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. 😔

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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.

Little Orphan Annie

You might say my mother died and my father bailed. It never occurred to me to blame my father for anything. But a few years ago I heard my sister-in-law say to my brother, regarding their daughter:

Do you want to do to Kayla/Megan what your father did to Ann?

What did he do to me?

I suppose I should have asked her but I didn't. We don't ask those sorts of questions in my family. I suppose that's one thing my father did to me. Make any questions regarding emotion VERBOTEN.

I love how my brother is with his daughters, my nieces. It's clear he cherishes them. Respects them. Wants the best for them. Will go to great lengths to get the best for them. They are not afraid of him.

I was terrified of my father but in an odd way. He wasn't a bad man. He wasn't violent. He didn't drink. He turned his paycheck over to my mother and she ran the household.

I guess I felt I never measured up. I felt my father disdained me. I wasn't pretty. I wasn't outgoing. I wasn't kind. After my mother died I was so relieved when he finally started dating. Then his happiness was off my shoulders.

I know my brother sees things differently. He thinks my father was happy more or less. Yes, a tragic thing happened...his wife dying so young. But he survived. He didn't melt down. He worked and paid the bills and we never wanted for anything.

We even travelled to Disneyworld that Christmas break. It was a weird vacation. No mention made of the mother who had died just that past thanskgiving. Not a word.

How can you not enjoy Disneyworld, and I did, yes, although I remember a parade through Fanstasy Land or something--the big ass parade with all the characters...

And that depression swept over me. That sudden emptiness, dread, and fear that had plagued me all my childhood--coming on for no apparent reason. And I went empty. Silent. No emotion. I couldn't smile I couldn't speak. Just numb. It wasn't deliberate. My father was angry at me. I didn't mean to.

It wore off in a few hours and I was okay. I was 13, my mother was dead 2 months after an agonizing projected horrible painful sickness. It wasn't the death it was the screaming in pain. No of course it was the death I kissed her forehead and she died the next day. I was at a bonfire. She insisted we go. She didn't want her dying to spoil our fun.

It wasn't fun. IT WASN'T FUN

what the fuck was wrong with you people you leave a 13 year old girl to handle death and pain and agony alone alone alone you do not talk to her you do not comfort her? what was wrong with you people?

sorry/\
bai

you must have been very unhappy there...

Moving away from home was epic for me. Cuz people in my family didn't move away. My mother settled one street away from her mother. My father's folks were just up the road in the same small town. We vacationed at the Jersey Shore, the closest beach to home--Atlantic City before the casinos. Hot buttered corn on the cob. Ferris wheels we didn't go on because there were ferris wheels at home. This was vacation. We did beach things. Body surfing the waves mostly. I remember the bed would seem to shift and swirl--my head was still riding the waves.

My uncle, my mother's brother told me: stay in Dupont cuz taxes were low. That was the only endorsement. Low taxes. Well, there were few amenities so yeah, taxes were low.

It was like the colleges who bragged about parking. Parking? That's the finest thing about your institution?

I ended up going to the college my brother went to to save on tuition. It was good for pre-med, which i was for one semester. I changed to English cuz I had vague dreams...but I never acted on it. I was accepted to 3 schools for MFA in playwriting but I chose to work for an insurance company a few miles from home instead.

My dreams were limited. I was never encouraged except by one professor at Scranton U.

I didn't know how limited I was. Cuz this was all I knew. I saw tv shows where young women had mentors who helped them spread their wings and fly.

I always wanted a mentor. I never got one.

There's something very wrong with me. I put people off. The come with enthusiasm and leave scratching their heads.

"She's a funny girl" my aunt said.

To this day I haven't figured out how to be acceptable. But I am happier.

I was showing my ID when I first moved to Key West...the photo on the ID had been taken when I was living in Pennsylvania. The person looked at the ID. Looked at me. Looked again. then she said, nicely, "You must have been very unhappy there"

It shows. It shows in the face i guess. the knitted brows relax. the perpetual frown lessens and almost becomes a smile.

It just struck me that a stranger had to point it out. I hadn't noticed.

They say you can't run from your problems...you take yourself with you. Well, sort of. Sometimes the place you live is not the right place for you. I still love to visit my family. But I've blossomed in Key West. It's a healing kind of place.

A Truthful Look at Suicidal Impulses

wow. so relate. This kid seems like surrounded by love and understanding. I was ignored and bullied. But he's gone and I'm here. I"M HERE MOTHRFUCKERS you got him :( but u didn't won't get me. the depression the void the self-loathing--it didn't fucking get me. Fuck U death.

i've had unipolar depression all my life; not diagnosed til I was in my late 20s. Prozac saved my life, i swear to god, one day, after being on prozac about 4 weeks, I woke up and I didn't want to die. Amazing. An amazing feeling I'd never felt before. that was like 25 years ago and I've been off and on antidepressents and in and out of therapy. Depression came back--antidepressents stopped working...I don't know...I'm fortunate that I'm also alcoholic (self-medicating) and found the rooms of AA. I think I'm more depressed than alcoholic but following the 12 steps, the fellowship, sponsors, phone calls, you are never alone....all that probably saved my life. I would not have made it to 54 without it. And I'm grateful. Ultimately. I look at myself sometimes and I am astonished I am still here. I never thought I'd live past 40

suicide in paradise

 I came to Key West to escape from the area I was born in--Scranton/Wilkes-Barre Pennsylvania -- which holds the title of the most depressed city in the United States.

Now I read an article saying the Florida Keys has double the suicide rate of the rest of the state.

Out of the frying pan and into the fire?

Holy cannoli more information needed here.



There does seem to be a disproportionate number of suicides down here.

But we're in paradise.

WHY AREN'T YOU HAPPY???

Maybe it's the pressure to be happy that kicks depressed people when we are down.

And people do come here specifically to kill themselves.

It's the end of the road. Heavy symbolic meaning. When we are suicidal we think in heavy symbolic even theatrical terms. The frenzy of the always changing tourist population is a fine destraction from what's really going on. Do the Duval crawl...crawl right into your grave if that's your pleasure.

I've been suicidal. Seriously suicidal. I didn't do it for a couple reasons. Mostly my family. I see how suicide wrenches a family apart, rips the fragile threads, leaves a gaping wound. No, I wouldn't do that to my family.

Also I realized killing yourself over financial distress is just tacky. Better to learn how to live in poverty and still find joy. Lower your expectations.

My expectations of myself are at an all-time low. I deliberately made it that way. Fashioned a life where if I check out I really won't be missed cuz I was just taking up space anyway.

I used to think I wanted to do something that mattered before I died. Now I realize simply staying alive when you jump from the frying pan into the fire is goal enough.

for today. For the suicides I've known and loved and lost. goddammit keep yourself alive. just keep yourself alive. that's enough. when you get that far lost on the edge of nothingness just keeping on is enough. seriously. we'll work on the rest of it tomorrow.

Keep yourself alive

Love American Style

Who remembers that show? I remember I was in grade school, maybe sixth grade, when it came on TV. It was pretty racy for its time.

I remember one skit where a young woman wakes up in bed with a young man. The woman says, "My mother said I'd hate myself in the morning. But I don't."
The guy moves in for a kiss.
Then the girl says:
"I hate YOU."
 And starts pummeling him with pillows.

It's hard for me to describe the place I grew up. We were in the 1970s but not of them. Maybe 20 years behind in attitude and awareness. We lived in a valley--the Wyoming Valley.

The Valley with a Heart. (Coming back better than ever)...best thing to happen to the Valley was the Flood of 1972. Agnes. The whole city was underwater to second stories at least. Generous federal aid allowed Wilkes-Barre to have a mini-renaissance. It looked prettier but the attitudes couldn't be changed so easily.

In class the teacher, OMG Miss Robbie--straight out of Little House on the Prairie schoolmarm from the days when teachers were not allowed to be married because they might leak information about s-e-x to their tiny charges. I'm not kidding. In ways the Wyoming Valley was centuries behind the times.

Anyway, Miss Robbie asked the class to name a few good educational TV programs. And one girl (a new girl, not from here) raised her hand and said, "Love American Style."

Shocked. But titillated. Exactly NOT the reaction they wanted us young ones to have.

For all her experience as a teacher for an unfathomable number of years, Miss Robbie was very naive in the ways of the 1970s. The year I graduated 6th grade and moved on to Junior high, Miss Robbie and the three other elderly teachers all retired. I may have the dates off...but they were on their ways out. Miss Panuski? Mrs. Andruchek? Mrs Golden the kindergarten teacher who held children on her lap (you could do that back then...i'm not sure how it is now) and sang to us.

Younger teachers came in. They were different. Not so grandmotherly. We even had a male teacher in 5th grade...quite a novelty. Yes, Mr. Rydzy. He taught math. He used to curse saying, "Jemondeans" or something so as not to utter real curse words. He was funny but not very kind.

Demerits were a new punishment. (No more whacks with a ruler). Today I'm proud to say I got the very first demerits issued at Ben Franklin Grade School. Then I was mortified. I got them for laughing out loud in class. No surprise there.

Oh lordy down memory lane I go...

It was a weird place to be from. My more sophisticated cousins from Maryland were quick to point out the many ways that we were backwards and not cool.

We did watch Love, American Style, but it didn't affect us much. Cocooned in the valley, we had our own ways and saw no reason for change. Some of the stuff was good, i suppose. But much was destructive. I suffered as a result of their backward ways in ways I'm only now beginning to understand. Cuz I was taught to take responsibility for my own actions. Not to lay blame.

But sometimes, blame needs to be laid. When it's on your own shoulders and crushing you and keeping you from opening your wings to fly. Just to get it off your own shoulders. Not to burden anyone else with it. It's too old. This baggage.

Tired too tired from carrying it.

Bad Mothers, Sad Mothers, Criminal Mothers, Clueless Mothers, Narcissitic Mothers...

I have a passing interest in mothers. It's hard for me to have more than that. I tend to get overwhelmed with feelings and my head just scatters into nothingness.

And I feel bad. I feel I've given my mother the short shrift. All my life.

Mostly I feel bad for my two nieces. They have one grandmother. The other died before they were born. Ruth, my mother, their grandmother, would have been a lovely balance to the funny, cynical grandmother on their mother's side.

Their grandmother on their father's side would have been a different experience. I know we tend to forget the faults of people who died and paint them in rosy colors. But really, with Ruthie? You couldn't paint her rosy enough.

She was the sweetest woman I've ever known. I've met one person (one!) who rivals her in good intentions--and she travelled a very different path. I more recently came to know a mother/daughter team that reminds me of how me and mommy were. Mommy was in charge, no question. But her love and admiration and enjoyment of my company were genuine.

My mother loved me. She loved having me around. She loved talking to me. Playing with me. Taking me swimming. Sewing us matching dresses. Taking me to Brownies and then Girl Scouts. She decorated the house for Christmas. She received the Gertrude Hawks Chocolate orders and we (my brother and I) helped put together the orders, the room redolent with chocolate and fresh cut pine tree.

I want to write down some memories, for my nieces. I can't say them...it still hurts too much and I'll end up sobbing and that's just stupid. but maybe I can write what I've wanted to tell you all these years.

My Christmas present to both of you

Sybil II -- Untangling Threads-- Does DID even exist?

I loved the book Sybil. I adored the movie. I did not question the veracity of either. It was a tale told by the actual doctor and patient in the story. Telling their own tale...has to be true. Right?

Right?

I wrote about Angela's Ashes and seeing Frank McCourt. I was much older when that book came out, and more skeptical. I heard Frank McCourt speak while attending a Seminar on Memoir in Key West. It was a life-changing seminar. A memoir is not an autobiography. It doesn't list facts...it tells how the writer experienced a certain thing at a certain time. Still, it is not a license to fantasize.

Is there any truth in Sybil? It's odd how drawn to it I was as a teen-- then 30-some years later I get my own DID diagnosis. It was almost...

Thrilling.

But what is this condition that may or may not really exist? Dunno. I'll try to find out though.

Before the publication of ""Sybil,'' there were only about 75 reported cases of MPD; in the 25 years since, there have been, by one expert's estimation, 40,000 diagnoses, almost all in North America. 

I met people in a psych hospital who were convinced they'd been through Satanic Ritual Abuse, even after Satanic Ritual Abuse was shown to be a hoax. What happens when the mental illness that has plagued you all your life suddenly becomes fantasy? If it didn't happen, why am I so screwed up? They were nice people. I wanted to believe them. I wanted them to be okay.

But how can you begin to recover when the very premise of your existence is questioned? Where do you begin?

The most gripping part of Sybil, for me, was the horrific abuse the little girl suffered at the hands of her demented mother. Without this, the story is much less compelling. The abuse was unbelievable. Maybe because it never really happened. We want to belief reports of abuse, but there have been documented cases where horrible abuse was planted in the patient's mind. People went to jail for abuse that was a fantasy all along.

"There is strong evidence that [the worst abuse in the book] could not have happened,'' says Peter J. Swales, the historian who first identified Mason as Sybil.


Goebbels said to live a fulfilled life you must believe in something with all your heart and mind. It didn't matter, he said, whether that thing was true or false. Only that you believed. That was the key to happiness.

I feel on the edge. All I want is to be safe.

what's your favorite color, Sybil

of course i can't answer that question.
of course i go into ptsd meltdown whenever i am asked:

what is YOUR favorite...anything.

I have no single favorites.
Cuz I have no single identity.

It always puzzled me why such an innocuous question sent my brain into spins. What was wrong with me? Was I afraid if I picked one favorite, every other choice would be taken from me forever?

Actually, when I was diagnosed with Dissociative  Identity Disorder it made sense. Because there was a competition set off with several different identities chiming in:

YELLOW but only bright neon yellow
RED no red is the color of blood no not red
PINK is such a girly color seriously
BLUE ah, hell everyone likes blue that's so boring...

I've started saying BROWN. I do like brown. It embodies different colors, like black, but softer. Chocolate...tree bark...dirt LOL

But I do love a certain red. A blackened, candy-apple shiny red.

I have it on my nails. (right hand) with a sparkly holographic gold accent nail and a vinyl-stenciled kitty in gold with the red over. The red I won in a competition. It is Cirque Garnet. I won a whole collection...I was amazed...the colors are amazing but that's another post.

I've always enjoyed painting my nails. I'm grateful to Cristine of Simply Nailogical for giving me permission to have different colors on my 10 different nails cuz some days I just

CAN'T DECIDE WHAT COLOR I WANT'

so now I paint my nails with a theme but not all alike. I do one or two nails at a time. I layer. I add stamps...vinyls...this nail art thing has me hopping.

My nails are nicely shaped and grow fairly well. They always have. Even as a kid. I thought of my nails as "My One Beauty". (I think I got that from Little Women) I remember my first alternative color. It was green. It was called "Militant Mint". I don't remember the brand. I got it in a drugstore. I was 11? 12? Looking at painted nails soothes me.

chips and smudges enrage me. Quick-dry top coats have saved my sanity. I finally broke down and bought a gel system. It wasn't that expensive, considering it has saved me from despair. I mix regular and gel polishes, which they say you can't do. I talk back to DIY manicure videos on Youtube. I've gone rather mad.

Which is ok. DID isn't as crazy as you might think. I don't have fugue states. Even Sybil wasn't as crazy as the book and movie made her out to be. Hidden memories can be dangerous. Easily manipulated. I don't have any recovered memories.

I remember what i remember and no one abused me growing up. I think I just had an over-complicated brain plopped down into a overly simplified life. I was not understood. But I was very very quiet.

I still am.

But people are surprised today when I say I'm shy. I can't imagine what they think of me? Stuck up maybe? Why don't I come across as shy? I don't know. Maybe I never was shy. Maybe it was something else. Maybe only one part of me was shy. Maybe another part was Ethyl Merman

more will be revealed

Tut...my Sweetest Cat.

Cats are assholes. Everyone knows this. They knock shit off your dresser just for fun. They eat off your plate. They dig in your plants then track dirt onto your pillow. They drink out of the toilet then lick your nose.

My Tut came to me through FaceBook. A local group had a posting for a cat that needed re-homing. An Egyptian Mau. $50.

Some people hate re-homers. Take the cat with you or don't get a cat. This isn't a practical attitude. Circumstances change. Jobs are lost and found elsewhere. People get sick, people die. Sometimes an animal just can't fit into its home well for whatever reason.

This young couple were in the military and were being reassigned to a place where they could only have 2 cats. You can't bargain with military housing. So lucky me they decided to re-home Tut.

I met him. He was gorgeous. We hit it off immediately. His mom waived the $50. fee and I took Tut home with some of his toys so he'd have something familiar.

That was over a year ago. Tut had a period of adjustment. He pooped inappropriately. He was a little aggressive with my 2 geriatric cats. I played with him every day. I took him for walks. He follows me when we walk and we meow back and forth to keep track of one another and the other cats who join us.

I found him a playmate closer to his own age at the Marathon shelter. That was Boris. They got along like a house afire and are close as 2 young male cats can be. Which means they fight more than cuddle but they are active and healthy and having fun. Boris is my Grand Duke, a Russian Blue and an entirely different sort of cat (well a more normal cat--aloof but interested). He fits into our eclectic cathouse.

Tut became an angel. He hasn't had a rogue poop in ages. He's even good with the foster kittens I take in. He licks them and cuddles with them and they follow him around like any tot after a bigger brother.

Tut fights with the little kits too...but never ever hurts them. The tiny ones squeal when it gets intense. But they always come back for more. When I put wet food out Tut waits patiently while the 2 kittens wolf down their share. He could brain them both and eat first but he choses not to. There's always enough food, Bast be praised. Tut watches and waits his turn.

Gita, my remaining geriatric is a bit ghost-like herself...halfway over the rainbow bridge after her brother Sita ... I know she channels Sita when she has her rare mischievous moments and knocks stuff off my dresser. Normally she seems to levitate above stuff, dainty like a dancer. She nudges in for food stubbornly and firmly. She's the matriarch and will have her share. The kittens chase her tail and shadow her around but she pretty much ignores them.

(Boris doesn't eat with the others--he's on his own schedule)

Well that's a very brief sketch of my Tut.

meows

Pre Menstrual Agony

My first period story is worse than yours. I was 12. My mother was dying of cancer. She couldn't help me. I couldn't tell her. I was too ashamed.

I'd read about menstruation. I knew what it was. I wasn't Carrie, although I can relate.

I started bleeding and bleeding and I knew everyone could smell the stink the morass the swamp. I had no pads nor any way to get them. I was too strangling tongue-tied to ask for them. You see why I took to drink.

A part of me knew it was ridiculous this inability to tell.

When I was younger I had a urinary tract infection. I was too embarrassed to tell my mother my pee was burning. Or that my pee had turned to blood and stung so bad the tears poured more than the urine but i stayed silent. So bad i was incontinent and could not stop peeing mostly blood and agony.

Somehow I managed to mumble something. Mommy took me to the doctor. I overheard her say she thought I'd gotten my period cuz I mentioned blood. The doctor gave me a pill that turned my pee orange and gave me blessed relief.

Just like that. All I had to do was talk.

All I couldn't do was talk. I COULDN'T TALK.

My father yelling at me that I was making no sense over the phone. I hated phones. I never knew what to say. "Don't be so stupid just talk". They mocked me cuz I never knew what to say when i called someone so I said nothing and the person on the other end of the line had to pry it out of me.

you see why I took to drink. Blessed relief. Tongue untied.

so when i got my period I used toilet paper and scotch tape. I wiped myself and wiped myself til there wasn't a trace of blood left...less to spill. I clogged toilets with bloody rolls of toilet paper and I burned in shame trying to unclog with a ruler...i didn't know how to use a plunger.

You couldn't just look shit up on the internet then.

you were supposed to know. How? dunno.

I went to school with taped toilet paper and knew everyone could smell the blood. I never smelled anyone else's blood but I knew mine was particularly malodorous because I was a dirty gir.

I'd been masturbating as long as I could remember...age 4 ...5...and on up with a wave a tidal wave of shame following climax. I don't know how i learned this.

I bled profusely. I bled on my cousin's sheets. (Why didn't you TELL me you got your period? I told you.) Tell you? Why? Why would I tell anyone? It was horrible. Disgusting. Painful.

The cramps. OMG chewing aspirin till my stomach was pierced with glass it seemed and my ears rang tingling with the glass. Took my mind off the sickening all-body cramps.

And, oh. to writers? Stephen King and I don't know who else but they always seem to write that aspirin is bitter.

Dumbasses. Aspirin isn't bitter

Aspirin is SOUR and not in a good way...it's an acid. Sour...a sour taste when Jack Nickolson or Johnny or whoever chews his aspirin, Mr. King. Sour not bitter. It matters. You've obviously never chewed aspirin yourself.

No wonder Olive Oil's gone mad. Stanley Kubrick drove her there. but hey, ART.


When Motrin came out it was blessed releif. Blessed. Never chewed a motrin. Never had to. they worked.. I wasn't desperate.

My mother, too sick to shop for menstrual pads, sent me with my grandparents to the drug store. I'd assumed she'd told HER mother what I needed. I was wrong. I couldn't speak the words. I couldn't ask for pads. I was too embarassed. We came home empty. Mommy was mad. Ridiculous what was wrong with me?

So I went without that much longer. Who cared? Who was I? The girl I didn't matter.

NO ONE TOLD ME ANYTHING. no one said she's dying. i found out the day she died.

fuck you all.

what you did to an 11-12-13 year old girl. You're all dead now you adults. Good. Good on ya.

I never had kids. I wouldn't know what to do with them. I'd mess them up...hand down defective genes.

I have cats now. Cats I can mostly understand. I can talk to cats.

My roomate has dogs he talks to the dogs.

between us we manage to say what needs to be said.

Others think he's weird. I don't see it. I know that says less about his weirdness than about my inablilty to detect it.

Anyway...all i want is peace. just to be left in peace these last remaining days of my life.





I

I Don't Want to Write or Post this

I feel like I've put my writing out there for 40-some years. That's enough.

I don't want to try anymore.

I'm tired of failing. Nothing I do comes to anything. It's been this way my whole life.

My brain is wired funny. Aby Normal.

So fuck it.

It's nice to have no ambition. None. Zip. VOID.

Fuck you all.

and some of you are sure to jump on: what's her problem? emo chick. begging for attention.

I despise attention. I don't want solutions. I don't want your help

Who do you think you are?

The only help I want is Dr. Phil's and he's not answering.

I can't reciprocate.

I have nothing

I score high on those Aspie Quiz things. how reliable r they?

Your neurodiverse (Aspie) score: 138 of 200
Your neurotypical (non-autistic) score: 61 of 200
You are very likely neurodiverse (Aspie)

Both Sides of the Desk...Rehab as a Patient then as a Nurse

There are a lot of stories out there about drug and alcohol abuse. Who needs another one?

Well, we're all unique (although we're all the same). We never know when our story will reach someone. As long as we continue to have trouble with drugs and alcohol, we will benefit from sharing our stories.

There's no cure so far. There are different programs, but nothing clearly successful with a large percentage of addicts. They say addiction is a disease. That's helpful and not helpful. It can be managed they say, just like diabetes! if you take your medicine. The medicine is meetings.

And meetings are stories. Sharing our stories. 

I don't know why that is so healing. I don't want to question that. I want to take advantage of it. 

I'm not a talker. When I was a kid I was agonizingly shy. Alcohol helped me get over that. Well, no, alcohol briefly untied my tongue but ultimately made all my neuroses worse. But I could always write. Even sober, I could write. In fact, I wrote very little during the times in my life i was using drugs or alcohol.

real writers disdain writing undertaken for therapeutic reasons. Writing is art. Therapy is therapy. But if writing accidentally becomes therapeutic, that's sort of win/win, right?

So many stories. and stories lead to more stories. 

I'm a Dr. Phil junkie. I've written a few times, for myself and others. I want Daddy Warbucks to save me. (A guest called him Daddy Warbucks. He was annoyed but I thought it was fairly appropriate.) I especially like to hear him put narcissists in their place. I also like guests who hit bottom, so to speak, with drugs and alcohol.

well, gotta go. a compelling dr Phil is on-- an abused child confronts her father as an adult. I wasn't abused but I dream sometimes I am chewing my father out for one thing or another. It's too late. He died several years ago.

Still, telling helps. Re-telling and re-telling and re-telling probably doesn't. But I don't think I'm doing that.

Anyway, one of the producers of Dr. Phil wrote me back a few weeks ago. I sent more info as requested but haven't heard back. I'm still waiting. I want to go to one of those places where they are meticulous at finding out just what therapy you need. I've gone down a lot of wrong roads. I wouldn't recognize the right road if it laid itself at my doorstep paved in yellow brick.

One thing AA does is teach you you can't cure yourself. Maybe no one can cure me. Maybe that's why I'm compelled to learn nail art...all that curing of UV lacquer.

If my nail polish can be cured, maybe I can be too.

Kicking Kale to the Curb

Decades of scientific studies show cigarette smoking is harmful to self and others, and we still cling to smoking like the last person off the Titanic clings to that floating door.

One article of questionable validity says kale sucks poisons out of the ground and we should not eat it anymore, and we storm our refrigerators, gleefully tossing bunches of kale in various states of rot (I'll eat it tomorrow) into the garbage. We clean out the freezer. We pluck the last of it from the garden and onto the compost pile.

We may even toss the soup we've added kale to hoping we could eat kale without actually tasting it.

We have no problem believing this former SUPER food has suddenly become POISON.

Why?

Cuz we were secretly hoping for a reason not to eat it all along.

The best endorsement for kale I've heard was, "oh, it's good in soup." Well, yes. If the soup is flavorful enough, even used kitty litter can taste pretty good, if a little crunchy.

I'm not a fan of kale. Once a decade or so I try it again, hoping maybe this time...

It's a bad habit I have. Doing the same thing over and over again expecting different results. Unless something about kale changes drastically and it becomes an edible green, there is no way I will enjoy choking the stuff down.

Kale, you've had your last chance with me. No, I don't believe you are poisonous. If kale didn't absorb well from the soil it wouldn't be so full of minerals that we need. But I'm not going to champion kale. There are too many actually tasty and tender greens out there that will satisfy nutritional needs.

Endive, arugula, leafy green and red lettuce...nom nom nom...

Stay healthy my friends

turkey has a soporific effect WIP

I'm told
heavy headed...headed out

so long and thanks for all the
turkey

but my thoughts are too bitter

my head is too grim.

It's a toxic holiday for me and i like it that way.
the one day
i think about mommy.

cuz it hurts too much

but the dinner was lovely and i thank you all
so much
so much
you have no idea what it means to me
or maybe you do

i could make a case counting out my last dime
buying canned tuna on thanskgiving night
(they're messing with my
ebt i won't get gas tonight)

i try to grab a few bucks after my check cones in
before the penalties drain it dry again.
meaningless now really. sometimes i miscalculate
and have to  wait.

i can wait.
it's what i do

they talk of strong wills and active livs
and lou geregs disease.

i exerted my will
twice
I remember each time.
once I asked to go for a sunday walk not a ride (riding bored me and made me sick to my stomach if I tried to read. I think that's when i developed a narration for my life)

a narrated life is better.

change the lighting in your head add a character who understands.

I was brutally beaten down what a stupid idea.

a few years later I tried singing carols in the car.
shut up. you can't sing
children should be seen and not heard
i was not heard

A Death on Thanksgiving (Memento Mori)

At age 13, I was struck by the irony of my mother's dying on Thanksgiving Eve. It was long ago and I've rarely shed tears for my mother. I never think about her. I dream about her.

In my dreams she is alive. When I was younger I used to dream that the cancer had been a mistake. We are doing very ordinary things. Shopping. Preparing the house for Christmas. Cooking. I am utterly relieved in my dream that she is still with me.

In my 30s I had that recurring dream only with one difference. In the dream I realize it's a dream and my mother is really dead. After that, the dreams were less wonderful but also less painful to wake from.

Before my mother even got sick, I used to wonder: if I had to lose a parent, which would be harder to lose? Mommy or Daddy? My child self already splintering into multiple personas for reasons unknown; I meditated on all sorts of morbid things. My favorite author was Edgar Allen Poe.

Well, Daddy at least had a job and an income. There'd be no real uprooting of our lives if he were the survivor. It seemed I should prefer this option to me. But.

But when I thought of losing my mother the alarm was so deep I couldn't fathom it. If I had Daddy but not Mommy I'd lose everything. It was unimaginable to my child self to live alone with my father. Too horrifying to dwell on. So I didn't dwell on it.

But 5 or so years after that she was. Dead. And my 13-year-old brain would not fathom it. Refused to fathom it.

On the day she died I made a conscious decision to pretend my mother had never existed. I clearly remember thinking this was the only way I would survive the remainder of my life.

Last year was 40 years-- the anniversary I never acknowledge but always always feel.

A shock. Too shocked for tears. More of a shutting down of systems.

This is not healthy. I've known that.

About 10 years ago I got some relief from the grief working with an inner-child therapist. The therapy was unlicensed and unleashed a fury in me so severe I now see it was the ultimate cause of my divorce 5 years ago. I mean just this moment.

Just this moment. I realize it was that therapy that brought me back to life. Made me feel. Made me a person. But a wild dangerous person. A grown child who could not tolerate the narcissist she'd been married to for 15 years one more second.

Not
one
more
second

BOOM

I threatened her (pronouns matter; she was a male-to-female transsexual who grew increasingly man-like and less female 10 years into transition...very strange and painful as the man re-took control of the person and she became highly controlling and paranoid and jealous)

Yeah, no matter how flat you make a pancake it has two sides
I threatened her
with knives,
 a bathtub full of knives.
(where could i have gotten all those knives but that's how she described it. I read the report. We never spoke again. Never again spoke after 20 years together)

Dumb.

 So fucking dumb. I I'd have hung in there a few more months I'd be a widow now with all the bells and whistles of an officer's widow. Reckless.

No words. Like after my mother died it was forbidden to mention her name. The word "mother" would not come out of my throat until I was 35 or so. It stuck and choked me so I swallowed it.

I remember the Christmas after that Thanksgiving. My cousin was setting the table for the family. She kept saying how the table was one person short, she could not remember why, and she kept trying to think out loud why the count was minus one...Her mother (my aunt) said:

Things are different now. Then a look. Then nothing.

No one talked to me I had no voice of my own.

Agonizingly shy. Agonizing.

It was what it was. There was no reason to complain. There was no reason for it. I had everything I needed. The bills were all paid.

But no one, NO ONE had ever gotten through to me. That is precious. That is worth all the loss. Still it didn't have to happen that way. Reckless therapy. I grabbed the lifeline but it turned to fire and i got burned.

I didn't realize it at the time. That's the gift of dissociation. Living in a trance.

Mesmerized like by a Glass Menagerie. I saw that film and it hit me: Laura...I am Laura. Then I grew up and moved to the town where the man wrote it. The first place I stayed was owned by a woman named Laura and her guesthouse had a glass menagerie in the window. I fell in love with Key West like I never loved a human. Couldn't...can't love a human.

For a while I didn't know --maybe I I really had meant to kill her. I sought counseling. I begged new and ethical counselor Steve "Am I dangerous?" I told him everything.

No, he said. Not dangerous.

How do you know?

Well, you're female for one. (He always said that. So statistically it was way unlikely I'd do anything like that. But not impossible? I'd have to take that.)

Now I realize I would not have. Murder isn't in me. If it were I'd have done it sooner and be living on the gravy train today. The threat was in her distorted mind. Her mind which had me so in thrall I actually believed I'd threatened to kill her.

No such thing. It was a stupid cry for help.

A bathtub full of knives. Where would I have gotten all those knives?

A cry for help heard by a midwife I much much later found was very much insane. Still is. More quackery.

A quack killed my mother a dangerous quack but she trusted him cuz he had an MD and she trusted him near to death until a real OB/GYN stepped in and gave her proper treatment. Too Late. Way way way too late.

It turned her mother into a muttering bundle of pain.

Boźe Boźe Boźe...no words no words only god god god. I knew then there was no god. It took 40 years for that knowledge to catch up with me.

I have problems with authority.

A bathtub full of cries for help.

I didn't get help. I got tossed out on my ear and banned forever.

Five years later and I'm still reeling...trying to pull myself out of this ditch I've dug myself into. Every movement is agony.

Every moment alive and feeling is another lifetime in hell.

I'm a theatrical person. I hyperbolize. It's my salvation and my downfall. Theatre is like that. It likes clear opposites...battles fought over and over the same fucking battles only with different costumes and scenery.

And that's OK. I'm not criticizing. that's what art is. Memento Mori. How small we all are how ethereal how dust dust dust


I'm only now beginning to put that genie back in the bottle.

It's the anniversary of her death and i cannot let myself cry. If I do I will tear myself inside out with hysterical sobbing. My sobriety is wrapped around this in complex but obvious ways now I look at it.

Cuz I can't look at it. Not without something. No alcohol. No with alcohol I'd be starting the sobs but it would end. It would end and I'd pass out and feel OK a few hours later.

Carmina Burana...a poem of relentless pain. Set to relentless music. Odd how people find it stirring. It feels majestic to people who have no idea what the song is really about. It's about rolling that rock Mr. Sysyphus. Endless cycles of pain and loss.

Sure, that feels majestic.

Death adds a majesty to life like no other concept. Opposites. The journey if you are reading this you have to take. My maggoty little life will end in dust.

Memento mori. Remember we are dust.

I think this might be a poem but I can't write it. Staccato. Gulps of feeling and then back again to numb.

Seesaw zig zag teeter totter topsy turvey

and we all fall down.

Giving Thanks--A Lucky Story

my house was too dark. It really needed overhead lighting but I'm not an electrician. When I was rich we had these torch lamps that really lit up a room pretty good for a floor lamp. So I went in search of this lamp (I didn't buy the originals so I didn't really know quite what to look for)

Anyway, online there were 2 basic sorts of torch lamps. Cheapies and Super Expensive. Nothing in between. I was going to take a chance on ordering a cheapy, then remembered my favorite home decor store, my own personal IKEA

The Salvation Army.

I drove there on a Wednesday. Everything is half off. They had a bunch of tall standing torch lamps. Some were the

cheapies, some were more expensive but in terrible shape (rust...dangling wires, broken bulbs)

 I found a solid intact lamp, bulb looked good (these are weird bulbs you have to get special so I knew it was the real deal)...a little rust, a lot of dust, but basically a gem in a shit hole. And it was marked $6.00 (way too low but sometimes people switch tags around)

which is what the clerk said to me when I went to check out. "That's not a $6. lamp!" Luckily it was near closing time, there were people behind me, so she just shouts out, Hey Harry (or whoever) get me a price on this lamp. It's not $6.!)

poor Harry was trying to carry stuff out for someone else. He glanced at the lamp. $8.

ok! Half off, that's $4.

yay. Then it almost doesn't fit in my car it's so tall. But my car is a Honda FIT and it is aptly named. The lamp fit diagonally across the whole car with all the seat backs down.

I took my lamp home. Set it up. It worked. It was absolutely perfect. It's lighting my living room now, next to the desk where I do my nail art. It has a rheostat. It's the most awesome lamp. My guess is, new, it must have cost over $100. 

Sometimes you get lucky

An Interview with Jeffrey Dahmer

I watch crime documentaries obsessively. It worries me.

Then again sometimes they tickle my absurdist funny bone.

Sitting down for an interview with Jeffrey Dahmer. I mean, how do you sit down and talk with Jeffrey Dahmer and not SCREAM AND NEVER STOP SCREAMING.

Kafkaesque indeed.

Dahmer's dad thought he was shy. Jeffery objects. No, he preferred not to share any thoughts or emotions.

and the interviewer asks Jeffery: why not?

why not?

well maybe cuz

HIS THOUGHTS WERE ABOUT KILLING DISMEMBERING AND EATING PEOPLE. AND HAVING SEX WITH THEM. NOT NECESSARILY IN THAT ORDER.

Maybe that;s why he chose not to share them.

Then there was another interview with the father on Oprah. This father is like totally bland science guy. Monotone. Mild as milk. Thick glasses. Earnest. He tells Oprah a rambling story about trying to get teenaged Jeffery to open a box. Jeffery demurred. Dad insisted. Jeffery resisted. Dad let it go. And muses he would not have known what he'd have done if Jeffery had indeed opened the box.

and Oprah asks, "well, what was in the box?"

"a human head," Dad replies. Deadpan.

SCREAM SCREAM SCREAM AND NEVER STOP SCREAMING

Jeffery died in prison. He was beaten to death by his fellow inmates. Sometimes there is justice.

My Black Friend (Us white folk always have ONE to show how not prejudiced we are)

I hate writing this. Cuz I'm afraid of stepping on toes. Being insensitive. Using humor as a screen for hurt.

But I do have ONE black friend. And that bothers me.

I live in a city that has One Human Family as its motto. We generally get along. But we don't always get together.

My friend is from NYC. Educated. Outgoing. Deeply spiritual. A lover of cats. I love her. I'd be her friend even if she wasn't black.

But I love that she's black. I love her dark curls and dreads. I love her island style. I love the warmth and humor she emanates. She's a writer, a good one. She inspires me. Gives me a glimpse of a slightly different world.

I've wanted to explore different worlds as long as I can remember. I loved Madeleine and the Little Princess ... Jonathan Livingston Seagull...

I don't want her to be a symbol. Something I keep in my left pocket to take out and wave to prove I'm not like those other white people. Yet...

why don't I have other black friends? Well, I don't have many friends in general. I'm not outgoing. I'm very shy. I'm very afraid. If I try to befriend a black person, will they think I'm only being friendly cuz they are black? That's my own hang-up. I need to get over it.

There's so much history...guilt...but really, that's not the stuff I should worry about when all I want is to make a friend. It's ridiculous really.

White people.

LOL I have to laugh at myself when I want to protest, but I'm white and I'm not: clumsy--clueless--a serial killer-- a fan of vanilla spice. Then it hits me. This is what it feels like. To be stereotyped.  All your life. A lesson.

We're Here We're Queer--Get Over it. The 1993 March on Washington

I love the internet. I love having friends all over the world. I love communicating daily with my peeps down under...my peeps in Ireland...my peeps in the Middle East...

Growing up I never even KNEW anyone who travelled far beyond the valley I grew up in. The Wyoming Valley, in Pennsylvania--

The Valley With a Heart they called it after hurricane Agnes wiped it out in 1972?  yes, 72 I was 10. I remember standing on our back porch and watching the creek waters overflow and being astonished at how fast the waterline moved that night; almost flooding but not quite.

The Valley Without a Brain we called it, some of us returning, still young, from other places, to be a presence for the good. A small community in the 80s-90s of positive thinkers, UUs, Wiccans, Queers, Transpeople, IV drug users with HIV (when did it get to be named that?)...queer men with HIV...lesbians helping their brothers die in comfort...we had to unify. There weren't enough of us to form divisions.

In Wilkes Barre, meeting a woman from San Francisco was amazing simply because she was from there. Now I live in a place people flock to and I understand. Almost everyone is from someplace else.

But no one moves TO Wilkes Barre. If you're in Wilkes Barre at all it's because you're from there. Or you were sent there.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

I found these people through a personal ad. It's how we connected before the innerwebz. I don't remember the ad exactly, only that I was looking for other gay or bi friendly people to meet. There weren't any gay clubs in Wilkes Barre that I knew of...some were informally gay-friendly on certain nights. One club had 2-stepping on Thursdays, I believe...I learned to 2-step with some amazing gay men teachers. Fantastic lead dancers. Dance like butter on a hot skillet. Smooth.  As lesbians must, I learned to follow ... And to lead. Fun times.

One person I met was a young lesbian professor at the Wilkes-Barre campus of Penn State. Coming from Philadelphia to teach at the small extension campus, she'd hoped to join the gay community there. She didn't realize there was none.

A courageous lady--I remember her saying at some point she realized  if she wanted a gay community on the Penn State Campus in Wilkes-Barre in the 90s, she'd have to create one. OMG I remember her well now. Even her name may come to me at some point.

Anyway this professor was a Philadelphia windstorm come to a backwater valley without a brain. She organized a trip to Washington DC for the 1993 March on Washington. Several of her students signed up. Plus 4 or 5 of us locals. We were all supposed to kick in.

She rented a large van to drive us all comfortably to DC (a 3 hour trip 4?) It was going to be fun, a rolling caravan of assorted 'queers': gay, bi, lesbian---all in a bunch. All excited to be going to the March. We left on the day of the march, and stayed overnight in a suite in DC.

On the day of departure, none of her students showed up.

None. Not one.

I was too young and callow to understand the devastation of this professor. She'd worked so hard to organize these young adults, to get them to a place where they could stand proud and show who and what they were. They had all signed up. But their parents made them stay home.

It wasn't because they were against LBGT rights, oh no. They were PFlag members.

It was that they feared for their children's safety. They'd heard there'd be violence. Bombs dropped on marchers maybe. Gun shots. Fist fights at least. Nope. Too dangerous. They made their kids stay home.

For a moment, I was scared. I was older then, and out of college for many years. I was a grown-up. Early 30s. Yet I was scared.

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A friend born in the Valley who'd moved to San Francisco and lived there many years with a girlfriend then came back to the Valley after they broke up...omg Wendy? It's coming back to me. Her parents totally accepted her. They astonished me. They were gentle and loving and let Wendy move back to the log home they'd built themselves on many acres in Dallas Pennsylvania, a lovely rural area outside Wilkes-Barre. The place had horses. Wendy played with one horse like it was a dog. I was astonished. I had a crush on Wendy. And on her brother. I was confused back then.

Wendy was tiny but could throw bales of hay around like they were filled with marshmallow. I tried to lift one. She laughed. I couldn't budge it. That was when I was young and as strong as I would ever be. Wendy climbed trees like a bear cub. She had straight light brown hair in a boyish bowl cut except for a single long braid she kept as a remembrance of a past love. No, as a symbol she would be okay. here's the story:

She told me her SF girlfriend used to braid her long hair and after they broke up she didn't think she could braid it herself. She needed a change (we do that). We change our hair. So she got a short cut and moved on but not before she discovered, that by flipping the braid over, she could braid it very well. All. by. herself. She could make that braid that lovely braid that trailed down her back.

At night it was so dark the sky was astonishing. I'd never seen a sky without light pollution. Never.

Astonishing. The stars. My gods it's full of stars LOL.

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Wendy was my courage.

She'd lived in the big city. She'd smile--I can see that smile--her blue eyes crinkling at the corners... and assure me it would be fine. I believed her.

People exaggerate danger to manipulate you into staying home.

That was a lesson.

So we went. There was no violence. It was loving and peaceful and wonderful. The AIDS Quilt was on display. I can still hear people cheering on the Metro..."We're here. We're Queer. Get used to it" or "We're here. We're Queer. Let's have a Beer"...before there were memes. Real humans shouting for joy at being out at last...free at last...

On the way home the professor was angry. Very angry.

I recall an agonizing lurch from gas station to gas station on the way home in the middle of the night (before GPS or cell phones) and gas tank on Empty--her searching for gas a few cents cheaper. Fat chance on the Turnpike. We kicked in what we could but she lost money for sure on that trip.

I think I understand her anger better now. It wasn't the money.

She thought she could make a difference in a little backwater place--wrench a few people kicking and screaming free from the morass. Into the light. Into freedom. Many tried back then. It was a different world. No social media, No place to validate that who and what you were was mostly OK.


But she did make a difference. She did change things, for me, at least. It was a life-changing event.
I still can't remember her name but with the magic and serendipity of the innerwebs she might someday read this story and remember and laugh...and feel better about the whole thing I hope.

And Wendy...I hope she's fine and settled on that farm she loved so much. She found a girlfriend. OMG another story... a young lesbian dropped into Scranton Pennsylvania following a love who soon deserted her...in SCRANTON PENNSYLVANIA...the horror...the poor girl was shattered. absolutely shattered. til she found Wendy and began to heal. Her name starts with a D I'm sure... maybe...no, not Wendy and Lisa LOL [OMG they have a FB page and everything. Where have I been? Sure they were lesbians! They had to hide it then. A different world. ASTONISHING]

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anyway...shoot...she danced with us on Thursdays in Downtown Wilkes Barre...gay night...2-stepping. she and Wendy were a thing. A love. A couple. They lit each other up. Way before gay marriage.

Oooo I was crushed...my Wendy...LOL

that's for another blog. I don't know if they're still together but I hope they're still happy.


Wilkes-Barre I hear has declined for other reasons. Much of my family still lives in the Valley. I can't speak for Wilkes-Barre today but from what I read it's a sad and now violent place. It's pretty. It has potential. I hope it gets better there.
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Years before I moved back to Wilkes Barre (No one moves TO Wilkes-Barre but some of us move back) I remember working in a pizza place in another valley...the Happy Valley... (after my meltdown from Cornell Law school and spin-out into sobriety...a lot of stories LOL OMG)--content enough to have a job that paid the rent--content just to be sober...just to be sane... outside State College Pennsylvania (an oddball place--very rural but very much a university town, not unlike Ithaca come to think of it).

Anyway I was ringing this guy up as his pizza was baking and recognized a tune he was whistling. "Music of the Night" I mentioned I was dying to see that show on broadway. He was astonished I'd heard of it. "We do have some culture here in the boonies," I laughed. He actually gave me his and his new wife's address in NYC and said I could stay with them whenever I finally got to NYC to see the show.

I never contacted him again but I remember that little bit of light...a small connection...in a place I felt both cozy and alone. A place of healing that I took to but not for long enough... but that story will come out in time.

By the way I did get to see Phantom on Broadway. A couple times. A whole nother life with my future spouse, a male to female transsexual OB/GYN and Vietnam Paratrooper who landed in Wilkes-Barre (she was one sent there) from Philadelphia OMG the stories LOL --Montreal, Provincetown, the South China Sea and Key West. Finally. Key West.

If I'd had FB as an adolescent...how different my life might be. I have a few FB friends who are young and weird and vulnerable just like I was. Unique just like me. I try to be kind. I try to be the adult friend I wish I'd had growing up alone in the Valley without a Heart. Another story.

Kitty slow blinks