10 YEARS AGO I WAS …
Twenty two years old, coming out of a horrible relationship with an abusive alcoholic and into a worse relationship with a controlling, whoring, coke snorting alcoholic that would soon be my son's father. I'm not sure what retrospect is good for other than reminding me that I AM getting wiser and making me cry a lot for my younger and much stupider me. *sigh*
I worked in a jewelery company making new age shittery for some totally batshit crazy bitch who ended up committing insurance fraud through the company (although I don't believe she was caught) so she could pay her mortgage and not lose her house. She ended up selling it anyway, changed her name and moved to Florida to pursue her "life's calling", which she seemed to think was channeling spirits to write a book. Last I heard she was doing jewelery trade shows in Pennsylvania.
5 YEARS AGO I WAS …
Twenty seven years old, in yet another retarded alcoholic relationship with a guy who had a tendency to be either fun or drunk, but not at the same time, despite what he thought. He also had a tendency to piss on things while he was blacked out. It was like having a bad dog, if I was into the very occasional bestiality. (I'm not.) I say this because although the guy had no sex drive to speak of and had never once cheated on a girlfriend, I got to be the first one he ever cheated on. Hurrah.
My son was four and was just figuring out that his dad was not someone to put any faith in, and that was a hellish thing to witness, having experienced it myself as a child. His dad would say he was coming over to visit, only to never show up and my son would sit at the window sobbing, "Daddy! Daddy!" for hours until I could manage to distract him with something else. His dad was, at that time, starting his crystal meth habit. The joy.
The bright part of my life was that I had a brand spanking new truck for the first time EVER in my life, and that was one hell of a step up from the crappy 1984 Honda Civic that I had (which was in ok condition till my sons dad got his hands on it) that only worked in second and fourth gear, belched smoke, and all around was a moving death trap. A new vehicle, never been owned by anyone but ME, is something that I cannot explain the joy of owning. It was glorious. I still love that damn truck.
I drove it everywhere, because the job I had was wicked cool- I landed a job interiorscaping. What that means is that I worked for a plant company that leased plants to other places, banks, hospitals, country clubs, that sort of thing. My job was to drive around and take care of all of those plants. I counted once, and I had around five hundred individual plants that I took care of on a weekly basis. When I tell people I'm good with plants, I mean it. On the other hand, it came from experience- I learned a lot from killing plants, too. But it was a great job with a lot of freedom and I loved it. I moved up to managing the company before I left to move here to live with my hubby.
1 YEAR AGO I WAS …
freshly married and starting out on the manuscript to my first book, which was sadly put on hold while I'm going through physical therapy. In the meantime, I just keep on writing, making more material to pick and chose from when the time comes.
I was mostly in shock, I think, after the wedding. It had been pretty emotional and dug up a lot of family history. I was also in a lot of pain from my fall down a flight of stairs during the interiorscaping job, but until my husband and I got married I didn't have insurance worthy enough to get my neck and back looked into.
I was also getting my sex blog into full swing, finally getting my feet wet and getting comfortable writing about sex while not referring to my private parts as my "hoo hoo" anymore. That in itself was pretty life altering.
YESTERDAY I WAS …
rather morbid, after waking up at four AM with my ulcer screaming. Why, I don't know. My usual PMS lunacy was also creeping it's way into my brain, not helping matters any.
Despite my lack of sleep, a day full of bland ass food, pain and crankiness, I was seriously cheered by the fact that an editor at The Huffington Post wanted to post my book review on their site. I fell asleep whispering to my husband, "I feel like I won Willy Wonka's Golden Ticket..."
Sa-weet!
I must confess, after reading some of the nasty little comments people left, I feel more like I'm holding a melted chocolate bar than a Golden Ticket, but there will always be a poopypants or twelve to rain on your parade. If anything, it's made me more convinced of what I wrote. People don't seem to get it: it's not about some feminist movement, it's about me finding an answer to this hormonal hell I exist in. *raspberries to the poopypants people*
5 MOST RECENT SONGS I’VE LISTENED TO:
Myself, singing "My Favorite Things" from The Sound Of Music
"No Woman, No Cry" by Bob Marley
Um, some other stuff on the radio? Honestly, I almost never listen to music, preferring silence, so I can't recall. I happened to flip on the radio today and heard Bob Marley, so I remember that one.
5 SONGS I KNOW ALL THE WORDS TO:
Nearly everything from the soundtracks "The Sound of Music" and "Grease"
Most Indigo Girls songs (my favorite moody music to sing along with)
IDEAL PLACE FOR RUNNING AWAY TO:
It would depend what I was running from. I really don't know how to answer that. I suppose a coma would cover all the mental angles, but a coma isn't very good if you're trying to run away from a tiger. Maybe a bear...
5 THINGS I REALLY WANT:
Our own home.
Hormonal balance.
To be done with physical therapy and be able to dance and ride my bike again!
To be rid of anxiety.
To be at peace with whatever relationships I can manage with my family.
5 THINGS I SHOULD BE DOING RIGHT NOW:
Cooking dinner...
Drinking more water.
Putting on a sweater (I'm cold)
Paying attention to my child (let's wrap this up, shall we?)
I'll go for that last one twice. It's that important, and sitting here thinking is just keeping me from it.
5 BIGGEST JOYS IN MY LIFE:
My son.
My husband.
My ability to heal.
Children's laughter.
The sound of rain.
PEOPLE I'M TAGGING:
Oh, come now. You know I don't do that. But I love Faye, so I will BE tagged, but not tag out. If you want to tag yourself, have at.
Thursday, November 30, 2006
life lessons from the Boob Tube
It's hard not to wonder about yourself when you find you're having moments of epiphany while watching TV shows. In particular, I've had a few involving the show "Scrubs".
Maybe it's just a really good show. In my defense, it does seem to be chock full of poignant observations about life and human nature.
There were two such moments in the last week that really struck me. One was involving the sarcastic doctor who favors the Red Wings (hey, I don't watch it enough to remember their names, ok?) and his extremely religious sister. Throughout the show he seemed to have some problem with her religion and offered endless bitchy moments of confrontation with her. Finally someone called him out on it and he had a talk with his sister at the end of the show, telling her that he really doesn't have a problem with her religion, he just can't stand to see her face because it reminds him of a horrible childhood he'd rather forget.
I turned to my husband and mimicked a lightbulb going off over my head. You see, my own brother rarely ever speaks to me, just like our father.
My brother has been on my shit list since last year when he completely blew off my wedding. I was feeling more than slightly touchy, granted. My dad had refused to come to my wedding, refused to walk me down the aisle, even if we had the wedding in Michigan (where most of my family is). He went to my brothers wedding just a few years before that. Why the hell wouldn't he walk his daughter down the aisle? I was heartbroken.
I decided I would see if my brother was willing to do it, but got an e-mail from my sister-in-law saying that they simply couldn't come. Ok. They had recently had a baby, it's 700 miles, hard to get off of work during the holidays, I can deal with it. What I couldn't deal with is that my sister-in-law delivered the news, not my brother, and in the oh-so-personal way of an e-mail. I had sent them a frikkin' RSVP card, handwritten, each and every last one of them, with the whole self addressed stamped envelope inside. I mean, if nothing else he could have at LEAST written it himself on the RSVP, but no. They didn't even bother to send the stupid card back (which I was saving all of them because I'm sentimental, fuck you very much.)
I didn't mention that I had hauled my at-the-time three year old son up to THEIR wedding to be their ring bearer, did the whole shebang, right? It's my brothers wedding, it's not like I would miss it. But mine didn't even seem to register anywhere on the radar. I didn't even get a card or a freaking phone call from them for fucks sake. Even my dad was stupidly polite enough to send back the RSVP with a nice check and some lame excuse about how he couldn't come because it was hunting season.
No, I wish I was making that up, but I'm not.
My brother? Not a thing. He sent me an e-mail himself about a month and a half later, mentioned the wedding, congrats, and then went on to tell me about his kid.
What's the fucking deal?
So when I saw that episode of Scrubs I had my Lightbulb Moment and thought, "Well, maybe that's it. He's a guy, he thinks differently than I do. Whereas I want to bond BECAUSE of our crappy childhood, perhaps he would rather avoid me. That or he just just fucking hates me, I don't know." To me, it's a matter of him being the only person who was there for all the shitty times, and having someone who understand all the crap that went down is comforting. Maybe for him it's the opposite. That or he hates me. *shrug*
My other Scrubs inspired epiphany was when "Blondie" was talking to the same sarcastic doctor guy in the elevator. He had been trying unsuccessfully to get a teenage patient to take her seizure medication but without any luck at all. "Blondie" is another doctor who he constantly rags on for being a ditz, but he wanted her help to see if he could somehow get through to the teenage girl. After gloriously failing to do so, "Blondie" walked in, sat on the girls bed and told her some embarrassing story about herself as a teenager, as a way to relate. The girl opened right up to her, they reached a compromise, and teenage patient girl agreed to start taking her medicine again.
As sarcastic doctor guy and "Blondie" got into the elevator, he asked her how in the world she knew what was bothering the girl. Exasperated, she explained that she could not comprehend how it was that grown men couldn't grasp the fact that inside every grown woman's head there still exists an gawky confused teenage girl who desperately seeks acceptance and approval.
I thought of so many instances in my own life where that plays out I couldn't even begin to bore you with a list, but suffice to say I think it's utterly true. And I believe if more men knew that and could act on that information, they would find the female species a far easier and dare I say, more compliant group of people to be around.
My own husband found that out this morning when I got up, dreading a rough day and walked into the kitchen to discover my husband and son hard at work finishing up my sons homework. When they finished, my husband looked up to find one very pouty me at the table. When he inquired what was bothering me, I told him that I wished they could just ACKNOWLEDGE my presence, thank you very much. He got defensive and explained that they were concentrating, and I butted in to list the things FOR him that he had already done this morning. I didn't do it to be a bitch, I did it to point out that I was aware of how much he did, and that I wasn't asking for the freaking moon, just a simple, "Good morning, baby, I love you..." with a moment of eye contact and a smile.
"I know I'm high maintenance," I said, "but I think you overestimate the degree of maintenance I require. I'm all....hurty... in my head, and I just want a freakin' Band-Aid, ok?" He smiled and said, "Well, I thought I gave you a pretty good Band-Aid last night," referring to the sex we had before bed. I responded with, "Yes, and that lasted a good ten hours! I'm just asking for a moment of acknowledgment! NEW BAND-AID! I just woke up!" to which he set aside everything and gave me what I wanted, which was a few moments of his undivided attention.
Within seconds of his gorgeous face peeping at me I was in tears, talking about something that was really bothering me, and then I thanked him. He kind of laughed and said, "I didn't really DO anything, I just looked at you and listened." I told him, "EXACTLY. Now was that so hard?" We both laughed and went on about our day.
Blondie was right.
Maybe it's just a really good show. In my defense, it does seem to be chock full of poignant observations about life and human nature.
There were two such moments in the last week that really struck me. One was involving the sarcastic doctor who favors the Red Wings (hey, I don't watch it enough to remember their names, ok?) and his extremely religious sister. Throughout the show he seemed to have some problem with her religion and offered endless bitchy moments of confrontation with her. Finally someone called him out on it and he had a talk with his sister at the end of the show, telling her that he really doesn't have a problem with her religion, he just can't stand to see her face because it reminds him of a horrible childhood he'd rather forget.
I turned to my husband and mimicked a lightbulb going off over my head. You see, my own brother rarely ever speaks to me, just like our father.
My brother has been on my shit list since last year when he completely blew off my wedding. I was feeling more than slightly touchy, granted. My dad had refused to come to my wedding, refused to walk me down the aisle, even if we had the wedding in Michigan (where most of my family is). He went to my brothers wedding just a few years before that. Why the hell wouldn't he walk his daughter down the aisle? I was heartbroken.
I decided I would see if my brother was willing to do it, but got an e-mail from my sister-in-law saying that they simply couldn't come. Ok. They had recently had a baby, it's 700 miles, hard to get off of work during the holidays, I can deal with it. What I couldn't deal with is that my sister-in-law delivered the news, not my brother, and in the oh-so-personal way of an e-mail. I had sent them a frikkin' RSVP card, handwritten, each and every last one of them, with the whole self addressed stamped envelope inside. I mean, if nothing else he could have at LEAST written it himself on the RSVP, but no. They didn't even bother to send the stupid card back (which I was saving all of them because I'm sentimental, fuck you very much.)
I didn't mention that I had hauled my at-the-time three year old son up to THEIR wedding to be their ring bearer, did the whole shebang, right? It's my brothers wedding, it's not like I would miss it. But mine didn't even seem to register anywhere on the radar. I didn't even get a card or a freaking phone call from them for fucks sake. Even my dad was stupidly polite enough to send back the RSVP with a nice check and some lame excuse about how he couldn't come because it was hunting season.
No, I wish I was making that up, but I'm not.
My brother? Not a thing. He sent me an e-mail himself about a month and a half later, mentioned the wedding, congrats, and then went on to tell me about his kid.
What's the fucking deal?
So when I saw that episode of Scrubs I had my Lightbulb Moment and thought, "Well, maybe that's it. He's a guy, he thinks differently than I do. Whereas I want to bond BECAUSE of our crappy childhood, perhaps he would rather avoid me. That or he just just fucking hates me, I don't know." To me, it's a matter of him being the only person who was there for all the shitty times, and having someone who understand all the crap that went down is comforting. Maybe for him it's the opposite. That or he hates me. *shrug*
My other Scrubs inspired epiphany was when "Blondie" was talking to the same sarcastic doctor guy in the elevator. He had been trying unsuccessfully to get a teenage patient to take her seizure medication but without any luck at all. "Blondie" is another doctor who he constantly rags on for being a ditz, but he wanted her help to see if he could somehow get through to the teenage girl. After gloriously failing to do so, "Blondie" walked in, sat on the girls bed and told her some embarrassing story about herself as a teenager, as a way to relate. The girl opened right up to her, they reached a compromise, and teenage patient girl agreed to start taking her medicine again.
As sarcastic doctor guy and "Blondie" got into the elevator, he asked her how in the world she knew what was bothering the girl. Exasperated, she explained that she could not comprehend how it was that grown men couldn't grasp the fact that inside every grown woman's head there still exists an gawky confused teenage girl who desperately seeks acceptance and approval.
I thought of so many instances in my own life where that plays out I couldn't even begin to bore you with a list, but suffice to say I think it's utterly true. And I believe if more men knew that and could act on that information, they would find the female species a far easier and dare I say, more compliant group of people to be around.
My own husband found that out this morning when I got up, dreading a rough day and walked into the kitchen to discover my husband and son hard at work finishing up my sons homework. When they finished, my husband looked up to find one very pouty me at the table. When he inquired what was bothering me, I told him that I wished they could just ACKNOWLEDGE my presence, thank you very much. He got defensive and explained that they were concentrating, and I butted in to list the things FOR him that he had already done this morning. I didn't do it to be a bitch, I did it to point out that I was aware of how much he did, and that I wasn't asking for the freaking moon, just a simple, "Good morning, baby, I love you..." with a moment of eye contact and a smile.
"I know I'm high maintenance," I said, "but I think you overestimate the degree of maintenance I require. I'm all....hurty... in my head, and I just want a freakin' Band-Aid, ok?" He smiled and said, "Well, I thought I gave you a pretty good Band-Aid last night," referring to the sex we had before bed. I responded with, "Yes, and that lasted a good ten hours! I'm just asking for a moment of acknowledgment! NEW BAND-AID! I just woke up!" to which he set aside everything and gave me what I wanted, which was a few moments of his undivided attention.
Within seconds of his gorgeous face peeping at me I was in tears, talking about something that was really bothering me, and then I thanked him. He kind of laughed and said, "I didn't really DO anything, I just looked at you and listened." I told him, "EXACTLY. Now was that so hard?" We both laughed and went on about our day.
Blondie was right.
Tuesday, November 28, 2006
It's raining science
Should you be hoping this is going to be some clever bit of bloggery, it's not. This is sheer bitchery.
I hate my neighbors.
I hate my neighbors for many reasons, the most recent being something that happened this morning.
It has to do with a common aspect of apartment living- I like to call it "gravity". You see, when you live on any floor except the top floor, you are subject to whatever comes down from your upstairs neighbors. Bird seed from their feeder, for example.
My downstairs redneck neighbor came up a few months ago to bitch that a bird seed (yes, singular) fell into his coffee cup while he was drinking it. Could we please move our bird feeder? It's right over his morning coffee drinking chair, apparently. And even though it required buying hardware and assembling a new location for the bird feeder to sit (which was far more difficult than say, moving his chair), we did it, and apologized to him for the inconvenience.
This morning I was scoping out my geraniums and noticed that aphids, seemingly unaware that it's a bit late in the season for them to exist, were busy setting up a winter home in my giant potted plant. Fuck. So I ripped the geraniums out so I could go the natural route instead of pesticides: I poured piles of soapy burning hot water into the dirt. This I will leave for months, and the rain will eventually wash away the soap residue, leaving some aphid free dirt for me to replant with whatever I damn well please.
Lo and behold, water poured onto the deck below. I know, try not to shit yourself in amazement. It's true.
However, I had first checked by peeking through the slats in the deck that
1) no one was down there
and
2) nothing was under my plant
Seeing as how it was all clear, I went ahead and started my aphid annihilation. Water poured out the bottom for a good ten minutes as it slowly drained through the dirt. However, no dirt was coming out, so it's brilliant, right? No one is around to be disturbed, no mess is being made, it's all good.
Wrong.
Once I had already finished and was doing other stuff I hear the heavy knock of what could only be my large and in charge (of the short bus) downstairs neighbor. I pondered not answering the door, but it was only water so what could be the problem? I opened it.
There stood the big oaf, who informed me, "Hi. Water is dripping from your deck and my kid walked under it and got wet."
I waited, but nothing else came out of his stupid mouth. Really. I waited. I thought for sure he was going to tell me something like "she fell down" or "she's the Wicked Witch and now she's melted, you thoughtless whore" or anything at all, but nothing. He just stared at me, in his huge oaf-like manner. I blinked.
"I'm....terribly sorry," I said, wondering what the fuck the problem was, "I looked through the slats first to make sure nothing and no one was down there first..." I didn't mention that his daughter usually makes as much noise as a fucking freight train and would be pretty damn hard to miss. I swear, I am not kidding, I think she has a pair of wooden clog shoes that she wears on the back porch. She's a toddler, and so when she runs back and forth and screams it shakes the house and sounds like a horribly performed version of Riverdance is taking place right beneath me.
Do I ever bitch? No. Why would I? If they don't have the common sense to notice that their screaming child is making a fucking racket, what good would it do for me to point it out to them? Think they'll magically figure it out? Fat chance.
But Neighbor Oaf was still staring at me. I continued, "My geraniums have aphids. I was just cleaning the pot out with soap and water. I didn't think anyone was home downstairs, or that it would bother anyone.." I just kept talking, because his dumb fat ass was just standing there staring at me. Maybe he needed more info before something could register? I don't know.
Finally he opened his mouth and said, "She walked under the water and it dripped on her head."
I wanted to throttle him. Shove his fat ass backwards over the railing. His stupidity filled me with a rarely felt sense of rage that I usually only experience when I flip through channels and catch part of a Jerry Springer episode.
I wanted to ask him, "Do you want me to dry her off? Do you want a towel? Would you like me to come explain the concept of gravity to her? Perhaps you would like me to explain it to you? Are you upset that my plant is overflowing or because your kid is so dumb that she saw water dripping, stood under it, got wet, and now you're up here telling me about it? What the fuck do you WANT?"
I had already apologized and explained, so why the hell was he still standing there? Did that one bird seed in his coffee render him retarded?
I did the only thing I could do- apologized some more and started to shut the door. I had already explained that there was nothing I could do- the pot is huge, it's not like I could move it. What would I do with it anyway, bring it inside so it can drain through our floor and into his living room ceiling? I mean, what the hell did this lunatic WANT?
As I closed the door, still apologizing, he started to back away mumbling, "Yah, ok..." and went back down to his Troll Hole.
I try to be optimistic, I do, but sometimes I just hate people.
I hate my neighbors.
I hate my neighbors for many reasons, the most recent being something that happened this morning.
It has to do with a common aspect of apartment living- I like to call it "gravity". You see, when you live on any floor except the top floor, you are subject to whatever comes down from your upstairs neighbors. Bird seed from their feeder, for example.
My downstairs redneck neighbor came up a few months ago to bitch that a bird seed (yes, singular) fell into his coffee cup while he was drinking it. Could we please move our bird feeder? It's right over his morning coffee drinking chair, apparently. And even though it required buying hardware and assembling a new location for the bird feeder to sit (which was far more difficult than say, moving his chair), we did it, and apologized to him for the inconvenience.
This morning I was scoping out my geraniums and noticed that aphids, seemingly unaware that it's a bit late in the season for them to exist, were busy setting up a winter home in my giant potted plant. Fuck. So I ripped the geraniums out so I could go the natural route instead of pesticides: I poured piles of soapy burning hot water into the dirt. This I will leave for months, and the rain will eventually wash away the soap residue, leaving some aphid free dirt for me to replant with whatever I damn well please.
Lo and behold, water poured onto the deck below. I know, try not to shit yourself in amazement. It's true.
However, I had first checked by peeking through the slats in the deck that
1) no one was down there
and
2) nothing was under my plant
Seeing as how it was all clear, I went ahead and started my aphid annihilation. Water poured out the bottom for a good ten minutes as it slowly drained through the dirt. However, no dirt was coming out, so it's brilliant, right? No one is around to be disturbed, no mess is being made, it's all good.
Wrong.
Once I had already finished and was doing other stuff I hear the heavy knock of what could only be my large and in charge (of the short bus) downstairs neighbor. I pondered not answering the door, but it was only water so what could be the problem? I opened it.
There stood the big oaf, who informed me, "Hi. Water is dripping from your deck and my kid walked under it and got wet."
I waited, but nothing else came out of his stupid mouth. Really. I waited. I thought for sure he was going to tell me something like "she fell down" or "she's the Wicked Witch and now she's melted, you thoughtless whore" or anything at all, but nothing. He just stared at me, in his huge oaf-like manner. I blinked.
"I'm....terribly sorry," I said, wondering what the fuck the problem was, "I looked through the slats first to make sure nothing and no one was down there first..." I didn't mention that his daughter usually makes as much noise as a fucking freight train and would be pretty damn hard to miss. I swear, I am not kidding, I think she has a pair of wooden clog shoes that she wears on the back porch. She's a toddler, and so when she runs back and forth and screams it shakes the house and sounds like a horribly performed version of Riverdance is taking place right beneath me.
Do I ever bitch? No. Why would I? If they don't have the common sense to notice that their screaming child is making a fucking racket, what good would it do for me to point it out to them? Think they'll magically figure it out? Fat chance.
But Neighbor Oaf was still staring at me. I continued, "My geraniums have aphids. I was just cleaning the pot out with soap and water. I didn't think anyone was home downstairs, or that it would bother anyone.." I just kept talking, because his dumb fat ass was just standing there staring at me. Maybe he needed more info before something could register? I don't know.
Finally he opened his mouth and said, "She walked under the water and it dripped on her head."
I wanted to throttle him. Shove his fat ass backwards over the railing. His stupidity filled me with a rarely felt sense of rage that I usually only experience when I flip through channels and catch part of a Jerry Springer episode.
I wanted to ask him, "Do you want me to dry her off? Do you want a towel? Would you like me to come explain the concept of gravity to her? Perhaps you would like me to explain it to you? Are you upset that my plant is overflowing or because your kid is so dumb that she saw water dripping, stood under it, got wet, and now you're up here telling me about it? What the fuck do you WANT?"
I had already apologized and explained, so why the hell was he still standing there? Did that one bird seed in his coffee render him retarded?
I did the only thing I could do- apologized some more and started to shut the door. I had already explained that there was nothing I could do- the pot is huge, it's not like I could move it. What would I do with it anyway, bring it inside so it can drain through our floor and into his living room ceiling? I mean, what the hell did this lunatic WANT?
As I closed the door, still apologizing, he started to back away mumbling, "Yah, ok..." and went back down to his Troll Hole.
I try to be optimistic, I do, but sometimes I just hate people.
How to getcha a woman
Wonder no more. Tattooing a monkey poking another monkey in the asshole onto your belly will DEFINITELY get you a woman. She may be fresh out of prison and/or missing teeth/has a couch in her front yard/uses Nascar flags for draperies, but hey, you're not picky, right?
Not like that second monkey. Oh. Right. He's pokey, not picky. My bad.
Bad Holiday MoJo
My neighbors have the most obnoxious Christmas decorations.
Last year one neighbor started putting up their Christmas lights the night of our wedding. Thankfully we had constructed a gorgeous muslin canopy over the entire porch (the reception was held at our house) because otherwise our guests may have gotten confused and thought we held the reception in Vegas. As it was the multicolored glow was about as pleasant as viewing a solar flare close up, but since no one reported their retinas burning out I'm guessing they were ok.
It wasn't just the lights strung around their deck, it was the icicle lights hung off the roof, the big glowing plastic Santa and reindeer and snowman and who the hell knows what all. All I could think to myself was, "If the OUTSIDE looks like this, what does the INSIDE look like?" and then try to scratch out my eyes for having forsaken me by trying to actually picture it.
Another set of neighbors have this hideous door thing. It's like a Santa in a wreath, but it's got a motion detector in it. And as soon as you get near the wretched thing it starts singing, complete with tinny canned music, so loud that we can hear it inside OUR house with the doors closed. Any time anyone approaches their damn door I can hear the thing. This morning I punched it in it's Santa-happy head, to which my son laughed. On the way back from the bus stop, I devised a plan.
While sitting at the bus stop bitching (cheerfully) to another mom about how there ought to be a law against obnoxious decorations, maybe like the terror alert code (green- tasteful, yellow- borderline, orange- you obviously hate other humans, red- Maltov cocktails are considered an acceptable response), she told me to find the battery pack.
"No, no, that won't work," I explained. "They'll just think the batteries wore out and replace them. If I snip the wires it'll be obvious it was sabatoge. No, it has to be more devious." So I got up close to the Santa/Satan and started wiggling my fingers in front of it, trying to figure out where the motion detector was. Is it in the eyes? Hidden in the belt? Finally I found it.
And as soon as I can, I'm taking a black Sharpie marker over there and coloring in it's black lens. I'm making a list, I'm checking it twice, and this year that Santa is going DOWN, bitches!
Apparently not everyone knows about the Christmas decoration terror alert code. They should be happy it's not a Maltov cocktail.
Last year one neighbor started putting up their Christmas lights the night of our wedding. Thankfully we had constructed a gorgeous muslin canopy over the entire porch (the reception was held at our house) because otherwise our guests may have gotten confused and thought we held the reception in Vegas. As it was the multicolored glow was about as pleasant as viewing a solar flare close up, but since no one reported their retinas burning out I'm guessing they were ok.
It wasn't just the lights strung around their deck, it was the icicle lights hung off the roof, the big glowing plastic Santa and reindeer and snowman and who the hell knows what all. All I could think to myself was, "If the OUTSIDE looks like this, what does the INSIDE look like?" and then try to scratch out my eyes for having forsaken me by trying to actually picture it.
Another set of neighbors have this hideous door thing. It's like a Santa in a wreath, but it's got a motion detector in it. And as soon as you get near the wretched thing it starts singing, complete with tinny canned music, so loud that we can hear it inside OUR house with the doors closed. Any time anyone approaches their damn door I can hear the thing. This morning I punched it in it's Santa-happy head, to which my son laughed. On the way back from the bus stop, I devised a plan.
While sitting at the bus stop bitching (cheerfully) to another mom about how there ought to be a law against obnoxious decorations, maybe like the terror alert code (green- tasteful, yellow- borderline, orange- you obviously hate other humans, red- Maltov cocktails are considered an acceptable response), she told me to find the battery pack.
"No, no, that won't work," I explained. "They'll just think the batteries wore out and replace them. If I snip the wires it'll be obvious it was sabatoge. No, it has to be more devious." So I got up close to the Santa/Satan and started wiggling my fingers in front of it, trying to figure out where the motion detector was. Is it in the eyes? Hidden in the belt? Finally I found it.
And as soon as I can, I'm taking a black Sharpie marker over there and coloring in it's black lens. I'm making a list, I'm checking it twice, and this year that Santa is going DOWN, bitches!
Apparently not everyone knows about the Christmas decoration terror alert code. They should be happy it's not a Maltov cocktail.
Monday, November 27, 2006
I don't wanna
This is likely to come out as jangled and as melodramatic as anything else I've written, so you are forewarned and I ask for your forgiveness beforehand.
Grief.
I do not know how to feel it, I do not know how to express it, I do not know how to merge my being with it. Grief is an alien thing that I have refused to acknowledge throughout the course of my life and grief is perhaps the reason I learned how to disassociate so well.
Let me back up.
I finally started my EMDR sessions with my shrink. (Google it if you want, I'm on a roll and I'm not stopping to explain it right now.) For the first session, I wondered where in the hell I should start. I mean, EMDR is supposed to be for dealing with trauma, but with amount of trauma I've had during the course of my life, where in the bloody hell should I begin?
I thought about issues I have with jealousy, with abandonment, with sex, with anxiety. Which one is the one to start with? Which issue should I begin with? They're all debilitating, they're all important.
When I walked in to my first EMDR appointment I told my shrink all of the issues I was working with, but for the first actual session I didn't know where to start. I had an inkling... so I went with it. She asked me where I wanted to begin, and I said, "I think...with my dad."
I had already told her about how my dad was a raging alcoholic when I was little, how he had gone into the hospital with a bleeding ulcer when I was about four. I remember visiting him there. It was grim. At the hospital they figured out the alcoholism and started treating him with massive amounts of Valium.
When he came home from the hospital he was a sedated blob, basically. My mom thought he was drinking again, he swears he wasn't. Having had a Valium addiction of my own at the age of sixteen, I know she could have mistaken the side effects of Valium for drunkenness, likewise I know that my dad probably was really drinking again. When my mom remarried and she and my step dad built onto the house, the construction workers were finding alcohol hidden away in the rafters and shit. I mean, come on. That doesn't mean he was drinking at that point in time, however, it does mean that he was a bad enough drunk that he felt the need to hide alcohol, so well in fact that it would be discovered nearly ten years later. *sigh*
Was he drinking when he came home from the hospital? It hardly even matters, it was nearly thirty years ago now. What does matter is what happened when my mom started finding little travel size liquor bottles hidden in my dads fishing gear and everywhere else. She did something stupid, but not something I blame her for. She took away his Valium.
According to my mom's reasoning, "He couldn't drink and take that stuff at the same time! The doctors told me so! So I hid it. I don't know why I didn't just flush it down the toilet, but instead I just hid it."
*one pained expression from Moi*
Ok, my mother, who is rather naive and meant well, but still made an enormously horrendous decision: she took away the alcoholics band-aid. She should have called the doctors, had him readmitted, I don't know. And really, I don't know if any of those were options for her. She was, at that point, nursing a debilitated husband, caring for two small children, and working to try to support our family while my dad recovered.
He's never really recovered.
What happened next is the part I brought up in therapy. I remember walking into his room one day and asking him if I could go play at the neighbors house. He was supposed to be "watching" us, I guess, but I don't know how the hell he planned on doing that while asleep. I couldn't have been more than five, at most. My brother is a year and a half older than I am, and I don't remember him being around. I don't know where he was. My shrink pointed out, "Most children who grow up in an alcoholic home find somewhere else to be. Home is not a safe place. Your brother was probably doing what any seven year old would do- get as far away as possible." Still, I resent it. I didn't realize it till that session, but I resent it. I resent it because of what happened next.
As I stood in his room, with him laying in bed, the air smelling of medicines and ointments and probably stale cigarette smoke, I just remember looking at the curtains, the bedspread, the carpet. I don't remember looking at my dad's face at all. I don't know if I did and I can't bear to remember it or if I couldn't bear it at the time.
It was a beautiful summer day, and his room was dark as night. It smelled awful as he laid there in bed and he said the words I will never forget: "Today is the day I am going to die."
I don't remember what I said, or what else he said. I didn't know what to say. I'm not sure I understood what he meant, really. I was very young. I don't remember anything else about it until I was sitting at my friends house a short time later, sitting at the cool high bar stools at their kitchen counter, her mother behind the counter making us our usual favorite lunch: peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, Frito-s, and Kool-Aid. I remember telling her what my dad said. In my memory it was very casual, my telling her. Like, gee what a nice day, by the way my dad said he was going to die today. What I do remember is the next thing burned into my memory, and that is the expression on her face. I have never forgotten the look of their kitchen, the smell of the Frito's, the sun shining and my friends mom looking at me with the most heart wrenching pity I had ever seen. I didn't understand it at the time, but I never have forgotten it.
I don't remember anything else from that day. Nothing at all. I think the neighbor girl and I played with Play-doh, who knows. Her mom used to make it herself, but for some reason it always came out the same weird grayish alien bluish color. It's hard to be creative with that color. I also can remember exactly how that stuff smelled.
The day could have been forgotten, but one day a few years ago I got to wondering. It was after my last drunken boyfriend and I had broken up, and right as my husband to be (and now is) had met. I had been going through some hard core therapy, and swore to my shrink that I absolutely refused to date anyone else until she could assure me that my unconscious desire to date alcoholic fucked up men was cured. And I stuck to that. I didn't go on a single damn date. Fuck it. I didn't trust me. I had horrible taste in men. My son was a heartbroken mess over the breakup with the cheating asshole I had spent the previous five years with, and his father was far worse than that. I just couldn't risk it. I wouldn't.
One day the therapist I had then asked me if I was willing to do something she referred to as "tapping". It's very similar to EMDR, perhaps a variety of it, I don't know. When I agreed, she had me work back through the reasons I wanted to date men who were just like my father, recognize the unconscious desire I had to fix them, to heal them, unlike what I could not do with my own father, and then work on a positive affirmation to negate the behavior, all while she tapped on various trigger points or something. It was odd, but whatever. I was willing to try anything. I believe my affirmation was, "It's not my duty to heal my father, and I can let go of that now."
(chokes up) It was some powerful stuff.
You see, for years I dated men who were alcoholic, drug abusing, emotionally distant, emotionally abusive, completely apathetic or some combination thereof. I dated a controller. I dated a physical abuser. I dated nice guys but couldn't stand them, because they didn't NEED me, you see? I needed to FIX someone. I needed to SAVE someone, because my little five year self had that urge emblazoned onto her soul. I needed to heal someone else, because no one would heal ME until I felt I was worthy of being healed. I had to prove to someone I was worthy.
Ultimately, I had to prove it to myself, but I didn't know that then.
*deep breath* So, as I broke through the barrier of needing to heal someone else, I allowed my husband to come into my life, the very next day, as a matter of fact. It's in a blog post elsewhere, but again, I'm skipping my usual link-happy habit so I can get all the way through this. This isn't easy.
As I was going through all of the therapy and had started dating my soon-to-be husband, my mother and grandmother decided to come down for Memorial Day weekend. It was during that weekend that I decided I was brave enough to ask my mother some questions about my past.
My son was playing cards with my grandmother at the kitchen table, my mom and I were a few feet away in the living room. I told her about the memory I had of my dad that day, and the tension in the room was suddenly thick and palpable. I could see my grandma stiffen at the table, I could sense her listening even though she was pretending to still be playing cards with my son. I knew I hit on something big.
My mom took a deep breath and stared at me. She said, "I...I didn't realize you knew... I never knew that you... knew about that day. You never mentioned it to me before..." She was clearly shocked and was trying to gather her thoughts.
Finally she told me the story: she had suspected my father was drinking again and took away his Valium. After what must have been a hellish however-many-days, he found it. And he took the whole bottle. He then laid in bed, waiting to die, and at some point called my mother at work to inform her that she should probably come home before "the kids find my body".
At what point I had the exchange with him that I did, I don't know.
According to my mom, he survived it. He never even had his stomach pumped. I suspect perhaps he didn't take them all but hid them from HER, and maybe even faked it to punish her, I really don't know. It is also possible that he really did take them all, since it wasn't the last time he attempted to kill himself. According to my mother, after she divorced him (which was damn soon after, I don't know the exact details) he had called to ask her for some money, and I think maybe his hunting rifle. Maybe he had that, I don't know. At any rate, she didn't have any money to give him (he was due some in the divorce settlement) and he called her a few days later to tell her that he was glad she didn't give it to him. He had planned on going somewhere, the Kentucky Derby maybe? and have a grand last weekend, then blow his head off afterwards.
*one long steely pause*
This is my dad. This is the only dad I remember. I have a few memories of him playing baseball with my brother and I but most of my life memories of my dad are of a man who can't wait to die. I know this because he tells me about it all the time. He is friendly to people, but incredibly morbid. He quit drinking when my mom divorced him, and he never dated anyone ever again. He moved back into the home that he grew up in, a home he shared with his younger brother until a few years ago when my uncle's emphysema got so bad he had to go live with his daughter.
When I was younger I used to beg my dad to quit smoking. He just laughed bitterly and asked me why should he bother? I told him, "Because it will kill you!" He just said, "So? The sooner the better, that's what I say." When I started smoking he gave me such total shit about it, and I told him to can it. He let me smoke in front of him from then on out. (I quit smoking years ago, thankfully.)
Every time I visit him he reminds me about how he wants to be cremated, how he doesn't want me to "bother" coming up to a funeral "I'll be dead, it's not like I'll give a damn", where the paperwork for his cremation and bank account are.
Last year he gave me back the photo album I made for him one Christmas, with pictures of my son. It even said, "Grandpa's Photo Album" on the front. It had little notes all through it, cute stuff, you know? As he handed it to me he said, "Here, take this. I don't need it, and your pictures are going to waste." I told him they were all copies and that I had the other copies, plus I had made it for him. He just held it out, so I took it, expressionless and put it in my bag. When I told my brother in law about it he was enraged. "What an asshole! Why would he DO something like that?" He was convinced my father was actively trying to hurt me. I told him blandly, "That's just my dad."
When my husband met him, I tried to warn him. I had told him the stories, told him that my dad had one chair he sat in and the rest of his furniture is lawn chairs. His house is a mess, with barely any furniture and the whole place smells like dirt and automotive parts. When I was younger I used to clean his house every time I came to visit, and my dad would yell at me, "Stop cleaning my house! Just sit down!" But it was so depressing, and I felt like SOMEONE needed to breathe some life into the place. Even with my warnings, my husband smiled while we were there, but once we left he was visibly shaken. "It's like he's just sitting in that chair waiting to die!" I nodded. Yep. That's my dad. I thought it was odd that my husband was so distraught by the scene, since I felt nearly nothing. I assumed it was because I was just used to it. Now I'm not so sure.
During my EMDR session we started with me closing my eyes and picturing the moment my dad told me he would die. I immediately started to cry. The therapist asked me what I saw, and I told her about the curtains and the creepiness of being in a dark room on a sunny day. As I cried, she would periodically ask me what I saw, and it changed from the scene with my dad to being at my grandparents house. At that point I started sobbing.
She asked me what I felt and I told her I felt like I had a huge metal ball in my guts, solid, heavy, like lead. It's not a new feeling, I told her. It's one I notice a lot. When I am upset or anxious that part of my body clenches. I'm willing to bet it's a visual manifestation of my ability to disassociate. That's where the feelings go that I don't want to feel. I push them down, away from my conscious mind and I am stoic, hardened. I always thought this was a strength. Now I know it is not...
During physical therapy I've had a few (ok, more than a few) occasions where my therapist is working on that part of my body and it's the most godawful horrible feeling ever. Sometimes I sob then, sometimes later, sometimes both. She always asks me what I'm thinking, what I'm seeing, but usually it's nothing; nothing but an overwhelming sense of grief and loneliness. I freak out. It feels like... well, it feels alien.
I like to think I'm completely at ease with my own emotions. I can deal with emotions, what's the big deal? But not this one. This emotion feels like a tsunami of death, a feeling so horrible that it could kill me in it's intensity. I know how melodramatic that sounds, but I think I've come to realize it for what it is:
It's grief.
I have never allowed myself this emotion, because I have very consciously spent my life waiting for my father to die. He said he would, he talks about it all the time, he's had a few close brushes with the suicide attempts and various illnesses and I've been steeling myself for the moment since I was a small child.
That steel ball? That's it.
My obsessive compulsive desire to clean things? My dad's house.
My intense need for sunlight and a deep, deep loathing for dark houses with small windows? My dad's would-have-been deathbed.
What about my grandparents house? In the EMDR session, I started sobbing when I pictured it. My shrink asked me how I felt about their house, and I answered, "I feel safe there." She commented on how children of dysfunctional and alcoholic homes tend to not associate their own house with "home". Usually they find somewhere else to make that connection. For me it was my grandparents house.
They watched us a lot while we were growing up. With my mom doing the single mom thing, if one of us were sick we went to our grandparents house. It was a place of soothing, of healing, of cartoon watching and hot soup on a TV tray. In the summer our grandpa took us down to the ice cream shop on the corner. I always got a vanilla cone with rainbow sprinkles. And although they too were alcoholics, they were the silent fighting type. Meaning, if my grandparents were fighting, my grandpa would sit in the living room watching TV and we would sit in the dining room with my grandma and watch the other TV. She would take us bowling, miniature golfing, my grandpa taught us to roller skate. As my shrink so accurately pointed out, they were the people that I came to think of as my parents. And when they sold that house and moved into a retirement community, I cried like a baby. I still cry when I think of their house. During my therapy session, when my shrink asked me how I felt about their house, I told her that someone else lives in it now and "I just HATE thinking that someone else lives there! I don't want them to live there!" It's like they are unwittingly desecrating my sacred ground.
When my mom kicked me out of the house at fifteen, I didn't call anyone, not in my family. As I put it to my husband, "It didn't occur to me. I mean, I was banished, right? I didn't understand that what she did was not only wrong but illegal- I just knew I was banished." During those months of living on the streets I sneaked over to my grandparents house while they were at church. When I reached for the hidden key and realized it wasn't there, I was devastated. They hadn't moved that key since I could remember. The fact that they would move it must have meant, in my fifteen year old mind, that I was really and truly banished, even from my place of safety. I found out later that my mother had made them hide it somewhere else. My grandma told me that she didn't want to, but my mother insisted. And every time my grandma saw that some teenage girl had been found dead she would cry herself sick until she knew it wasn't me.
No small surprise I am more attached to my grandmother than my own mother.
These days my grandparents are sketchy where life is concerned. Two years ago my grandma was on the brink of death and rather miraculously came back. Even the doctors couldn't comprehend it. I was absolutely beside myself. When she asked me to "hurry up and get married before we die" I threw aside my plans for the wedding I'd always dreamed of and instead threw together a wedding in three months. I'm sad that I didn't get to do all the stuff that I dreamed of, but I'm glad my grandparents can rest easy knowing that I am finally in good hands. And I am.
My grandpa has had multiple heart attacks, strokes, and suffers from an ever growing dementia. My grandma still is ok mentally but had her moments, too. She definitely can't get around like she used to. As I told my shrink, "It's like I'm watching them disappear before my eyes." She nodded and said that this situation is indeed a very difficult part of life. I couldn't agree more.
What's insane to me is that I still have my parents. I have a mother that I have been slowly trying to develop a relationship with, and a father that I am at a total loss as to what to do with.
The other night I had a breakdown and just sat in my husband's lap and bawled. When he asked me what was the matter I told him it didn't really make sense, but I would try to explain. I felt like I was too big, I said. I wanted to sit in my daddy's lap and have him hold me and tell me everything would be ok, but that that would never happen, and probably never had happened. I said, "When a child is deprived of nutrition they get rickets, they get scurvy, you know? Something a doctor and child services will notice! Something that says, 'HEY! YOU AREN'T TAKING CARE OF YOUR CHILD!' But when a child is deprived emotionally, it doesn't show. I feel like my body is a traitor, and I should have stopped growing in defiance until I got the emotional support I needed. Now I'm too big. I sit on your lap and I'm just too damn big...." and I sobbed.
I felt the steely ball in my guts and for the first time I felt it open. Only one thought came out as I cried hysterically: "I want my daddy."
(pauses to wipe face)
I don't think I've ever felt that before. Or, if I did, I was so young I don't remember it. I suspect once he told me he was going to die, I wiped him off my emotional books, so to speak. Like, ok, let's not get attached to this one, he's too damn iffy. And that's never changed.
After my sobfest came to a long drawn out close, I pondered the whole thing with my husband. My husband, whose own father died a few years back after a wretched battle with cancer. My husband still gets choked up about his dad sometimes. Meanwhile, my own father is still alive, and I barely speak to him. To my credit, I am the only one initiating contact anyway. He never calls, and I may have received three or four pieces of mail from him in my entire life. All of them are a short note with a check for something. Buy my son some Christmas presents or something, that sort of thing.
So...I want my daddy. But can I have him? I certainly can't have the one I want. The question is, can I accept the one I have? I mean, truly accept him?
I honestly don't know.
I've had so much emotional baggage rearing it's head since my first EMDR session, and physical therapy had already been doing an amazing number on my emotional state before that. It's been overwhelming, and hence me not writing a whole hell of a lot. I mean, when your heads filled with heavy ass shit, what can you write about?
I'm left with a moment in physical therapy where I had a breakdown (breakthrough?) after a particularly painful session. I cried all the way through the session, then cried the whole time they had hot packs on me, then just kept on crying. I couldn't seem to stop. One of the assistants came in and just rubbed me gently and asked me what was going on. I told her I honestly didn't know, but that I felt so incredibly sad. She just kept softly rubbing my back and said, "Yah, sometimes therapy brings stuff to the surface..." and just like that, I snapped. I stared at her with the bratty defiance of a five year old and sobbed, "Well, I don't WANNA feel it! I don't care! I DON'T WANNA!"
She just kept rubbing me and said, "I know. I know. Nobody does. But those feelings are feelings you've had locked in your body for way too long. Your body is pushing them out, and you HAVE to feel them, it's the only way to let them go. They need to go."
She's so right.
(closes eyes and sobs)
Grief.
I do not know how to feel it, I do not know how to express it, I do not know how to merge my being with it. Grief is an alien thing that I have refused to acknowledge throughout the course of my life and grief is perhaps the reason I learned how to disassociate so well.
Let me back up.
I finally started my EMDR sessions with my shrink. (Google it if you want, I'm on a roll and I'm not stopping to explain it right now.) For the first session, I wondered where in the hell I should start. I mean, EMDR is supposed to be for dealing with trauma, but with amount of trauma I've had during the course of my life, where in the bloody hell should I begin?
I thought about issues I have with jealousy, with abandonment, with sex, with anxiety. Which one is the one to start with? Which issue should I begin with? They're all debilitating, they're all important.
When I walked in to my first EMDR appointment I told my shrink all of the issues I was working with, but for the first actual session I didn't know where to start. I had an inkling... so I went with it. She asked me where I wanted to begin, and I said, "I think...with my dad."
I had already told her about how my dad was a raging alcoholic when I was little, how he had gone into the hospital with a bleeding ulcer when I was about four. I remember visiting him there. It was grim. At the hospital they figured out the alcoholism and started treating him with massive amounts of Valium.
When he came home from the hospital he was a sedated blob, basically. My mom thought he was drinking again, he swears he wasn't. Having had a Valium addiction of my own at the age of sixteen, I know she could have mistaken the side effects of Valium for drunkenness, likewise I know that my dad probably was really drinking again. When my mom remarried and she and my step dad built onto the house, the construction workers were finding alcohol hidden away in the rafters and shit. I mean, come on. That doesn't mean he was drinking at that point in time, however, it does mean that he was a bad enough drunk that he felt the need to hide alcohol, so well in fact that it would be discovered nearly ten years later. *sigh*
Was he drinking when he came home from the hospital? It hardly even matters, it was nearly thirty years ago now. What does matter is what happened when my mom started finding little travel size liquor bottles hidden in my dads fishing gear and everywhere else. She did something stupid, but not something I blame her for. She took away his Valium.
According to my mom's reasoning, "He couldn't drink and take that stuff at the same time! The doctors told me so! So I hid it. I don't know why I didn't just flush it down the toilet, but instead I just hid it."
*one pained expression from Moi*
Ok, my mother, who is rather naive and meant well, but still made an enormously horrendous decision: she took away the alcoholics band-aid. She should have called the doctors, had him readmitted, I don't know. And really, I don't know if any of those were options for her. She was, at that point, nursing a debilitated husband, caring for two small children, and working to try to support our family while my dad recovered.
He's never really recovered.
What happened next is the part I brought up in therapy. I remember walking into his room one day and asking him if I could go play at the neighbors house. He was supposed to be "watching" us, I guess, but I don't know how the hell he planned on doing that while asleep. I couldn't have been more than five, at most. My brother is a year and a half older than I am, and I don't remember him being around. I don't know where he was. My shrink pointed out, "Most children who grow up in an alcoholic home find somewhere else to be. Home is not a safe place. Your brother was probably doing what any seven year old would do- get as far away as possible." Still, I resent it. I didn't realize it till that session, but I resent it. I resent it because of what happened next.
As I stood in his room, with him laying in bed, the air smelling of medicines and ointments and probably stale cigarette smoke, I just remember looking at the curtains, the bedspread, the carpet. I don't remember looking at my dad's face at all. I don't know if I did and I can't bear to remember it or if I couldn't bear it at the time.
It was a beautiful summer day, and his room was dark as night. It smelled awful as he laid there in bed and he said the words I will never forget: "Today is the day I am going to die."
I don't remember what I said, or what else he said. I didn't know what to say. I'm not sure I understood what he meant, really. I was very young. I don't remember anything else about it until I was sitting at my friends house a short time later, sitting at the cool high bar stools at their kitchen counter, her mother behind the counter making us our usual favorite lunch: peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, Frito-s, and Kool-Aid. I remember telling her what my dad said. In my memory it was very casual, my telling her. Like, gee what a nice day, by the way my dad said he was going to die today. What I do remember is the next thing burned into my memory, and that is the expression on her face. I have never forgotten the look of their kitchen, the smell of the Frito's, the sun shining and my friends mom looking at me with the most heart wrenching pity I had ever seen. I didn't understand it at the time, but I never have forgotten it.
I don't remember anything else from that day. Nothing at all. I think the neighbor girl and I played with Play-doh, who knows. Her mom used to make it herself, but for some reason it always came out the same weird grayish alien bluish color. It's hard to be creative with that color. I also can remember exactly how that stuff smelled.
The day could have been forgotten, but one day a few years ago I got to wondering. It was after my last drunken boyfriend and I had broken up, and right as my husband to be (and now is) had met. I had been going through some hard core therapy, and swore to my shrink that I absolutely refused to date anyone else until she could assure me that my unconscious desire to date alcoholic fucked up men was cured. And I stuck to that. I didn't go on a single damn date. Fuck it. I didn't trust me. I had horrible taste in men. My son was a heartbroken mess over the breakup with the cheating asshole I had spent the previous five years with, and his father was far worse than that. I just couldn't risk it. I wouldn't.
One day the therapist I had then asked me if I was willing to do something she referred to as "tapping". It's very similar to EMDR, perhaps a variety of it, I don't know. When I agreed, she had me work back through the reasons I wanted to date men who were just like my father, recognize the unconscious desire I had to fix them, to heal them, unlike what I could not do with my own father, and then work on a positive affirmation to negate the behavior, all while she tapped on various trigger points or something. It was odd, but whatever. I was willing to try anything. I believe my affirmation was, "It's not my duty to heal my father, and I can let go of that now."
(chokes up) It was some powerful stuff.
You see, for years I dated men who were alcoholic, drug abusing, emotionally distant, emotionally abusive, completely apathetic or some combination thereof. I dated a controller. I dated a physical abuser. I dated nice guys but couldn't stand them, because they didn't NEED me, you see? I needed to FIX someone. I needed to SAVE someone, because my little five year self had that urge emblazoned onto her soul. I needed to heal someone else, because no one would heal ME until I felt I was worthy of being healed. I had to prove to someone I was worthy.
Ultimately, I had to prove it to myself, but I didn't know that then.
*deep breath* So, as I broke through the barrier of needing to heal someone else, I allowed my husband to come into my life, the very next day, as a matter of fact. It's in a blog post elsewhere, but again, I'm skipping my usual link-happy habit so I can get all the way through this. This isn't easy.
As I was going through all of the therapy and had started dating my soon-to-be husband, my mother and grandmother decided to come down for Memorial Day weekend. It was during that weekend that I decided I was brave enough to ask my mother some questions about my past.
My son was playing cards with my grandmother at the kitchen table, my mom and I were a few feet away in the living room. I told her about the memory I had of my dad that day, and the tension in the room was suddenly thick and palpable. I could see my grandma stiffen at the table, I could sense her listening even though she was pretending to still be playing cards with my son. I knew I hit on something big.
My mom took a deep breath and stared at me. She said, "I...I didn't realize you knew... I never knew that you... knew about that day. You never mentioned it to me before..." She was clearly shocked and was trying to gather her thoughts.
Finally she told me the story: she had suspected my father was drinking again and took away his Valium. After what must have been a hellish however-many-days, he found it. And he took the whole bottle. He then laid in bed, waiting to die, and at some point called my mother at work to inform her that she should probably come home before "the kids find my body".
At what point I had the exchange with him that I did, I don't know.
According to my mom, he survived it. He never even had his stomach pumped. I suspect perhaps he didn't take them all but hid them from HER, and maybe even faked it to punish her, I really don't know. It is also possible that he really did take them all, since it wasn't the last time he attempted to kill himself. According to my mother, after she divorced him (which was damn soon after, I don't know the exact details) he had called to ask her for some money, and I think maybe his hunting rifle. Maybe he had that, I don't know. At any rate, she didn't have any money to give him (he was due some in the divorce settlement) and he called her a few days later to tell her that he was glad she didn't give it to him. He had planned on going somewhere, the Kentucky Derby maybe? and have a grand last weekend, then blow his head off afterwards.
*one long steely pause*
This is my dad. This is the only dad I remember. I have a few memories of him playing baseball with my brother and I but most of my life memories of my dad are of a man who can't wait to die. I know this because he tells me about it all the time. He is friendly to people, but incredibly morbid. He quit drinking when my mom divorced him, and he never dated anyone ever again. He moved back into the home that he grew up in, a home he shared with his younger brother until a few years ago when my uncle's emphysema got so bad he had to go live with his daughter.
When I was younger I used to beg my dad to quit smoking. He just laughed bitterly and asked me why should he bother? I told him, "Because it will kill you!" He just said, "So? The sooner the better, that's what I say." When I started smoking he gave me such total shit about it, and I told him to can it. He let me smoke in front of him from then on out. (I quit smoking years ago, thankfully.)
Every time I visit him he reminds me about how he wants to be cremated, how he doesn't want me to "bother" coming up to a funeral "I'll be dead, it's not like I'll give a damn", where the paperwork for his cremation and bank account are.
Last year he gave me back the photo album I made for him one Christmas, with pictures of my son. It even said, "Grandpa's Photo Album" on the front. It had little notes all through it, cute stuff, you know? As he handed it to me he said, "Here, take this. I don't need it, and your pictures are going to waste." I told him they were all copies and that I had the other copies, plus I had made it for him. He just held it out, so I took it, expressionless and put it in my bag. When I told my brother in law about it he was enraged. "What an asshole! Why would he DO something like that?" He was convinced my father was actively trying to hurt me. I told him blandly, "That's just my dad."
When my husband met him, I tried to warn him. I had told him the stories, told him that my dad had one chair he sat in and the rest of his furniture is lawn chairs. His house is a mess, with barely any furniture and the whole place smells like dirt and automotive parts. When I was younger I used to clean his house every time I came to visit, and my dad would yell at me, "Stop cleaning my house! Just sit down!" But it was so depressing, and I felt like SOMEONE needed to breathe some life into the place. Even with my warnings, my husband smiled while we were there, but once we left he was visibly shaken. "It's like he's just sitting in that chair waiting to die!" I nodded. Yep. That's my dad. I thought it was odd that my husband was so distraught by the scene, since I felt nearly nothing. I assumed it was because I was just used to it. Now I'm not so sure.
During my EMDR session we started with me closing my eyes and picturing the moment my dad told me he would die. I immediately started to cry. The therapist asked me what I saw, and I told her about the curtains and the creepiness of being in a dark room on a sunny day. As I cried, she would periodically ask me what I saw, and it changed from the scene with my dad to being at my grandparents house. At that point I started sobbing.
She asked me what I felt and I told her I felt like I had a huge metal ball in my guts, solid, heavy, like lead. It's not a new feeling, I told her. It's one I notice a lot. When I am upset or anxious that part of my body clenches. I'm willing to bet it's a visual manifestation of my ability to disassociate. That's where the feelings go that I don't want to feel. I push them down, away from my conscious mind and I am stoic, hardened. I always thought this was a strength. Now I know it is not...
During physical therapy I've had a few (ok, more than a few) occasions where my therapist is working on that part of my body and it's the most godawful horrible feeling ever. Sometimes I sob then, sometimes later, sometimes both. She always asks me what I'm thinking, what I'm seeing, but usually it's nothing; nothing but an overwhelming sense of grief and loneliness. I freak out. It feels like... well, it feels alien.
I like to think I'm completely at ease with my own emotions. I can deal with emotions, what's the big deal? But not this one. This emotion feels like a tsunami of death, a feeling so horrible that it could kill me in it's intensity. I know how melodramatic that sounds, but I think I've come to realize it for what it is:
It's grief.
I have never allowed myself this emotion, because I have very consciously spent my life waiting for my father to die. He said he would, he talks about it all the time, he's had a few close brushes with the suicide attempts and various illnesses and I've been steeling myself for the moment since I was a small child.
That steel ball? That's it.
My obsessive compulsive desire to clean things? My dad's house.
My intense need for sunlight and a deep, deep loathing for dark houses with small windows? My dad's would-have-been deathbed.
What about my grandparents house? In the EMDR session, I started sobbing when I pictured it. My shrink asked me how I felt about their house, and I answered, "I feel safe there." She commented on how children of dysfunctional and alcoholic homes tend to not associate their own house with "home". Usually they find somewhere else to make that connection. For me it was my grandparents house.
They watched us a lot while we were growing up. With my mom doing the single mom thing, if one of us were sick we went to our grandparents house. It was a place of soothing, of healing, of cartoon watching and hot soup on a TV tray. In the summer our grandpa took us down to the ice cream shop on the corner. I always got a vanilla cone with rainbow sprinkles. And although they too were alcoholics, they were the silent fighting type. Meaning, if my grandparents were fighting, my grandpa would sit in the living room watching TV and we would sit in the dining room with my grandma and watch the other TV. She would take us bowling, miniature golfing, my grandpa taught us to roller skate. As my shrink so accurately pointed out, they were the people that I came to think of as my parents. And when they sold that house and moved into a retirement community, I cried like a baby. I still cry when I think of their house. During my therapy session, when my shrink asked me how I felt about their house, I told her that someone else lives in it now and "I just HATE thinking that someone else lives there! I don't want them to live there!" It's like they are unwittingly desecrating my sacred ground.
When my mom kicked me out of the house at fifteen, I didn't call anyone, not in my family. As I put it to my husband, "It didn't occur to me. I mean, I was banished, right? I didn't understand that what she did was not only wrong but illegal- I just knew I was banished." During those months of living on the streets I sneaked over to my grandparents house while they were at church. When I reached for the hidden key and realized it wasn't there, I was devastated. They hadn't moved that key since I could remember. The fact that they would move it must have meant, in my fifteen year old mind, that I was really and truly banished, even from my place of safety. I found out later that my mother had made them hide it somewhere else. My grandma told me that she didn't want to, but my mother insisted. And every time my grandma saw that some teenage girl had been found dead she would cry herself sick until she knew it wasn't me.
No small surprise I am more attached to my grandmother than my own mother.
These days my grandparents are sketchy where life is concerned. Two years ago my grandma was on the brink of death and rather miraculously came back. Even the doctors couldn't comprehend it. I was absolutely beside myself. When she asked me to "hurry up and get married before we die" I threw aside my plans for the wedding I'd always dreamed of and instead threw together a wedding in three months. I'm sad that I didn't get to do all the stuff that I dreamed of, but I'm glad my grandparents can rest easy knowing that I am finally in good hands. And I am.
My grandpa has had multiple heart attacks, strokes, and suffers from an ever growing dementia. My grandma still is ok mentally but had her moments, too. She definitely can't get around like she used to. As I told my shrink, "It's like I'm watching them disappear before my eyes." She nodded and said that this situation is indeed a very difficult part of life. I couldn't agree more.
What's insane to me is that I still have my parents. I have a mother that I have been slowly trying to develop a relationship with, and a father that I am at a total loss as to what to do with.
The other night I had a breakdown and just sat in my husband's lap and bawled. When he asked me what was the matter I told him it didn't really make sense, but I would try to explain. I felt like I was too big, I said. I wanted to sit in my daddy's lap and have him hold me and tell me everything would be ok, but that that would never happen, and probably never had happened. I said, "When a child is deprived of nutrition they get rickets, they get scurvy, you know? Something a doctor and child services will notice! Something that says, 'HEY! YOU AREN'T TAKING CARE OF YOUR CHILD!' But when a child is deprived emotionally, it doesn't show. I feel like my body is a traitor, and I should have stopped growing in defiance until I got the emotional support I needed. Now I'm too big. I sit on your lap and I'm just too damn big...." and I sobbed.
I felt the steely ball in my guts and for the first time I felt it open. Only one thought came out as I cried hysterically: "I want my daddy."
(pauses to wipe face)
I don't think I've ever felt that before. Or, if I did, I was so young I don't remember it. I suspect once he told me he was going to die, I wiped him off my emotional books, so to speak. Like, ok, let's not get attached to this one, he's too damn iffy. And that's never changed.
After my sobfest came to a long drawn out close, I pondered the whole thing with my husband. My husband, whose own father died a few years back after a wretched battle with cancer. My husband still gets choked up about his dad sometimes. Meanwhile, my own father is still alive, and I barely speak to him. To my credit, I am the only one initiating contact anyway. He never calls, and I may have received three or four pieces of mail from him in my entire life. All of them are a short note with a check for something. Buy my son some Christmas presents or something, that sort of thing.
So...I want my daddy. But can I have him? I certainly can't have the one I want. The question is, can I accept the one I have? I mean, truly accept him?
I honestly don't know.
I've had so much emotional baggage rearing it's head since my first EMDR session, and physical therapy had already been doing an amazing number on my emotional state before that. It's been overwhelming, and hence me not writing a whole hell of a lot. I mean, when your heads filled with heavy ass shit, what can you write about?
I'm left with a moment in physical therapy where I had a breakdown (breakthrough?) after a particularly painful session. I cried all the way through the session, then cried the whole time they had hot packs on me, then just kept on crying. I couldn't seem to stop. One of the assistants came in and just rubbed me gently and asked me what was going on. I told her I honestly didn't know, but that I felt so incredibly sad. She just kept softly rubbing my back and said, "Yah, sometimes therapy brings stuff to the surface..." and just like that, I snapped. I stared at her with the bratty defiance of a five year old and sobbed, "Well, I don't WANNA feel it! I don't care! I DON'T WANNA!"
She just kept rubbing me and said, "I know. I know. Nobody does. But those feelings are feelings you've had locked in your body for way too long. Your body is pushing them out, and you HAVE to feel them, it's the only way to let them go. They need to go."
She's so right.
(closes eyes and sobs)
Tuesday, November 21, 2006
things you might not know about people:
I mean, really. Did you see that coming? I didn't. It gives me chills and actually chokes me up a bit it's so damn adorable.
Housesitting: letting your OCD friend have your keys
I've been a busy bee.
My friends are out of town and I'm house sitting, sort of. I'm supposed to let the animals out and feed them, check the mail, twice a day. Buuuuut.....
Instead I've been taking her doggie on really long walks, trying out some dog training techniques, and cleaning the hell out of her house while she's gone. She didn't get to before she left and I know she wanted to, so it'll be a nice surprise to come home to, you know? Ah, clean...
There's just this small problem. I don't know when to stop. You see, I can't just come over and let the dog out. The dog and cat are all alone, and I feel bad. So I take her on crazy long walks, even though she's a hefty little pit bull that pulls like hell on the leash. (She's learning, but not that quickly.) And although I really thought I might destroy my back in the process, it's actually helping, I think. I feel better, anyway, after I walk her. Maybe it's the endorphins, I don't know.
Today I decided to take her on a monstrous walk. There's a bad storm rolling in, and it may be bitterly cold and raining for days, so I wanted to be sure she got a really good walk in before the storm hit.
We went down to the oceanfront, and I knew right away that she was a beach dog. As soon as she hit the sand she was leaping about like a freaking gazelle. It was hilarious, and I was sad I couldn't just let her off her leash and play ball or something, but she's too unpredictable for that.
With the storm rolling in and the wind howling, it was a total riot watching her chase the frothy sea foam as it was blown up onto the beach. FRISKY GAZELLE DOG VERSUS ATTACKING SEA FOAM. I was laughing so hard watching her...it was a good time, right up until she decided to take a dump on the sand and I realized I didn't have a bag with me. Fuck. I had to go to a trash can, rip part of the plastic bag off of something else in there and go scoop up her sand covered warm doggy doo. Weee! I have to say, for the sea foam moment, it was totally worth it.
On the way back I was watching the garbage truck guy picking up cans and loading them into the truck. I said hi, all friendly like. Then I got a little farther up the street and wanted to go back, take back my friendly salutation and BITCH SLAP his ass.
Apparently one can didn't empty right, and instead of bothering to just grab the stuff that spilled, he left it on the ground. That in itself would be such a travesty except it was mostly a ripped open bag of trash and one huge bag of newspapers and stuff. The shit was flying EVERYWHERE. Storm rolling in, remember? So with the crazy ass wind whipping, that guy just left a pile of papers and trash on the ground? Not cool, asswipe.
And...I don't know when to stop. I looked around, saw that the papers were freaking everywhere and only a tiny bit of them had actually blown away. Fuck. They were all heading right for the marsh and the reeds and DAMMIT, what was I supposed to do? Walk away? No. I started grabbing their trash and heaving it back into the barrel, then dashed around (while holding onto a hefty little pit bull, mind you) and grabbing papers and a bunch of disgusting shit I don't even want to talk about. Let's just say that I came home, threw everything I was wearing into the wash (shoes included) and showered mightily. And yes, I DO want a little gold star, thank you. I would like to take it and insert it into the ass of Mr. I-Don't-Give-A-Shit-Garbage-Man. Maybe it's pointy edges could help him adjust his littering attitude. Ugh.
I did mention the part about not knowing when to stop, right? Yeah...well, before we went for this walk I went bonkers cleaning my friends house, replacing light bulbs that were burned out, fixing stuff that maybe she doesn't even care about...I mean, hi, I'm obsessive compulsive, have we met? And you gave me a key to your house? Oiy vey.
You see, she's hurt, too. We're both a couple of gimpy assed bitches, but there are things I can do that she cannot, and vice versa. Standing on a chair replacing light bulbs is something she should NOT be doing. But then I got to thinking...maybe she wanted it dimmer, and I just stuck in an extra light bulb. Hmm. Then it will be too bright and how will she ever get up there to get that extra bulb out? Shit. But she's on vacation. I don't want to call her all OCD on her ass and be like, "Hey, you know that busted light bulb? I managed to pull it out, and put it a new one. The new one is full spectrum while the old one is not. Is that ok?" and "That glass light covering? I stuck it on the upstairs fixture. Did you want it on the downstairs fixture? 'Cause I can totally do that. Where is that one? I haven't seen it. And where's your socket wrench set, so I can fix that broken toilet downstairs? Never mind, I'll see if I can find mine at home..."
I mean, that's great and all, but what if her boyfriend (who lives there, hello?) resents it? Like, I came in and did his manly duties for him, you know, some guys wouldn't like that. For example, I keep trying to figure out where their lawn mower is...they really need the lawn cut. And how great would it be to plant pansies in the dead flower box for her for when she comes home?
Hello? Stop? You are a crazy person? Clean your own damn house, crazy person? For real...
But it's like getting to be the vacation fairy or something. How great would it be to leave on vacation and then come back to everything being done for you while you were gone? Isn't that the worst part of a vacation? You come in the door with a weeks worth of dirty laundry and shit to put away, you just want to relax but shit, there's all this crap you gotta do...
I swear, her dog has been having this itchy dog fur problem. I think I may have gotten it under control. I've been brushing and (stop laughing) vaccuuming the dog (she likes it!) and rubbing the fabulous organic doggy fur stuff onto her, massaging it into her skin. She gives me this look that says, "Oh...I love you."
Don't get me wrong, I'm no saint. In fact, I find it really stressful to be in charge of other people's living creatures. I had a bad experience watching a neighbors bunny when I was a kid... I don't want to talk about it. Let's just say the bunny was ok but the guilt has never really gone away. So, when I wake up in the morning I have my own agenda, but I can feel the guilt of Bunny's Past clanging in my head saying, "The dog might have to pee. I bet the cat is lonely. What if the house is on fire?" Like, I don't know, the responsibility! Ack!
Maybe I'm overcompensating. Maybe I shouldn't think about it so much. And I have met some very interesting homeless people while walking the dog, so it all evens out, right? (grins)
I wish I could have taped her chasing the sea foam. It was so damn funny...
My friends are out of town and I'm house sitting, sort of. I'm supposed to let the animals out and feed them, check the mail, twice a day. Buuuuut.....
Instead I've been taking her doggie on really long walks, trying out some dog training techniques, and cleaning the hell out of her house while she's gone. She didn't get to before she left and I know she wanted to, so it'll be a nice surprise to come home to, you know? Ah, clean...
There's just this small problem. I don't know when to stop. You see, I can't just come over and let the dog out. The dog and cat are all alone, and I feel bad. So I take her on crazy long walks, even though she's a hefty little pit bull that pulls like hell on the leash. (She's learning, but not that quickly.) And although I really thought I might destroy my back in the process, it's actually helping, I think. I feel better, anyway, after I walk her. Maybe it's the endorphins, I don't know.
Today I decided to take her on a monstrous walk. There's a bad storm rolling in, and it may be bitterly cold and raining for days, so I wanted to be sure she got a really good walk in before the storm hit.
We went down to the oceanfront, and I knew right away that she was a beach dog. As soon as she hit the sand she was leaping about like a freaking gazelle. It was hilarious, and I was sad I couldn't just let her off her leash and play ball or something, but she's too unpredictable for that.
With the storm rolling in and the wind howling, it was a total riot watching her chase the frothy sea foam as it was blown up onto the beach. FRISKY GAZELLE DOG VERSUS ATTACKING SEA FOAM. I was laughing so hard watching her...it was a good time, right up until she decided to take a dump on the sand and I realized I didn't have a bag with me. Fuck. I had to go to a trash can, rip part of the plastic bag off of something else in there and go scoop up her sand covered warm doggy doo. Weee! I have to say, for the sea foam moment, it was totally worth it.
On the way back I was watching the garbage truck guy picking up cans and loading them into the truck. I said hi, all friendly like. Then I got a little farther up the street and wanted to go back, take back my friendly salutation and BITCH SLAP his ass.
Apparently one can didn't empty right, and instead of bothering to just grab the stuff that spilled, he left it on the ground. That in itself would be such a travesty except it was mostly a ripped open bag of trash and one huge bag of newspapers and stuff. The shit was flying EVERYWHERE. Storm rolling in, remember? So with the crazy ass wind whipping, that guy just left a pile of papers and trash on the ground? Not cool, asswipe.
And...I don't know when to stop. I looked around, saw that the papers were freaking everywhere and only a tiny bit of them had actually blown away. Fuck. They were all heading right for the marsh and the reeds and DAMMIT, what was I supposed to do? Walk away? No. I started grabbing their trash and heaving it back into the barrel, then dashed around (while holding onto a hefty little pit bull, mind you) and grabbing papers and a bunch of disgusting shit I don't even want to talk about. Let's just say that I came home, threw everything I was wearing into the wash (shoes included) and showered mightily. And yes, I DO want a little gold star, thank you. I would like to take it and insert it into the ass of Mr. I-Don't-Give-A-Shit-Garbage-Man. Maybe it's pointy edges could help him adjust his littering attitude. Ugh.
I did mention the part about not knowing when to stop, right? Yeah...well, before we went for this walk I went bonkers cleaning my friends house, replacing light bulbs that were burned out, fixing stuff that maybe she doesn't even care about...I mean, hi, I'm obsessive compulsive, have we met? And you gave me a key to your house? Oiy vey.
You see, she's hurt, too. We're both a couple of gimpy assed bitches, but there are things I can do that she cannot, and vice versa. Standing on a chair replacing light bulbs is something she should NOT be doing. But then I got to thinking...maybe she wanted it dimmer, and I just stuck in an extra light bulb. Hmm. Then it will be too bright and how will she ever get up there to get that extra bulb out? Shit. But she's on vacation. I don't want to call her all OCD on her ass and be like, "Hey, you know that busted light bulb? I managed to pull it out, and put it a new one. The new one is full spectrum while the old one is not. Is that ok?" and "That glass light covering? I stuck it on the upstairs fixture. Did you want it on the downstairs fixture? 'Cause I can totally do that. Where is that one? I haven't seen it. And where's your socket wrench set, so I can fix that broken toilet downstairs? Never mind, I'll see if I can find mine at home..."
I mean, that's great and all, but what if her boyfriend (who lives there, hello?) resents it? Like, I came in and did his manly duties for him, you know, some guys wouldn't like that. For example, I keep trying to figure out where their lawn mower is...they really need the lawn cut. And how great would it be to plant pansies in the dead flower box for her for when she comes home?
Hello? Stop? You are a crazy person? Clean your own damn house, crazy person? For real...
But it's like getting to be the vacation fairy or something. How great would it be to leave on vacation and then come back to everything being done for you while you were gone? Isn't that the worst part of a vacation? You come in the door with a weeks worth of dirty laundry and shit to put away, you just want to relax but shit, there's all this crap you gotta do...
I swear, her dog has been having this itchy dog fur problem. I think I may have gotten it under control. I've been brushing and (stop laughing) vaccuuming the dog (she likes it!) and rubbing the fabulous organic doggy fur stuff onto her, massaging it into her skin. She gives me this look that says, "Oh...I love you."
Don't get me wrong, I'm no saint. In fact, I find it really stressful to be in charge of other people's living creatures. I had a bad experience watching a neighbors bunny when I was a kid... I don't want to talk about it. Let's just say the bunny was ok but the guilt has never really gone away. So, when I wake up in the morning I have my own agenda, but I can feel the guilt of Bunny's Past clanging in my head saying, "The dog might have to pee. I bet the cat is lonely. What if the house is on fire?" Like, I don't know, the responsibility! Ack!
Maybe I'm overcompensating. Maybe I shouldn't think about it so much. And I have met some very interesting homeless people while walking the dog, so it all evens out, right? (grins)
I wish I could have taped her chasing the sea foam. It was so damn funny...
Thursday, November 16, 2006
By the way....
This past weekend was the anniversary of darling Mr. Wonderful and me. Yep. We spent the weekend in a glorious indulgence of me freaking the hell out with PMS insanity and pain, and doing chores around the house.
Truth be told, I really enjoyed the chores around the house part. Mostly because I'm a clean freak who loves to have things organized, but even MORE so because dear hubby was the one doing the chores. I helped, while not weeping or moaning inconsolably.
It endlessly amazes me that he can tolerate my drastic mood swings, but as he said, "I knew what I was getting myself into" with the sweetest smile on his face (NOTE TO MEN: DO NOT ATTEMPT THIS PHRASE WITHOUT AN ADORING GAZE BEHIND IT. VERY DANGEROUS.) I realized that yah, he's right.
I could say the same thing, too. I knew that he was a porn loving, computer oinking, brainiac tangenting superfreak when we got together. We've managed to handle the ups and downs of merging our two very extreme personalities pretty damn well, if I do say so myself. My total and complete terror of porn and the potential destruction it could wreak on my self esteem (hence our relationship) has been one hell of a road to travel, but I will not give up in my search for compromise.
And Jack, the poor dear, works his fingers to the bone taking care of my gimpy physical-therapy-is-eating-our-money-like-a-crack-whore-on-a-binge self as well. I try not to think about how much money all my doctors and medications cost, and how much fun he could be having without an occasionally psycho wife and clingy son (that wasn't his to begin with) but that he willingly took us on. I try to keep that in mind and express my gratitude, although when I'm in pain it's really damn hard to do. I try to show it...
For our anniversary (we technically have two: the day we legally got married and the day we held the wedding that WE wanted to have) I baked him the same delicious almond with buttercream frosting cake that we had at our wedding, the very same one that we ate all the leftovers of and got fat on. Whoops. And although my gift to him cost a mere three dollars at most, it was really freaking difficult, ok? Try to whip frosting with the muscles in your back and neck spasming- it's no fun. I had to have him whip the rest of it before I hurt myself. *sigh* But it was very difficult for me, and a lot of effort went into it. It made me kind of sad, honestly- I used to be able to do that sort of thing without the slightest problem. Someday, someday therapy will be done and I will be healed...
Jack decided to go the gift route and bought me a pair of diamond earrings. I was terrified he would get something I hated (I'm picky, and that's a lot of money to spend on something I wouldn't like, you know? Oiy!) but he picked out a perfectly beautiful pair and I got all weepy. The only diamonds I have ever owned have come from this man. We both grew up poor. I honestly never dreamed of owning real diamonds, and now I have a finger smothered in them and one in each ear!
I laughed and told him that I thought diamonds might possibly be the best cure for PMS, because as soon as he slid the earrings into my ears I felt sparkly and beautiful and magically healed. Well, at least for a little while. PMS is a cruel bitch, alas.
All in all it was a bizarre and lovely weekend, and if I knew how to post an audio file I would use my most fantastic redneck impersonation (I DID live in the South for eleven years, I can do it damn well) and holler,
"I DO SO LOVE THAT MAN OF MINE!"
Even when he drives me batshit crazy. Even then. Always. Even this morning when we were fighting heatedly about nothing of consequence, even then.
I love you baby. You're my Mr. Wonderful, and don't let me let you forget it, ok?
Truth be told, I really enjoyed the chores around the house part. Mostly because I'm a clean freak who loves to have things organized, but even MORE so because dear hubby was the one doing the chores. I helped, while not weeping or moaning inconsolably.
It endlessly amazes me that he can tolerate my drastic mood swings, but as he said, "I knew what I was getting myself into" with the sweetest smile on his face (NOTE TO MEN: DO NOT ATTEMPT THIS PHRASE WITHOUT AN ADORING GAZE BEHIND IT. VERY DANGEROUS.) I realized that yah, he's right.
I could say the same thing, too. I knew that he was a porn loving, computer oinking, brainiac tangenting superfreak when we got together. We've managed to handle the ups and downs of merging our two very extreme personalities pretty damn well, if I do say so myself. My total and complete terror of porn and the potential destruction it could wreak on my self esteem (hence our relationship) has been one hell of a road to travel, but I will not give up in my search for compromise.
And Jack, the poor dear, works his fingers to the bone taking care of my gimpy physical-therapy-is-eating-our-money-like-a-crack-whore-on-a-binge self as well. I try not to think about how much money all my doctors and medications cost, and how much fun he could be having without an occasionally psycho wife and clingy son (that wasn't his to begin with) but that he willingly took us on. I try to keep that in mind and express my gratitude, although when I'm in pain it's really damn hard to do. I try to show it...
For our anniversary (we technically have two: the day we legally got married and the day we held the wedding that WE wanted to have) I baked him the same delicious almond with buttercream frosting cake that we had at our wedding, the very same one that we ate all the leftovers of and got fat on. Whoops. And although my gift to him cost a mere three dollars at most, it was really freaking difficult, ok? Try to whip frosting with the muscles in your back and neck spasming- it's no fun. I had to have him whip the rest of it before I hurt myself. *sigh* But it was very difficult for me, and a lot of effort went into it. It made me kind of sad, honestly- I used to be able to do that sort of thing without the slightest problem. Someday, someday therapy will be done and I will be healed...
Jack decided to go the gift route and bought me a pair of diamond earrings. I was terrified he would get something I hated (I'm picky, and that's a lot of money to spend on something I wouldn't like, you know? Oiy!) but he picked out a perfectly beautiful pair and I got all weepy. The only diamonds I have ever owned have come from this man. We both grew up poor. I honestly never dreamed of owning real diamonds, and now I have a finger smothered in them and one in each ear!
I laughed and told him that I thought diamonds might possibly be the best cure for PMS, because as soon as he slid the earrings into my ears I felt sparkly and beautiful and magically healed. Well, at least for a little while. PMS is a cruel bitch, alas.
All in all it was a bizarre and lovely weekend, and if I knew how to post an audio file I would use my most fantastic redneck impersonation (I DID live in the South for eleven years, I can do it damn well) and holler,
"I DO SO LOVE THAT MAN OF MINE!"
Even when he drives me batshit crazy. Even then. Always. Even this morning when we were fighting heatedly about nothing of consequence, even then.
I love you baby. You're my Mr. Wonderful, and don't let me let you forget it, ok?
pain, pain, go away
Oh hellfire and shit sticks. My physical therapist just cranked it up another notch...
And I think I'm going to have to create a section just for posts about physical therapy. This is getting ridiculous. Anyway....
This is what she started doing yesterday:
See the big metal one on top? I'm pretty sure that's the joyful little instrument of torture she was using all over my middle to lower back yesterday.
I sobbed.
When she finished, I had an ice pack put on my back.
I sobbed.
After fifteen minutes, they took the ice pack off and asked me if I was ok.
I sobbed.
I then continued to sob for the next thirty minutes or so while one of the therapist assistants gently touched my upper back and asked me what was wrong.
What was wrong? My brain was scrambled. All I could muster out was a pitiful, "I don't wanna feel this!" and continue sobbing.
Yah. We talked some more. I told her about how my husband had massaged me one night on our living room floor and I sobbed and had flashbacks to being a little girl and crying as if the world was coming to an end.
I think, from my very young perspective, it probably was.
"But you're not that little girl anymore," the assistant said, "Now you're grown up, you're in control, and you can release those feelings when and where you choose to. You can release them right here. You're safe here. But no matter what, they need to come out. Your body has held on to them for too long."
"I know," I sobbed, "but I don't WANNA!" There wasn't anything in particular that I could think of that I was sad about, that's what was so weird to me. I was just sad, horribly horribly sad, and I didn't want to feel that way yet some invisible force was pushing the shit out of me at the speed of light, like a quantum force emotional dump truck of pent up feeling.
To put it bluntly: it fucking sucked.
I finally managed to pull myself together enough to not sob my way through the gym and the waiting room, although my eyes were totally bloodshot. I hate crying in front of strangers. Ugh.
I left feeling horrible pain and a far worse sense of sadness. I tried to call my husband. He was busy at work. It's probably a good thing, because I likely would have made him worry all day.
I felt like I slept on rocks all night. I suppose I did, in a way. From what I have researched, what she did is called The Graston Technique. The gist of it is to take the nobby little injured fascial tissue and rake it with the damn thing until the knot breaks down. If that sounds painful, I can assure you: it is.
According to the site I looked at, it says it's done 30-60 seconds per area. I don't know how long she did it for, but it seemed like a good ten minutes. I do know it was half of my back, and even part of my upper butt muscles. They cover you in gobbely goo so I was like a greased pig, a greased sobbing pig being raked with a stainless steel bar until the cobblestone-like muscles in my back broke down and...
What, I don't know. I know she told me not to lean on anything for a few days. I asked her, "And how am I going to sleep?" With my neck still fucked up I can't sleep on my side, although I do from time to time and fucking regret it, oh hell. This morning I sat down on one of the dining room chairs and immediately froze, so obviously in pain that I could see my husband out of the corner of my eye, staring at me, waiting. I bit my trembling lip and tried to cry as quietly as I could.
He asked, "Is there anything I can do, honey?" I hitched and said, "Yes. You could go back to right before I sat down so hard in this chair and slap me across the face." I wasn't kidding or trying to funny, I meant it. What a stupid and incredibly painful thing to do! I knew better!
Again, I sobbed.
What's bizarre about all of this is that I don't hurt the same way that I do when she does myofascial release therapy. This is painful as hell, but it's all spread out. I guess it's better because at least it's DIFFERENT. Usually I have one or two excruciating spots and the rest just sucks. Now it's one large area of pain and the rest sucks. Is it better? No. But somehow it seems like... maybe it did more. And more is good, because more means that I'll be done sooner and can return to life as a normal human.
Physical therapy is so damn weird. People of the world, be nice to those in physical therapy. You really just don't grasp the hell they're going through. I sure didn't. I do now.
Today is crazy windy and stormy and it seems fitting, somehow. The leaves are being yanked from the trees and doing crazy skittering dances over the ground as they disappear into Some Other Place. I look at them and think, "That is my trauma." My trauma is in the fall of it's life, being ripped from the branches that is Me, and being blown away to disintegrate and leave me be to start growing anew.
And I think I'm going to have to create a section just for posts about physical therapy. This is getting ridiculous. Anyway....
This is what she started doing yesterday:
See the big metal one on top? I'm pretty sure that's the joyful little instrument of torture she was using all over my middle to lower back yesterday.
I sobbed.
When she finished, I had an ice pack put on my back.
I sobbed.
After fifteen minutes, they took the ice pack off and asked me if I was ok.
I sobbed.
I then continued to sob for the next thirty minutes or so while one of the therapist assistants gently touched my upper back and asked me what was wrong.
What was wrong? My brain was scrambled. All I could muster out was a pitiful, "I don't wanna feel this!" and continue sobbing.
Yah. We talked some more. I told her about how my husband had massaged me one night on our living room floor and I sobbed and had flashbacks to being a little girl and crying as if the world was coming to an end.
I think, from my very young perspective, it probably was.
"But you're not that little girl anymore," the assistant said, "Now you're grown up, you're in control, and you can release those feelings when and where you choose to. You can release them right here. You're safe here. But no matter what, they need to come out. Your body has held on to them for too long."
"I know," I sobbed, "but I don't WANNA!" There wasn't anything in particular that I could think of that I was sad about, that's what was so weird to me. I was just sad, horribly horribly sad, and I didn't want to feel that way yet some invisible force was pushing the shit out of me at the speed of light, like a quantum force emotional dump truck of pent up feeling.
To put it bluntly: it fucking sucked.
I finally managed to pull myself together enough to not sob my way through the gym and the waiting room, although my eyes were totally bloodshot. I hate crying in front of strangers. Ugh.
I left feeling horrible pain and a far worse sense of sadness. I tried to call my husband. He was busy at work. It's probably a good thing, because I likely would have made him worry all day.
I felt like I slept on rocks all night. I suppose I did, in a way. From what I have researched, what she did is called The Graston Technique. The gist of it is to take the nobby little injured fascial tissue and rake it with the damn thing until the knot breaks down. If that sounds painful, I can assure you: it is.
According to the site I looked at, it says it's done 30-60 seconds per area. I don't know how long she did it for, but it seemed like a good ten minutes. I do know it was half of my back, and even part of my upper butt muscles. They cover you in gobbely goo so I was like a greased pig, a greased sobbing pig being raked with a stainless steel bar until the cobblestone-like muscles in my back broke down and...
What, I don't know. I know she told me not to lean on anything for a few days. I asked her, "And how am I going to sleep?" With my neck still fucked up I can't sleep on my side, although I do from time to time and fucking regret it, oh hell. This morning I sat down on one of the dining room chairs and immediately froze, so obviously in pain that I could see my husband out of the corner of my eye, staring at me, waiting. I bit my trembling lip and tried to cry as quietly as I could.
He asked, "Is there anything I can do, honey?" I hitched and said, "Yes. You could go back to right before I sat down so hard in this chair and slap me across the face." I wasn't kidding or trying to funny, I meant it. What a stupid and incredibly painful thing to do! I knew better!
Again, I sobbed.
What's bizarre about all of this is that I don't hurt the same way that I do when she does myofascial release therapy. This is painful as hell, but it's all spread out. I guess it's better because at least it's DIFFERENT. Usually I have one or two excruciating spots and the rest just sucks. Now it's one large area of pain and the rest sucks. Is it better? No. But somehow it seems like... maybe it did more. And more is good, because more means that I'll be done sooner and can return to life as a normal human.
Physical therapy is so damn weird. People of the world, be nice to those in physical therapy. You really just don't grasp the hell they're going through. I sure didn't. I do now.
Today is crazy windy and stormy and it seems fitting, somehow. The leaves are being yanked from the trees and doing crazy skittering dances over the ground as they disappear into Some Other Place. I look at them and think, "That is my trauma." My trauma is in the fall of it's life, being ripped from the branches that is Me, and being blown away to disintegrate and leave me be to start growing anew.
your glasses make me horny
You think I'm kidding? I'm not.
I've always had a thing for geeks. My first big crush as a girl was on Bill Nye The Science Guy. The bowtie, the glasses, the tall gawky braininess of him, his goofy jokes, what was not to love? I saw his show on just the other day and my son and I watched it. I still think he's hot. Some things never change...
I've dated all kinds of guys, and the hands down winners: geeks.
Nerds.
Dorks.
The intellectuals of the world, you get me hot and bothered. When you talk about quantum physics and computer programming and I nod along even though I don't know what the hell you're saying but your face is lit up and that's HOT...when you reveal that underneath that shy boyish exterior lies the heart of a pussy ravenous beast, that's fucking HOT... when you put off having sex with me because your favorite sci-fi show is on and your excitement is so damn contagious it becomes MY favorite show that I wouldn't DREAM of interrupting for sex, that is HOT.
You can take all the tall, dark and handsome men and shove 'em in a closet for all I care. They're usually only good for fantasy anyway, or a hot short lived tryst (I speak from experience, oh yes).
I married a geek. And he is so fucking hot.
My crushes on girls are always geeks. Big horn rimmed glasses and thick hair, lordy lordy. Give me a girl with a stack of books in her arms and big doe eyes that she can't pull away from the pages, and I'm toast. Give me a girl that can talk over my head, challenge my brain, and looks good in saddle shoes, oh yes. Sweater pillows in argyle light up my world.
Geeks of the world: I adore you. I mean it. You are so fucking hot it's just sick, and I love it.
I've always had a thing for geeks. My first big crush as a girl was on Bill Nye The Science Guy. The bowtie, the glasses, the tall gawky braininess of him, his goofy jokes, what was not to love? I saw his show on just the other day and my son and I watched it. I still think he's hot. Some things never change...
I've dated all kinds of guys, and the hands down winners: geeks.
Nerds.
Dorks.
The intellectuals of the world, you get me hot and bothered. When you talk about quantum physics and computer programming and I nod along even though I don't know what the hell you're saying but your face is lit up and that's HOT...when you reveal that underneath that shy boyish exterior lies the heart of a pussy ravenous beast, that's fucking HOT... when you put off having sex with me because your favorite sci-fi show is on and your excitement is so damn contagious it becomes MY favorite show that I wouldn't DREAM of interrupting for sex, that is HOT.
You can take all the tall, dark and handsome men and shove 'em in a closet for all I care. They're usually only good for fantasy anyway, or a hot short lived tryst (I speak from experience, oh yes).
I married a geek. And he is so fucking hot.
My crushes on girls are always geeks. Big horn rimmed glasses and thick hair, lordy lordy. Give me a girl with a stack of books in her arms and big doe eyes that she can't pull away from the pages, and I'm toast. Give me a girl that can talk over my head, challenge my brain, and looks good in saddle shoes, oh yes. Sweater pillows in argyle light up my world.
Geeks of the world: I adore you. I mean it. You are so fucking hot it's just sick, and I love it.
The Female Brain
(pulled from the sex blog, but I think it's acceptable enough to post in here...)
I've been reading a most excellent book. It's called The Female Brain and I really couldn't possibly say anything that could do this book justice.
It's bloody BRILLIANT.
At first I was sloughing through it, a bit more science than I expected. I love to read psychology books, so I mistakenly thought this was going to be more about thought than about science, but I was very happily mistaken.
Louann Brizendine, M.D. is a neuropsychiatrist who explains in very readable terms how it is, exactly, that the chemicals and hormones in a woman's body affect the way she thinks, the way she feels, the way she interacts with the world around her. I'm halfway through the book and it's answered not only the questions that have plagued me for years, but it's answered questions I hadn't even formulated yet.
I am so not kidding.
I've been reading passages of it to my husband, who- listen up, women- cannot WAIT to get his hands on it and read it HIMSELF. I'm halfway through it and am nearly praying that she writes one based solely on men, because she does discuss the differences but I want the whole enchilada, thank you very much. I want to know MORE.
On the back cover of the book it says, "Men, Get Ready To Develop Brain Envy." I've both chuckled and cried over this, because she's right.
Unfortunately, I happen to fall into what she calls "a very small percentage" of woman who experience EXTREME hormone fluctuations and suffer horribly at the tiny psychotic hands of it (my words, not hers).
You see, while most women experience the glory of what is the female brain, I spend a few weeks out of every month with what borders (and probably dips completely into, from time to time) on a hormonal psychosis. And, I might add, I am coming out of one right now. If one were to actually go through this blog and study the posts and how they alter with my own hormonal cycle, I think there would be a very interesting hypothesis at the conclusion.
She even states that women are far more verbal during the weeks before ovulation, and far less after. I'm walking proof of that, no doubt. The few things I do have to say are mostly located in a section I titled, "PMS rants". Ok, really...how many sex blogs have a section on PMS? None that I've run across, other than my own, but after reading this book I'm beginning to grasp why that is.
That and wonderful things like, "Why the hell can my husband find stress to be a precursor to sex, whereas it keeps my feet planted firmly on the ground, not spread legged and bouncing around in mid-air?" "Why doesn't he want to talk as much as I do?" "Why does the smell of my sons head fill me with a sense of bliss?"
Suddenly I'm making sense of things that just seemed so damned cliche, and I'm finding out that there is not only a solid scientific reason for the cliches, but it also makes it easier to deal with once I understand them. Like my PMS driven neediness, for example...and why I turn into Chicken Little once a month.
Here's a fabulous excerpt from ABC News (a whole chapter of the book!), because god knows I don't have it in me to type that much out right now. My progesterone levels have bottomed the fuck OUT and I'd rather be in a coma right now, quite frankly, and be woken up in a few more days, but that's not how life works, tough titties for me.
On the bright side (which I currently don't believe exists but I'm willing to entertain the idea since month after month, year after year I have seen that it returns despite my total lack of faith in it), I am learning that there might be ways around my monthly hormonal mental annihilation. In fact, there may even be ways to cure it. Or at least curb it to a tolerable level.
That, my friends, is priceless. Knowledge is power, and thanks to Louann Brizendine, M.D., I can shout like He-Man, "I...HAVE...THE...POWER!!!!"
Well, maybe I'll shout it next week, when my estrogen and progesterone levels rise. For right now, I'm just glad I have a book that is not only fascinating, it makes me feel less insane.
I've been reading a most excellent book. It's called The Female Brain and I really couldn't possibly say anything that could do this book justice.
It's bloody BRILLIANT.
At first I was sloughing through it, a bit more science than I expected. I love to read psychology books, so I mistakenly thought this was going to be more about thought than about science, but I was very happily mistaken.
Louann Brizendine, M.D. is a neuropsychiatrist who explains in very readable terms how it is, exactly, that the chemicals and hormones in a woman's body affect the way she thinks, the way she feels, the way she interacts with the world around her. I'm halfway through the book and it's answered not only the questions that have plagued me for years, but it's answered questions I hadn't even formulated yet.
I am so not kidding.
I've been reading passages of it to my husband, who- listen up, women- cannot WAIT to get his hands on it and read it HIMSELF. I'm halfway through it and am nearly praying that she writes one based solely on men, because she does discuss the differences but I want the whole enchilada, thank you very much. I want to know MORE.
On the back cover of the book it says, "Men, Get Ready To Develop Brain Envy." I've both chuckled and cried over this, because she's right.
Unfortunately, I happen to fall into what she calls "a very small percentage" of woman who experience EXTREME hormone fluctuations and suffer horribly at the tiny psychotic hands of it (my words, not hers).
You see, while most women experience the glory of what is the female brain, I spend a few weeks out of every month with what borders (and probably dips completely into, from time to time) on a hormonal psychosis. And, I might add, I am coming out of one right now. If one were to actually go through this blog and study the posts and how they alter with my own hormonal cycle, I think there would be a very interesting hypothesis at the conclusion.
She even states that women are far more verbal during the weeks before ovulation, and far less after. I'm walking proof of that, no doubt. The few things I do have to say are mostly located in a section I titled, "PMS rants". Ok, really...how many sex blogs have a section on PMS? None that I've run across, other than my own, but after reading this book I'm beginning to grasp why that is.
That and wonderful things like, "Why the hell can my husband find stress to be a precursor to sex, whereas it keeps my feet planted firmly on the ground, not spread legged and bouncing around in mid-air?" "Why doesn't he want to talk as much as I do?" "Why does the smell of my sons head fill me with a sense of bliss?"
Suddenly I'm making sense of things that just seemed so damned cliche, and I'm finding out that there is not only a solid scientific reason for the cliches, but it also makes it easier to deal with once I understand them. Like my PMS driven neediness, for example...and why I turn into Chicken Little once a month.
Here's a fabulous excerpt from ABC News (a whole chapter of the book!), because god knows I don't have it in me to type that much out right now. My progesterone levels have bottomed the fuck OUT and I'd rather be in a coma right now, quite frankly, and be woken up in a few more days, but that's not how life works, tough titties for me.
On the bright side (which I currently don't believe exists but I'm willing to entertain the idea since month after month, year after year I have seen that it returns despite my total lack of faith in it), I am learning that there might be ways around my monthly hormonal mental annihilation. In fact, there may even be ways to cure it. Or at least curb it to a tolerable level.
That, my friends, is priceless. Knowledge is power, and thanks to Louann Brizendine, M.D., I can shout like He-Man, "I...HAVE...THE...POWER!!!!"
Well, maybe I'll shout it next week, when my estrogen and progesterone levels rise. For right now, I'm just glad I have a book that is not only fascinating, it makes me feel less insane.
Tuesday, November 14, 2006
my friends...
Send me things like this:
ATTENTION!
ALIENS ARE COMING TO ABDUCT ALL
THE GOOD LOOKING AND SEXY PEOPLE
IN AMERICA.
YOU WILL BE SAFE.
I'M JUST E-MAILING
TO SAY GOODBYE.
I miss you, K. (She was my super best friends forever and ever in middle school. We sang in show choir together. We did everything together. She once did my make up and made me look like a hooker from the 80's, but I love her anyway.)
ATTENTION!
ALIENS ARE COMING TO ABDUCT ALL
THE GOOD LOOKING AND SEXY PEOPLE
IN AMERICA.
YOU WILL BE SAFE.
I'M JUST E-MAILING
TO SAY GOODBYE.
I miss you, K. (She was my super best friends forever and ever in middle school. We sang in show choir together. We did everything together. She once did my make up and made me look like a hooker from the 80's, but I love her anyway.)
Monday, November 13, 2006
pain, anniversaries and birds, oh my
So much to say, too little energy to do it with... this will have to be an abridged version, right?
First- the physical therapy. Oh lordy, the physical therapy is kicking my butt. At this point my therapist has started working on some new areas and it's gone back to the original freakish pain level I started with, but in new areas. I've started having flashbacks to odd things I don't expect, and I'm stressing out because the pain meds they have me on don't seem to be working so well anymore. I'm guessing my body is just getting too used to them, but I hate to ask for more because it makes me feel like a junkie. I'm going to have to do it, though.
I'm back to the cracking point again, as in I'm cracking from the pain. I've been bursting into tears a lot, but that may be hormones mixed with the pain, currently. I left a message with the "pain specialist" doctor telling him that I feel like my medicine isn't working, and asking what I could do about it. It's the polite way of me asking for more drugs. I mean, I DID request that he give me the smallest dosage possible, and when a friend recently hurt her back I saw how much SHE was getting prescribed and I thought, "Dude. I really DID get a tiny amount. Shit." And also, "I could be taking more. And then I would not hurt." And, "That would rock."
Having a family history of alcohol abuse makes doctors skittish about prescribing me anything that's addictive. While I understand that logic perfectly, it also makes me want to kick my entire family's ASS for making it so that I can't get pain relief thanks to THEIR fucking stupid choices in life, see? I get the shit end of the stick because I'm not a drunk. Fucking great.
Hopefully this is making sense. I'm so exhausted I can't even walk and talk at the same time without getting light headed, and I'm in so much freaking pain...
On to other things...
Second- hubby and I celebrated our first wedding anniversary this past weekend. It was sweet and it was awful, because the whole time I was insane and crying a lot with hormones raging and felt like a sobbing party pooper. The weekend was filled with me sobbing, "I love you...I'm sorry I'm insane..." Yah. That's romantic. For better or worse, right?
*sigh*
Third- my son and I saw the coolest tree full of crows while we were coming out of the grocery store the other day. We got to the car and there was this crazy cacophony of noise. I looked around and finally spotted it- a huge and ancient oak tree stuffed with crows all cawing full blast. We got in the car and pulled up closer just to look at them and listen. It was a nice zen moment. My son, future blogger waiting to happen, asked me, "Do you have your camera to take a video with?" I said, "Sadly, no. We'll just have to enjoy them now." So we did, and then they all flew off at once, like a great cloud of blackness in the evening sky, and it was gorgeous.
There's so much more, but I don't have it in me.
Or, I do have it in me and I'm getting all blogstipated but can't get it out just yet.
I'll just leave you with the image of birds...
First- the physical therapy. Oh lordy, the physical therapy is kicking my butt. At this point my therapist has started working on some new areas and it's gone back to the original freakish pain level I started with, but in new areas. I've started having flashbacks to odd things I don't expect, and I'm stressing out because the pain meds they have me on don't seem to be working so well anymore. I'm guessing my body is just getting too used to them, but I hate to ask for more because it makes me feel like a junkie. I'm going to have to do it, though.
I'm back to the cracking point again, as in I'm cracking from the pain. I've been bursting into tears a lot, but that may be hormones mixed with the pain, currently. I left a message with the "pain specialist" doctor telling him that I feel like my medicine isn't working, and asking what I could do about it. It's the polite way of me asking for more drugs. I mean, I DID request that he give me the smallest dosage possible, and when a friend recently hurt her back I saw how much SHE was getting prescribed and I thought, "Dude. I really DID get a tiny amount. Shit." And also, "I could be taking more. And then I would not hurt." And, "That would rock."
Having a family history of alcohol abuse makes doctors skittish about prescribing me anything that's addictive. While I understand that logic perfectly, it also makes me want to kick my entire family's ASS for making it so that I can't get pain relief thanks to THEIR fucking stupid choices in life, see? I get the shit end of the stick because I'm not a drunk. Fucking great.
Hopefully this is making sense. I'm so exhausted I can't even walk and talk at the same time without getting light headed, and I'm in so much freaking pain...
On to other things...
Second- hubby and I celebrated our first wedding anniversary this past weekend. It was sweet and it was awful, because the whole time I was insane and crying a lot with hormones raging and felt like a sobbing party pooper. The weekend was filled with me sobbing, "I love you...I'm sorry I'm insane..." Yah. That's romantic. For better or worse, right?
*sigh*
Third- my son and I saw the coolest tree full of crows while we were coming out of the grocery store the other day. We got to the car and there was this crazy cacophony of noise. I looked around and finally spotted it- a huge and ancient oak tree stuffed with crows all cawing full blast. We got in the car and pulled up closer just to look at them and listen. It was a nice zen moment. My son, future blogger waiting to happen, asked me, "Do you have your camera to take a video with?" I said, "Sadly, no. We'll just have to enjoy them now." So we did, and then they all flew off at once, like a great cloud of blackness in the evening sky, and it was gorgeous.
There's so much more, but I don't have it in me.
Or, I do have it in me and I'm getting all blogstipated but can't get it out just yet.
I'll just leave you with the image of birds...
Friday, November 10, 2006
Where the heck did your comment go?
Well, I'll tell you.
I get a lot of e-mails from people asking why their comment didn't show up. The reason is: I have a wicked cool spam filter. The only downfall is that sometimes it grabs something it shouldn't, and I have to fish it out of the overwhelming pile of crap.
How overwhelming could that be, you ask? I mean, really, just look and find my comment, right? So I thought, just for shits and giggles, and also because I hurt and can't think straight, I would show you the spam I get. I realize that this will only result in more spam, but these are the things I do for you. Because I love you.
Recently:
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~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Now, if you actually made it all the way through that pile of shit, you can start to get the idea. That was merely pages 27 and 28 of my spam history filter. I had to go through the other 26 just to get to those.
That reminds me: It's Friday. And no Friday would be complete without some Monty Python.
digging deeper (an update on therapy)
Oh, shit on a biscuit, I don't know what happened last night. It wasn't sexy, so don't get your hopes up. I'm just writing to tell you the latest in Jill's Quest For Healing Which Seems To Include Traveling Directly Through The Land Of Pain, Do Not Pass Go, Do Not Collect Two Hundred Dollars, Thank You So Much.
I've been in really rough shape. (For those of you wondering what the hell I'm talking about, look here.) The last week has been brutal. My physical therapist has moved from my upper back to my lower back, and that seems to involve a lot of tummy rubbing (read: yanking and jabbing my innards) that is most unpleasant.
Let me define that for you a bit better. The last session I had with her I informed her, quite calmly, that I didn't want to scare her but I had the incredibly intense desire to violently shove her across the room. She just laughed and said, "You wouldn't be the first to do it, and you certainly won't be the last." That kind of surprised me. I mean, I know I'm a tough bitch, stoic at least, but people actually gave in to that urge? For real?
I must confess, that made me feel mighty damn good. At least I had the will power to not DO it. At least I had the sense to know that even though what she was doing hurt a thousand times worse than falling down the stairs, and that she's been causing me this never ending pain since July, at least I know she's doing the right thing, and I just have to deal with it. Some day it will be over. Not soon enough, that's for damn sure, but some day it WILL be over and I will be ok.
I'm like that little train going up the hill, "I think I can, I think I can..." Sometimes it is exactly like that, except the train doesn't groan and screech and sob. Maybe they edited that part out before publishing. Anyway...
Last week I had a flashback to have my C-section while she was working on me. Not a good time, no. Two thumbs down, for sure. But last night was even weirder.
I was doing my exercises and having a fucking miserable time, just trying to WILL myself to finish them, but I finally got to the point where I cracked. For a woman who went through two days of labor before accepting drugs, that says a lot, ok? I ended up stuck on the floor, face down, and yelled into the carpet, "HONEY? WOULD YOU COME RUB ME? PLEASE?" I was trying not to sob.
Darling hubby came pronto, knowing now that there is a certain tone in my voice where I am asking, yes, but it really isn't optional. I can say with great certainty: it was that or take me to the emergency room.
He started rubbing. I started sobbing. And sobbing. And screeching and panting and even gagging (usually how I know a really bad spot has been hit- I'll gag. I don't know why.). He worked on my back and neck for a long long time, and it was all excruciating, not one of those, "Oh, what a pleasant massage!" kind of things, but a constant pushing of his fingers and an instant spasming of the muscle beneath them. Fucking FUCK I can't tell you how awful it was.
And then the really weird thing happened. I had another flashback, although this one wasn't like a flashback, meaning it wasn't a particular memory, it just seemed like it could have been any number of points in my childhood. I remembered what it was like to be very young, maybe somewhere between three and six years old, and laying on the living room floor in my old house and sobbing. Just sobbing, sobbing, feeling as if the world was at an end, as if the world was devoid of hope and all I could feel was a complete a total bleak despair. I could feel the room around me, hear the old sounds, feel my tiny self sobbing relentlessly without an ounce of hope in my little being. And once it started, I couldn't get it to stop.
I didn't want to feel that, I didn't want to remember that feeling. At the same time, I was able to step slightly outside of myself and hysterically wonder, "What in the hell would make a child FEEL like that? What happened?" But I remember nothing, nothing in particular. Just the hopelessness of my family, the crumbling, the bleakness coming off of my parents in waves. And me, like a little psychic sponge, sucking it all up and having no way to put in in context, no way to make sense of it.
Jack stopped rubbing me. His arms were exhausted and it was past midnight. I just laid there for awhile. He asked me if I needed anything, and I could barely talk. I finally asked for tissues, a glass of water with a straw (I couldn't lift it) and some Xanax. After a few minutes I could move again and slowly got up and managed to hobble-jerk-walk into the kitchen and took another Xanax. I'm not supposed to, but it was so late, I was so tired, and I was in so much pain. I couldn't take any more pain meds, not until morning, and all I could think about was that horrible feeling of despair washing over me. For a long time I just sat and stared blankly at nothing, just in a state of pain and shock. But I had to sleep. I had to.
Jack went to bed, and I said I would be there soon. I thanked him and told him I loved him and he fell asleep before I even got out of the bathroom. It turns out I was in there for nearly thirty minutes, although doing what I don't know. I think I was staring at the walls. I remember washing the hell out of my face, scrubbing it hard but very slow because my muscles were all jerky and I couldn't move or stand very well.
Finally I fell asleep, after laying in bed whimpering in agony. When I woke up this morning it was early, but I had to pee. I got up and the full pain hit me, so fuuuuuuuuck I dragged myself down the hall to eat breakfast and take my medicine. I asked Jack to fold the futon down to a bed and grab the blanket and my pillow for me. As soon as the last bite of cereal was down, I walked right over to the futon and pulled the covers nearly over my head. I was so cold. I slept for awhile and woke up with the certainty that my ulcer is back. Fucking fuck!
So now I sit and type while the medicine will allow me, while forcing more cereal down my throat (if my stomach is ever empty with an ulcer it hurts- I can't take any more pain, so I can't take the chance. I have to keep it full of nice stomach acid absorbing starchy stuff...)
Even though I will very likely regret sitting and typing this long, I had to get that out. It was like confession or an exorcism or something. That was what I felt like last night, like Jack should have smacked me on the head and screamed, "Demons begone!" or something, although in reality he would have had to take me to the emergency room immediately afterwards.
So that's what's going on. There's more stuff, other things I want to write about, but I simply don't have it in me. The strength, anyway. The tolerance for pain.
Until then, enjoy the random shit I throw your way...
I've been in really rough shape. (For those of you wondering what the hell I'm talking about, look here.) The last week has been brutal. My physical therapist has moved from my upper back to my lower back, and that seems to involve a lot of tummy rubbing (read: yanking and jabbing my innards) that is most unpleasant.
Let me define that for you a bit better. The last session I had with her I informed her, quite calmly, that I didn't want to scare her but I had the incredibly intense desire to violently shove her across the room. She just laughed and said, "You wouldn't be the first to do it, and you certainly won't be the last." That kind of surprised me. I mean, I know I'm a tough bitch, stoic at least, but people actually gave in to that urge? For real?
I must confess, that made me feel mighty damn good. At least I had the will power to not DO it. At least I had the sense to know that even though what she was doing hurt a thousand times worse than falling down the stairs, and that she's been causing me this never ending pain since July, at least I know she's doing the right thing, and I just have to deal with it. Some day it will be over. Not soon enough, that's for damn sure, but some day it WILL be over and I will be ok.
I'm like that little train going up the hill, "I think I can, I think I can..." Sometimes it is exactly like that, except the train doesn't groan and screech and sob. Maybe they edited that part out before publishing. Anyway...
Last week I had a flashback to have my C-section while she was working on me. Not a good time, no. Two thumbs down, for sure. But last night was even weirder.
I was doing my exercises and having a fucking miserable time, just trying to WILL myself to finish them, but I finally got to the point where I cracked. For a woman who went through two days of labor before accepting drugs, that says a lot, ok? I ended up stuck on the floor, face down, and yelled into the carpet, "HONEY? WOULD YOU COME RUB ME? PLEASE?" I was trying not to sob.
Darling hubby came pronto, knowing now that there is a certain tone in my voice where I am asking, yes, but it really isn't optional. I can say with great certainty: it was that or take me to the emergency room.
He started rubbing. I started sobbing. And sobbing. And screeching and panting and even gagging (usually how I know a really bad spot has been hit- I'll gag. I don't know why.). He worked on my back and neck for a long long time, and it was all excruciating, not one of those, "Oh, what a pleasant massage!" kind of things, but a constant pushing of his fingers and an instant spasming of the muscle beneath them. Fucking FUCK I can't tell you how awful it was.
And then the really weird thing happened. I had another flashback, although this one wasn't like a flashback, meaning it wasn't a particular memory, it just seemed like it could have been any number of points in my childhood. I remembered what it was like to be very young, maybe somewhere between three and six years old, and laying on the living room floor in my old house and sobbing. Just sobbing, sobbing, feeling as if the world was at an end, as if the world was devoid of hope and all I could feel was a complete a total bleak despair. I could feel the room around me, hear the old sounds, feel my tiny self sobbing relentlessly without an ounce of hope in my little being. And once it started, I couldn't get it to stop.
I didn't want to feel that, I didn't want to remember that feeling. At the same time, I was able to step slightly outside of myself and hysterically wonder, "What in the hell would make a child FEEL like that? What happened?" But I remember nothing, nothing in particular. Just the hopelessness of my family, the crumbling, the bleakness coming off of my parents in waves. And me, like a little psychic sponge, sucking it all up and having no way to put in in context, no way to make sense of it.
Jack stopped rubbing me. His arms were exhausted and it was past midnight. I just laid there for awhile. He asked me if I needed anything, and I could barely talk. I finally asked for tissues, a glass of water with a straw (I couldn't lift it) and some Xanax. After a few minutes I could move again and slowly got up and managed to hobble-jerk-walk into the kitchen and took another Xanax. I'm not supposed to, but it was so late, I was so tired, and I was in so much pain. I couldn't take any more pain meds, not until morning, and all I could think about was that horrible feeling of despair washing over me. For a long time I just sat and stared blankly at nothing, just in a state of pain and shock. But I had to sleep. I had to.
Jack went to bed, and I said I would be there soon. I thanked him and told him I loved him and he fell asleep before I even got out of the bathroom. It turns out I was in there for nearly thirty minutes, although doing what I don't know. I think I was staring at the walls. I remember washing the hell out of my face, scrubbing it hard but very slow because my muscles were all jerky and I couldn't move or stand very well.
Finally I fell asleep, after laying in bed whimpering in agony. When I woke up this morning it was early, but I had to pee. I got up and the full pain hit me, so fuuuuuuuuck I dragged myself down the hall to eat breakfast and take my medicine. I asked Jack to fold the futon down to a bed and grab the blanket and my pillow for me. As soon as the last bite of cereal was down, I walked right over to the futon and pulled the covers nearly over my head. I was so cold. I slept for awhile and woke up with the certainty that my ulcer is back. Fucking fuck!
So now I sit and type while the medicine will allow me, while forcing more cereal down my throat (if my stomach is ever empty with an ulcer it hurts- I can't take any more pain, so I can't take the chance. I have to keep it full of nice stomach acid absorbing starchy stuff...)
Even though I will very likely regret sitting and typing this long, I had to get that out. It was like confession or an exorcism or something. That was what I felt like last night, like Jack should have smacked me on the head and screamed, "Demons begone!" or something, although in reality he would have had to take me to the emergency room immediately afterwards.
So that's what's going on. There's more stuff, other things I want to write about, but I simply don't have it in me. The strength, anyway. The tolerance for pain.
Until then, enjoy the random shit I throw your way...
Robots don't know you're not bacon...
Or prosciutto, for that matter.
This is a disaster for the obsessive person such as myself. Now I must know: what does this robot think I taste like?
Inquiring minds want to know.
(The original press release, as far as I can tell.)
This is a disaster for the obsessive person such as myself. Now I must know: what does this robot think I taste like?
Inquiring minds want to know.
(The original press release, as far as I can tell.)
Monday, November 06, 2006
an explanation, in loopy form...
(I had a reader write in to ask what the deal was with all the pain I'm in and how it relates to EMDR. I realize that any of you who may be new or come now and then might have missed the story, so I'm posting my reply since I can't type much right now...)
Oh, let me explain. I'm fresh out of physical therapy today so I may make sense, I may not. Bear with me here.
I try not to tell the story over and over because I fear people will be bored with it, but the gist of it is I took a flying leap down some stairs.
I was working, coming out of a bank (I used to do interiorscaping, like landscaping is outside, right? I took care of people's plants inside...) and as I went to walk down their concrete steps my leg just gave out. I took a triple somersault on jagged concrete steps before I hit the sidewalk head first, curled up into a fetal position and couldn't move. I was bleeding and had three separate "eggs" on my head, went straight to urgent care, they couldn't find anything wrong with me other than the bleeding parts.
Long story short, since I was working Workers Comp paid for doctor crap until they had run so many tests and couldn't figure out what was wrong so they stopped paying for it, saying it was all in my head. Bastards.
Also, I blame part of it on living in the sticks- not that Asheville, NC is hillbilly land, but it's still a pretty small town.
Anywho...I just had to live with the pain for years. It fucking sucked. When Jack and I got married I was then covered under his insurance and he said, "That's it. You're going to see a specialist. You will go and go and go until some bastard finds out what is wrong with you!" As luck would have it, Virginia Beach is a pretty big town, and the very first specialist nailed it. However, I'm not sure I could even explain it...how's that for silly?
Um...
here's a good link
It's a little bit of a read but explains it quite well.
Ok.
So, they're doing myofascial release therapy on me, but since all trauma gets locked in the tissue, while she's working on fixing the one problem, a whole lifetime of shit is coming out along with it.
Today was brutal. I'm actually going to post this in case other people are baffled, too, and because I can't type much right now, so it's that whole "two birds with one stone" thing which is really a gross analogy unless I was a starving person who ate birds. Blech.
Whoa....tangent, sorry. Ok.
The EMDR is to work on trauma, not pain. I'm using EMDR in conjunction with physical therapy, but the EMDR is for treating my (who am I kidding, I'll just spill it) rather massive anxiety disorder. I am one medicated puppy, and that keeps me from hiding in the closet, and some days that is ALL that keeps me from hiding in the closet.
I used to have agoraphobia (social phobia) so badly I was afraid even inside my own house. Someone could knock on the door. The phone could ring. Anything. It was really really bad. I've made a lot of progress with medication, therapy, and most of all, from removing myself from the traumatizing situations that were just aggravating it more (living with asshole alcoholic boyfriends, etc).
It's a big part of why Jack is my angel. Even when I get annoyed with the porn or the little things, they are still little things in comparison to the fact that he is the first man to actually protect me and take care of me. Not just that, but my son, too. I joke sometimes that he is my husband AND the father I never had, and ask him if he is ok with that, and he says yes. He knows me. I'm his little trauma unit.
Thank you for the sweet words and concern. You know, I do believe in karma, and I do believe that all things happen for a reason. Would I be the person I am now without all the trauma? No. So, this sucks, but I try to think of it as the "clean up" stage of my life. There was a lot of shit, and now it's time to clean it all up. It's not pleasant, but at least the bad stuff is mostly over. Mostly, I mean, because I still have to talk to my family, my sons dad, that sort of thing. They still exist, but at least I am safe and at a great distance from them. And I am healing.
healing is painful, but it is so wonderful to finally experience,
J
Oh, let me explain. I'm fresh out of physical therapy today so I may make sense, I may not. Bear with me here.
I try not to tell the story over and over because I fear people will be bored with it, but the gist of it is I took a flying leap down some stairs.
I was working, coming out of a bank (I used to do interiorscaping, like landscaping is outside, right? I took care of people's plants inside...) and as I went to walk down their concrete steps my leg just gave out. I took a triple somersault on jagged concrete steps before I hit the sidewalk head first, curled up into a fetal position and couldn't move. I was bleeding and had three separate "eggs" on my head, went straight to urgent care, they couldn't find anything wrong with me other than the bleeding parts.
Long story short, since I was working Workers Comp paid for doctor crap until they had run so many tests and couldn't figure out what was wrong so they stopped paying for it, saying it was all in my head. Bastards.
Also, I blame part of it on living in the sticks- not that Asheville, NC is hillbilly land, but it's still a pretty small town.
Anywho...I just had to live with the pain for years. It fucking sucked. When Jack and I got married I was then covered under his insurance and he said, "That's it. You're going to see a specialist. You will go and go and go until some bastard finds out what is wrong with you!" As luck would have it, Virginia Beach is a pretty big town, and the very first specialist nailed it. However, I'm not sure I could even explain it...how's that for silly?
Um...
here's a good link
It's a little bit of a read but explains it quite well.
Ok.
So, they're doing myofascial release therapy on me, but since all trauma gets locked in the tissue, while she's working on fixing the one problem, a whole lifetime of shit is coming out along with it.
Today was brutal. I'm actually going to post this in case other people are baffled, too, and because I can't type much right now, so it's that whole "two birds with one stone" thing which is really a gross analogy unless I was a starving person who ate birds. Blech.
Whoa....tangent, sorry. Ok.
The EMDR is to work on trauma, not pain. I'm using EMDR in conjunction with physical therapy, but the EMDR is for treating my (who am I kidding, I'll just spill it) rather massive anxiety disorder. I am one medicated puppy, and that keeps me from hiding in the closet, and some days that is ALL that keeps me from hiding in the closet.
I used to have agoraphobia (social phobia) so badly I was afraid even inside my own house. Someone could knock on the door. The phone could ring. Anything. It was really really bad. I've made a lot of progress with medication, therapy, and most of all, from removing myself from the traumatizing situations that were just aggravating it more (living with asshole alcoholic boyfriends, etc).
It's a big part of why Jack is my angel. Even when I get annoyed with the porn or the little things, they are still little things in comparison to the fact that he is the first man to actually protect me and take care of me. Not just that, but my son, too. I joke sometimes that he is my husband AND the father I never had, and ask him if he is ok with that, and he says yes. He knows me. I'm his little trauma unit.
Thank you for the sweet words and concern. You know, I do believe in karma, and I do believe that all things happen for a reason. Would I be the person I am now without all the trauma? No. So, this sucks, but I try to think of it as the "clean up" stage of my life. There was a lot of shit, and now it's time to clean it all up. It's not pleasant, but at least the bad stuff is mostly over. Mostly, I mean, because I still have to talk to my family, my sons dad, that sort of thing. They still exist, but at least I am safe and at a great distance from them. And I am healing.
healing is painful, but it is so wonderful to finally experience,
J
thought for the day:
"Be kinder than necessary,
for everyone you meet is fighting some kind of battle."
-unknown
Photo by Painted Toes
for everyone you meet is fighting some kind of battle."
-unknown
Photo by Painted Toes
Saturday, November 04, 2006
healing hurts
Had a rather intense treatment with the physical therapist yesterday. Could barely move later that day, then I felt ok. I woke up today feeling crappy, but mobile. Within a few hours, I've been reduced to a shuffling blob of agony. I feel like I have the flu. Maybe I do. I can't tell. Everything hurts. I'm hot, I'm cold, even breathing is a chore.
One thing in particular: when she was working on me this last time, I actually had a flashback. Sometimes I freak out, but when she asks me what I'm thinking about or what I remembered, I don't know. All I can do is sob and tell her I'm in pain. This time, however, she was working on my abdomen, and just for a moment, I flashed back to having the C-section when my son was born, and re-experienced that feeling of "Oh my fucking god you're cutting my body OPEN" and just freaked.
Now I have muscle spasms everywhere in my torso, front and back, and everything else is just weak as hell and hurts. The muscle relaxers, the Davocet barely touch this pain at all. I'd like a shot of morphine, please.
Who knew healing could be so painful?
ps) this took me twenty minutes to type. Fuck.
One thing in particular: when she was working on me this last time, I actually had a flashback. Sometimes I freak out, but when she asks me what I'm thinking about or what I remembered, I don't know. All I can do is sob and tell her I'm in pain. This time, however, she was working on my abdomen, and just for a moment, I flashed back to having the C-section when my son was born, and re-experienced that feeling of "Oh my fucking god you're cutting my body OPEN" and just freaked.
Now I have muscle spasms everywhere in my torso, front and back, and everything else is just weak as hell and hurts. The muscle relaxers, the Davocet barely touch this pain at all. I'd like a shot of morphine, please.
Who knew healing could be so painful?
ps) this took me twenty minutes to type. Fuck.
Friday, November 03, 2006
What was I supposed to do?
I'm going to go out on a limb here and risk totally pissing off one of my own friends via a blog post. However, due to pain and sleep deprivation and PMS, I've about had it.
Last night I got a phone call from a friend of mine. We've been friends since high school. We've been through a lot together. We both attended the other's wedding last year, despite the fact that we live 700+ miles apart. My point is that there are deep and long standing bonds between us.
Yesterday some people that live down the street from her were fatally shot during a robbery. I don't have much more details than that, because my friend called me up to tell me about it and she was absolutely hammered.
People deal with grief differently. I understand that. I do. If my neighbors were murdered during a break in, I would freak out and call some home security system ASAP, maybe buy a gun, I don't know. I do know that I would not go to a bar and get trashed, then start dialing up people and saying lunatic shit to them, making them freak the fuck out over my sanity. That is NOT what I would do. It is, however, what my friend chose to do.
My phone rang, and I did a stumble-run into the kitchen to answer it, to be greeted with a belligerent, "What are you DOING?" Since I had no fucking clue who it was, and they sounded angry as hell, I said, "I really don't know. What are YOU doing?" My friend then started telling me about how she was at the end of her rope, she just couldn't cope, her neighbors were murdered, MURDERED and her whole street was dead (actual quotes). Her neighborhood was no longer safe. She couldn't go home. Then she said she was going home. Then she told me she didn't want to go home because her boyfriend was there and she didn't even want him there, then said she didn't want to be alone, then told me she couldn't ever go home again. She suddenly changed the subject and told me she had spoken to another friend of mine and that they were moving in together, was I ok with that? Huh? I said sure, yah, why wouldn't I be? And she briefly chatted about how much they had in common and then suddenly went back to hysteria and how her whole street was DEAD. How her bubble had burst. How she thought the world was a safe place but now she knew it wasn't because people had just been MURDERED and THAT WASN'T OK!
I tried my best to calm her down, to be rational, and that was after I:
1) figured out who the hell was calling me
2) realized she was drunk as hell
3) called her back repeatedly because she kept hanging up
Fuck. It was all I could do to not sound like a callous bastard, because I was asking her the logical questions, did they catch the people who did it? Was there a motive? Trying to get her to see that it was an isolated incident and that she was safe, but she wanted no part of that. She didn't want to calm down, she wanted to be as dramatic as possible and just freak the fuck out.
I explained to her that I, too, have had neighbors murdered. I have lived in some bad areas, and have had people neighbors shot, people I didn't know shot, hell, I could HEAR gunshots at night from a few different places I lived. I understood her fears, and had she been SOBER perhaps I could have helped her work through them. Instead, I was worthless. I got the distinct impression I was making her really angry, instead.
So what the hell did she want from me? Why did she call me?I tried to switch tactics, to comforting instead. That did nothing, she just changed the subject and then went back to ranting again. I tried to comfort her some more. She hung up. I called her back and asked her what was going on, and she actually started the whole story all over again.
I wonder if she even knows that she talked to me at all. I mean, really. I have enough experience with drunks to know when someone sounds as if they've blacked out and are just still talking.
After she hung up on me again I just sat there, freaked. What if she tried to drive home? What if she freaked out and killed herself, even by accident? What if it wasn't an accident? That whole "my world has crumbled" combined with massive amounts of alcohol didn't sound promising. And worst of all was that I live over seven hundred miles away! What the hell kind of help could I offer her? She didn't even make sense! I could send a local friend to go get her and take care of her crazy drunk ass, but she couldn't make sense long enough for me to find out where she was, nor could I expect her to be there thirty seconds later. She could hang up, stumble out the door and go crash her car for all I knew. So all I could do was just sit there, and try to not worry.
I couldn't help, I couldn't console, she probably wouldn't remember anything I said anyway, and she didn't seem to feel better for calling me, so the only thing that I can see that actually occurred is that she called me up and freaked me the fuck out. That's all that actually happened.
Is she ok? I don't know.
Am I? No. I'm pretty fucking pissed off, actually. When I should be feeling sorrow and consoling her, instead I'm actually pissed off. Some people were murdered, people she knew, and I'm pissed off at her. What's wrong with this scenario?
I hate drunks. That's what's wrong.
She chose to get trashed, and eliminated any possibility of me being able to actually help her, and instead just called me up, hung up on me, yelled in my ear, sounded really pissed off when I said she would be ok ("People are DEAD! THAT'S not OK!") and made me worry about her but not be able to find out if she was ok. Fucking great.
I hope it made her feel better. Damn it.
Last night I got a phone call from a friend of mine. We've been friends since high school. We've been through a lot together. We both attended the other's wedding last year, despite the fact that we live 700+ miles apart. My point is that there are deep and long standing bonds between us.
Yesterday some people that live down the street from her were fatally shot during a robbery. I don't have much more details than that, because my friend called me up to tell me about it and she was absolutely hammered.
People deal with grief differently. I understand that. I do. If my neighbors were murdered during a break in, I would freak out and call some home security system ASAP, maybe buy a gun, I don't know. I do know that I would not go to a bar and get trashed, then start dialing up people and saying lunatic shit to them, making them freak the fuck out over my sanity. That is NOT what I would do. It is, however, what my friend chose to do.
My phone rang, and I did a stumble-run into the kitchen to answer it, to be greeted with a belligerent, "What are you DOING?" Since I had no fucking clue who it was, and they sounded angry as hell, I said, "I really don't know. What are YOU doing?" My friend then started telling me about how she was at the end of her rope, she just couldn't cope, her neighbors were murdered, MURDERED and her whole street was dead (actual quotes). Her neighborhood was no longer safe. She couldn't go home. Then she said she was going home. Then she told me she didn't want to go home because her boyfriend was there and she didn't even want him there, then said she didn't want to be alone, then told me she couldn't ever go home again. She suddenly changed the subject and told me she had spoken to another friend of mine and that they were moving in together, was I ok with that? Huh? I said sure, yah, why wouldn't I be? And she briefly chatted about how much they had in common and then suddenly went back to hysteria and how her whole street was DEAD. How her bubble had burst. How she thought the world was a safe place but now she knew it wasn't because people had just been MURDERED and THAT WASN'T OK!
I tried my best to calm her down, to be rational, and that was after I:
1) figured out who the hell was calling me
2) realized she was drunk as hell
3) called her back repeatedly because she kept hanging up
Fuck. It was all I could do to not sound like a callous bastard, because I was asking her the logical questions, did they catch the people who did it? Was there a motive? Trying to get her to see that it was an isolated incident and that she was safe, but she wanted no part of that. She didn't want to calm down, she wanted to be as dramatic as possible and just freak the fuck out.
I explained to her that I, too, have had neighbors murdered. I have lived in some bad areas, and have had people neighbors shot, people I didn't know shot, hell, I could HEAR gunshots at night from a few different places I lived. I understood her fears, and had she been SOBER perhaps I could have helped her work through them. Instead, I was worthless. I got the distinct impression I was making her really angry, instead.
So what the hell did she want from me? Why did she call me?I tried to switch tactics, to comforting instead. That did nothing, she just changed the subject and then went back to ranting again. I tried to comfort her some more. She hung up. I called her back and asked her what was going on, and she actually started the whole story all over again.
I wonder if she even knows that she talked to me at all. I mean, really. I have enough experience with drunks to know when someone sounds as if they've blacked out and are just still talking.
After she hung up on me again I just sat there, freaked. What if she tried to drive home? What if she freaked out and killed herself, even by accident? What if it wasn't an accident? That whole "my world has crumbled" combined with massive amounts of alcohol didn't sound promising. And worst of all was that I live over seven hundred miles away! What the hell kind of help could I offer her? She didn't even make sense! I could send a local friend to go get her and take care of her crazy drunk ass, but she couldn't make sense long enough for me to find out where she was, nor could I expect her to be there thirty seconds later. She could hang up, stumble out the door and go crash her car for all I knew. So all I could do was just sit there, and try to not worry.
I couldn't help, I couldn't console, she probably wouldn't remember anything I said anyway, and she didn't seem to feel better for calling me, so the only thing that I can see that actually occurred is that she called me up and freaked me the fuck out. That's all that actually happened.
Is she ok? I don't know.
Am I? No. I'm pretty fucking pissed off, actually. When I should be feeling sorrow and consoling her, instead I'm actually pissed off. Some people were murdered, people she knew, and I'm pissed off at her. What's wrong with this scenario?
I hate drunks. That's what's wrong.
She chose to get trashed, and eliminated any possibility of me being able to actually help her, and instead just called me up, hung up on me, yelled in my ear, sounded really pissed off when I said she would be ok ("People are DEAD! THAT'S not OK!") and made me worry about her but not be able to find out if she was ok. Fucking great.
I hope it made her feel better. Damn it.
Wednesday, November 01, 2006
Beetlejesus!
Last night we took the little monkey trick or treating. Upon our Halloween adventure, we came upon a house of religious nutcases. No, I take that back. They were definitely NOT in a case at all, just straight up nuts.
The ladies seemed friendly enough in their costumes, waiting on the steps with the little kids and the dog. We came up. Everyone was smiling. My son did the obligatory "Trick or treat!" and the ladies smiled and smiled, put a paper bag full of candy into his bag all the while yelling, "Praise Jesus! Hallelujah! The Lord is our Savior!" and who knows what else.
Ok, fine. You want to offset the imaginary evil of Halloween by participating but still getting out the word of God. I get it. Now shut the fuck up.
My son was totally uncomfortable by their yelling, and baffled at how to respond. He's a nice kid, who cares about people's feelings, and these assholes just kept yelling. We were down their driveway and to the street and they were still yelling. My son grabbed my hand and looked up at me, worried and said, "They're kind of crazy, right?" What could I say?
"Yes. They are insane and deserve to be bitch slapped."
"Yes. Mommy is going to go kick their rude asses now."
Instead I said, "Yes, some people think their opinions are so important they don't care how rude they are because THEY think they are doing YOU a favor, but they aren't. They're just plain RUDE."
It should have been obvious (to anyone who isn't insane) that we were not With The Program. I was smiling and trying my damnedest (pun intended) to be polite, but as their voices kept raising with their shrilly religious hysteria, I wanted to scream in return. I don't know what they were hoping to accomplish, but they sure as hell (pun intended) did not accomplish it unless their goal was to piss people off, which isn't a very Christian attitude at all.
I couldn't help but wonder if they poisoned their candy to help kill off the heathens.
As I thought of them today I realized the only proper response, albeit belatedly. I should have run screaming back up their driveway, jumped up onto the steps with them, balled my fists up and stomped my feet as I screamed, "BEETLEJUICE! BEETLEJUICE! BEETLEJUICE!"
Fight crazy with crazy, bitches. I know the game. That would have shut them up. At least long enough for me to get out of hearing range, anyway.
The ladies seemed friendly enough in their costumes, waiting on the steps with the little kids and the dog. We came up. Everyone was smiling. My son did the obligatory "Trick or treat!" and the ladies smiled and smiled, put a paper bag full of candy into his bag all the while yelling, "Praise Jesus! Hallelujah! The Lord is our Savior!" and who knows what else.
Ok, fine. You want to offset the imaginary evil of Halloween by participating but still getting out the word of God. I get it. Now shut the fuck up.
My son was totally uncomfortable by their yelling, and baffled at how to respond. He's a nice kid, who cares about people's feelings, and these assholes just kept yelling. We were down their driveway and to the street and they were still yelling. My son grabbed my hand and looked up at me, worried and said, "They're kind of crazy, right?" What could I say?
"Yes. They are insane and deserve to be bitch slapped."
"Yes. Mommy is going to go kick their rude asses now."
Instead I said, "Yes, some people think their opinions are so important they don't care how rude they are because THEY think they are doing YOU a favor, but they aren't. They're just plain RUDE."
It should have been obvious (to anyone who isn't insane) that we were not With The Program. I was smiling and trying my damnedest (pun intended) to be polite, but as their voices kept raising with their shrilly religious hysteria, I wanted to scream in return. I don't know what they were hoping to accomplish, but they sure as hell (pun intended) did not accomplish it unless their goal was to piss people off, which isn't a very Christian attitude at all.
I couldn't help but wonder if they poisoned their candy to help kill off the heathens.
As I thought of them today I realized the only proper response, albeit belatedly. I should have run screaming back up their driveway, jumped up onto the steps with them, balled my fists up and stomped my feet as I screamed, "BEETLEJUICE! BEETLEJUICE! BEETLEJUICE!"
Fight crazy with crazy, bitches. I know the game. That would have shut them up. At least long enough for me to get out of hearing range, anyway.
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