Opossum Love

I know. Three posts in one day. I couldn't help it. When I was in the bathroom a moment ago, I saw my favorite opossum zipping along (in an opossum kind of way) in the yard two houses away from us. (The office is at the edge of a residential neighborhood.) I'm getting kinda attached. Uh oh.

Quandary in Crazy Land

I have a corner office. This is not quite as impressive as it may seem on first blush. My company is across the street from the former airport, on the other corner, there's an empty Budget car rental office and one of those day-rate hotels where armed police sometimes show up to arrest people for god only knows what goes on there. And yes, I so earned this corner office with two windows and two entrances.

Which brings me to the subject at hand. When I was actively involved with supervising and running things and being made crazy and sick by my job, I left both doors open. People needed access to me and I was a hands-on kind of manager. I was also a really fun manager and people dropped by to share in the fun from time to time.

After about a decade of frenzy, I ceased to be the hub of activity. By that time, I had had a stress-related illness for at least a couple of years. My doctors had that really worried look that you hate to see and that make you a little worried, too. But more about yourself, less about the job. The nurse gave me a lecture every time she saw me about being underweight. I did not own any bathroom scales. Weight loss was definitely not on my mind. My daily schedule consisted of getting up, being completely overwhelmed at work, coming home, eating, lying down on the bed, getting up to work out, then going back to bed. The next day it started all over again.

I now keep those doors closed. I am not friendly to those who hazard walking into my office without knocking. Doors are closed for a reason. Sometimes, like in this case, they're closed for many reasons. It's sort of a metaphor for my relationship with this company or, more accurately, with the employees of this company. They are, individually and as a group, the most dysfunctional people with whom I've ever worked. And that's saying something.

Anyway. I digress. Crazy Employee (mentioned earlier this week) offices right next door to me. She is not allowed to have closed doors. She's not high enough on what passes for a corporate ladder here and her job involves lots of coming and going. Crazy Employee is not so crazy that she believes she can just saunter in to my office via the connecting door. She only recently started coming through that door at all. Naturally, she knocks before entering.

Here's my quandary. I take things to her from time to time and it feels stupid to not use the connecting door, but if I make her knock, shouldn't I allow it? I'm an egalitarian at heart and I loathe being rude without provocation. So now I'm a little paralyzed by indecision. Lately, I've been going through the other door to get to her office. Wouldn't you think I'd have better things to worry about? I do.

I actually used the connecting door a few minutes ago. I did not knock. She was at the reception desk in the foyer, so I didn't have to worry about courtesy. Having said all that, it dawns on me that the Crazy Employee title applies to me every bit as much as it does to everyone else here. It's just that I'm really nice while I'm being crazy.

Bad Wife, Bad Dog

It's a stormy day here and, as I gaze out the window at the canopy of trees, I'm surprised at the various shades of green. It's a visual feast. I thought I'd better write now, because the black mood may be arriving any minute now. So far, I'm just feeling what's come to be my regular level of dissociation. Tell me anything. I won't be moved. I'm watching you from a distance and all is comfortably numb.

Hubby is taking a pre-employment, pre-interview test today with a company that published one of his books. Can't remember which one, though. Does that make me a bad wife? We have no idea what it pays; that seems to be all the rage with companies. Surely you'd like to waste your time applying for a job that, after the first interview, you'll find out the salary sucks and you have absolutely no interest whatsoever in even finishing the interview.

He would be happier in this job than the current job, but that's not really high on my list of priorities. Not like, for instance, replacing my Barney Rubble car. I've been in a funk about my own job this week, so I'm simply not very sympathetic about his distaste for his current job. Life's a bitch, now get on with things.

Andy the Demon Dog continues to beat me up every night. I have bruises all the way up both of my arms and about ten on my left thigh. That's mysterious; I have no idea why it's only that thigh. I made an appointment with his vet for Monday, but they called me back to tell me the doctor won't be in on Monday. Good god, don't they realize that by Tuesday I could just be a carcass lying in my living room? There's no time to waste here.

I'm sure all that's needed is an obedience class for me, with Andy along, of course. The Humane Society has one, but it's a six week class that costs $100. For two of the weekends I'll be out of town dealing with breast cancer. Of course, those two classes will be the ones that focus on keeping your dog from gnawing one of your fingers off. I just don't see paying the cash for a couple of sessions while he's at my house, tearing up the sofa.

Aside from work, I've been spending most of my free time reading the Primo Levy biography. I'm about 3/4 of the way finished, so when my mind isn't otherwise occupied, I'm obsessing about what to read next. I have to obsess about something, you know. Better this than how much I weighed 15 minutes ago and whether I need to go weigh again. I've been trying to branch out into fiction more, but I just bought another non-fiction book, so who knows.

One more thing before I go. I ate two cookies last night and a baked potato. Oh wait. Had to reschedule Andy's appointment until next Wednesday at 6:00 p.m. Perfect way to end my day. If I make it that long. If you don't hear from me before then, I'm probably just missing two or three of my fingers and can't type. Must be time for more cookies.

Why I Should Never Own Bathroom Scales

"Our own physical body possesses a wisdom which we who inhabit the body lack. We give it orders which make no sense. ~ Henry Miller

As I stepped on the bathroom scales this morning, I thought, "I should never be allowed to own one of these things." It makes me crazy. I need to gain weight, but every day I step up and note, with some satisfaction, that I haven't gained any more weight. (That means I get to have a cookie later on. Maybe two.)

I have absolutely no sense of perspective about weight. None. I've really tried hard to get comfortable with my body, no matter how much it weighs. I think of it as a political statement. Madison Avenue should not be allowed to make women feel inadequate. I don't think that was the cause of my weight obsession, but it probably exacerbated it.

Last year, I weighed more than I ever have in my life. I weighed 140 pounds. I'm 5'5 3/4" tall. (Oh my god, that was so brave to say that!) It was the steroids during chemo that caused it. Even knowing that, though, I was in a panic. As I started radiation treatment, all I could think of was that I had to get back to my target weight.

I actually got to my target weight a couple of weeks after I started radiation treatment. Having lost an additional 10 pounds, though, I'm entertaining the idea that maybe I could get down to 115. I weighed 115 forever, but it's been a decade since that forever ended. Why not be satisfied with where I am?

Because I'm just fucking crazy about the weight thing. I got the scales so I could make sure I didn't continue the weight loss trend. I know I shouldn't continue to lose weight. I guess the good news is that I haven't.

Somebody come over and take the damn scales away from me. As if anyone could. Or having taken them, as if I wouldn't just start to get even crazier.

Maybe I should go get a cookie now. Or two. It might not make me less compulsive, but I might feel a little better while I'm eating them. Mmmmm...chocolate.

The Weight of the Opossum World

I just saw an opossum (does anyone ever really use the "O"?) ambling along the top of our privacy fence that separates the office patio from the small, evangelical (somewhat hostile) church next door. At the end of the fence, a big gray and white tom cat watched and waited. I couldn't really tell if the cat had murder in mind or if he was just as surprised as I was to see the guy up and about at 9:30 in the morning.

By the time the opossum (I can't help it...I have to use the "O") made it another foot in Tom's direction, he smelled something amiss. He paused and sniffed the air. Then the O (I'll just call it that) turned around and headed back into the opposite direction. Tough Tom sauntered along after him, not looking particularly dangerous. O. reached a crepe myrtle tree and began his descent.

That's when I gave up watching. If something bloody was going to happen, I didn't want to spoil my morning by intervening. It's hard to have the weight of the opossum world on your shoulders.

Hogging the Pity Vote

"We are discreet sheep; we wait to see how the drove is going, and then go with the drove. We have two opinions: one private, which we are afraid to express; and another one - the one we use - which we force ourselves to wear to please Mrs. Grundy, until habit makes us comfortable in it, and the custom of defending it presently makes us love it, adore it, and forget how pitifully we came by it. Look at it in politics." ~ Mark Twain

It's started already. My esteemed co-workers think Elizabeth Edwards' revelation about her cancer constitutes an attempt to get the pity vote. After I commented that I need to limit how much I think about the subject, they're off and running anyway.

Then they moved on to Tony Snow. I just had to tell them (more than once) that it was making me anxious and depressed to continue that conversation. Finally, I walked away. I came over to my side of the building where, for the moment, I don't have to offer up my opinion "as a cancer survivor" about any of this.

As if the anxiety and depression and fatigue weren't enough, I'm now having colon pain. Thanks, guys, for stressing me out just a little bit more. What the hell. It's important that you express your opinion to me. We all know I can take it, but it might just cause an eensy bit of pain in my stomach. What's the big deal, anyway? I'll stand here and listen to what you have to say, whether it's informed or relevant, whether it's less than generous or difficult to hear.

Apparently it hasn't occurred to anyone that I'm still struggling emotionally. Despite the number of hours I'm whiling away at the office and the fact that the girls are sporting a new bra, even though I regularly (though not always) expend the energy in the morning to actually put on make up. I'm still in free fall. On the inside, I'm still bruised, you assholes. Wake up!

Maybe I'm just being too demanding. Why should anyone get the hint when I tell them I don't want to talk about it anymore? Suddenly the words from an old folk song come to mind, "If I had a hammer, I'd hammer in the morning..." right on the tops of your heads, you inconsiderate lumps of humanity with whom I have to spend my days. Jesus.

I guess I'm just trying to hog some of that pity vote.

What The Hell Is The Matter With Me?

What's the matter with me? At first I thought it was gray day, black mood. Now the sun's come out and I'm still stuck. I even tried a sure-fire remedy: cinnamon mints. Not any better.

Maybe it's just fatigue. I'm up to five hours at work this week, which doesn't seem like much, but it's kicking my ass in a big way. I did yoga last night for the first time in months. Gentle yoga. So gentle it didn't even feel like yoga.

It's hard to discern the difference. Is depression causing fatigue or is fatigue causing depression? I reel from my own vulnerability. I'm hardly ever vulnerable, so it's hard to tolerate, even if no one else can see it.

Furthermore, I'm vulnerable at work. I stopped being emotionally available here many years ago. After the reconstruction surgery, I had a brief bout with it. Now it's back.

Maybe it was the long conversations I've had today with various people regarding cancer. That's hardly ever a good topic. That's doubly true when we're talking about breast cancer.

The day is almost over for me. I don't even want to go home. If I could disappear for just a little while, I'm sure it would perk me right up.

Oh yeah. I forgot that feeling emotion is a good thing. It's like honoring the present moment. I need to work on that, but I'd rather not do it today.

What the hell is the matter with me?

Elizabeth Edwards, Again

"If you're going through hell, keep going," ~ Winston Churchill

Owner of Company is on a rampage. He most definitely does not approve of the Edwards' decision to continue the Presidential campaign. He's been calling me all morning on the intercom, reading his own satires of news stories about them, asking me for synonyms, wanting definitions. He just called me while I'm writing this to tell me that "satire" was, indeed, the word he was looking for, instead of "parody" or "lampoon" or whatever. When Owner of Company gets worked up about something, he can get obsessed. This is a quality we share. I'm just not obsessed about this one.

He thinks that it's really John Edwards' decision to continue the campaign, no matter what his wife wants. I don't know. I don't think that's necessarily the case. Sometimes it's helpful, when you're battling cancer, to just try to get on with daily things. For them, political campaigns are a regular part of their lives. You certainly don't need to be sitting around with nothing to do but think about your diagnosis or how the chemo is making you feel or any of the other wrenching sidetracks you mind creates. Maybe you just campaign, if that's what you do.

Owner of Company thinks John and Elizabeth Edwards should spend their time, however much that is, being with their small children. I have a stepson I first met when he was 7. I don't feel qualified to judge. Owner just told me that they plan to take their children out on the campaign trail with them. I've worked on several political campaigns and they are incredibly grueling, even if you're young and healthy. I'm not sure how much time they'll really have to spend with the kids.

These are very early decisions, though. Those decisions may change as treatment and illness progress. I didn't have stage 4 breast cancer that metastasized to the bone, but early on in treatment, I thought I could maintain my regular schedule. That vision of my future was incorrect. That may be so with Elizabeth Edwards. As I said before, you deal with it however you can.

Everyone has their own way of coping with cancer and with death, I think. I'm reluctant to seem judgmental or be judgmental. It's a tough journey to even get through treatment. I know that when I was first diagnosed, I didn't know where I would find all of the mental, physical and emotional resources I'd have to call upon to endure.

Throughout my own treatment, people felt comfortable suggesting how I might deal with it. Many friends pushed me to confront my feelings about everything that was happening to me. I wasn't hurt or irritated by those suggestions; I didn't have the physical or emotional luxury of being offended. I just plowed through, hanging on until it was over. I know everyone has to find their own way. The path isn't always easy to see.

Owner will be working on emails about this all day. He calls me up and asks me how I feel, as a cancer survivor, about what he has to say. I'm not really the person to ask. I have a predilection for dark humor. I can be very sardonic. What he's saying is fine with me.

But then I don't have Stage 4 breast cancer that's metastasized to my bones. He might need to check back with me should that come to pass. (I'm superstitious about this. I'm knocking on my fiberboard desk.)

Good News

I'm actually wearing a real bra today. Not my little velcro fastened-in-the-front breast vest thingy. Better yet, you can not tell the difference between the girls. That's right--we've moved on from "breast stump" to just one of the girls.

I'm not sure that this is necessarily good news, but I'm increasing my work schedule to five hours this week. I'll just have to see how close I am to crawling out to my BarneyRubblecar before I make a firm decision for all five days. Ultimately, the body's needs will take precedence over my need to get back to a regular schedule. Even if that means staying longer every day in Crazy Land.

I'm also going to try to start a very low-key yoga practice. I haven't done anything physical since my recent surgery. I think yoga will help me to learn how to stand up straight again. It also adds to my range of motion for my arm. Someday soon, I'll be back to cardio workouts and weight training. That will most certainly not be this month or next month. Soon, though.

Obligatory Elizabeth Edwards Post

On the Elizabeth Edwards front, I saw the Sixty Minutes interview and I'd be lying if I didn't say it made me uneasy. I don't like to think about metastasis or recurrence. Unfortunately, people tend to bring it up fairly regularly, so I don't get to completely put it out of my mind. Watching that interview was a gesture of solidarity; I thought it might be uplifting. It wasn't uplifting.

As for the continuation of the Presidential campaign, we all deal with this however we can. She can deal with it by campaigning and continuing on with her normal life as much as is possible. It seems likely to me that there will be some days (maybe many) when treatment will completely exhaust her ability to cope.

Would I do the same thing? Probably not, simply because I'm not strong enough to push myself forward while undergoing chemotherapy. I wasn't before and there's no reason to believe that I've changed in that regard.

I got an email on Friday from owner of Crazy Land railing against the decision. As for me, judging her or her husband is really none of my business. We deal with cancer (as with all life trauma) however we can, we get through treatment however we can. Sometimes you don't know how you'll cope, but eventually you just do it. Elizabeth Edwards is going to cope by getting on with life.

Speaking of Crazy Land, no need to bring a gun. I win. We have not discussed the database, neither with Crazy Employee nor Crazy Employee's Crazy Supervisors. We're not going to ever discuss it. Because I decided.

Somebody Shoot Me. Please.

Remember how I'm so good with relational databases? Remember how I work in Crazy Land?

One Crazy employee has asked me to go through the prehistoric employee database, cull specific information and print it out. Huge numbers of records. Ancient database software. Crazy employee's supervisor has no idea why Crazy employee needs that information. He wants to talk about it next week.

I don't want to talk about it. Yes or no. Very simple. Should I do it or not? I'm hoping for not, because I've tried twice to get the records to print (90% of which are most certainly completely irrelevant) and they just won't. Or they will, but not sorted in the order I specified.

I feel a migraine coming on. The muscles in my neck feel like they've been dipped in cement.

Oh god. Somebody get a gun and shoot me in the head. Before Monday, please.

The Brain That Would Not Shut Up

There's a song that's been running through my head the past couple of days.

"Rock 'n roll hoochie coo

(Rock 'n roll hoochie coo)

Lordy Mama, Wipe my shoes

As opposed to "Lordy Mama, Light my fuse."

I don't remember who recorded it, didn't much like it when it came out, know the correct lyrics (obviously), but it just keeps popping up in my head with the wrong lyrics. Someone please free me from The Brain That Would Not Shut Up. God I hate this.

Blindness Descends

The news story of the little boy who was killed by a convicted sex offender and his family reminded me of a day in my own life. Luckily, no one was murdered in my case. (My therapist would disagree with that conclusion.) I've mentioned before that my parents were sexually abusive, but the abuse was psychological, not physical. The events of that day fill me with such shame that I'm unable to even revisit it except in a fleeting, looking at the scary monster way. The shame has nothing to do with me other than that knowledge of my parents' amorality. Or at least my dad's amorality. I can't really speak to my mom's motivations.

I wrote a post several days ago in which I said that I always believe that people are doing the best they can. One of my friends commented,

"Nobody you know, nobody you don't know, in all the world, has ever done less than their very best, at any time? All around you is perfection and excellence?!"

The answer is that things have been so far from perfect and excellent in my life that hanging on to that belief is the only way to see around the dark center at the heart of my childhood. Do I believe my father was doing the best he could? I have no idea. Most people would say he wasn't. It just all gets very confusing to me, so I choose to believe that which is, in some ways, easiest.

What I do know is that I've been judged and found lacking based on people's inability to see what motivates me. That was one of the great things about Mrs. N. She understood that I was, as a human being (not a student), trying to do the best I could when there really hadn't been any model of moral and ethical conduct I could attempt to emulate. In fact, that's one of the things she gave me: a moral compass beyond that which a 15 year old could formulate in a vacuum.

My therapist and I have had many conversations about people doing the best they can. She's pointed out to me many times that my Inner Fascist was born, in part, out of that struggle to transcend my family's moral sickness. IF cracks the psychological whip much too hard so that I could ensure that I never even approached the road to moral decadence. Children who parent themselves invariably create their own Inner Fascists; it's a survival skill.

However, my therapist, like everyone else I've ever spoken to about it, strenuously disagrees with my theory of human behavior. I understand that position. For me, the things that motivate other people are mysterious and unfathomable. If a parent you love regularly engages in conduct that is terrifyingly abusive, a kind of blindness descends that prevents you from seeing their motivations. If the motivation is simply to enjoy hurting someone else, that blindness is kind.

I've had many sessions with therapists over the years trying to come to grips with my father's sadism. The longer away I am from his suicide, the harder it becomes to understand how I can continue to love him. Obviously, he's the only father I'll ever have. Equally obviously, the best he could ever do was destructive beyond measure.

I don't know. I do the best I can based on where I am at any given moment and I choose to believe that everyone else does, too. As in the case of the six-year old boy, though, sometimes what arises from that "best" is horrifying and maybe even inhuman. The darkness at the center of my life was built around that horror. I've spent the rest of my life trying to see around it.

Black Shirts and the Hydra Head

"In order for the wheel to turn, for life to be lived, impurities are needed, and the impurities of impurities in the soil, too, as is known, if it is to be fertile. Dissension, diversity, the grain of salt and mustard are deeded: Fascism does not want them, forbids them, and that's why you're not a Fascist; it wants everybody to be the same, and you are not. But immaculate virtue does not exist, either, or if it exists it is detestable." ~ Primo Levi

Last Friday, my therapist and I took a longer look back than I have in quite some time. Breast cancer severely limits the energy and interest one can summon to think about one's history. I've had a lot of trouble with my Inner Fascist lately and she became the focus of our delicate probing.

I've been pushing myself physically a bit because I don't wish my co-workers to think I'm a slacker. "Who has ever thought you were a slacker?" My therapist wanted to know. There are many heads to the Inner Fascist Hydra, notably my parents. By the time I was 13, I'd developed my own early version of her and she was already quite a taskmaster.

The only person who ever thought I wasn't working up to my level of capability was my college prep English teacher in my junior year of high school. She was more than that, though. Her name was Mrs. N. She was the first person who ever saw who I really was, not the product of a truly degenerate (I use that word advisedly) living situation, not a young person who was on her way to teen pregnancy and the streets. She saw how hard I tried, how much I kept hidden in order to gain approval from someone, anyone.

Though I placed out of lower division English classes in college and made A's in upper division classes, Mrs. N. never ever gave me an "A". She always told me that I wasn't working hard enough, that I was skating by on inherent smarts instead of applied focus. Oh. I had no idea what she even meant by "working hard." I actually thought I had been giving it my best.

Therein lies the development of one of the Hydra heads. Am I working hard or am I coasting? I can't ever tell. I never could. If I have to try too much, I have a tendency to get bored and move on. If I'm interested, there isn't enough time in the day for me to indulge my intellectual passion. I become obsessed. Some of those obsessions wax and wane repeatedly over the years.

"So what?" my therapist wanted to know. I didn't have much of an answer for that. I suppose the answer is that if I'm not living up to my capabilities, I'm unhappy with myself. I'm unhappy with myself a lot. The Inner Fascist would like to know whose business it is of hers, anyway. IF is perfectly capable of setting the agenda for me. And she looks fabulous in black. She has some mighty impressive boots, too.

Therapist suggests that the Inner Fascist take a hike and that I come to recognize there's no need to push so hard so much of the time. I've been trying to get the IF to take a less active role in my life, but she's pretty dedicated to getting me right. I suppose it's helpful to know how one of the Hydra heads developed, that love has always been the motivation for feeling myself somehow less than I might be.

I would have done anything to please Mrs. N. She saved my life, both figuratively and literally. She died when I was in my early 20's, so I have no way to measure my accomplishments by that touchstone. Would she be pleased? I don't know. I hope so. But the Inner Fascist doesn't think she'd be pleased at all.

Bushism of the day:

"And there is distrust in Washington. I am surprised, frankly, at the amount of distrust that exists in this town. And I'm sorry it's the case, and I'll work hard to try to elevate it." ~ George W. Bush, interview on National Public Radio, Jan. 29, 2007

Verdict

Paul shanley was found guilty of all charges this afternoon and could receive a sentence of life in prison. he will be sentenced at a later date.

Happy Fucking Birthday

I feel like shit today. I've been tinkering with my breakfast menu to try to make it a little more heart-friendly (and fewer calories). I generally have half a bagel, an oatmeal bar and six prunes. Lots of antioxidants, good for macular degeneration and cholesterol. I decided recently to try to eliminate the bagel. I did that today and it was a huge mistake. I've felt so nauseated all morning. The nausea is gone but my stomach is still pretty unhappy with me. I take this handful of pills every morning and I guess the bagel (or something of equal bulk) is necessary to protect my stomach lining from the onslaught of medication. For a while I was thinking maybe I could move some of the pills to lunch time, but the medication I take the most of (antidepressants) has to be taken early. Damn damn damn.

We're getting ready to have an office birthday party. Big fun. Owner of the Crazy Land always ruins the birthday celebrations by talking about inappropriate topics. He has at least three favorites: the company is going out of business and we're all going to be unemployed; he's dying of a tumor and won't be around much longer; and something on the birthday cake looks like snot or a bug or something equally disgusting. He also makes us sing happy birthday, which all of us without exception really hate. That part about the tumor really drives me nuts. That's exactly the kind of thing my dad would do. It irritated me when my dad did it and I have absolutely no patience for it in anyone else. I've pointed out to my boss that he's been saying that to me for at least the past ten years and -- surprise! -- he's still here. He loves to say that shit when he's just done something he knows will piss me off. Of course, it just annoys me more, but god forbid that he should actually learn from experience. As a matter of fact, he has quite a few qualities which are similar to my dad's. Narcissitic. Obtuse. Whiny. Self-pitying. There's more, but I'm running out of time here. My therapist is periodically surprised that I can work in such a triggering environment.

Anyway, when he starts in on his birthday party patter, I'm the only person who will tell the man to shut up or change the subject. I've thought about sitting next to him so I can just elbow him when he starts. I really think someone else should be a big grown-up person and say something instead of waiting for me to do it. I've thought about instituting a fee for my services. I'm thinking ten dollars from every person every time I have to intervene. Seems fair to me. The person we're having a party for is a the Money Man. He's the guy who's getting his instructions directly from Jesus and his opinions from Rush Limbaugh. For such a pious person, there's very damn little of Jesus in his conversations. According to this guy, everyone is a moron or a moral derelict. He has contempt for people who dare to suggest that maybe if we all tried a little harder to get along, the world would be a slightly more pleasant place. Money Man is the guy who had a little pouty party because he thought I said something critical about the San Antonio Spurs basketball team. Jesus. Yes, you asshole, everything is about you.

Other than the anticipation of that fun-filled event, not much is going on today. The sun is finally out, so I'm feeling a little less down today. It's supposed to start raining again this weekend, though. hey, I'll take anything i can get.

here's the quote of the day:
"There is a sort of jealousy which needs very little fire; it is hardly a passion, but a blight bred in the cloudy, damp despondency of uneasy egoism. " ~ George Eliot

america held hostage day 1852
bushism of the day:
"They can get in line like those who have been here legally and have been working to become a citizenship in a legal manner."—Referring to immigrant workers, Washington, D.C., Dec. 20, 2004

website of the day: Gregorian Chants
http://www.christusrex.org/www2/cantgreg/

Paul Shanley Redux

as i mentioned earlier, i've been following paul shanley's trial all this week. the testimony finally wrapped up today with the one and only defense witness. her name is elizabeth loftis. elizabeth has made her living attempting to discredit people who recover memories of past abuse. even though (as far as i know) i have always known about all of the abuse inflicted upon me, i really loathe this woman.

as she was testifying today, she spoke about several studies she's conducted regarding memory. her studies involved things like showing someone photographs of a car accident or telling people they were lost in a grocery store when they were children when, in fact, those events never occurred. some of those people did believe they remembered those events. i don't think it's the same thing at all. i don't think they're even remotely similar to actual recovered memories from people who were abused in childhood. as a matter of fact, i find the comparison insulting.

i do know of at least one case where two teenagers were convinced they had been sexually abused by their father when no abuse (apparently) occurred. part of the reason i'm willing to entertain the idea that the girls were wrong is the circumstances in which the abused supposedly took place. the abuse involved sacrificing babies and a lot of other improbable events. i'm also aware that young children can indeed have things accidentallly implanted in their heads that they then believe to have actually happened. as a matter of fact, i read recently that children who believe but have not, in fact, been abused have exactly the same emotional difficulties as they would had they really been abused. however, i'm aware of many more instances in which people actually did recover memories of abuse years after the abuse occurred. my knee jerk reaction is that the people who would have us believe that recovered memories don't exist are the people who either abuse or shield abusers. that's a fairly extreme position to take, i know.

the jury is now deliberating. the main witness for the prosecution was a young man, now 27, who was one of four victims who reached settlements in their civil cases against the church. the witness was abused for many years, beginning around the age of 6. he believes that many of his problems in life were a result of that abuse. specificallly, he has problems with anger, problems with alcohol and steroids, problems with relationships. there may be more that i'm forgetting. i know that all of those problems could be caused by his sexual abuse. however, the jury may find it difficult to accept because he also had a very difficult childhood in other ways. he had a mom who wasn't there for him, who was into drugs and who physically abused him. his father physically abused him and neglected him.

one of the facts they were not given was that there had been other complaints about shanley as far back as the early 60's. given that fact and his history of being shuffled around from one parish to the next, my guess would be that the man is guilty. i tend to believe the victim unless i can see clear evidence that nothing happened. i would never be allowed to be seated in a child abuse case. it's just a matter of time before the verdict is reached. i'm sure i'll have something to say about it, one way or the other.

here's the quote of the day:
"Thou shalt not be a victim. Thou shalt not be a perpetrator. Above all, thou shalt not be a bystander." ~ Holocaust Museum, Washington, D.C.

america held hostage day 1851
bushism of the day:
"It's a time of sorrow and sadness when we lose a loss of life."—Washington, D.C., Dec. 21, 2004website of the day: The Online Guide to Traditional Games
http://www.tradgames.org.uk/index.html

Cold and Gray Day

i have a crushing headache today and i can feel my level of depression rising for every day there is no sun. cold, gray weather always reminds me of my childhood. as a matter of fact, if i didn't know better, i'd swear every day i was growing up was cold and dark. of course, that just speaks to my psychological state at the time.

i've spent a fair amount of the day working on osha logs...never a particularly appealing task. on the up side, i spent some time reformatting data in a company database. that's more palatable for me somehow.

hubby had a job interview today for a writing job with the department of agriculture. he chose not to prepare for it other than to check out their website. he did get some valuable information there. my advice would have been to practice some interview questions, just to make sure you have a ready answer when they ask those predictable questions like "how do you handle multiple projects with the same deadlines." they also asked him what type of writing he prefers. he didn't have a particularly good answer for it. successful interviewing techniques require practice, unfortunately. they're going to select 10 candidates and start round two of the process. they're anticipating that should happen in about a week to ten days.

ruski seems to be improving. he's been eating more regularly. in addition to his special diet food, he had a couple of bags of moist dry dog food at lunch today, then an oatmeal biscuit, then a vegetable chew treat. i think that's the most he's eaten since he became ill. he even initiated play with sheba yesterday afternoon. the past couple of evenings, he gets on his bed in the living room about nine, lies down and starts flopping one foot at us periodically. it's kind of like a little wave at us...that means he's ready to receive pets. not only is he ready, he's a little fascist about it. hubby and i have a tag team approach so one of us isn't stuck petting him for a solid hour. hubby periodically has to go in the den, though, to make sure that The Princess of Woo isn't feeling neglected. i figure once she goes to her crate, she's just doing her greta garbo impression...she wants to be alone. i'm very cheered up by The Mighty Tusk's improvement. if only i could get the timing right for all of the things i need to do for him first thing in the morning. this morning i forgot to give him his liver pills until 6:45, which made me late for work.

my mom is feeling ill still. she sounds like she's very stuffed up and she's coughing, but she says she feels okay. when she's sick i start feeling like i need to be in control of the management of her illness. i guess that comes from having to deal with my dad for such a long time. when he would call me up and not be feeling well (a lot), i would leap into action intellectually and come up with a series of things i thought he should do to feel better. that didn't mean he'd do any of those things, of course, but sometimes he would. i guess the fact that he would cooperate sometimes ensured i'd continue to try to crisis manage for him. i don't generally think of myself as a controlling person, especially since my dad's suicide. that was the best lesson i've ever had in exactly how much contol one really has over other people. i recognize my need to control in this situation is really just a function of how much anxiety i'm experiencing.

that reminds me. last night i was watching some television program in which a husband and wife were having conflict. the husband arrived home late and hadn't called to let his wife know. the children ran to greet him, his wife made some comment clearly indicating her irritation and then left the room. it was surprisingly triggering. i remembered how frightening it was for me when my father came home late. even more frightening when there was even a hint of conflict. in my flashback, i noticed my need to try to assert some control over the situation. how much control could a little kid have? i would try to assess the immediate danger related to him being late. then i would try to distract my father in the hope that the situation wouldn't then become explosive. in retrospect, i'm not sure i was ever successful in completely defusing the situation. sometimes i was just able to get him to focus his anger on me. that's a cheery little tale to end with.

here's the quote of the day:
"Affliction comes to us, not to make us sad but sober; not to make us sorry but wise." ~ Henry Ward Beecher

america held hostage day 1850
bushism of the day:
"A surplus means there'll be money left over. Otherwise, it wouldn't be called a surplus." website of the day:
Economic Justice Now (Global Debt Relief)
http://www.economicjustice.org/resources/media/aslam042099.html

Loneliness

i've probably talked here about aloneness and loneliness. i'm not accustomed to feeling lonely and this weekend i remembered why that is. in high school and college i had some close friends with whom i spent a fair amount of time. i was closest with my college roommate, my former english teacher and a dear high school friend. i had boyfriends, some serious and some not so. my inability to open up to boyfriends is legendary, as a matter of fact.

even though i had dear friends and dear boyfriends, i was always aware of being alone. at the heart of all of my interactions with people was the knowledge that i would eventually be going home to my parents' house. i went there alone. i lived there alone. no matter how comforting my friendships were, no matter how much light-hearted fun i managed to have, the road always led back to my home. no one, least of all me, knew what awaited me there on a daily basis. i was certain of one thing, though. as long as i lived there, i was going to suffer. even if the suffering was only because there was no heat in the house. even if the suffering was because there was next to no furniture in the house. generally, i'd say it was an exceptional day when those things were the only sources of my suffering.

in many ways, i experienced my friendships (but especially my boyfriends) as diversions. not only could my friends not help me, but they would never truly understand my experience. i knew how my friends lived. i stayed in their houses, sometimes overnight and sometimes for extended periods of time. nothing in my friends' lives could provide them with even the slightest understanding of how i was forced to live. though my living circumstances have changed radically, even now no one knows what it felt like to live through the harshness of my life. no one knows what it feels like to live with the memories of my earlier life. no one knows how those experiences continue to infect my daily existence. in my mind's eye, i am still a solitary figure.when my therapist asks me if i'm lonely, it's a question i have some difficulty answering. i guess i would counter with, compared to what? compared to when i was 16, i'm definitely less lonely. compared to other people, though, i guess i'm profoundly lonely. my world view isn't one that's shared.

here's the quote of the day:
"The most terrible poverty is loneliness and the feeling of being unloved." ~ Mother Theresa

america held hostage day 1848
bushism of the day:
"They said this issue wouldn't resignate with the People. They've been proved wrong, it does resignate."
website of the day: Consortiumnews.com
http://www.consortiumnews.com/

Why Am I Afraid

i was talking with my mom on the phone last night about the shanley trial, which we've both been watching on courttv. we were both pretty angry at the defense attorney's badgering the victim on the stand for a full 9 hours. i commented that one of the things that made me the most angry was when the attorney asked the victim just how far the priest had inserted his finger into the boy's rectum. my mom was angry about it, too, but for different reasons than mine.

i was angry because the attorney was implying that just because the victim couldn't come up with the number, it must not have happened. i know from personal experience that that is exactly the kind of thing to which a victim will not have access. the actual abuse can be very fragmented in memory because the victim has generally gone somewhere else in his/her head to escape from the things that are being done to him or her. i remember staring at the ceiling. what magnificent concentration i maintained. i do not know specifically what was done to me, but i do know that it was unbearable.

my mom, of course, doesn't know these things. i found myself thinking about explaining to her, but then i stopped. i couldn't bring myself to talk about it with her. why. i'm not sure whether it's protection for me or for her. i think there's some belief hidden under the layers of consciousness that it's my fault. it's always been my fault...didn't my abuser tell me so? didn't i believe it? a similar thing happened when i was talking to my daughter in law this past week. i started to explain the concept of post traumatic stress disorder, but then it dawned on me that i'd probably have to explain how i came to have that problem. i couldn't bring myself to share any of the reasons. why. why. i don't know. it's so painful for me to even contemplate the reasons behind those decisions. the thought of sharing these memories--any part of them--fills me with anxiety. i can feel my hands go icy cold.