The End of Michael

One thing I've learned in all these years is not to make love when you really don't feel it; there's probably nothing worse you can do to yourself than that." ~ Norman Mailer

After we started dating, he sent me erudite letters and books he thought I might like (or should like). I always liked guys who loved me for my brain. It seemed like a positive sign at first. As the relationship wore on, whenever he was in town our dates were always the same. Movies (always something like "Richard the Lionheart" or "The Lion in Winter") then a place to make out. Making out, making out.

I remember the first time, wondering if I was going to be able to empty my mind of the sexual abuse by my uncle and the other kind of sexual abuse that went on with my parents. We went to a church parking lot and I remember thinking that being there was maybe going to help me focus on the sanctity of human contact. I shut my brain down altogether. I didn't think, I didn't emote. I was present physically and it seemed to protect me from my demons.

It didn't take long before he started asking every time, "Are you on the pill?" No. No. No again. I wasn't sure exactly how he thought I was going to get them. Tell my mom to make an appointment for me? I don't think so. That would be my ticket to even more hell than the one in which I was currently living. At the same time, I felt guilty that I couldn't figure out how to accomplish it. Deep down, though, I was afraid that, no matter how shut down I was, having sex would be opening Pandora's Box. I wasn't sure what would come out, but I was certain that it wasn't going to be good.

As time wore on, I started seeing other people. They knew that my heart belonged to Michael and that they were just diversions. I'm ashamed that I treated people that way. I began to wonder if Michael thought I needed some more intellectual molding to be worthy of his enormous brain power. That pissed me off. I thought I was doing just fine by myself. I didn't need a boyfriend who thought it was his mission to educate me. Let's see now...who does that remind me of? Right. My dad.

Finally one night, I just couldn't do it anymore. It was summer and the thought of spending all of my summer weekends that way made me feel imprisoned. I waited until he showed up for our regular Friday night date. I had some friends with me for moral support. We stood by his car and I told him I didn't want to see him anymore. To this day, I regret breaking up that way. I require compassion from myself. Even when I was struggling to just get through another day of living in hell. I should have been able to find a more graceful way to deal with the situation. (Oh wait...that's the voice of the Fascist in my head, who thinks I should be perfect.)

Michael didn't make any effort to talk me out of it. We didn't speak again until about a year later, when I let him exact his revenge. I even told my best friend, when she asked, that she could date him if she wished. I move on. No hanging on to people; when I'm done with them, I'm really done. For me, there was always someone waiting in the wings. I made certain of that.

More Adventures in Cancer Land

"Modesty is the conscience of the body." ~ Honore de Balzac

Yesterday, after I got home from my visit with the dog I'm hoping to adopt, I got another call from my oncologist's nurse. She had called Tuesday to find out if I'd had a mammogram done. (She's the one who ultimately confirmed I didn't need one when I was there last week. Shirley drives me crazy.) The minute I heard her say her name, I panicked. She told me before that the mammogram was fine, but the white blood count was a little off. No reason to worry, she said on Tuesday. So when she called yesterday, I thought maybe he'd changed his mind about the blood work. After telling me her name, she could have at least told me immediately that everything is okay. The less I hear from my cancer doctors (all of them, even my beloved Dr. Ross), the happier I am.

I was looking for something in my suitcase last night and I came across my photo panties. I'm not sure I shared any info about that. The first time I saw my plastic surgeon, they made me take everything off and put on the teeny, tiny little panties. Now I don't mind people looking at my mastectomy. I've had so many strangers looking and touching that the whole breast thing is no big deal. (I've even threatened to make people look at it if they give me any trouble about anything.) The doctor made me drop my gown and stand in front of him (on a little platform). He made me turn around so he could look at my backside. Okay. This is difficult for anyone, I think, who doesn't undress for a living, but for a survivor of sexual abuse, it's pretty harrowing.

The only way I could get through it was to dissociate. Dissociation has caused problems for me all of my life, but sometimes it's a huge help. This was definitely one of those times. I know the man had no interest in me other than as a surgeon, but that didn't make it any easier. With any luck, I'll never have to do that again. He's very sweet and tries to make it less uncomfortable for me, but it has been a very very long time since any man, other than my hubby, looked at me without clothes. Standing on a pedestal makes it even more fun.

The point was that he was trying to figure out where to take the skin and tissue for reconstruction. There are three places they normally use: the tummy, the back or the butt. I don't have much to spare in any of those places, but we're going with the tummy. I'm still trying to get over the fact that, because my bra size is 36D, I probably won't be able to have it reconstructed to that size. It has to do with the weight of the breast potentially tearing the veins that will be sutured together. I'll probably need to have a breast reduction on the other side so I'll match. As anyone would tell you, my breasts used to be one of my best anatomical features. Have I mentioned lately that I really hate having breast cancer? The good news is that the tummy tuck will return me to that fabulous pre-50 flat stomach. Of course, I'll have a scar that runs all the way across my stomach, but as I said, no one ever sees me other than Hubby. At this point in our relationship, a scar isn't even going to faze him...I've looked pretty wretched for most of the past year. Virtually anything would be an improvement.

Yesterday I went to see the dog I chose to consider adopting at the animal shelter. Oh my goodness, he was so exuberant! He was so excited to have human contact and to be out of that wretched kennel that I had trouble calming him down. I'm generally able to calm virtually anyone or anything down just a little bit, anyway. He started to hunch my head as I knelt down to put his leash on. That's got to stop immediately. For a number of reasons. First of all, it's gross. It's also humiliating for other people to see. Most importantly, it's a dominance thing. The dog should give up any hope of dominating me, as soon as possible. We started working on it yesterday. I cupped my hand over the bridge of his nose several times (that's also a dominance thing) and he responded immediately.

Later today I'm having a "meet and greet" with him and Miss Woo. I'm tired just thinking about it.

America held hostage day 1686

Bushism of the day:

"And I am an optimistic person. I guess if you want to try to find something to be pessimistic about, you can find it, no matter how hard you look, you know?" - Washington, D.C., June 15, 2004

Oncologists, Plastic Surgeons and Huskies

"You can say any fool thing to a dog and the dog will give you this look that says, 'My god, you're RIGHT! I NEVER would have thought of that.'" ~ Dave Barry

I got back from M.D. Anderson late Friday afternoon. What a debacle! I had a mammogram check-in scheduled for 7:00 a.m. (Have I mentioned that I'm not a morning person?) I drug my butt out of bed at some barbaric time of day only to find that I didn't need a mammogram. My oncologist just hadn't seen the mammogram I did the last time I was there. I had blood work scheduled and that went fine...they're virtually always on time. My next appointment was at 1:15 with my plastic surgeon, followed by an appointment with my oncologist at 1:30.

They led me back to the little exam room at around 1:20, made me put on "photo panties" and a gown. The doctor didn't show up until around 3:45. I'm very claustrophobic, so by then, I needed several tranquilizers. My mom kept suggesting that maybe we should let someone know about my appointment with the oncologist. "Oh no. That's okay," I kept saying, "They always know where you are." Right. That worked before, but not this time. I ended up missing my oncologist appointment altogether. I really wished to see the plastic surgeon, but even I would admit that the oncologist visit was more important. I got a call from his nurse this morning, telling me that the mammogram was fine and my white count was a little low, but not enough to worry about. I'm currently trying to be okay with that statement. (I tend to panic a little after the experience with the mammogram radiologist here.)

The good news is that I can have reconstruction surgery as soon as I can schedule it. That may be as early as January and as late as March. The plastic surgeons are really busy there. I can't call his scheduler until Friday to give the paperwork a chance to catch up with me. On the one hand, I really look forward to getting this over with. On the other hand, I'm aware that it's not going to be fun in a very big way. I'm working hard to get back in good physical condition so that my recovery will be easier. I've managed to do yoga three nights a week at this point and I'm going to add stationery bicycle this evening. I'm just going to do 15 minutes at a slow pace with no resistance. I'll just have to see how that goes. If I'm not exhausted tomorrow, I'll continue to use the bike once or twice a week.

The other news is that I'm in the process of getting another huskie. I had contacted a rescue organization and met this wonderful boy named Sebastian, but he's big and wildly enthusidastic about everything. I thought about adopting from the Humane Society, but when I went to the city's animal shelter, I knew what I had to do. Those dogs will die if someone doesn't adopt them; they're a euthanizing facility. It's been emotionally difficult to go there, but doing the right thing is usually not the easy path.

I met a 10 month old huskie mix when I went by this weekend. He's white and doesn't have a mask, but I'm good with that. He's in the process of being evaluated by the animal behariorists to ensure that he's not aggessive. They told me that they should have that finished by this afternoon. I'm so excited!

As soon as they finish the evaluation process, we can have a "meet and greet" with Sheba. I think they'll get along fine, if her experience with Sebastian was any indication. I've been doing a little reading about how to introduce a new dog into the household. I was right; it's best to have a male and female. The worst combination is two females. Very interesting. I would have thought that two males would be the most aggressive. I think that we probably need to do a couple of get togethers with Miss Sheba Woo.

They won't be open until 11:30, so I'll have to contain my excitement. This makes me very, very happy.

America held hostage day 1684

Bushism of the day:

"I mean, if you've ever been a governor of a state, you understand the vast potential of broadband technology, you understand how hard it is to make sure that physics, for example, is taught in every classroom in the state. It's difficult to do. It's, like, cost-prohibitive." - Washington, D.C., June 24, 2004

Thanksgiving

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.

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/

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/

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.

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/

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

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/

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

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/

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/

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

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).

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/

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.

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.

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/

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.