The Vapors

"Business, you know, may bring money, but friendship hardly ever does." ~ Jane Austen

I'm taking a short break from the endless database work. One of my esteemed co-workers came by my office yesterday, seeking changes in the design. He also had a new request which I don't know how to fulfill at this moment. It's definitely do-able; it's just going to take some time for my brain to figure it out.

Hubby has a job event today. It's not an interview; he has to submit an application and allow them to take his fingerprints. It's a government job. It is a job he can get, no doubt about it. Last week, he scheduled an audition for 4:00 p.m. today and the job thing is at 5:30. I suggested perhaps he should do the audition a little earlier to ensure he makes it to the job event in time. I impressed upon him the importance of having a job and the dire ramifications to our relationship if he screws this up. Hubby assured me he'd make it in time.

Yesterday he was looking for his Social Security card or his birth certificate. All employers are legally required to verify citizenship through one of those two documents. The federal government seems to be pretty inflexible about it. Go figure. Who keeps up with their birth certificate? As for the Social Security card, I tend to lose mine pretty regularly. I mean, it's in the house somewhere and I always mean to put it in a very obvious location. Unfortunately, I can't ever remember what I thought constituted "obvious" at the time.

When I came home from lunch, I went searching for Hubby, who's usually downstairs for my arrival. I found him lying on his bed. One o'clock in the afternoon and he's lying around in bed.

"Are you okay?" I asked, thinking he'd better have something wrong with him to justify such blatant slackerdom.

"I'm feeling a little run down. Having cold chills." This is generally a hint that, like Scarlett O'Hara, Hubby is going to be taking to his bed for a couple of weeks. They used to call it "the vapors." I just call it lazy.

"Well, can you come lie down on the sofa and supervise the dogs?"

(Aside: I just got another injury report from Virginia. What is with these people, anyway?)

Hubby came downstairs and I went back to work. When I got home later in the afternoon, just absolutely dead tired, I asked him how he was feeling. He actually said he was feeling better. I believe that would be a first. (Critical note: He did not ask how I was feeling.)

Hubby finally ferreted out the birth certificate and Social Security card around 7:00 last night. Apparently the not feeling good thing was related to feeling grossly incompetent because he couldn't find either of those documents. I pointed out that it's a life rule that if you put something somewhere you're sure to find it, you may never find it again. Or it will take you hours to locate it. That's just how it goes.

In the meantime, he's trying to cast a performance/radio documentary scheduled for February (I think) about cowboy songs. It's a big niche market for recording companies, apparently. Who knew. Anyway, the lead non-singing part was supposed to be filled by an actor friend. Unfortunately, the actor friend, Jeff, is very bipolar and doesn't have the best track record in the world for staying on his meds. He's an excellent actor, though.

Jeff had another theatrical performance here in town around the same time as Hubby's. Last week he sent out an email to Hubby and the director of the other play, telling them that he was maybe going to get to audition for something in New York at that time. If the audition materialized, he would be unavailable for these two previous commitments.

As for Hubby's venture, Jeff was unhappy right from the get-go (do people say that anywhere other than in Texas?) because he felt he didn't get adequate billing in the advance publicity that was just disseminated a month ago or so. The show is about cowboy singers. Therefore, the actual cowboy singers do indeed get higher billing. You know?

Anyway, things just can't come to a screeching halt because Jeff has a more promising venture. Hubby let Jeff know that he'd be casting someone else in that part. Unfortunately, I guess that means the end of the friendship, too. They've known each other for about 20 years now, having met when he was cast in one of Hubby's plays. Hubby's a little distressed about it.

As for me, I just can't do the whole drama thing. Actors have very thin skins and tend to whine about things or have hissy fits or create personal drama where none should really exist. Or maybe it's just the actors I've known. I have no patience for that. You people are big old grownups now, so let's try and act like it. Jeez.

So that's why Hubby has an audition set for today. He found another actor whom he thinks will be a good match with the role. Do I care? Yes, I hope it works out and I hope the February event is a roaring success. I have more pressing matters on my mind right now, though. A job. Hubby will be paid for the performance, but not enough to justify sitting around on his butt for the next several months.

Well, there you have it. I've got all that going for me and a gazillion records to update. Aside from that, the sun is shining through the leaves of the trees visible outside my office window. Present moment, wonderful moment.

Mostly We're 13 Year Old Girls

All paid jobs absorb and degrade the mind." ~ Aristotle

We were unable to access the internet all day yesterday at work. I played a lot of solitaire, which is the only game I have on my hard drive. Boring.

My boss is getting ready to lower the boom on a couple of my fabulous co-workers. One of them (J.) is the guy who was working at our office in another state. He whined and moaned to come back because he wanted to spend time with his harridan, borderline personality disordered wife who hates him. The company owner, S., has a real serious dislike going for this guy. J. used to be the company darling, but not anymore. I have the distinction of being the first one here to hate him. My boss finally figured out why.

The other person, whom I'll just call "The Foot Lady" is a salesperson, but as far as I can tell, she hasn't drummed up any new business in a couple of years. That's what I hear, anyway. I call her The Foot Lady because if you're in conversation with her more than five minutes, she's going to take one of her shoes off and plop her foot up on her desk (or any other stable surface, I guess) to show you why she complains about her feet all the time. This cracks me up. It's so much more appealing than pulling your underwear down in my office, like one of my other co-workers. Yes, boys and girls, it's the Wacky World Where GGirl Works. It just doesn't get much more fun than this.

So S. has developed a job description for these two sales people that actually involves making contact with potential clients. What a concept! He expects J. to bitch about how the rest of us aren't really doing anything, so he's making us all submit job descriptions. In order to make J.'s life hell, S. is making the rest of us suffer. That just how it is here. Kind of like Purgatory.

It's been years since I've even had a job title. I'd sort of been going with "Employee Emeritus" because I like that name. I knew it wasn't going to be viable for these purposes, though. I just answered the email and listed all the disparate things I do here and suggested maybe S. would like to come up with a job title. Within 15 minutes, he had sent back 7 or 8 potential job titles. I could just pick one. I hope I can remember it, though, because it was pretty good and I'd like to be able to tell people that's what I do...while I laugh, because this place always makes me laugh when it's not making me want to beat my head against a wall.

I guess my job title could also be "The Only Person in the Office Everyone Likes." That's just my unofficial title, though. I'm always surprised that they all like me, but my therapist points out to me that I'm actually likeable. They're not. That's one of the reasons I'm willing to pay her money every week. She reminds me that the person I live with in my head is not the person everyone else lives with. I'm sad a lot or testy a lot (especiallyl at work), but that's not what shows on the outside. Because I move on. I do not hang onto the bad feeling and spread it around like the flu. We have the rest of the company to take care of that.

The accounting guy is especially grumpy and negative. He's completely in the dark about that. He thinks he's Little Mary Sunshine (um, no, that would be I). He's very pissed off about the whole job description thing. He brought it up a couple of days ago and I thought he was going to literally foam at the mouth. I made a joke and tried to get him to climb down off his high horse, but I was only moderately successful.

I can't wait to hear about how the meeting with the two salespeople goes. That should be fun. In the meantime, I whipped up a job description for myself today and sent it right off to my boss. I know who owns the company and it's not the accounting guy. The accounting guy acts like he owns the company, but that's just a grave misunderstanding which is going to ultimately cause S. to start focusing on making his life a living hell. Soon. Right now it's just at the stage where S. makes Accounting Guy go out to lunch with our banker and they gang up on him politically. Accounting Guy is a Rush Limbaugh freak, so S. always gets the banker going about her liberal political views. I think it makes it hard for Accounting Guy to digest his food. Things are going to get much worse than that, though.

So that's how it goes here. Mostly we're a bunch of 13 year old girls talking behind each other's backs and carrying around a permanent case of PMS. I don't talk behind people's backs. I just don't talk about my co-workers at all other than to my mom and Hubby. People can not count on me spreading the latest rumor. I don't do it. It's stupid. I'm not 13, not even in my head.

Please Don't Make Me Talk To You

"A sense of duty is useful in work, but offensive in personal relations. People wish to be liked, not be endured with patient resignation." ~ Bertrand Russell

Part of my job here is to manage workers' comp insurance issues. When someone gets hurt, I make sure the claim gets filed with our insurance company and track their progress if their injury is such that they miss work or are reduced to light duty. I also have to call the boys (and they are always boys) periodically just to let them know we're all thinking of them. Our insurance people tell us that calling the injured ones motivates them to get back to work because they think that means we actually care whether they get better. This is my least favorite part of the job.

In fact, I don't really care how they're doing. I just want them to get well and get their accident-prone asses back at work. Every day they miss work just adds to the cost of premiums next year. Workers' comp can kill a small company. Don't get me wrong. When people get injured at work, the company should ensure that the bills get paid. If they need to be at home recuperating, the company should make sure that's financially feasible for them. I just don't wish to talk with them once every couple of weeks.

Some folks are suspiciously accident-prone. We had this one guy who worked for us five different times over the course of several years. He would work a week or two and get hurt. I mean badly hurt. Hurt as in taking the next six weeks off. I finally told the owner of the company that he needed to keep his personnel folks from hiring him again. The guy's name was Wally. He's a Viet Nam vet who writes poetry and will tell you all about it, whether or not you wish to know. We were all relieved to see Wally go because it meant we could go to the company Christmas party without fear of getting stuck in a corner somewhere for a couple of hours, listening to Wally recite extremely bad poetry. Frankly, I expected some reward money from my co-workers for alleviating that anxiety.

We had another guy several years ago whose hobby was bull riding. Seriously. I live in Texas, where people do these kinds of things, but I will never understand what makes someone get up on top of a bull who is royally pissed off...other than just a serious streak of self-destructiveness. Anyway, this guy shows up at the doctor with a work-related shoulder injury. No one saw him get hurt and he came by the office the next day on his motorcycle. We had no way of knowing for sure that it wasn't some bull's fault (since said alleged impairment occurred first thing Monday morning), but we were all pretty sure that riding a motorcycle should be too painful for that type of shoulder injury. So we set up the Jose Ramirez (names changed to protect the idiotic) Memorial Film School. Every day he was unable to work, he was required to show up at the office, sit downstairs watching safety films by himself and writing synopses of them. This went on for about 30 days. He never got hurt again. I digress.


We have an office in another city in Texas and one in Virginia. They are responsible for their own injury claims, which only makes sense because it would add a lot of extra time to the claims process if they all had to come through me. Plus, I'd be calling even more assholes, trying to convince them that even though I've never met them, I'm just broken up about their injuries. Virginia has very different reporting requirements and coordinating everything to meet those requirements would require Herculean effort.

Suddenly the office manager in Virginia has taken to sending me copies of the workers' comp reports. They've been filing these reports for the past decade by themselvers and I never hear anything about them unless someone has a question about legal issues. Just opening the envelope and seeing the reports irritates me. I suppose I could call her and ask why I'm suddenly so completely in the loop, but then I'd have to talk to her. I dislike talking to her at least as much as the injured workers. It's nothing about her specifically, it's just that I'm most contented when I'm not interacting with people. (By the way, I referred to myself recently as "anti-social" when, in fact, I should have said "asocial." Thanks to my therapist for that clarification.)

I don't really have a point here, other than the fact that I got one of those reports today and starting yapping in my head about it. I just thought I'd include you in the yap. I feel better already.

I Love to Win

"If man could be crossed with the cat, it would improve man but deteriorate the cat." ~ Mark Twain

I have a number of feral cats that hang around the office. All but one has been spayed/neutered and I'm working on catching the remaining one. I am way too attached to two of them, but the others (3) I take care of because they're God's creatures...and they're hungry. This is a source of ongoing tension in my office. I'm not going to stop feeding the cats. Period. My co-workers periodically whine and moan about how the cats have made the patio unpleasant. The only problem is that, when we didn't have cats, no one went out there anyway.

At the end of last week, a series of emails were sent requesting that we not spend any time on the patio because it was flea-infested and the fleas were coming in the building. They noted that the exterminator has been out 3 times recently. One of my least favorites (although it's a hard thing to quantify--I dislike most of them at about the same level) sent out his own email suggesting that it's time for us "to take a stand" against kitty proliferation. This is the same person who told me several years ago that he's taking a "personal stand against homosexuality." (Which means what? When gay men proposition you, you say no? Trust me, no gay man would want him.)

Several months ago, our next door neighbor (my office is in a mixed use area) got four puppies. One night the puppies, who were not being fed enough, crawled under the fence and broke a hole in this half-assed attempt someone had made to keep the kitties out from under the building. My fave co-worker thought we ought to cement that up. I'm not sure how that's supposed to correct the kitty problem, but whatever makes you happy, I guess.

I replied to the emails requesting that no one be out on the patio for long by pointing out that it might take me a while to get that hole effectively blocked off while we waited for the carpenter to come over the weekend and permanently close it off. There were definitely some kitties under there and at least one o'possum. I waited until I could count all of the cats and blocked up the hole. I have to tell you that, aside from not wanting the o'possum to suffer, I wouldn't be unhappy if it died under there. Preferably under the side where most of the whining and moaining originates.

Shortly after I sent out my reply email, my boss (the owner of the company) came into my office in a rage. He was sick of the whining and moaning, too. He's actually spent time on the patio and knows that there is no kitty stench out there. He noted that no one ever sits out there, anyway, except for the lone smoker in the office. As for the fleas, our next door neighbor's yard is completely infested with them. On the other side of us, there's a church (which only periodically seems to function) where the weeds grow pretty tall before they get cut. My boss , S., pointed out that maybe that's where the fleas are born, then they come to our patio. Sort of like moving into a new subdivision or something.

He sent out his own email, detailing his expectations regarding rat elimination. No food in the pantry, no food kept in offices...you get my drift. There are just some common-sense things to do if you don't want rats. The point was to just screw with the co-workers. S. also told my co-workers that he was going to catch the cats and have them euthanised. It was heavy on the sarcasm, but I'm not sure my co-workers recognized it. I've known S. for over 25 years now. I can always tell when he's appearing to take the high road while, in fact, taking the very low road.

S. told me that I could move my cat food to our other building next door. He has some other evil plans to make my co-workers sorry they even started this. The kitties are staying and I'm going to continue to feed them. As I said before, I love it when I win.

Toil and Trouble

"One of the symptoms of an approaching nervous breakdown is the belief that one's work is terribly important." ~ Bertrand Russell

My mood has cleared today. Sometimes you just have to wait it out. I used to have a two-day turnaround on depression, but it's definitely not something I can always count on. No matter how long it takes, fighting it only seems to make it more entrenched. I've learned to just let the depression stay as long as it needs to, but lately that feels a little scary to me.

I'm bogged down with this project I've been working on. For two days I've tried to understand what the software makers are trying to tell me (via the Help menu) and for two days I've been completely clueless. I could have sworn I took some tests that indicated I'm an intelligent person. If that's so, why the hell can't I figure this out?

I've finished the first half and everyone is happy with the results. The second half has always been the most critical for me and not because it would make everyone's my co-workers' lives easier. I mean, that's a good thing, but the really crucial issue is my ability to beat the software into submission. I enjoy doing this so I should be good at it, right? Yes, that's what I thought, too.

I printed out some of the help topics and took them home with me last night. I thought maybe being in a different environment and not sitting in front of the computer might be more productive. If I'm in front of the computer, I can't stop myself from experimenting. Sometimes you just have to leave the computer alone while you figure out what to do with the stupid thing. That was pointless. As I read and made notes, I could tell that my comprehension skills were deficient. I decided to stop and work on it again today.

It's a beautiful day here. The sun is shining again, which always has a profound effect on my mood. My little squirrel friends should be out and about, but I don't see any of them. It's a little chillier than it has been (that would be in the 80's) and they're usually energized by the coolness. It's also Perky Puppy weather, so I imagine my dogs will keep me busy when I get home.

Hubby's been busy with a project all week, but I'm making him apply for a job I'm fairly certain he can get. This employer is so desperate they won't care that he hasn't had a regular job in 20 years. I talked to him earlier this morning and he told me he was working on the online application. Hubby having a job would go a long way towards improving my general outlook on things.

All I have to do now is get through the rest of the day. What then? Well, all I'll have to do is get through the weekeend.

Inner Darkness

"The thought of suicide is a powerful solace: my means of it one gets through many a bad night." ~ Friedrich Nietzsche

This year I've been having more difficulty than usual getting through the anniversary of my father's suicide. I've been having flashbacks of anguish which never really goes away. It just lurks in the recesses of my brain, ready to manifest spontaneously.

Nuclear winter. For months after his death, that internal voice we all have that chatters away about everything went suddenly silent. "What was it that I used to think about," I wondered. Even if I could find something to think about, my brain refused to hold onto it. I learned to live with the silence. It distorted my sense of time. We'd go out to eat and, before the food got there, it already felt like we'd been there for hours. Absence of inner commentary didn't make me bored; I was too traumatized for that. The pain was so intense that sometimes it was all I could do to get through the next 60 seconds.

My therapist and I think that the anniversary is particularly difficult this year because of my own inner darkness. I've known since I was a child my emotional nightfall that calls me to give up the fight . I understand the black hole my father was drawn into because I've been stranded in that vortex myself. I'm there now and have been for months.

The only good thing that came from my father's death is the certainty that I will never check out while there are still people around who care for me. Nonetheless, I find myself using the same coping mechanism: "All I have to do is get through the next five minutes or the next hour or the next day." It's not a productive way to manage one's life. This moment is the only moment I have. Counting down the time until my interior despondency lifts causes me to miss this moment.

I only just started noticing I'd returned to emotional countdown methods. Feeling is absent. Nothing is worth doing. I go home every night and read "The Tibetan Book of Living and Dying" so that I can remember there's meaning in my suffering, that everything is illusory--even my pain. We all suffer. It's in the nature of being on this earth. And who better to endure it than I? I've had lots and lots of practice.

I can empathize with my father. I just have to find a different outcome. On the anniversary of his death, I'd wish him to know that I'm sorry. I'm sorry he had such a dreadful life that resulted in him inflicting enormous damage to the people in his life, especially his daughter. I'm sorry I wasn't able to save him, even though I know the only person who can save you is yourself. I'd wish my father to know that I'm using his gift to make me stronger and more capable of enduring these dark hours. I'd wish my father to know that I thank him for that gift, that I love him and that I forgive him.

The Orangutang and the Horse of a Different Color

"One is not born a woman, one becomes one." ~ Simone de Beauvoir

Hubby had the dishes done at lunch and dinner. His, not mine, that is. As I noted before, I always do my dishes immediately after use. He cleaned out the refrigerator. He offered to pick up a prescription for me. Yay for him! Now if only he would get a job.

Have I mentioned I took a test on the BBC science page which purports to help you determine where your thought processes fall along a gender continuum? You know, women are traditionally better than men at some things and vice versa. I ended up exactly in the middle. An androgynous thinker...must have something to do with all those boy toys my dad gave me when I was a little girl. My friends got dolls and I got helicopters. Hey, with my dad you just played with whatever you got and didn't complain. That's probably why it's always been so abundantly clear to me that gender lies along a continuum. Maybe I should be grateful to my dad for that.

In fact, I've had a couple of therapists ask me if I had any gender confusion. No. I've never wished to be anything other that what I am. I've never wondered if I should have been a boy.

I'm just hard to categorize for many reasons, my bizarre upbringing notwithstanding. I think that's one of the reasons people have difficulty understanding me. I'm not like everyone else. None of us are, really. We're each unique dazzling manifestations of God's infinite creativity. If only we could all always see each other that way...what a gift that would be.

When I've taken the Myers-Briggs Personality Tests, I always end up being sort of evenly split between thinking/feeling and perceiving/judging, although I clearly have a preference for judging . There's no question that I'm an introvert...I scored very high on that scale, but I'm able to act like an extravert. Many people who don't know me that well actually think I am an extravert. I'm also highly intuitive.

I'm different, alright. I'm not always willing to admit that; I long to be uncomplicated. It just seems like life would be a lot easier sometimes, though certainly not as interesting.

The work project calls. It's been a challenging week for work. I guess I'll go be challenged some more.

Just in case you'd like to take these tests, here are the links:

The BBC Sex ID test: http://www.bbc.co.uk/science/humanbody/sex/index_cookie.shtml

Myers-Briggs Personality Test: http://www.humanmetrics.com/cgi-win/JTypes1.htm

http://www.planetcancer.org/html/index.php

A site specifically for young people with cancer of all types.

Husbands are like Orangutangs

"The majority of husbands remind me of an orangutang trying to play the violin." ~ Honore de Balzac We've been eating dinner in shifts at my house. Wolf is too out of control for us to eat at the same time. I generally end up sitting beside Hubby at the dining table, distracting Wolf's attention with lots of pets. Occasionally, he gnaws on my arm. After Hubby finishes, I ususally put some peanut butter in Wolf's Kong and toss it into his crate. When he trots in for one of his most favorite foods in the world, I close the crate door and he makes himself happy for a while, trying to figure out how to get the peanut butter out of the magic hole in the Kong. I eat in relative peace. On Tuesday, I didn't eat enough during the day and, by the time Hubby was ready for dinner, I was starving. I had started to shake a little. The crate thing wasn't working with Wolf, so I took him outside and tried to eat my sandwich while holding onto Wolf. I decided I won't be doing that again. Yesterday, I sat on the floor again and waited while Hubby read the newspaper and ate his dinner. When he was finished, I got Wolf's Kong ready and tossed it in his crate. Unfortunately, Wolf finished before I did and started crying. I mean loud, high-pitched, relentless crying. I could see Hubby in the other room in front of the computer, holding his fingers in his ears. I ignored them both and continued to eat. After a few minutes, Hubby came into the dining room and stood in front of me, fingers in ears. "I have to eat." I was more than a little exasperated. "I can't hold Wolf and eat." Hubby went over to the crate and let Wolf out. Wolf immediately went into hyper mode, jumping up on Hubby and trying to chew on his arm. Instead of having the puppy cry, I was then having to listen to my husband screech, yell and curse the little guy. He gives me yet another annoyed look because I was still eating and not rescuing him from the dog. I ignored him and finished my dinner. I have a real thing about having the dishes done before bedtime. For me, it's disheartening and disgusting to wake up in the morning and have to face a sink with dirty dishes. I've shared that info with my husband many times. Late last night when it became apparent that Hubby wasn't going to do the dishes, I went into the kitchen and washed them. When I came back, I sad down on the sofa next to him and said, "Thanks for doing the dishes, ggirl." I said it with a smile on my face and in a teasing tone of voice. "Well, I think I do the dishes as much as you do, " he said ."Yes, you do them more than I do. They're your dishes. I always wash dishes immediately after I use them." It's not so much a matter of discipline as it is just my personality type, INT/FJ. He didn't respond. I could see he was reviewing recent history in the hopes of refuting my assertion. Well, of course he couldn't. "You know, I don't mind doing the dishes every once in a while." And, in fact, I don't. "But you know, I've got this huge project at work that's very intellectually taxing. Then I come home and have virtually all of the responsibility for taking care of Wolf. I'm really tired a lot." I was just waiting for him to comment that I was the one who wanted the dog. When he says it (and he will at some point), my response is not going to be friendly. I've dealt with the consequences of many decisions he's made without my support or, sometimes, without even consulting me. He'd be well advised to not travel down that path. "You know, I've been thinking lately that you don't seem very grateful for all of the things I've made possible in your life." Like being able to write a book or being able to participate in theatrical events. The list is endless really. Twenty years of me working and him doing exactly as he pleases. I was working up steam. "I just wish you would, every once in a while, ask me if there's anything you can do for me." You'd have to be deaf to not hear the pain in my voice. I didn't mean to sound pained; I just wasn't able to effectively filter it all out.Still no comment from my husband. When I related the story to my mom, she said, "Well what could he say?"I don't know. Thank you? I'm sorry? I'm an inconsiderate, self-centered man? It was getting to be my bedtime and I was wrapping things up."It's part of why I'm so depressed. And why I feel so hopeless about my life." With that, I stood up and went into the kitchen to get Wolf's Kong ready. I shut him in the crate, came back to the living room where Hubby was still sitting on the sofa and told him it was time for me to go to bed. I finished turning out the lights and we hugged before he went upstairs. My mom came over this morning and let the dogs out. Wolf and Sheba immediately started noisy Husky play in the backyard while I continued to get ready for work. They woke Hubby up, apparently. He came downstairs and let them in. Wolf, of course, went nuts. He started jumping up and Hubby started yelling and cursing. My mom ignored him.I don't have time in the mornings to rescue Hubby from the dog. I went about my business. I could hear him trying to get the leashes on the two dogs to take them for a walk. I have no idea why. Sheba does her bathroom business in the backyard, as does Wolf. I guess he was looking forward to another opportunity to yell and curse. When I got out of the bathroom, my mom had let the dogs out again. I could hear Hubby in the kitchen, opening the ibuprofen bottle. Great. Before I left for work, I went upstairs to say goodbye. Hubby had deposited himself back in bed. "Do you have a headache?" Just inquiring, you know. "No, I couldn't get to sleep last night," he said.I passed up the opportunity to point out to him the many times I've been unable to get enough sleep but somehow made it to work anyway. "Well I hope you feel better. I'll see you in a little while." I hugged him and went to work.

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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.

Two Little Girls

"Whatever is begun in anger ends in shame." -- Benjamin Franklin (1706-90)

I'm thinking today of the two little girls killed by one of the girls' father. I guess Laura Hobbs either forgot or didn't care about the level of violence her father was capable of. I can't imagine, even though he'd been in jail for several years, that she would have forgotten the sight of her father chasing people with a chainsaw. Perhaps she believed he had changed. Adults caught in those types of relationshps often cling to the belief that the victimizer has found his bearings and given up forever violence as a means of control. That belief can lead directly to death.

Sometimes children get so angry or so depressed (or both) that they no longer care about the consequences. Defiance is dangerous. So is defending one's self...verbally or otherwise. There are some parents who are so prone to rage that children must learn to disappear.

Even my own father never tried to stab me to death. I don't think he ever punched me. Yes, I was physically abused, but it wasn't extreme. As I type this, I lose my own bearings a bit. Define extreme. When I've mentioned this to my therapist, she points out that he didn't have to. I knew exactly what he was capable of. We didn't have any chain saws, but we had large knives and a high powered rifle.

Sometimes you just have to find a way to disappear. I was talking with my therapist about this just last week. When I was around 8 or 9, a major hurricane passed by the Gulf Coast and we were all stuck inside the house for a week or so. It seemed like months. My father was in one of his manic phases and everything enraged him. I was scared. Not that that was an unusual emotion. I was terrified most of my childhood. I dreaded the time when he would get up in the morning. I never knew who was going to be walking into the living room.

I learned to disappear. I found places where I wouldn't be conspicuous. I spent a lot of time practicing having no expression. Sometimes not having an expression was just as enraging to him as if I had one. I didn't wait to be told; I tried to anticipate his needs. I did not talk back. I did not argue. I tried very very hard to kiss his ass.

There did come a time when I became defiant, but it wasn't until I knew there were people who would notice if something serious occurred. Or if I didn't come to school for an extended period of time. I was still terrified, but as a teenager I figured there was a pretty good chance that I could get away before he could really hurt me. Calculated risks.

I managed to survive, but those two little girls weren't so lucky. Who knows what the catalyst was that resulted in their murders. Children die at the hands of their parents on a regular basis. I wish that it didn't have to be so and I'm thinking of those two little girls today.

America held hostage day 1314
Bushism of the day:
# "We hold dear what our Declaration of Independence says, that all have got uninalienable rights, endowed by a Creator."
Source: The New York Times, "Reporter's Notebook; Skipping Borders, Tripping Diction," David E. Sanger, May 28, 2002

Website of the day: National Clearinghouse on Child Abuse and Neglect Information
http://nccanch.acf.hhs.gov/

Things I'm Unable To Do

"Anybody can become angry, that is easy; but to be angry with the right person, and to the right degree, and at the right time, and for the right purpose, and in the right way, that is not within everybody's power, that is not easy." ~ Aristotle

After last week's fiasco with my beloved husky, I was in a quandary. I talked with my therapist about it. I have no doubt that I'll change vets...as soon as I pay the one I have now. The question is whether I plan to tell the vet I'm leaving. Therapist asks if I told the vet how angry I was. No. The therapist asks if I'm going to tell the vet how angry I was. Um, no. I don't know why. I have no idea. I'm really good at certain types of confrontation: employees I'm supervising; people who screw with people I love; well there are more, but I just can't think of them at the moment. I'm not mean in those situations, but I'm very clear about what I believe the problem(s) to be.

She asked me if I thought I could write a letter to the vet, expressing my outrage. That seemed like something I could do. Definitely. Three days later and my certainty has evaporated. Seems like a lot of trouble when I could just as easily pay the damn bill and walk away.

I was also unable to confront my psychiatrist a year ago when she was falling apart. She wasn't doing a very good job of ministering to my depression and anxiety. I avoided seeing her for a while and she got better. Who knows why.

I think my dentist owes me some contraption to wear when I'm sleeping to correct my bite. I paid for it. Why don't I have it? I'm been unable to force myself to call him up and ask just where the fuck this thing is that I paid $1700 for.

There are more people I find myself unable to confront. If I were to sit here for another hour, I could probably come up with five or six. But you get my point.

I know I used to be good at this stuff. There was a time when I could immediately and forcefully meet any situation head on. I mean, I dealt with my father, for god's sake. It doesn't get much scarier than that. I can't tell anymore whether it's just a lack of interest or a lack of courage.

I've always been really good at walking away, too. Lately, it's my preferred mode of dealing with unpleasantness. If someone at the office pisses me off, I leave the room and I don't interact with that person anymore. Except for the exchange of business information, of course. Any interaction between me and the offending party is handled professionally and cordially, with a demeanor so smooth that there's no place they can hang onto. I seem to be the same as I always was, but it's impossible to determine what my feelings are or if I even have any. Being an abused child has some advantages. I can dissociate at a moment's notice. I'm smiling at you and answering your questions, but on the inside I'm just all ice.

I can make people feel warm and fuzzy. They feel their egos being stroked ever so gently. I'm laughing at their jokes. I'm asking questions that seem to indicate an interest in the minutiae of their lives. I'm recalling small things they said six months ago. That never fails to make people feel cared for. I can also withdraw all of that. The sunshine is no longer shining in your office, asshole. I've packed it all up and moved it across the building to my office, where it will stay.

America held hostage day 1314
Bushism of the day:
"We've had a great weekend here in the land of the enchanted."
—Bush, referring to New Mexico, "The Land of Enchantment"
Source: Federal Document Clearinghouse, "George W. Bush Delivers Remarks on Jobs and Growth in Albuquerque," May 12, 2003

Website of the Day: A Study of Near Death Experiences
http://www.aleroy.com/

Snipers in My Brain

It's another bleak Tuesday. Gray skies. I'm trying to subvert the sadness by wearing a dress. It isn't helping so far. Cute shoes, too. Big deal.

The problem is the harridans have moved back into my head and threaten to take up long term residence. I've been silencing them off and on all morning. The crisis with my dog last week clarified a couple of conditions which seem to wake up the snipers in my brain. Sleep deprivation is one of them; extreme stress the other. I got enough sleep last night and I don't feel particularly stressed. Not that that means anything, of course. I'm not very capable of recognizing stress until it renders me sick and incapable of getting out of bed for a week or so.

My dad's birthday is next Monday. Maybe I'm just getting the festivities started early. Last week I'm hanging on to my anger, though, and haven't gotten sidetracked into how he must have felt just before he pulled the trigger. Going in that direction will lead to certain self recrimination and sadness.

Maybe there will be more to say later.