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.
Wednesday, November 30, 2016
Tuesday, November 29, 2016
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
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.
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
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
Sunday, November 27, 2016
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
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
Saturday, November 26, 2016
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'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 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)
Friday, November 25, 2016
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.
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
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
Thursday, November 24, 2016
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
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
Wednesday, November 23, 2016
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.
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
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
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
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
Monday, November 21, 2016
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.
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.
Sunday, November 20, 2016
My Black Friend (Us white folk always have ONE to show how not prejudiced we are)
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.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++
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.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
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]
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
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.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
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
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.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++
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.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
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]
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
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.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
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
I really AM that weird. I am the Cheese. and the cheese stands alone. at last
I'm still weird.
And when I do find (or, really, gather) my tribe at last (pirates, poets, cab drivers, the criminally insane, the chronically ill, the terminal cases, nurses) ...they move away. Or go to jail. Or OD.
I am well over 50 and I've finally decided....I am that weird. I am a tribe of one. I am unique.
And for all of you who have tried to convince me otherwise over the years, I wish you well. Have at it. Keep banging your hearts against some mad bugger's wall.
Cuz some walls can't come down.
Kai thx bye
Lifelines...not so much
All the world's a stage--and my life is a binge-watch soap opera narrated by me. In my head. If I could buy you all popcorn and let you inside...
Like Lifelines only in Key West. the real Key West. Not of trust funds (though we need and appreciate those folks)
but of Trailer parks. Haitian patois bass to cymbal bandied back and forth like diamond dust sparkling in the wind...where palm trees rustle and parrots mimic chickens and chickens run free
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