. Kind of like a one night stand, it's ultimately unsatisfying and you probably could have made a better choice is you'd gone someplace else. I refuse to drive all over town in the hope of finding better fruit, because I'm convinced I'd still end up with crap.
Hubby is meeting with his co-author today to discuss the NPR program they're doing. Close to a year ago, a man who is a major contributor to the arts here in town donated $20K to the local public radio station to do a program based on the book. The station happily stuck that cash right into their nonprofit bank account. At first, the Director said he didn't think they could really do the program. Then he said they probably would, but the authors wouldn't get any money. Now, finally, they are actually going to make the program and, yes, pay the authors. The only snafu left is that they've misplaced $5k. Do these people not get audited? I cannot figure out how you can lose $5K.
As for me, I'm back to being worried about my dog. He had another bout of diarrhea and is not only refusing to eat his prescription food, he won't eat any dog food at all. I've cooked more chicken in the past month than I have in my entire life. So he's getting chicken and rice, 3 times a day, so that he can get his insulin injections. I'm constantly worried that I'm not feeding him enough, that I'm giving him too much insulin for the amount of food he's eating and I anxiously monitor his waste product.
When my father committed suicide, I thought I had finally figured out that I am not in control of anything. I am so with that program when it applies to me. I just float along and whatever happens is just by god going to happen. I get it. But when it comes to other beings, like my dog, I'm still doing my damndest to get the outcome I want. I have an agenda and I'm agressively pursuing it.
The fallacy is that he is going to die. Maybe I can get him well this time, but in two weeks we may be here again. Sooner or later, he's going to go. He's an elderly guy. I always tell myself that as long as I do my very best for him, I can let go when the time comes. Nonetheless, I worry compulsively. I guess this is just another learning experience I've been lucky enough to be handed. I'd really like to just take a break from further emotional growth for a while. Yeah. Like that's ever happened before.
America held hostage day 1323
Bushism of the day:
"What is life choices about?"
—Bush, speaking to student athletes
Source: Federal Document Clearing House, "President Welcomes NCAA Champs," Feb. 24, 2003
Website of the day: Nia: Walk With Us
http://www.introducing.nia-nia.com/tour/whatisnia.html
More Weird and Icky Stuff From the Office
This is a little icky, but here goes. There are numerous bathrooms both upstairs and downstairs at my office. I have a coworker, The Information Superhighway, (the one who was kind enough to show me her Brazilian wax) whose office is on the other side of the building from mine. Lately she's started coming over to my side to visit the restroom.
A few minutes ago, she burst into my office, unannounced, to tell me why she's started coming over here. Not that I care, of course; it's a community bathroom. We have a coworker (Diabetic Lady) who was hired a couple of months ago. She's not the tidiest person in the world. Superhighway informs me that Diabetic Lady has been peeing on the seat of the toilet. Unfortunately, D.L. hasn't been wiping up the pee, either. As if that weren't bad enough, when D.L. uses the toilet paper, it's always hanging to the floor when she leaves.
Diabetic Lady has been the subject of a lot of conversation since she got here. She's a piggy girl. We can always tell when D.L. has been in any room in the building because, when she leaves it, she leaves a trail of some kind behind her. She drops jelly on the kitchen counter and doesn't wipe it up. She allows coffee to dribble down the fronts of the newly painted (white!) cabinets. There's even been some discussion regarding the state of her car's interior.
Well, thank God. You know, if we can't be gossiping about someone, there's really just no point in even coming to work. Everyone gets talked about behind their backs. I don't participate in that activity because, if it's bad enough that I have to talk about it, I'm just going to have to talk directly to that person. Everyone takes great pains to let me know they aren't talking about me. Right. Do I look stupid? Do I care if they do? Not in the slightest; glad I could be of some entertainment value.
So there you go. More info from one of the weirdest places I've ever worked (and that's saying something).
A few minutes ago, she burst into my office, unannounced, to tell me why she's started coming over here. Not that I care, of course; it's a community bathroom. We have a coworker (Diabetic Lady) who was hired a couple of months ago. She's not the tidiest person in the world. Superhighway informs me that Diabetic Lady has been peeing on the seat of the toilet. Unfortunately, D.L. hasn't been wiping up the pee, either. As if that weren't bad enough, when D.L. uses the toilet paper, it's always hanging to the floor when she leaves.
Diabetic Lady has been the subject of a lot of conversation since she got here. She's a piggy girl. We can always tell when D.L. has been in any room in the building because, when she leaves it, she leaves a trail of some kind behind her. She drops jelly on the kitchen counter and doesn't wipe it up. She allows coffee to dribble down the fronts of the newly painted (white!) cabinets. There's even been some discussion regarding the state of her car's interior.
Well, thank God. You know, if we can't be gossiping about someone, there's really just no point in even coming to work. Everyone gets talked about behind their backs. I don't participate in that activity because, if it's bad enough that I have to talk about it, I'm just going to have to talk directly to that person. Everyone takes great pains to let me know they aren't talking about me. Right. Do I look stupid? Do I care if they do? Not in the slightest; glad I could be of some entertainment value.
So there you go. More info from one of the weirdest places I've ever worked (and that's saying something).
18 May 2005
Sheep Love Rumsfeld
"At least two thirds of our miseries spring from human stupidity, human malice and those great motivators and justifiers of malice and stupidity, idealism, dogmatism and proselytizing zeal on behalf of religious or political idols. ~ Aldous Huxley
Are there enough political blogs around without me having to throw my two cents worth in? Definitely, but today I make an exception. Donald Rumsfeld. Can you believe that asshole standing up at a press conference saying that people should be sure of their facts before they tell the public? Can you believe that he then commented that it could cost peoples' lives?
Who does he think he's talking to? Sheep? Someone should point out to him that it was him, Rove, Cheney and Bush who lied about what was or was not going on in Iraq. Do you suppose that he's unaware of how many lives that has cost so far? Not counting the innocent Iraqis here; I mean how many American lives have been lost.
I don't know. Maybe he is talking to sheep. We just seem to keep being herded around by right wing religious zealots who just wish everything would go back to being the way they like to believe it was in 1950. God forbid that they should think. Oh no. Better we should listen to a willfully ignorant, arrogant intellectual midget. Oh, and his friends, of course.
Of course, now I have my blood pressure up. I'd better go meditate or something. I will not be watching the news for a while so that I won't have to be hospitalized for major depression.
America held hostage day 1322
Bushism of the day:
"Maybe between the time I left Camp David and here I'll learn more."
—Bush, speaking to reporters after returning from Camp David
Source: Public Papers of the Presidents, "Remarks on Returning From Camp David, Maryland, and an Exchange with Reporters," March 23, 2003
Website of the day; Informed Comment
http://www.juancole.com/
Are there enough political blogs around without me having to throw my two cents worth in? Definitely, but today I make an exception. Donald Rumsfeld. Can you believe that asshole standing up at a press conference saying that people should be sure of their facts before they tell the public? Can you believe that he then commented that it could cost peoples' lives?
Who does he think he's talking to? Sheep? Someone should point out to him that it was him, Rove, Cheney and Bush who lied about what was or was not going on in Iraq. Do you suppose that he's unaware of how many lives that has cost so far? Not counting the innocent Iraqis here; I mean how many American lives have been lost.
I don't know. Maybe he is talking to sheep. We just seem to keep being herded around by right wing religious zealots who just wish everything would go back to being the way they like to believe it was in 1950. God forbid that they should think. Oh no. Better we should listen to a willfully ignorant, arrogant intellectual midget. Oh, and his friends, of course.
Of course, now I have my blood pressure up. I'd better go meditate or something. I will not be watching the news for a while so that I won't have to be hospitalized for major depression.
America held hostage day 1322
Bushism of the day:
"Maybe between the time I left Camp David and here I'll learn more."
—Bush, speaking to reporters after returning from Camp David
Source: Public Papers of the Presidents, "Remarks on Returning From Camp David, Maryland, and an Exchange with Reporters," March 23, 2003
Website of the day; Informed Comment
http://www.juancole.com/
Uber
I've noted lately that the world "uber" is enjoying some popularity around the Web. What's up with that? I guess every five years or so Amricans light on a German word we really, really like. The last word that I recall generating this much interest was "schadenfreude." That made much more sense to me than uber. Schadenfreude describes something that we don't have a one-word version for in English.
16 May 2005
Koan of the Week: Jo Ju's Dog
In honor of my father's birthday.
First Gate: Jo Ju's Dog
A monk once asked Jo Ju, "Does a dog have Buddha-nature?"
Jo Ju answered, "Mu!" (No)
1. Buddha said everything has Buddha-nature. Jo Ju said a dog has no Buddha-nature. Which one is correct?
2. Jo Ju said, "Mu!" What does this mean?
3. I ask you, does a dog have Buddha-nature?
Commentary: Silence is better than holiness, so opening your mouth is a big mistake. But if you use this mistake to save all beings, this is Zen.12 May 2005
Memory is a Monster
"Your memory is a monster; you forget - it doesn't. It simply files things away. It keeps things for you, or hides things from you - and summons them to your recall with a will of its own. You think you have a memory; but it has you!" ~ John Irving
I have to get a hair cut. A couple of years ago, I decided I wanted long-ish hair again. (long-ish: a little above shoulder length.) Every time I saw my stylist, though, I ended up with short hair. I guess I thought of it as fate. I've been willing to accept it.
A couple of months ago, I missed a hair appointment and neglected to call in advance to say I wouldn't be there. Generally speaking, that means I won't be going back to that stylist. Unfortunately, embarassment has ended a number of pretty successful stylist relationships.
The upshot is that my hair is now almost shoulder length. It's still layered, though, so I'm doing the Martha Stewart thing constantly. I brush my hair out of my face a hundred times a day. Every time I do, I remember being sexually abused.
For reasons unclear at this juncture, when I was a little girl, after an episode of sexual abuse, I always allowed my hair to just fall in my face. I made no effort to brush it away so that I could see a little better. I don't know what that was about; my therapist says I was probably dissociated. That's probably correct.
Of course, that "seeing a little better" might be the crux of the issue, after all. Maybe I didn't want to see how little anyone cared about me. About where I was. About who was with me. Maybe I just didn't want to see that I was profoundly superfluous to everyone else's lives.
Or maybe it was a way of hiding my shame. I was very ashamed. My abuser, like all abusers, laid the blame at my doorstep. Let me just say here that my earliest recollection of abuse was when I was five. It had occurred before then, though, because I also recall being terrified by the prospect of being left alone with him. I'm very intuitive, but a five year old is incapable of being afraid of something that has never occurred. I accepted the blame.
I'm dissociating even as I type...all feeling falls away. I'm left in that calm, observational state of mind that graciously robs my memories of any emotional impact. Nonetheless, as I type my hair falls across my face. It doesn't matter. Rage begets dissociation. It is an unacceptable emotion for me.
I've lived through some very harrowing times when rage lived in the same house with me. I do not wish to be like my father. I'm not like my father, but my brain shuts down nonetheless. It feels so much safer to just...not feel.
America held hostage day 1315
Bushism of the day:
"I really appreciate the hardworking staff—the docs, the nurses, the people who make this fantastic facility operate in a way that makes me pride, and in a way that will make every American proud when they learn your story. "
—Bush, speaking in Washington, D.C., Dec. 18, 2003
Website of the day: Deepplanet Magazine
http://deepplanet.com/
I have to get a hair cut. A couple of years ago, I decided I wanted long-ish hair again. (long-ish: a little above shoulder length.) Every time I saw my stylist, though, I ended up with short hair. I guess I thought of it as fate. I've been willing to accept it.
A couple of months ago, I missed a hair appointment and neglected to call in advance to say I wouldn't be there. Generally speaking, that means I won't be going back to that stylist. Unfortunately, embarassment has ended a number of pretty successful stylist relationships.
The upshot is that my hair is now almost shoulder length. It's still layered, though, so I'm doing the Martha Stewart thing constantly. I brush my hair out of my face a hundred times a day. Every time I do, I remember being sexually abused.
For reasons unclear at this juncture, when I was a little girl, after an episode of sexual abuse, I always allowed my hair to just fall in my face. I made no effort to brush it away so that I could see a little better. I don't know what that was about; my therapist says I was probably dissociated. That's probably correct.
Of course, that "seeing a little better" might be the crux of the issue, after all. Maybe I didn't want to see how little anyone cared about me. About where I was. About who was with me. Maybe I just didn't want to see that I was profoundly superfluous to everyone else's lives.
Or maybe it was a way of hiding my shame. I was very ashamed. My abuser, like all abusers, laid the blame at my doorstep. Let me just say here that my earliest recollection of abuse was when I was five. It had occurred before then, though, because I also recall being terrified by the prospect of being left alone with him. I'm very intuitive, but a five year old is incapable of being afraid of something that has never occurred. I accepted the blame.
I'm dissociating even as I type...all feeling falls away. I'm left in that calm, observational state of mind that graciously robs my memories of any emotional impact. Nonetheless, as I type my hair falls across my face. It doesn't matter. Rage begets dissociation. It is an unacceptable emotion for me.
I've lived through some very harrowing times when rage lived in the same house with me. I do not wish to be like my father. I'm not like my father, but my brain shuts down nonetheless. It feels so much safer to just...not feel.
America held hostage day 1315
Bushism of the day:
"I really appreciate the hardworking staff—the docs, the nurses, the people who make this fantastic facility operate in a way that makes me pride, and in a way that will make every American proud when they learn your story. "
—Bush, speaking in Washington, D.C., Dec. 18, 2003
Website of the day: Deepplanet Magazine
http://deepplanet.com/
This is My Horoscope For Today
Intellectual Mercury is in your 7th House of Partnerships until May 28th, reminding you that your complexity may need a makeover. No matter how deep your emotions run, others won't understand you unless you keep it simple. Even if you feel frustrated by having to say less, you'll be so much more effective if you stick to the basics. You can successfully add other layers at the end of the month.
My complexity may need a makeover?! Since when did it not need a makeover? No one has understood me since 1963. Why would I start expecting it now? It would be very difficult for me to say less than I currently do. Outside of my family and a couple of online friends, I always keep my communications as bland and unenlightening as possible. I really just don't need the hassle of having people try to understand me. Better to just let them think they do so I don't seem quite as threatening. I work amongst some version of regular, middle class uniformity. It's better they don't know just how not standard I am.
One of my work associates has a habit of constantly trying to finish my sentences with me. I don't mind that kind of participatory involvement in what I'm saying. As a matter of fact, I'm always gleeful when someone really can finish my sentences for me. It signifies a strong connection. However, if you consistently can't guess what is about to come out of my mouth, please stop trying. It just annoys me.
My complexity may need a makeover?! Since when did it not need a makeover? No one has understood me since 1963. Why would I start expecting it now? It would be very difficult for me to say less than I currently do. Outside of my family and a couple of online friends, I always keep my communications as bland and unenlightening as possible. I really just don't need the hassle of having people try to understand me. Better to just let them think they do so I don't seem quite as threatening. I work amongst some version of regular, middle class uniformity. It's better they don't know just how not standard I am.
One of my work associates has a habit of constantly trying to finish my sentences with me. I don't mind that kind of participatory involvement in what I'm saying. As a matter of fact, I'm always gleeful when someone really can finish my sentences for me. It signifies a strong connection. However, if you consistently can't guess what is about to come out of my mouth, please stop trying. It just annoys me.
11 May 2005
Two Little Girls
"Whatever is begun in anger ends in shame." -- Benjamin Franklin (1706-90)
I'm thinking today of the two little girls killed by one of the girls' father. I guess Laura Hobbs either forgot or didn't care about the level of violence her father was capable of. I can't imagine, even though he'd been in jail for several years, that she would have forgotten the sight of her father chasing people with a chainsaw. Perhaps she believed he had changed. Adults caught in those types of relationshps often cling to the belief that the victimizer has found his bearings and given up forever violence as a means of control. That belief can lead directly to death.
Sometimes children get so angry or so depressed (or both) that they no longer care about the consequences. Defiance is dangerous. So is defending one's self...verbally or otherwise. There are some parents who are so prone to rage that children must learn to disappear.
Even my own father never tried to stab me to death. I don't think he ever punched me. Yes, I was physically abused, but it wasn't extreme. As I type this, I lose my own bearings a bit. Define extreme. When I've mentioned this to my therapist, she points out that he didn't have to. I knew exactly what he was capable of. We didn't have any chain saws, but we had large knives and a high powered rifle.
Sometimes you just have to find a way to disappear. I was talking with my therapist about this just last week. When I was around 8 or 9, a major hurricane passed by the Gulf Coast and we were all stuck inside the house for a week or so. It seemed like months. My father was in one of his manic phases and everything enraged him. I was scared. Not that that was an unusual emotion. I was terrified most of my childhood. I dreaded the time when he would get up in the morning. I never knew who was going to be walking into the living room.
I learned to disappear. I found places where I wouldn't be conspicuous. I spent a lot of time practicing having no expression. Sometimes not having an expression was just as enraging to him as if I had one. I didn't wait to be told; I tried to anticipate his needs. I did not talk back. I did not argue. I tried very very hard to kiss his ass.
There did come a time when I became defiant, but it wasn't until I knew there were people who would notice if something serious occurred. Or if I didn't come to school for an extended period of time. I was still terrified, but as a teenager I figured there was a pretty good chance that I could get away before he could really hurt me. Calculated risks.
I managed to survive, but those two little girls weren't so lucky. Who knows what the catalyst was that resulted in their murders. Children die at the hands of their parents on a regular basis. I wish that it didn't have to be so and I'm thinking of those two little girls today.
America held hostage day 1314
Bushism of the day:
# "We hold dear what our Declaration of Independence says, that all have got uninalienable rights, endowed by a Creator."
Source: The New York Times, "Reporter's Notebook; Skipping Borders, Tripping Diction," David E. Sanger, May 28, 2002
Website of the day: National Clearinghouse on Child Abuse and Neglect Information
http://nccanch.acf.hhs.gov/
I'm thinking today of the two little girls killed by one of the girls' father. I guess Laura Hobbs either forgot or didn't care about the level of violence her father was capable of. I can't imagine, even though he'd been in jail for several years, that she would have forgotten the sight of her father chasing people with a chainsaw. Perhaps she believed he had changed. Adults caught in those types of relationshps often cling to the belief that the victimizer has found his bearings and given up forever violence as a means of control. That belief can lead directly to death.
Sometimes children get so angry or so depressed (or both) that they no longer care about the consequences. Defiance is dangerous. So is defending one's self...verbally or otherwise. There are some parents who are so prone to rage that children must learn to disappear.
Even my own father never tried to stab me to death. I don't think he ever punched me. Yes, I was physically abused, but it wasn't extreme. As I type this, I lose my own bearings a bit. Define extreme. When I've mentioned this to my therapist, she points out that he didn't have to. I knew exactly what he was capable of. We didn't have any chain saws, but we had large knives and a high powered rifle.
Sometimes you just have to find a way to disappear. I was talking with my therapist about this just last week. When I was around 8 or 9, a major hurricane passed by the Gulf Coast and we were all stuck inside the house for a week or so. It seemed like months. My father was in one of his manic phases and everything enraged him. I was scared. Not that that was an unusual emotion. I was terrified most of my childhood. I dreaded the time when he would get up in the morning. I never knew who was going to be walking into the living room.
I learned to disappear. I found places where I wouldn't be conspicuous. I spent a lot of time practicing having no expression. Sometimes not having an expression was just as enraging to him as if I had one. I didn't wait to be told; I tried to anticipate his needs. I did not talk back. I did not argue. I tried very very hard to kiss his ass.
There did come a time when I became defiant, but it wasn't until I knew there were people who would notice if something serious occurred. Or if I didn't come to school for an extended period of time. I was still terrified, but as a teenager I figured there was a pretty good chance that I could get away before he could really hurt me. Calculated risks.
I managed to survive, but those two little girls weren't so lucky. Who knows what the catalyst was that resulted in their murders. Children die at the hands of their parents on a regular basis. I wish that it didn't have to be so and I'm thinking of those two little girls today.
America held hostage day 1314
Bushism of the day:
# "We hold dear what our Declaration of Independence says, that all have got uninalienable rights, endowed by a Creator."
Source: The New York Times, "Reporter's Notebook; Skipping Borders, Tripping Diction," David E. Sanger, May 28, 2002
Website of the day: National Clearinghouse on Child Abuse and Neglect Information
http://nccanch.acf.hhs.gov/
10 May 2005
Things I'm Unable To Do
"Anybody can become angry, that is easy; but to be angry with the right person, and to the right degree, and at the right time, and for the right purpose, and in the right way, that is not within everybody's power, that is not easy." ~ Aristotle
After last week's fiasco with my beloved husky, I was in a quandary. I talked with my therapist about it. I have no doubt that I'll change vets...as soon as I pay the one I have now. The question is whether I plan to tell the vet I'm leaving. Therapist asks if I told the vet how angry I was. No. The therapist asks if I'm going to tell the vet how angry I was. Um, no. I don't know why. I have no idea. I'm really good at certain types of confrontation: employees I'm supervising; people who screw with people I love; well there are more, but I just can't think of them at the moment. I'm not mean in those situations, but I'm very clear about what I believe the problem(s) to be.
She asked me if I thought I could write a letter to the vet, expressing my outrage. That seemed like something I could do. Definitely. Three days later and my certainty has evaporated. Seems like a lot of trouble when I could just as easily pay the damn bill and walk away.
I was also unable to confront my psychiatrist a year ago when she was falling apart. She wasn't doing a very good job of ministering to my depression and anxiety. I avoided seeing her for a while and she got better. Who knows why.
I think my dentist owes me some contraption to wear when I'm sleeping to correct my bite. I paid for it. Why don't I have it? I'm been unable to force myself to call him up and ask just where the fuck this thing is that I paid $1700 for.
There are more people I find myself unable to confront. If I were to sit here for another hour, I could probably come up with five or six. But you get my point.
I know I used to be good at this stuff. There was a time when I could immediately and forcefully meet any situation head on. I mean, I dealt with my father, for god's sake. It doesn't get much scarier than that. I can't tell anymore whether it's just a lack of interest or a lack of courage.
I've always been really good at walking away, too. Lately, it's my preferred mode of dealing with unpleasantness. If someone at the office pisses me off, I leave the room and I don't interact with that person anymore. Except for the exchange of business information, of course. Any interaction between me and the offending party is handled professionally and cordially, with a demeanor so smooth that there's no place they can hang onto. I seem to be the same as I always was, but it's impossible to determine what my feelings are or if I even have any. Being an abused child has some advantages. I can dissociate at a moment's notice. I'm smiling at you and answering your questions, but on the inside I'm just all ice.
I can make people feel warm and fuzzy. They feel their egos being stroked ever so gently. I'm laughing at their jokes. I'm asking questions that seem to indicate an interest in the minutiae of their lives. I'm recalling small things they said six months ago. That never fails to make people feel cared for. I can also withdraw all of that. The sunshine is no longer shining in your office, asshole. I've packed it all up and moved it across the building to my office, where it will stay.
America held hostage day 1314
Bushism of the day:
"We've had a great weekend here in the land of the enchanted."
—Bush, referring to New Mexico, "The Land of Enchantment"
Source: Federal Document Clearinghouse, "George W. Bush Delivers Remarks on Jobs and Growth in Albuquerque," May 12, 2003
Website of the Day: A Study of Near Death Experiences
http://www.aleroy.com/
After last week's fiasco with my beloved husky, I was in a quandary. I talked with my therapist about it. I have no doubt that I'll change vets...as soon as I pay the one I have now. The question is whether I plan to tell the vet I'm leaving. Therapist asks if I told the vet how angry I was. No. The therapist asks if I'm going to tell the vet how angry I was. Um, no. I don't know why. I have no idea. I'm really good at certain types of confrontation: employees I'm supervising; people who screw with people I love; well there are more, but I just can't think of them at the moment. I'm not mean in those situations, but I'm very clear about what I believe the problem(s) to be.
She asked me if I thought I could write a letter to the vet, expressing my outrage. That seemed like something I could do. Definitely. Three days later and my certainty has evaporated. Seems like a lot of trouble when I could just as easily pay the damn bill and walk away.
I was also unable to confront my psychiatrist a year ago when she was falling apart. She wasn't doing a very good job of ministering to my depression and anxiety. I avoided seeing her for a while and she got better. Who knows why.
I think my dentist owes me some contraption to wear when I'm sleeping to correct my bite. I paid for it. Why don't I have it? I'm been unable to force myself to call him up and ask just where the fuck this thing is that I paid $1700 for.
There are more people I find myself unable to confront. If I were to sit here for another hour, I could probably come up with five or six. But you get my point.
I know I used to be good at this stuff. There was a time when I could immediately and forcefully meet any situation head on. I mean, I dealt with my father, for god's sake. It doesn't get much scarier than that. I can't tell anymore whether it's just a lack of interest or a lack of courage.
I've always been really good at walking away, too. Lately, it's my preferred mode of dealing with unpleasantness. If someone at the office pisses me off, I leave the room and I don't interact with that person anymore. Except for the exchange of business information, of course. Any interaction between me and the offending party is handled professionally and cordially, with a demeanor so smooth that there's no place they can hang onto. I seem to be the same as I always was, but it's impossible to determine what my feelings are or if I even have any. Being an abused child has some advantages. I can dissociate at a moment's notice. I'm smiling at you and answering your questions, but on the inside I'm just all ice.
I can make people feel warm and fuzzy. They feel their egos being stroked ever so gently. I'm laughing at their jokes. I'm asking questions that seem to indicate an interest in the minutiae of their lives. I'm recalling small things they said six months ago. That never fails to make people feel cared for. I can also withdraw all of that. The sunshine is no longer shining in your office, asshole. I've packed it all up and moved it across the building to my office, where it will stay.
America held hostage day 1314
Bushism of the day:
"We've had a great weekend here in the land of the enchanted."
—Bush, referring to New Mexico, "The Land of Enchantment"
Source: Federal Document Clearinghouse, "George W. Bush Delivers Remarks on Jobs and Growth in Albuquerque," May 12, 2003
Website of the Day: A Study of Near Death Experiences
http://www.aleroy.com/
Snipers in My Brain
It's another bleak Tuesday. Gray skies. I'm trying to subvert the sadness by wearing a dress. It isn't helping so far. Cute shoes, too. Big deal.
The problem is the harridans have moved back into my head and threaten to take up long term residence. I've been silencing them off and on all morning. The crisis with my dog last week clarified a couple of conditions which seem to wake up the snipers in my brain. Sleep deprivation is one of them; extreme stress the other. I got enough sleep last night and I don't feel particularly stressed. Not that that means anything, of course. I'm not very capable of recognizing stress until it renders me sick and incapable of getting out of bed for a week or so.
My dad's birthday is next Monday. Maybe I'm just getting the festivities started early. Last week I'm hanging on to my anger, though, and haven't gotten sidetracked into how he must have felt just before he pulled the trigger. Going in that direction will lead to certain self recrimination and sadness.
Maybe there will be more to say later.
The problem is the harridans have moved back into my head and threaten to take up long term residence. I've been silencing them off and on all morning. The crisis with my dog last week clarified a couple of conditions which seem to wake up the snipers in my brain. Sleep deprivation is one of them; extreme stress the other. I got enough sleep last night and I don't feel particularly stressed. Not that that means anything, of course. I'm not very capable of recognizing stress until it renders me sick and incapable of getting out of bed for a week or so.
My dad's birthday is next Monday. Maybe I'm just getting the festivities started early. Last week I'm hanging on to my anger, though, and haven't gotten sidetracked into how he must have felt just before he pulled the trigger. Going in that direction will lead to certain self recrimination and sadness.
Maybe there will be more to say later.
05 May 2005
I Need a Vet Who Knows How to Write
"If I have any beliefs about immortality, it is that certain dogs I have known will go to heaven, and very, very few persons." -- James Grover Thurber (1894-1961), American writer, cartoonist, illustrator, "The Secret Life of Walter Mitty"
My dog is still at the vet's office. I went by yesterday afternoon to deliver some dog food because, predictably, The Mighty Tusk won't eat the dog food. Well, he didn't eat what I brought him, either. The vet came in and told me she wasn't very hopeful about his chances of survival. Liver enzymes very, very high. Glucose level very high. She gives me a hard time about it. Every time I've ever talked with her about his diabetes, she's always said, "He can't have insulin if he's not eating." Well, he wasn't eating, bitch. I told you that on the phone, goddamn it.
I said he might not be eating because he's had painful diarrhea and vomiting. Would you feel like eating? No, I wouldn't either. She noted that when she examined his stomach, he cried out in pain. Maybe I'm right, she said. She then asks me for the FIFTH time how much insulin he should be taking. She asked if it was 20 cc's. No...31. If I weren't so distraught, I'd have had a meltdown. I told her I'd come by first thing in the morning with cooked chicken; maybe he'd like to eat that. I sat with him for about 20 minutes and he kept almost falling asleep as I rubbed his head. Then he'd rouse himself and focus, remembering I was there. I finally left and cried all the way home.
When I got there, I told hubby that Mr. T. might not be coming home. I cried; he held me. I bucked up, as usual. Then hubby cried. Off and on all evening. I was numbed out, one of the few advantages of being abused as a child. I can stop feeling automatically when it all gets too overwhelming. I pondered the seizures he's had, the arthritis, the possibility of pain from his liver. Maybe I should stop being selfish and get myself prepared for the end. No. Not yet. I was terrified that, when I went back in the morning, he'd already be dead.
I got up early, cooked some chicken breasts, woke up hubby and asked if he'd like to come with me. He was up for it. I was still so afraid I'd arrive and they'd say, "Oh. Didn't someone call you? He died in his sleep." But there he was, looking better than yesterday. He was immediately interested in the chicken. (Yay!) I started feeding it to him and noticed that he'd eaten the muffin I brought for him last night. (He loves muffins. I was very distressed when he wouldn't eat it yesterday.) He actually sat up and looked around, had some water. We stayed and gave lots of love for a while. He lay back down and we left, telling the receptionist I would bring more chicken over on my way to work.
Went home, called the office, bathed and washed hair. I blew dry my hair; no time today for curls. The only makeup I put on was mascara. I wore sneakers to work, a thing I've only done twice before. I dropped off the chicken. By the time I got to work, the cats were all waiting for me outside the gate, wondering where I was and when I was going to get here to feed them.
I got the kitties taken care of and commenced the day. Around one this afternoon, I called the vet's office and was told Dr. B. was off today. Would I like to talk with Dr. W. instead? Well yes, duh. She was too busy to talk just then, so the receptionist related that Dr. W. thought he should spend the night in the emergency hospital. He won't eat the food they've given him. No, he won't eat the food they give him even when he's feeling great. He doesn't like prescription dog food. She says, "Oh, I see you brought some chicken for him. We'll give that to him a little later."
I was furious. I'm thinking about how much better he seemed this morning and wondering why the hell they think he should be in the hospital. I called my mom and the more I talked about it, the angrier I became. Just as I hung up the phone, Dr. W. called.
She said that he's doing 100% better than yesterday and he finally ate (if they just would have given him his chicken in the first place....). She wanted to start his insulin again and thought he'd be better off with someone monitoring him, which is why she thought the hospital was a good idea. I told her that's a huge expense, on top of the meter currently running at her office. Unfortunately, I have to eat or I can't work to pay the bill, you know. She agreed that I could take him home and monitor him myself. Bring him back tomorrow morning.
I really like that solution. I start wondering where she works regularly, because I'm ready to ditch the woman who can't write his fucking medication level on his chart. The upshot is that I'm gong to get him and take him back tomorrow morning. I think he might do better at home, anyway. People generally do; that's one of the reasons they hustle your ass right out of the hospital as soon as you can pee by yourself.
America held hostage day 1510
Bushism of the day:
# "We hold dear what our Declaration of Independence says, that all have got uninalienable rights, endowed by a Creator."
Source: The New York Times, "Reporter's Notebook; Skipping Borders, Tripping Diction," David E. Sanger, May 28, 2002
Website of the day; The People's Paths in History
http://www.yvwiiusdinvnohii.net/lit/choc-bk.htm
My dog is still at the vet's office. I went by yesterday afternoon to deliver some dog food because, predictably, The Mighty Tusk won't eat the dog food. Well, he didn't eat what I brought him, either. The vet came in and told me she wasn't very hopeful about his chances of survival. Liver enzymes very, very high. Glucose level very high. She gives me a hard time about it. Every time I've ever talked with her about his diabetes, she's always said, "He can't have insulin if he's not eating." Well, he wasn't eating, bitch. I told you that on the phone, goddamn it.
I said he might not be eating because he's had painful diarrhea and vomiting. Would you feel like eating? No, I wouldn't either. She noted that when she examined his stomach, he cried out in pain. Maybe I'm right, she said. She then asks me for the FIFTH time how much insulin he should be taking. She asked if it was 20 cc's. No...31. If I weren't so distraught, I'd have had a meltdown. I told her I'd come by first thing in the morning with cooked chicken; maybe he'd like to eat that. I sat with him for about 20 minutes and he kept almost falling asleep as I rubbed his head. Then he'd rouse himself and focus, remembering I was there. I finally left and cried all the way home.
When I got there, I told hubby that Mr. T. might not be coming home. I cried; he held me. I bucked up, as usual. Then hubby cried. Off and on all evening. I was numbed out, one of the few advantages of being abused as a child. I can stop feeling automatically when it all gets too overwhelming. I pondered the seizures he's had, the arthritis, the possibility of pain from his liver. Maybe I should stop being selfish and get myself prepared for the end. No. Not yet. I was terrified that, when I went back in the morning, he'd already be dead.
I got up early, cooked some chicken breasts, woke up hubby and asked if he'd like to come with me. He was up for it. I was still so afraid I'd arrive and they'd say, "Oh. Didn't someone call you? He died in his sleep." But there he was, looking better than yesterday. He was immediately interested in the chicken. (Yay!) I started feeding it to him and noticed that he'd eaten the muffin I brought for him last night. (He loves muffins. I was very distressed when he wouldn't eat it yesterday.) He actually sat up and looked around, had some water. We stayed and gave lots of love for a while. He lay back down and we left, telling the receptionist I would bring more chicken over on my way to work.
Went home, called the office, bathed and washed hair. I blew dry my hair; no time today for curls. The only makeup I put on was mascara. I wore sneakers to work, a thing I've only done twice before. I dropped off the chicken. By the time I got to work, the cats were all waiting for me outside the gate, wondering where I was and when I was going to get here to feed them.
I got the kitties taken care of and commenced the day. Around one this afternoon, I called the vet's office and was told Dr. B. was off today. Would I like to talk with Dr. W. instead? Well yes, duh. She was too busy to talk just then, so the receptionist related that Dr. W. thought he should spend the night in the emergency hospital. He won't eat the food they've given him. No, he won't eat the food they give him even when he's feeling great. He doesn't like prescription dog food. She says, "Oh, I see you brought some chicken for him. We'll give that to him a little later."
I was furious. I'm thinking about how much better he seemed this morning and wondering why the hell they think he should be in the hospital. I called my mom and the more I talked about it, the angrier I became. Just as I hung up the phone, Dr. W. called.
She said that he's doing 100% better than yesterday and he finally ate (if they just would have given him his chicken in the first place....). She wanted to start his insulin again and thought he'd be better off with someone monitoring him, which is why she thought the hospital was a good idea. I told her that's a huge expense, on top of the meter currently running at her office. Unfortunately, I have to eat or I can't work to pay the bill, you know. She agreed that I could take him home and monitor him myself. Bring him back tomorrow morning.
I really like that solution. I start wondering where she works regularly, because I'm ready to ditch the woman who can't write his fucking medication level on his chart. The upshot is that I'm gong to get him and take him back tomorrow morning. I think he might do better at home, anyway. People generally do; that's one of the reasons they hustle your ass right out of the hospital as soon as you can pee by yourself.
America held hostage day 1510
Bushism of the day:
# "We hold dear what our Declaration of Independence says, that all have got uninalienable rights, endowed by a Creator."
Source: The New York Times, "Reporter's Notebook; Skipping Borders, Tripping Diction," David E. Sanger, May 28, 2002
Website of the day; The People's Paths in History
http://www.yvwiiusdinvnohii.net/lit/choc-bk.htm
Koan of the Day: A Philosopher Asks Buddha
A philosopher asked Buddha: `Without words, without the wordless, will you you tell me truth?'The Buddha kept silence.
The philosopher bowed and thanked the Buddha, saying: `With your loving kindness I have cleared away my delusions and entered the true path.'
After the philosopher had gone, Ananda asked the Buddha what he had attained.
The Buddha replied, `A good horse runs even at the shadow of the whip.'
Mumon's Comment: Ananda was the disciple of the Buddha. Even so, his opinion did not surpass that of outsiders. I want to ask you monks: How much difference is there between disciples and outsiders?
To tread the sharp edge of a sword
To run on smooth-frozen ice,
One needs no footsteps to follow.
Walk over the cliffs with hands free.
04 May 2005
Pesonal Resposibility
No snowflake in an avalanche ever feels responsible. ~ Voltaire
My therapist and I talked about personal responsibility last week. I told her that the willingness to take responsibility for one's own actions is probably one of the greatest predictors of the type of relationship I have with someone.
Everything that ever happened in my dad's life was somebody else's fault. He beat up his first wife and got sent to the brig? That was her fault for giving their son a name he expressly forbade her to give him. He beat up my mom? Well, he was just trying to teach her. I could go on, but it would just make me angry.
The point is that, for me, being an adult requires accountability. I acknowledge that I may sometimes take that position too far. Whenever anything goes wrong, I take stock of my behavior in the situation and, if I can identify even a scintilla of responsibility, I own it. To everyone. Sometimes that gets me in some difficult situations because the people who are primarily responsible for some catastrophe are often quite willing to allow me to take the blame.
I worked with a woman several years ago who betrayed my trust and confidence. I was willing to continue to be her friend, but only if she apologized and accepted responsibility for her behavior. Unfortunately, she was unwilling to even consider that she might have behaved badly. Not only that, but she was too cowardly to talk to me about it directly. She sent me an email and then left for a two week vacation. We continued to work together and I continued to be cordial (in a professional, non-personal way) to her, but we could never be friends again.
Several people who worked with me at the same time knew that would be my position on the matter. Some of them acted like they thought I was Mussolini. I often encounter people who think it's an unreasonable position to take, despite the fact that they are more than willing to allow me to be accountable. I don't get it.
America held hostage day 1309
Bushism of the day:
"These people don't have tanks. They don't have ships. They hide in caves. They send suiciders out."
Source: Federal News Service, "Remarks by President George W. Bush At Welcome Rally," Nov. 1, 2002
Website of the day: Addicted to Hate
http://blank.org/addict/
My therapist and I talked about personal responsibility last week. I told her that the willingness to take responsibility for one's own actions is probably one of the greatest predictors of the type of relationship I have with someone.
Everything that ever happened in my dad's life was somebody else's fault. He beat up his first wife and got sent to the brig? That was her fault for giving their son a name he expressly forbade her to give him. He beat up my mom? Well, he was just trying to teach her. I could go on, but it would just make me angry.
The point is that, for me, being an adult requires accountability. I acknowledge that I may sometimes take that position too far. Whenever anything goes wrong, I take stock of my behavior in the situation and, if I can identify even a scintilla of responsibility, I own it. To everyone. Sometimes that gets me in some difficult situations because the people who are primarily responsible for some catastrophe are often quite willing to allow me to take the blame.
I worked with a woman several years ago who betrayed my trust and confidence. I was willing to continue to be her friend, but only if she apologized and accepted responsibility for her behavior. Unfortunately, she was unwilling to even consider that she might have behaved badly. Not only that, but she was too cowardly to talk to me about it directly. She sent me an email and then left for a two week vacation. We continued to work together and I continued to be cordial (in a professional, non-personal way) to her, but we could never be friends again.
Several people who worked with me at the same time knew that would be my position on the matter. Some of them acted like they thought I was Mussolini. I often encounter people who think it's an unreasonable position to take, despite the fact that they are more than willing to allow me to be accountable. I don't get it.
America held hostage day 1309
Bushism of the day:
"These people don't have tanks. They don't have ships. They hide in caves. They send suiciders out."
Source: Federal News Service, "Remarks by President George W. Bush At Welcome Rally," Nov. 1, 2002
Website of the day: Addicted to Hate
http://blank.org/addict/
03 May 2005
Athena
The past is malleable and flexible, changing as our recollection interprets and re-explains what has happened. ~ Peter Berger
My mom's family and early life are as much a mystery as my father's. There are 7 (I think) siblings, of which I have met only one. I liked him, though. When I was three, he took me for a ride on his motorcycle. That clinched it for me, apparently. Well, that and the fact that he never tried to sexually abuse me like the othe uncle I knew. I only met my maternal grandmother and grandfather once in my life and I don't even remember it because it was during one of those times in my life when holding onto sanity was pretty much the only thing I could focus on.
Neither my mom nor her older sister lived with their mom and dad for much of their lives. My mother was shipped off to live with her grandmother until she died when my mom was 14. I think she was around 5 when she stopped living with her family. Mother's sister lived with an aunt and I know even less about that than I do about my mom.
My great grandmother's name was Mamie. She required all of her grandchildren to call her by her name. I think that's just charming and so very southern. My mother was assigned chores to do, for which she earned a small allowance. None of her brothers and sisters had an allowance. Mamie made my mother attend church every Wednesday and Sunday. That included Sunday school. My mom has had very little inclination to show up at any churches since then. She really hates it when people get wrapped up in their religion or when they have a penchant for proselytizing. That caused some friction between my mother and one of my paternal aunts, who converted to Jehovah Witness-dom. It became apparent pretty quickly that my aunt's interest in the Witnesses was more opportunistic and self-serving than a spiritual calling. That's another story.
My mother took care of Mamie after she was diagnosed with cancer and, when she died, my mother was inconsolable. After that, she moved back in with mom and dad.
I know my maternal grandmother was a redhead with the proverbial fiery temper. She wasn't a very good cook. My grandfather was a butcher and an alcoholic. My mother has never used that word, but she said that her dad would come home from work and sit at the kitchen table, drinking all evening. Sounds like an alcoholic to me. She didn't get along with her dad. I have no details regarding why or when things went bad between them.
That's pretty much the sum total of all I know about my mother's history. I think I'm the least informed about family matters of anyone I know. I don't exactly know why that's so. With my dad's family, you could get stories, but it was anybody's guess as to whether the stories were true. They most definitely would be contradicted by other members of the family. I just always chalked it up to psychosis, but I think they were just a narcissistic and self-serving lot. I've asked my mom to tell me about her life numerous times, but these several paragraphs are the only information I've been able to cull.
I think my mother was probably sexually abused by someone. Why? Because she refused to let go of my dad when anyone in their right minds would have left him or killed him. There are other reasons why I think she was abused, but I'm not really comfortable with relating them.
Is it any wonder that I used to imagine myself to be like Athena, sprung from my parents thoughts instead of their loins. They made me up in their heads and it took more than twenty years for me to discern who I might be as an individual.
America held hostage day 1308
Bushism of the day:
"I used the expression 'ride herd.' I don't know if anybody understood the meaning. It's a little informal in diplomatic terms. I said, we're going to put a guy on the ground to ride herd on the process. See them all scratching their heads."
—Bush, realizing few people understand him when he speaks
Source: New York Times, "The President's Trip, In the President's Words: 'A Mutual Desire to Work Toward the Vision," June 5, 2003
Website of the day: Test Your Moral Intuitions
http://wjh1.wjh.harvard.edu/~moral/test.html
28 April 2005
Contempt
My therapist, Mary, cut me loose when I refused to allow her to get CPS involved. I guess she told my beloved teacher that I was going to continue to need someone to talk with. She must have thought that would somehow keep me alive. Beloved teacher said that she'd spoken with one of the school counselors who could get together with me for half an hour every day.
I already knew Mrs. B. from working in the office at my high school. I was lucky enough to work there during the 45 minutes I was supposed to be taking P.E.. It was a big relief for me and for the people who had to put up with my complete lack of motor skills. No one wanted me on their team and I was quite willing to oblige. I'd figured out a way to avoid ever participating in any team sports in P.E. But that's another story. I liked Mrs. B. and I thought that since Beloved Teacher recommended her, she must be okay. I couldn't have been more wrong.
Over the next several months, I spent some time telling Mrs. B. everything I thought she could handle. She couldn't handle much. I clearly remember that horrified, looking at a decapitated corpse in a car wreck look she'd get while I related events that barely even affected me at that point. A look of disgust crossed her face and set up residence. I started dissociating the minute I walked into her office. Her reaction to me was an assault that I had to vacate my body in order to tolerate. Her solution to my problems? Oh, come now! Surely you know? That's right, turn to Jesus.
The minute the Jesus thing came up, I knew our relationship was broken beyond repair. Jesus had nothing to do with my life. If Jesus couldn't fix things up for me in the past 17 years, I didn't have any faith he'd see fit to help me now. Furthermore, since Jesus was MIA in my life, I had decided to return the favor. The really sad thing is that I'm certain she didn't recognize how contemptible I found that suggestion. It was an indication of just how completely incapable she was of understanding me or my life circumstances. Did she think I hadn't already tried prayer for years and years? I had, but not a single fucking thing I pleaded for had been granted. Screw Jesus. And Mrs. B. Nonetheless, I dutifully showed up and stopped talking about the stuff that made me want to get up every day, find a gun and kill myself. She got to feel like she wasn't a complete moron and I didn't have to subject my feelings to her idiocy. As I might have guessed, it went downhill from there.
One day, as I went from class to class, I kept having these weird encounters with my teachers. My accelerated English teacher met me at the door to her room, smiling with tears in her eyes, and gently patted me on the back. I was baffled. Then I went to my Chemistry class, which went fine until the end of the class when she asked me to stay a moment after everyone else left. After everyone had vacated the room, she started telling me what a beautiful person I was. It went on like that all day for several days. Finally it dawned on me. Mrs. B. had been sitting her fat ass in the teachers' lounge, telling everyone about the things I worked so hard to keep secret. I was enraged.
It was a watershed moment. There wasn't a fucking thing I could do about any of it. I didn't want everyone in my world to know the humiliating details of my life. I had worked so hard for so long to figure out how to appear like my life was like everyone else's. I was like an alien from a foreign land. Everything had to be re-learned so I could fit in to the normal world. Mrs. B. had just obliterated all of my work. I just knew I didn't want any more pitying looks or, for that matter, those looks that communicated just how icky everyone found the life I was living. Now that they knew.
To this very day, when I think of her, I still want to kill her. I'm sure she had quite a time at her church, patting herself on the back for winning another soul for Jesus. What an idiot.
Somewhere in that time frame, I started to live a double life. I was angry at adults, angry with the "normal" world and I stopped being such a nice girl. Not that I did anything terrible...I didn't even drink. But I felt free to give shit to people I thought deserved it and that included adults. There were teachers whose lives were made a little more miserable by my presence in their class. I refused to hide my contempt. With people I thought were intelligent enough to understand the complexity of my situation, I was still the polite, overachieving, quiet person I had always been.
Beneath the contempt, of course, was just one more heartbreak to add to list of enormous losses I'd already endured. I had been betrayed and humiliated, but I refused to allow anyone to see that they'd touched me in any way. I was forced once again to confront my aloneness in the cosmos. Just like when I was a little girl and I'd try to imagine the vastness of the universe. I rememberd how small and insignificant I was. I woke up every day with the knowledge that no one gave a happy fuck about me. Even after all I'd done to be acceptable.
Here's the quote of the day;
"At least two thirds of our miseries spring from human stupidity, human malice and those great motivators and justifiers of malice and stupidity, idealism, dogmatism and proselytizing zeal on behalf of religious or political idols." ~ Aldous Huxley
America held hostage day 1303
Bushism of the day:
"We've had a great weekend here in the land of the enchanted."
—Bush, referring to New Mexico, "The Land of Enchantment"
Source: Federal Document Clearinghouse, "George W. Bush Delivers Remarks on Jobs and Growth in Albuquerque," May 12, 2003
Website of the day; John Eccles on Mind and Brain
http://www.theosophy-nw.org/theosnw/science/prat-bra.htm
I already knew Mrs. B. from working in the office at my high school. I was lucky enough to work there during the 45 minutes I was supposed to be taking P.E.. It was a big relief for me and for the people who had to put up with my complete lack of motor skills. No one wanted me on their team and I was quite willing to oblige. I'd figured out a way to avoid ever participating in any team sports in P.E. But that's another story. I liked Mrs. B. and I thought that since Beloved Teacher recommended her, she must be okay. I couldn't have been more wrong.
Over the next several months, I spent some time telling Mrs. B. everything I thought she could handle. She couldn't handle much. I clearly remember that horrified, looking at a decapitated corpse in a car wreck look she'd get while I related events that barely even affected me at that point. A look of disgust crossed her face and set up residence. I started dissociating the minute I walked into her office. Her reaction to me was an assault that I had to vacate my body in order to tolerate. Her solution to my problems? Oh, come now! Surely you know? That's right, turn to Jesus.
The minute the Jesus thing came up, I knew our relationship was broken beyond repair. Jesus had nothing to do with my life. If Jesus couldn't fix things up for me in the past 17 years, I didn't have any faith he'd see fit to help me now. Furthermore, since Jesus was MIA in my life, I had decided to return the favor. The really sad thing is that I'm certain she didn't recognize how contemptible I found that suggestion. It was an indication of just how completely incapable she was of understanding me or my life circumstances. Did she think I hadn't already tried prayer for years and years? I had, but not a single fucking thing I pleaded for had been granted. Screw Jesus. And Mrs. B. Nonetheless, I dutifully showed up and stopped talking about the stuff that made me want to get up every day, find a gun and kill myself. She got to feel like she wasn't a complete moron and I didn't have to subject my feelings to her idiocy. As I might have guessed, it went downhill from there.
One day, as I went from class to class, I kept having these weird encounters with my teachers. My accelerated English teacher met me at the door to her room, smiling with tears in her eyes, and gently patted me on the back. I was baffled. Then I went to my Chemistry class, which went fine until the end of the class when she asked me to stay a moment after everyone else left. After everyone had vacated the room, she started telling me what a beautiful person I was. It went on like that all day for several days. Finally it dawned on me. Mrs. B. had been sitting her fat ass in the teachers' lounge, telling everyone about the things I worked so hard to keep secret. I was enraged.
It was a watershed moment. There wasn't a fucking thing I could do about any of it. I didn't want everyone in my world to know the humiliating details of my life. I had worked so hard for so long to figure out how to appear like my life was like everyone else's. I was like an alien from a foreign land. Everything had to be re-learned so I could fit in to the normal world. Mrs. B. had just obliterated all of my work. I just knew I didn't want any more pitying looks or, for that matter, those looks that communicated just how icky everyone found the life I was living. Now that they knew.
To this very day, when I think of her, I still want to kill her. I'm sure she had quite a time at her church, patting herself on the back for winning another soul for Jesus. What an idiot.
Somewhere in that time frame, I started to live a double life. I was angry at adults, angry with the "normal" world and I stopped being such a nice girl. Not that I did anything terrible...I didn't even drink. But I felt free to give shit to people I thought deserved it and that included adults. There were teachers whose lives were made a little more miserable by my presence in their class. I refused to hide my contempt. With people I thought were intelligent enough to understand the complexity of my situation, I was still the polite, overachieving, quiet person I had always been.
Beneath the contempt, of course, was just one more heartbreak to add to list of enormous losses I'd already endured. I had been betrayed and humiliated, but I refused to allow anyone to see that they'd touched me in any way. I was forced once again to confront my aloneness in the cosmos. Just like when I was a little girl and I'd try to imagine the vastness of the universe. I rememberd how small and insignificant I was. I woke up every day with the knowledge that no one gave a happy fuck about me. Even after all I'd done to be acceptable.
Here's the quote of the day;
"At least two thirds of our miseries spring from human stupidity, human malice and those great motivators and justifiers of malice and stupidity, idealism, dogmatism and proselytizing zeal on behalf of religious or political idols." ~ Aldous Huxley
America held hostage day 1303
Bushism of the day:
"We've had a great weekend here in the land of the enchanted."
—Bush, referring to New Mexico, "The Land of Enchantment"
Source: Federal Document Clearinghouse, "George W. Bush Delivers Remarks on Jobs and Growth in Albuquerque," May 12, 2003
Website of the day; John Eccles on Mind and Brain
http://www.theosophy-nw.org/theosnw/science/prat-bra.htm
27 April 2005
The Trouble With Adults
My senior year in high school was tough. The older I got, the harder it was to continue to live in my father's house. The harder it was to live with the ways he had already fucked up my life. There were times--quite a few, actually--when I was seriously suicidal. In retrospect, it's interesting that the closer I got to leaving, the more I wanted to die. It was like I just couldn't stand another day or that deep inside, I knew just how far the damage would reach into the future.
My teacher, who had blessed me with her care, got very concerned. She was pretty much the only person who was concerned about me, as usual. I was writing suicidal poems and submitting them to the literary magazine. They all got published. She took it upon herself to take me over to a state social worker (I'm guessing here--she may have been a psychologist) to see if she could keep me alive.
The social worker was a young woman, probably not out of school for very long. I remember she had light brown hair and wire-rimmed glasses. I'm sure she was completely unprepared for what I had to say. It wasn't so much that my story was necessarily the worst (although it was very, very bad), but I doubt that most people who've been that fucked over for so long even understand that there was anything wrong with living that way. For those people, it's very difficult to find someone to care for them because pain and terror and sexual corruption don't make for a very appealing kid.
I don't recall how I started the tale. For years, I'd been telling it in one way or another to any adult who'd listen. The results up until then didn't inspire much hope. I told her everything. It took several sessions to get through it all. I'm not sure whether I had completely mastered dissociating at will under all conditions. There were some situations in which I had no control--I dissociated immediately even if I didn't want to. I also don't know which emotion was most visible--my anger or my pain.
So week after week, we trudged through some of the worst stories I had to tell. I liked the young woman; she didn't seem to be immediately repelled or incredulous. Right off the bat, that put her in the top two percent of adults I liked. Understandably, I had a generally negative view of the adult world. Aside from my beloved teacher, I ended up wanting to kill the last adult I'd trusted with my secrets.
I went to talk to my counselor when I was 14. My best friend had talked me into going and was kind enough to go with me. I started out with the old "my friend has a problem blah blah, etc." I wish I could remember the moron counselor's name. Anyway, I went through this wrenching tale and waited for her response. She leaned back in her chair and started telling me that everyone has problems. She herself had problems, the biggest of which was that she was paralyzed on one side of her face. Wow. How could I possibly compete with that? She told me that when she cried, tears only came out of one of her eyes. There's a cross to bear, alright. I had supreme contempt for her. How could she possibly think that compared to the Auschwitz of the life I was living? If I hadn't hated adults before, she definitely gave me a hearty shove in that direction. I still haven't forgiven her.
My point here is that I never found adults to be particularly reliable. Oh my god, I just realized what an understatement that was--it's actually almost funny. Her name just game to me--my social worker's name was Mary. After I'd laid out as much of my life as I could for her examination, she asked me what I wanted to do. I honestly didn't know there was going to be something I'd have to do. The deal was that I had to allow Mary to tell Child Protective Services (or whatever it was called then) or we were through with the sessions. It was like I'd been hit in the face with a brick. I was terrified of telling anyone because I knew that, if I wasn't taken away, I'd have created an even more dangerous situation for myself. I knew exactly what would be waiting for me at home and, even though I might have wanted to die, I wanted it to be as painless as possible. That would most certainly not be my dad's way.
Quote of the day:
"If you see a whole thing - it seems that it's always beautiful. Planets, lives.... But close up a world's all dirt and rocks. And day to day, life's a hard job, you get tired, you lose the pattern." ~ Ursual K. Leguin
America held hostage day 1302
Bushism of the day:
"Speaking about barbaric regimes, we must deal with probably one of the most—not probably—one of the most real threats we face, and that is the idea of a barbaric regime teaming up with a terrorist network and providing weapons of mass destruction to hold the United States and our allies and our friends blackmail."
Source: FDCH Political Transcripts, "George W. Bush Participates in Alexander for Senate Luncheon," Sept. 17, 2002
Website of the Day: Dr. Andrew Weil's Self Healing
http://www.drweilselfhealing.com/default.asp
My teacher, who had blessed me with her care, got very concerned. She was pretty much the only person who was concerned about me, as usual. I was writing suicidal poems and submitting them to the literary magazine. They all got published. She took it upon herself to take me over to a state social worker (I'm guessing here--she may have been a psychologist) to see if she could keep me alive.
The social worker was a young woman, probably not out of school for very long. I remember she had light brown hair and wire-rimmed glasses. I'm sure she was completely unprepared for what I had to say. It wasn't so much that my story was necessarily the worst (although it was very, very bad), but I doubt that most people who've been that fucked over for so long even understand that there was anything wrong with living that way. For those people, it's very difficult to find someone to care for them because pain and terror and sexual corruption don't make for a very appealing kid.
I don't recall how I started the tale. For years, I'd been telling it in one way or another to any adult who'd listen. The results up until then didn't inspire much hope. I told her everything. It took several sessions to get through it all. I'm not sure whether I had completely mastered dissociating at will under all conditions. There were some situations in which I had no control--I dissociated immediately even if I didn't want to. I also don't know which emotion was most visible--my anger or my pain.
So week after week, we trudged through some of the worst stories I had to tell. I liked the young woman; she didn't seem to be immediately repelled or incredulous. Right off the bat, that put her in the top two percent of adults I liked. Understandably, I had a generally negative view of the adult world. Aside from my beloved teacher, I ended up wanting to kill the last adult I'd trusted with my secrets.
I went to talk to my counselor when I was 14. My best friend had talked me into going and was kind enough to go with me. I started out with the old "my friend has a problem blah blah, etc." I wish I could remember the moron counselor's name. Anyway, I went through this wrenching tale and waited for her response. She leaned back in her chair and started telling me that everyone has problems. She herself had problems, the biggest of which was that she was paralyzed on one side of her face. Wow. How could I possibly compete with that? She told me that when she cried, tears only came out of one of her eyes. There's a cross to bear, alright. I had supreme contempt for her. How could she possibly think that compared to the Auschwitz of the life I was living? If I hadn't hated adults before, she definitely gave me a hearty shove in that direction. I still haven't forgiven her.
My point here is that I never found adults to be particularly reliable. Oh my god, I just realized what an understatement that was--it's actually almost funny. Her name just game to me--my social worker's name was Mary. After I'd laid out as much of my life as I could for her examination, she asked me what I wanted to do. I honestly didn't know there was going to be something I'd have to do. The deal was that I had to allow Mary to tell Child Protective Services (or whatever it was called then) or we were through with the sessions. It was like I'd been hit in the face with a brick. I was terrified of telling anyone because I knew that, if I wasn't taken away, I'd have created an even more dangerous situation for myself. I knew exactly what would be waiting for me at home and, even though I might have wanted to die, I wanted it to be as painless as possible. That would most certainly not be my dad's way.
Quote of the day:
"If you see a whole thing - it seems that it's always beautiful. Planets, lives.... But close up a world's all dirt and rocks. And day to day, life's a hard job, you get tired, you lose the pattern." ~ Ursual K. Leguin
America held hostage day 1302
Bushism of the day:
"Speaking about barbaric regimes, we must deal with probably one of the most—not probably—one of the most real threats we face, and that is the idea of a barbaric regime teaming up with a terrorist network and providing weapons of mass destruction to hold the United States and our allies and our friends blackmail."
Source: FDCH Political Transcripts, "George W. Bush Participates in Alexander for Senate Luncheon," Sept. 17, 2002
Website of the Day: Dr. Andrew Weil's Self Healing
http://www.drweilselfhealing.com/default.asp
Another Reason Why Work Makes Me Want to Beat My Head Against a Wall
I used to be the person at my office who was responsible for staff supervision, until I got sick of not getting support from anyone and stopped doing it. (Yes, I can do that.) So now, four years later, the two people who are supposed to be supervising have found that it's infinitely easier just to talk to each other (whine and complain and generally get worked up) about problems with the people they are supposed to be supervising. Or they talk to me. If there's a problem with one of the staff members, no one tells them so guess what? That's right! They keep on having the same problems over and over and over. Can you see how this could drive me crazy?
The current manifestation of this problem is with Karen. She sent an email several weeks ago to S (yes, one of the supervisors), asking her to talk with J. regarding a raise (who is S's supervisor). S. then forwarded that email to me, asking how I thought she should handle it, given the fact that when J. hears about this, his head is going to explode. I wrote her back with several options. I did that because S. is a friend I've worked with for a good decade or so. It doesn't really matter what the options were, but suffice it to say that I provided her with a couple of ways to sidestep the issue and a couple of ways to be honest. I was fairly certain that honesty would not be the chosen route, since it would involve a certain amount of confrontation and, hence, dealing with Karen when she started to cry. Karen's a big cryer and I can't think of anything more likely to cause her to cry than actual constructive criticism.
Yesterday, I was sitting in S's office when she brought up the dreaded raise problem. She had just decided to ignore the email. I don't know--maybe she thought Karen would take a hint. Well she thought wrong. Karen got tired of waiting and forwarded the original email to J and the owner of the company. As we discussed this turn of events, J. walks in and S. has to tell him what we were talking about. The first words out of his mouth were, "Well, she doesn't want to hear from me." Nothing that Karen does makes him happy. There's absolutely nothing positive he can say about her. So what's the solution? Well, he could actually think about it and find specific areas in which she should improve, but oh no, that would be too hard.
This morning when I'm talking to S., J. starts again. "She doesn't want to hear from me because she never does anything right." I suggested that since she doesn't do anything adequately, maybe now is a good time to give her oh i don't know some idea that they're unhappy with her work. Oh no. Heavens no. He tells S. to deal with it.
Doesn't he get it? S. doesn't want to deal with it. They'd much rather sit around a whine and complain about her (and several other people on staff) to me and to each other. Oh my God this drives me absolutely fucking insane!
Okay, that's it. I'm through complaining for the day (I think). We're having happy admin professional day today at lunch. Oh boy. That'll be fun.
The current manifestation of this problem is with Karen. She sent an email several weeks ago to S (yes, one of the supervisors), asking her to talk with J. regarding a raise (who is S's supervisor). S. then forwarded that email to me, asking how I thought she should handle it, given the fact that when J. hears about this, his head is going to explode. I wrote her back with several options. I did that because S. is a friend I've worked with for a good decade or so. It doesn't really matter what the options were, but suffice it to say that I provided her with a couple of ways to sidestep the issue and a couple of ways to be honest. I was fairly certain that honesty would not be the chosen route, since it would involve a certain amount of confrontation and, hence, dealing with Karen when she started to cry. Karen's a big cryer and I can't think of anything more likely to cause her to cry than actual constructive criticism.
Yesterday, I was sitting in S's office when she brought up the dreaded raise problem. She had just decided to ignore the email. I don't know--maybe she thought Karen would take a hint. Well she thought wrong. Karen got tired of waiting and forwarded the original email to J and the owner of the company. As we discussed this turn of events, J. walks in and S. has to tell him what we were talking about. The first words out of his mouth were, "Well, she doesn't want to hear from me." Nothing that Karen does makes him happy. There's absolutely nothing positive he can say about her. So what's the solution? Well, he could actually think about it and find specific areas in which she should improve, but oh no, that would be too hard.
This morning when I'm talking to S., J. starts again. "She doesn't want to hear from me because she never does anything right." I suggested that since she doesn't do anything adequately, maybe now is a good time to give her oh i don't know some idea that they're unhappy with her work. Oh no. Heavens no. He tells S. to deal with it.
Doesn't he get it? S. doesn't want to deal with it. They'd much rather sit around a whine and complain about her (and several other people on staff) to me and to each other. Oh my God this drives me absolutely fucking insane!
Okay, that's it. I'm through complaining for the day (I think). We're having happy admin professional day today at lunch. Oh boy. That'll be fun.
26 April 2005
Feral Kitties and a Movie Option
Just a little catching up to do. The guy that my boss was trying to impress by redoing the office and actually tidying up his own office (achieved by just cramming things willy nilly into cardboard boxes) arrived for a visit last week. Here's the real absurdity: After all of that effort, my boss decided not to hire him. God, I'm afraid to think about what will happen when they locate another candidate.
On the feral kitty front, one of our oldest kitties finally allowed me to pet him. He was born about five years ago and he's come and gone several times since then. He'll come by for a month or so and then leave for months at a time. Then he'll turn up again. He's been with us now for several months. He's absolutely beautiful--gold with a leonine head. He's a very big guy and, much like the other big guy (my dog) in my life, he's not that interested in moving around too much. For the longest time, if I didn't manage to toss his treats directly to him, he just was not going to get them. Even if my aim was only a couple of inches away from him. Today, I was handing out treats and he came within an arm's length of me. I gave him his treats and just reached over and petted him. After he finished his treats, he smelled my hand and decided he'd move a little farther away. As soon as I started handing out more treats, he came right over and let me pet him again. This is a major accomplishment and I'm very touched that he trusts me.
I've been immersed in basketball since Sunday. My old friends would never guess that I've got a major basketball jones. I used to be adamantly anti-sports of all kinds. I don't understand why I can't have a basketball playoff leave. Well, while we're at it, I think a March Madness leave would also be nice.
Hubby has had three queries regarding optioning one of his books for a movie. No one is getting too excited yet because these things may not necessarily pan out. The book has been optioned twice (I think, maybe three times) before. Obviously, they never made a movie. Hubby would like for that to hapen, but he's pretty happy with just getting option cash.
I've been getting a reprieve from eating at home this week. Man, once you have a taste of real food, it's hard to go back to jerky.
Here's the quote of the day;
"If man could be crossed with the cat, it would improve man but deteriorate the cat." ~ Mark Twain
America held hostage day 1301
Bushism of the day:
"Oftentimes, we live in a processed world—you know, people focus on the process and not results."
—Bush, speaking on the Middle East peace process
Source: Public Papers of the Presidents, "Interview With Print Journalists," June 2, 2003
Website of the day; Investigating New Imperialism
http://www.williambowles.info/
On the feral kitty front, one of our oldest kitties finally allowed me to pet him. He was born about five years ago and he's come and gone several times since then. He'll come by for a month or so and then leave for months at a time. Then he'll turn up again. He's been with us now for several months. He's absolutely beautiful--gold with a leonine head. He's a very big guy and, much like the other big guy (my dog) in my life, he's not that interested in moving around too much. For the longest time, if I didn't manage to toss his treats directly to him, he just was not going to get them. Even if my aim was only a couple of inches away from him. Today, I was handing out treats and he came within an arm's length of me. I gave him his treats and just reached over and petted him. After he finished his treats, he smelled my hand and decided he'd move a little farther away. As soon as I started handing out more treats, he came right over and let me pet him again. This is a major accomplishment and I'm very touched that he trusts me.
I've been immersed in basketball since Sunday. My old friends would never guess that I've got a major basketball jones. I used to be adamantly anti-sports of all kinds. I don't understand why I can't have a basketball playoff leave. Well, while we're at it, I think a March Madness leave would also be nice.
Hubby has had three queries regarding optioning one of his books for a movie. No one is getting too excited yet because these things may not necessarily pan out. The book has been optioned twice (I think, maybe three times) before. Obviously, they never made a movie. Hubby would like for that to hapen, but he's pretty happy with just getting option cash.
I've been getting a reprieve from eating at home this week. Man, once you have a taste of real food, it's hard to go back to jerky.
Here's the quote of the day;
"If man could be crossed with the cat, it would improve man but deteriorate the cat." ~ Mark Twain
America held hostage day 1301
Bushism of the day:
"Oftentimes, we live in a processed world—you know, people focus on the process and not results."
—Bush, speaking on the Middle East peace process
Source: Public Papers of the Presidents, "Interview With Print Journalists," June 2, 2003
Website of the day; Investigating New Imperialism
http://www.williambowles.info/
21 April 2005
Day Trip to hell
Darkness everywhere today. Driving back from dropping four babies and a fierce mom kitty at the vet, "Low Spark of High Heeled Boys," Traffic, 1973. The last time I heard that song I was standing on a balcony in college, having been unceremoniously dumped by my boyfriend. It was after I'd been raped and the rejection was somehow more than I could bear.
It was less about him than about my personal history. I was only 19 and I couldn't see it then. The ways my early years stole from me the possibility of uncontaminated love. Virtually every thing I did was infected with the past.
It's just been one of those weeks when darkness has overtaken me. I'm still taking antidepressants, but sometimes they don't help at all. I'm not sure why. Well, there are so many reasons. I miss my friend who died last year. Musculoskeletal spasm, always good for a little emotional day trip to hell. I don't know. It doesn't do me much good to speculate and examine.
It was less about him than about my personal history. I was only 19 and I couldn't see it then. The ways my early years stole from me the possibility of uncontaminated love. Virtually every thing I did was infected with the past.
It's just been one of those weeks when darkness has overtaken me. I'm still taking antidepressants, but sometimes they don't help at all. I'm not sure why. Well, there are so many reasons. I miss my friend who died last year. Musculoskeletal spasm, always good for a little emotional day trip to hell. I don't know. It doesn't do me much good to speculate and examine.
20 April 2005
Rushing into Darkness
In 1968 on an empty two-lane highway, I was riding in the backseat of my dad's Candy Apple Red Thunderbird. I had rolled the windows down in an attempt to pretend I was anywhere but there. As usual, I wasn't very effective at blocking out reality. As the cool, humid night air whipped my hair around my face, in between thinking up new reasons to hate my dad, i wrote a poem. I didn't need any new reasons to hate him. I had plenty already.
We were coming back from Kountze, Texas. A small, red-necked town located squarely in the anus of Texas. I even hated the way it sounded. My father had insisted I come with him, for reasons I can't figure out to this day. I could speculate, but I won't because speculation will only lead me to some conclusions I'd really rather not dwell on. Anyway, on the outskirts of this podunk town, we turned down a dirt road. We hadn't gone very far before I saw an abandoned house in a clearing up ahead. There weren't any other houses around, just trees and underbrush. The windows in the house were all gone and I don't think it even had a door left. My dad parked the car and then I got it.
He was meeting his 17-year old wife there. I was immediately enraged....that he had brought me along, that he was married to someone only three years older than I, enraged that I had probably believed she was out of my life for good. Right up until that moment. There she was, waiting for him.
They went off into the woods to fuck. Pretty romantic, right? So what was I supposed to do? There definitely wasn't any television or radio. I hadn't brought a book along for some reason, probably because he had lied to me about where we were going. He must have lied because otherwise I most assuredly wouldn't have agreed to come. I hated her. I hated him.
I explored the empty house and came upon some letters left in a closet. I can't imagine why they were still there; the house had obviously been abandoned for some time. They were love letters written by a married woman who was carrying on an affair. Okay, I could be mistaken about that. It just all seems a little too coincidental.
I hung around, thinking about how much I wanted to murder my father. That's not hyperbole. If I had known of a way to do it so that I wouldn't have gotten caught, if I'd had the means and the opportunity, I would have killed him. Have no doubt about that. Luckily, I didn't have any of those three things, so I spent a lot of time nursing my anger and hatred. To this day, when I think about these memories, I'm almost overwhelmed by the intensity of my anger. As I reach back into the heart of the nightmare I used to live every single fucking day of my life, I want to back away. The only way out of pain is to walk directly through it.
They wandered back after some time. More kissing and hugging. I hate you, hate you, hate you. I hope you die and burn in hell. I hope your dick falls off. It was time to go. I got in the back seat of the car, knowing that I could erase my present circumstances from consciousness only if he wasn't sitting there beside me, a gigantic piece of stinking shit. I think it pissed him off that I wouldn't sit in the front seat. Excellent. My father hadn't hit me for a couple of years and he'd already isolated me from my friends who knew about the situation, so I wasn't too concerned about his anger. At that point, if he'd killed me, it would have been a relief. I had nothing to lose, so I maintained my position in the back seat and proceeded to ignore him.
I composed a poem. All I remember now is the lines, "We are rushing into darkness, we are rushing into nowhere." Scant comfort at the time.
Menu recap from yesterday: Burgers and canned sweet potatoes.
Here's the quote of the day:
"We do not grow absolutely, chronologically. We grow sometimes in one dimension, and not in another; unevenly. We grow partially. We are relative. We are mature in one realm, childish in another. The past, present, and future mingle and pull us backward, forward, or fix us in the present. We are made up of layers, cells, constellations." ~ Anais Nin
America held hostage day 1,925
Bushism of the day:
"I'm going to spend a lot of time on Social Security. I enjoy it. I enjoy taking on the issue. I guess, it's the Mother in me." —Washington D.C., April 14, 2005
Important note:For more defining Bush moments, please check here: http://slate.msn.com/id/76886/
Website of the day:
CALM Research Center
http://www.calm.com.au/
We were coming back from Kountze, Texas. A small, red-necked town located squarely in the anus of Texas. I even hated the way it sounded. My father had insisted I come with him, for reasons I can't figure out to this day. I could speculate, but I won't because speculation will only lead me to some conclusions I'd really rather not dwell on. Anyway, on the outskirts of this podunk town, we turned down a dirt road. We hadn't gone very far before I saw an abandoned house in a clearing up ahead. There weren't any other houses around, just trees and underbrush. The windows in the house were all gone and I don't think it even had a door left. My dad parked the car and then I got it.
He was meeting his 17-year old wife there. I was immediately enraged....that he had brought me along, that he was married to someone only three years older than I, enraged that I had probably believed she was out of my life for good. Right up until that moment. There she was, waiting for him.
They went off into the woods to fuck. Pretty romantic, right? So what was I supposed to do? There definitely wasn't any television or radio. I hadn't brought a book along for some reason, probably because he had lied to me about where we were going. He must have lied because otherwise I most assuredly wouldn't have agreed to come. I hated her. I hated him.
I explored the empty house and came upon some letters left in a closet. I can't imagine why they were still there; the house had obviously been abandoned for some time. They were love letters written by a married woman who was carrying on an affair. Okay, I could be mistaken about that. It just all seems a little too coincidental.
I hung around, thinking about how much I wanted to murder my father. That's not hyperbole. If I had known of a way to do it so that I wouldn't have gotten caught, if I'd had the means and the opportunity, I would have killed him. Have no doubt about that. Luckily, I didn't have any of those three things, so I spent a lot of time nursing my anger and hatred. To this day, when I think about these memories, I'm almost overwhelmed by the intensity of my anger. As I reach back into the heart of the nightmare I used to live every single fucking day of my life, I want to back away. The only way out of pain is to walk directly through it.
They wandered back after some time. More kissing and hugging. I hate you, hate you, hate you. I hope you die and burn in hell. I hope your dick falls off. It was time to go. I got in the back seat of the car, knowing that I could erase my present circumstances from consciousness only if he wasn't sitting there beside me, a gigantic piece of stinking shit. I think it pissed him off that I wouldn't sit in the front seat. Excellent. My father hadn't hit me for a couple of years and he'd already isolated me from my friends who knew about the situation, so I wasn't too concerned about his anger. At that point, if he'd killed me, it would have been a relief. I had nothing to lose, so I maintained my position in the back seat and proceeded to ignore him.
I composed a poem. All I remember now is the lines, "We are rushing into darkness, we are rushing into nowhere." Scant comfort at the time.
Menu recap from yesterday: Burgers and canned sweet potatoes.
Here's the quote of the day:
"We do not grow absolutely, chronologically. We grow sometimes in one dimension, and not in another; unevenly. We grow partially. We are relative. We are mature in one realm, childish in another. The past, present, and future mingle and pull us backward, forward, or fix us in the present. We are made up of layers, cells, constellations." ~ Anais Nin
America held hostage day 1,925
Bushism of the day:
"I'm going to spend a lot of time on Social Security. I enjoy it. I enjoy taking on the issue. I guess, it's the Mother in me." —Washington D.C., April 14, 2005
Important note:For more defining Bush moments, please check here: http://slate.msn.com/id/76886/
Website of the day:
CALM Research Center
http://www.calm.com.au/
18 April 2005
It's Hard to Hurt Me Now
As of last Thursday morning, I've been having a musculoskeletal spasm. Yes, it hurts as bad as it sounds. Luckily, it's consideraly better than the ones I used to have when I'd be lying in bed for five to seven days with a crushing headache. In the bad old days, it felt like there was absolutely no padding around any of my skeleton. Everything hurt. The current manifestation includes pain whenever I move, but it's defintely bearable. Oddly enough, people keep asking me if my back hurts. I guess I'm moving a bit more gingerly than usual. The spasm has lasted through the weekend and I'm still in a moderate amount of pain. That might actually be a lot of pain for everyone else. I have a very high tolerance for pain. I guess you could say that's one of the up sides to having been abused. It's pretty hard to hurt me now. Woo-hoo.
Early Sunday morning (5:00 a.m.) I heard Ruski making some noise in the living room. It sounded like he just needed to have some help getting up. I went in to check on him, lifted him up and he started going into seizure. This one was probably a grand mal seizure because his limbs were moving violently, he lost control of his bladder and peed on me, made some weird vocal sounds and was frothing a bit at the mouth. The brilliant one here was afraid he was going to bite his tongue, so I just stuck my fingers in his mouth. He bit my finger instead. It was over very quickly and I brought him some food and water, thinking that might make him feel better. He seemed to be better then and I debated spending the rest of the night on the sofa, but ultimately I decided to go to bed since I could hear him if anything else occurred. He moved around just a little after I went to bed and, each time, I called out to him so that he would know I hadn't completely abandoned him. It was one of the worst things imaginable, feeling so helpless when he needed me. He's been fine since then and has been eating regularly. His doctor is not helpful at all. She thinks he has too many symptoms. (What???) I'm considering switching to another vet I've come to know because of the feral kitties.
Okay, speaking of dogs and cats, that new program called "Showdog Moms and Dads" is just the sickest thing I've seen lately. (fyi: calling something "sick" isn't necessarily bad to me) Having seen those people, who treat their dogs like children (or better than their children in one case), I'm a lot saner than that. It's funny really--I take enough psychiatric medication to kill a proverbial horse, but even without medication I'm more mentally healthy than they.
Running a little late today, so no more time to write. Tomorrow. Here's the quote of the day:
"The secret source of humour itself is not joy, but sorrow. There is no humour in heaven." ~ Mark Twain
America held hostage day 1923
Bushism of the day:
"If they pre-decease or die early, there's an asset base to be able to pass on to a loved one."—On Social Security money stored in private accounts, Cedar Rapids, Iowa, March 30, 2005
Website of the day: Contents @ the informal education homepage
http://www.infed.org/
Early Sunday morning (5:00 a.m.) I heard Ruski making some noise in the living room. It sounded like he just needed to have some help getting up. I went in to check on him, lifted him up and he started going into seizure. This one was probably a grand mal seizure because his limbs were moving violently, he lost control of his bladder and peed on me, made some weird vocal sounds and was frothing a bit at the mouth. The brilliant one here was afraid he was going to bite his tongue, so I just stuck my fingers in his mouth. He bit my finger instead. It was over very quickly and I brought him some food and water, thinking that might make him feel better. He seemed to be better then and I debated spending the rest of the night on the sofa, but ultimately I decided to go to bed since I could hear him if anything else occurred. He moved around just a little after I went to bed and, each time, I called out to him so that he would know I hadn't completely abandoned him. It was one of the worst things imaginable, feeling so helpless when he needed me. He's been fine since then and has been eating regularly. His doctor is not helpful at all. She thinks he has too many symptoms. (What???) I'm considering switching to another vet I've come to know because of the feral kitties.
Okay, speaking of dogs and cats, that new program called "Showdog Moms and Dads" is just the sickest thing I've seen lately. (fyi: calling something "sick" isn't necessarily bad to me) Having seen those people, who treat their dogs like children (or better than their children in one case), I'm a lot saner than that. It's funny really--I take enough psychiatric medication to kill a proverbial horse, but even without medication I'm more mentally healthy than they.
Running a little late today, so no more time to write. Tomorrow. Here's the quote of the day:
"The secret source of humour itself is not joy, but sorrow. There is no humour in heaven." ~ Mark Twain
America held hostage day 1923
Bushism of the day:
"If they pre-decease or die early, there's an asset base to be able to pass on to a loved one."—On Social Security money stored in private accounts, Cedar Rapids, Iowa, March 30, 2005
Website of the day: Contents @ the informal education homepage
http://www.infed.org/
15 April 2005
The Ultimate Way, Yuan-wu (1063-1135)
This quote is from DailyZen.com. It's a lovely site and includes commentary on the lengthy quote below. It's definitely worth a visit!
The ultimate Way is simple and easy, yet profoundly deep. From the beginning it does not set up steps. Penetrate directly through to freedom and make it so that there is not the slightest obstruction at any time, twenty-four hours a day, with the realization pervading in all directions.Then your heart will be clear, comprehending the present and the past. Picking up a blade of grass, you can use it for the body of Buddha; taking the body of the Buddha, you can use it as a blade of grass. From the first there is no superiority or inferiority, no grasping or rejection.
When your insight penetrates freely and its application is clear, then even in the middle of complexity and complication, you yourself can move freely without sticking or lingering anywhere. Thus, without setting up any rigid views or maintaining any state, respond freely: "when the wind blows, the grasses bend."
When you enter enlightenment in actual practice, you penetrate to the profound source, cultivating this until you realize freedom of mind, harboring nothing in your heart. Did the Zen founder actually "bring" this teaching when he came to China from India? He just pointed directly to the inherent nature in every one of us, clear and clean, to not be stained by so much false knowledge and false consciousness, delusory conceptions, and judgments.
Study must be true study. Open your heart, without the slightest sense of the ordinary or the holy and see for yourself. When you do not seek outside, real truth is always there, resting peacefully, immutable. No one can block this realization, not even a thousand sages or teachers; having attained a pure, clean and naked state, you pass through to the other side of the empty eon. Why even speak of seeking from others?
The Zen masters were all like this, ever since the founders. Take the example of the Sixth Patriarch: he was an illiterate woodcutter in south China, but when he came and met the Fifth Patriarch, at their first meeting he opened his heart and clearly passed through to freedom.
Once you merge your tracks in the stream of Zen, spend the days silencing your mind and studying with your whole being, knowing this great cause is not attained from anyone else. It is just a matter of bearing up bravely and strongly, day by day dropping away, like pure gold smelted and refined thousands of times.
This work lies in one's conduct: in everyday life's varied mix of myriad circumstances, in the dusty hubbub, amidst the ups and downs of situations. Be present and clear without being too distracted by any of it. Actively transmute confusion into clarity. Keep to the middle way, immune to outside influences; this is your
On reaching emptiness, there is no duality between noise and quiet. Even when it comes to extraordinary words, marvelous statements, unique acts, and absolute perspectives, you just level them with one measure. Ultimately they have no right or wrong, it's all in how you use them.
When you have continued grinding and polishing yourself like this for a long time, you will be free in the midst of birth and death and look upon society's useless honor and ruinous profit as like dust in the wind, phantoms in dreams, flowers in the sky. Passing unattached through the world, would you not then be a great saint who has left the dusts?
When Zen study reaches this point, one is flexible, compassionate, and empty, not susceptible to human deceptions.
Yuan-wu (1063-1135)
— Excerpted from "The Five Houses of Zen" Trans by Thomas Cleary
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