What I've lost...What I've Found 2016 New Years

I wrote a poem when i was 15 or so...about the holidays. I don't remember the words but it spoke of the misery of Christmas with the family vs. the joy of New Years with Friends.

You can pick your friends...

It took me a long time to come around on the family thing. People had to die off. The last Christmas I spent with my Aunt I thought "how small and frail she is". She was sick...needing oxygen...it was a miracle she got out of her house to my brother's house the next town over. Winter. Treacherous sidewalks, steps, and roads. Things I fled when I fled south.

Fragile bones. Like a bird.

What a relief. All my life I'd been intimidated by this woman without even realizing it.

Didn't realize it till the threat was gone and she was just a frail little old lady like so many others I encountered working as an RN. (I use the terms 'little old lady" and "little old man" respectfully, like they do in Spanish and Japanese)

It was me who could comfort her. She cried when my brother played "auld lang syne". So many people gone. The older you get the more people go ... away... die...Memento Mori

But I was free. Sudden---it happened suddenly---I felt free. I felt grown-up. I felt responsible. My family had changed. Now we were the adults. And you know what?

It got better.

I don't want to imply I had a bad childhood. I had a good childhood but bad things happened. Epic events left unexplained. Missed communications. Aspergers (before it was cool) left me sort of helpless in a sea of misunderstanding.

As we grew and aged we learned. We learned how damaging harsh words were. We're still learning. My 2 nieces are the finest young women I know so my brother and sister in law did something better than my father did.

He had to do it alone. I'm the youngest child of 2 youngest children. My father the youngest of 12. My mother the youngest of 3. Not a position of power from which to launch into the world. My place was an especially potent "lost child" spot.

They married, had us, loved us...then my mother died. Damn.

No one bossed anyone around in my family except for my brother, the only first born child in our family unit. And he was softened by our mother...he was 16 when she died.  I'm forever grateful for that influence.

I was, and in many ways still am, a lost child.

There's a lot to process and i'm grateful for my friend who went through grief counseling recently and gave me the name of her counselor.

I'm really not able or willing to write about my father without talking with someone first. He was a good man...didn't drink, didn't run around...worked every day of his life and provided a good home. He loved us, my brother and me. I'm sure of that.

Our mother's love is infinite because it peaked and died so early like a comet that keeps coming round and round.

Happy New Year.

Intervention Jamie Jesus and Ketamine

"The whole family never properly grieved her death and are the major dysfunctional freaks they are today because of it." 

reading blogs you sometimes come across phrases or sentences that stand out like a flag--this pertains to YOU. Of course I am the biggest freak in my family...my brother, though self-admittedly odd, has had the career, the family, the house, you know--a life.

I on the other hand...sort of flailed my way through life with no goals no plans and am flailing still. 

I want to be a vet tech cuz i love animals. I really want to be a vet tech because at some point I may have access to Ketamine.

I'm fascinated by Ketamine (special K) though I've never used it. It's a trance drug, a dissociative drug...the state my mind naturally takes due to PTSD. Ketamine will just help it along, I feel.

This intervention episode touched and enraged and saddened me on so many levels I can't begin to delineate without spiraling down into the K-hole myself...look I can do it without the K

It helps to have DID, what used to be called multiple personalities. the more divided i am the more protected i am and that's how i like to be.

then i realized this episode was recorded 10 years ago. I never watched it cuz the whole family are Jesus freaks, emphasis on the freaks...

but that is integral to Jamie's hellish life journey. With a mad bad father who could be Jim Jones--the narcissism. the religiosity. the control freak.

and i think Candace pulled her punches here because she didn't want to put Christianity in a bad light. But the bad light is the light of truth here, and the destructive potential of any religion is floridly shown in this sad mad family...

I'm going to do some research and see what happened to them all...I don't anticipate a happy ending, but you never know...Festivus miracles happen.

"Anyway, Jamie accepts treatment mostly because she’s religious and has such deep-rooted shame about her sins. She’s been sober since December 18, 2010."--Ryan O'Connell 



the initial intervention was in 2005. Five years is about right to sort out the madness of Jamie's family ties. I really do hope she is okay.

there are comments on the blog from someone who lives near Jamie and knows her personally. she's not the most sympathetic commentor but she's pretty funny as shown here ( her symbol is a unicorn in a rainbow so to me she's a-ok) "Lily • 6 years ago

Wow. I'm amazed that one of the most craziest Intervention subjects is Canadian! And from the same province! As me! I didn't watch this episode but from your description of teh crazy, I thought that kind of crazy could only be found in America. Never again shall I underestimate my own countrymen/women or think that only certain kinds of crazy exist in the US. Now when is an Intervention episode going to be filmed in my hometown?!?! Glad to hear that Jamie is sober - hope she stays that way!"

to me, the hardest thing about a recovering person watching interventions is seeing myself and my madness in so many different forms. We are all unique but we are all the same. OMG it helps me break through my own brick walls

in this intervention scenario i realize I am the father. that is me parenting myself. of all people, Anna, you should not be unkind to your inner child. Of all people. exactly.

the horror
the horror

how to love yourself in 12 simple steps

 I *hate* it when people tell me that. I still haven't figured out how to love myself. I certainly wish I could figure it out. 😔

Unlike · Reply · 1 · 1 hr

Anna Costello start with remembering yourself as a little girl. Then treat that little girl as if you cherished her, even if your emotions are mixed. That little girl absolutely deserved unconditional love and if she didn't get it then, it's your mission, if u chose to accept it, to love her. Love her innocent self...that's the first step

A bomb is a bomb is a bomb

A facebook friend clued me in on a punk revival band: Franz Ferdinand  Good music. Nice to know I'm not doomed to punk-oldies-80s radio to hear the music that speaks to me.

I'm a rock fan. Classic rock. Those luscious ballads and hammer guitar from Queen, Eric Clapton, Pink Floyd

But I LUV punk. Punk is my emo adolescence. Punk runs through my heart like a hot dagger and takes me someplace else.

The name struck me. Franz Ferdinand. The emperors's son and heir who pulled a JFK and started WW1. At least They let Jackie Kennedy live. Poor Sophie died with her husband, Grand Duke Franz Ferdinand.

Maybe that's progress.

[please excuse my anachronisms]

That shot. A pistol in a crowd. A shadowy organization with ties to the Serbian government. The black hand.

We look at ancient royal dynasties and think how barbarous--killing off all your brothers so you are the only heir to the throne. Wanting it that bad.

I have lightly tweeted about assassinating Trump. I won't do that anymore. I was wrong even to put that thought out into the universe. Murder is bad. There are many wells of black humor to drink from...I don't need to choose death.

Ironically, Rasputin was attacked by an assassin on the same weekend Franz Ferdinand was shot. Rasputin lived. His mesmerizing holy Orthodox ways kept a tsar and tsarina in thrall and allowed anarchy and terrorists to take over Russia. That great bear drunk on terror let loose. Violence...horrible violence...decades of blood and violence.

Rasputin's survival contributed as much to the disasters of WW1 as Franz Ferdinand's death did. Well, that's a theory I pulled from a book about Nicholas and Alexandra

It's nice to put a finger on an event, a time, a place, and say: "there. that is where it all went wrong."

but we've been assassinating leaders and mongering wars and tossing bombs --or rocks--as far back as we can see.

They are doing it now in Syria. They will spread. History repeats and repeats and repeats.

Peace is the only answer. But we are not a peaceful people (We, the People). We stand our ground and cherish our arsenals. The only change is the arsenals get increasingly large and damaging. Innocents die. It sucks. The whole fucking thing sucks.

I'm sorry...I can't say anything coherent about war or terrorism or a war on terrorism (do you see the folly there?)

I can't even.

Peace out.

A Crackling Fire and Chicken Pot Pies

I'm listening to a bonfire. It's a dandy replication of the sounds of a bonfire. I've always loved burning wood...the whole experience...the sight, smell, sounds, warmth...the taste of marshmallow burnt just right gooey inside crisp outside like a good crème brûlée, it just now occurs to me.

One of the most fun things our mother did was take us on a winter picnic. Chicken pot pies in thermoses, and hot chocolate. We'd go to NayAug park and be practically the only people there--my brother Joe, our Mom, and me.  It was a summer park, not a winter park.

My mother was creative that way. We made it a winter park.

We had a blast in the snow-covered park, doing what all I can't remember. I wonder if the animals were there in the zoo--I don't remember. research that.

I do remember the wonderful warmth and tantalizing smell emanating from the thermoses. How hungry we were after romping in the snow... how good the hot chocolate tasted.

We didn't light a fire. Didn't need it. All our warmth was imported from home.

But somehow this memory got tumbled in with the memories of bonfires past.

There were bonfires at weiner roasts at summer camp at Spojnia Farm.  How to pronounce it? the "j" is a soft "y" sound in polish...there's not an exact English equivalant...    Somewhere between an "o" and a "u"...spooo-nyah

My parents weren't campers. They didn't do fire for fun. I learned that later...what fun could be had round a bonfire. or any wood fire. The substitutes like gas fireplaces that look like wood fire are anemic -- a fire is not a fire without GREAT SNAPS crackles pops...falling wood...wafts of smoke burning your eyes and seasoning your clothes. Yes it's messy.

But like great sex, it's worth the mess.

Oh damn my grandmother was some wicked efficient housekeeper. She did it for a living in Philadelphia when she first came over from Poland as a girl so maybe it was ingrained. Babci would have a meltdown if she saw the state I keep my trailer in. But her house was clean. Always. Not pristine, no, our grandfather smoked hand-rolled cigarettes and spat bits of tobacco here and there. It was comfortable. You could make a mess but you'd better clean it up.

Odd memories...I stayed overnight and had some 24 hour stomach flu...I couldn't make it to the toilet and she scolded me--hold it until you get to the toilet. I was 7 maybe sick as a dog...I had to throw up it was beyond my control. I did make a mad dash for the bathroom. A MEMOEY later

there was the fire i fell into, drunk. Backwards down right into the middle of the fire. I leapt back out...no damage done. I didn't get why my friends were making such a fuss.

I've had my run-ins with fire.

I like the Mockingjay series. I love the girl on fire. I have the trilogy on my Kindle. I like the movies too. Katniss...Katniss...I was planning to name a cat Katniss...haven't gotten around to it. Maybe next cat.

I have 5 now. Four my own and a foster kitten. I never had children. I knew I'd screw them up so I decided very young I would not have them. I have cats.

well, this was supposed to be a lighthearted memory of winter picnics with our mommy. I hope I captured that. I can do light I just can't stay there very long. Not yet, anyway

Working on it.

Meow

The Opposite of Spoiled

I learned I had writing talent in a seventh grade English class. Our teacher (male, young, can't recall name) assigned topics and we'd write essays or stories, then read them out loud.

My stories made people laugh. The teacher gave me straight 10s...the highest grade that was supposed to be unattainable.

Then I took Creative Writing in 11th or 12th grade. My grade was A with the addition: "does more than is necessary for grade." I wrote voraciously. The sap was tapped and the flow was sweet.

But Pittston Area High School did not value the arts. Football. Football made money for the school. Boys won scholarships. I played clarinet in the marching band. There was no other musical teaching there. I wasn't very good. I never practiced. I was a good sight reader. I didn't like the clarinet.

I liked the flute. I still do. I chose the clarinet though cuz my older cousin Ellie had played clarinet and she'd pass her clarinet on to me. I did it to save my parents money. They told me I could play any instrument I wanted. We weren't poor at all. They didn't encourage me to take the hand-me-down to save money. It was all my idea. At age 10 maybe.

I worried about finances. My parents' finances. We were solidly middle class. Now today I see they could have easily afforded a flute. It's strange how I was willing to sacrifice without being asked--without there being a need really.

I took that upon myself. The opposite of spoiled. But it was voluntary.

I almost never bought clothes of my own until after my mother died. (I was 13). I wore hand-me-downs from my older girl cousins. I didn't have to do this. I'm sure if I asked they'd have bought me clothes I'd chosen. But I didn't care. Seriously didn't care. The opposite of girly girl.

In fact, after my mother died and the cousins abandoned us, I was at a loss to know what sort of clothes to buy. I only had my first pair of jeans when I was 12. I bought polyester matching sets. Ugly things but I didn't know. Not until a girl in my class told me purple didn't match green. I really didn't know.

Somewhere between 13 and 14 a fashion sense kicked in and I started dressing normal. But before? I must have stood out like a homeless person pushing a shopping cart. I saw what people were wearing of course, but it didn't translate to what sorts of things I should buy for myself.

The mall--once I got into it I enjoyed a bit of fashion. No one really showed me. I guess normal girls don't need to be shown.

I was a funny girl... the mother of the cousins that abandoned us after my mother died said so.

My older brother got all sorts of things. A Schwinn. A mini-bike. A CB set up. He had a rock band and my parents bought the instruments. Bought a station wagon that smelled of cigar smoke for the family car so Joe could transport his equipment. Camera and dark room. Remodeled the cellar so he'd have his own whole floor as a bedroom.

I didn't miss anything...I rarely asked for anything. I never felt deprived. I had a very nice stereo set-up that saved my life. I got a car when I started going to college so I could commute.

I chose to go to Scranton U because my brother went there and it was cheaper if 2 students from the same family went. That's how I chose the school. I knew absolutely nothing about what ivy league or girl's colleges or UC Berkeley could offer me. No one suggested it. No one suggested I apply for a scholarship although I was near Valadictorian (a C in gym one semester ruined my GPA)

I could write. They knew I could write. Yet no one told me how to go about being a writer. I changed my major from pre-med to English without telling my father. I couldn't explain. What would I do with an English degree? Teach? Law School?

the horror. Cornell Law School is its own horror story.

I should have stayed in academia...gone for a masters...an MFA...or tried journalism seriously. I wanted to write for a living but I didn't know how.

And I didn't think anyone could teach me cuz...well...I knew how to write.

So I should just write.

Right?

What a naive fool I was.

Magical thinking that I could somehow become a writer without a clue how to go about it.

I'm angry at myself, my schools, my parents, my hometown.

Cause y'all let me fall through the cracks. I was drinking daily by the time I was a freshman in college so I could...oh gods.

I have to get over this. I guess I have to forgive. I am grateful my 2 nieces didn't fall through any cracks  but had great educations in spite of public schooling.

I feel I've been cocooning these past five years.

Hibernating.

But not wasting away.

gathering my energies that were so sprawled and wasted most of my life.

I have to grieve the losses my young self experienced. She was a tough nut to crack. Very tough. I couldn't allow myself to feel pity for myself cuz then I'd cry and never stop crying.

that's all for now

i hope this exorcises that particular demon.

Christopher Columbus toppled in Pittston Pennsylvania

Anyplace else this might be a protest against the celebration of an icon who actually was a pretty nasty character.

But in Pittston PA the nasty is often elevated. The mafia have dinner in peace there (in my uncle's restaurant in days past). Culm dumps made quick profit and now burn on into eternity as nobody's problem. Corruption reaches to shocking levels (well, shocking for the rest of the nation. In Pittston, it's business as usual)

Many years ago, when the evils of Columbus Day were making headlines, my father was asked by a reporter, "do you support the people protesting Columbus Day?". They cleaned up my father's response to : "I'd throw something at them." What he really said was:

"I'd throw acid on them."

I know this cuz he was upset they softened his words and repeated the story for family and friends many times. At least his name was in the paper.

My father wasn't a violent man but he had a violent mind. I think I've pretty much inherited that. Maybe that's why I can't keep friends. Sooner or later I'll let down my guard and say something outrageous.

Outrageous even for Pittston. I don't mean to. It doesn't seem outrageous to me. It's just my thoughts.

This is why I enjoy Facebook. I  belong to several groups that are uncensored. Where people post ugly vile thoughts and aren't banned for life. LOL

when I try to join a normal group, I'm usually booted out within days. I've learned to keep my mouth shut. But sometimes I forget. Or something seems so funny to me I MUST share it. It rarely seems funny to anyone else.

People tell me I write well and should write a memoir. Well, I've had a colorful life but I'm afraid of alienating mass audiences.

This blog is a compromise. Dipping my toes in.