Happy New Year!

I celebrate my last day in the filth of the past.

Wooden Chickens

It's amazing how much you can miss someone after only knowing them three days.

Update

I met a man who lied to his pastor so he could spend more time with me.

Now that's what I've been waiting for.

Gratitude

Uh, I Already KNEW That.

I AM a crazy bitch.

And I love every minute of it.

Allow Me to Repeat Myself

I’ve said it before and I will say it again: I am not the same person I was last Halloween (2009) and I totally, thoroughly, vehemently resent it.

And I am still stuck on: Was/am I THAT MUCH of asshole to have incurred all of that bullshit and heartache? How could I be so clueless about my own nature?

So, I wash, rinse and repeat as I have for the past 371 days: Don't take anything personally. Nothing others do is because of you. Even though that is your blood, its spillage was unintentional. That others are interacting with you is the illusion: Who they are truly interacting with is themselves, a part of which has been projected onto you.

Maybe this is why people don’t remember the color of your eyes or your birthday: It has nothing to do with them.

Cooperation

I understand that when our real and/or perceived “issues” materialize in our lives, we instinctively react with the fight or flight response.

Wouldn’t it be wonderful if we could just cut off or out those parts of ourselves that we do not like? Without cost?

Some people run and hide. How does that work out, later?

Because of my own inability to accept my foibles, I have personally bled 85,672 gallons of blood out of my ass.

Meaning, I have learned the HARD WAY it’s always better to work with your Dark Side: Your inadequacies; shortcomings; weaknesses. Both real and perceived.

Cooperation.

Not domination; not submission.

Cooperation.

Working together, one can become stronger.

Meaning, all of the various parts of a person – the good, the bad, the ugly, the beautiful and the ludicrous – all of these parts must work together to create a whole person. A real person who is whole: The sum total of human experience, which is good, bad, ugly, beautiful and ludicrous, is present in one person. For that person to truly live, s/he must experience the sum total of all of those things…and be OK with it. 

When we shun or cut off people from our lives, what we are really shunning or cutting off is the part of ourselves those people represent to us.

Please note this does not apply to rude/impolite/dishonest/violent people. Those people should be shunned until they get over themselves.

I mean, really. There is enough actual BS in the world.

While I’m not saying you should invite your flatulent Aunt who drinks too much over for tea with your in-laws (although that would be a real experience), I *am* saying that it wouldn’t hurt to include her once in a while. 

Just like it will not hurt to buy those shoes or drink the whole bottle of wine or knock it out with a co-worker once in a while.

This is so much better than holding it all in and pretending we are pure virtue. We know what happens if that goes on long enough: We end up on Jerry Springer describing our arrest for holding up a convenience store while on a bender after our spouse left because s/he walked in on us performing fellatio with his/her best friend/sibling/cousin/parent.

I also think this would solve a lot of the problems created by politicians, but that’s a topic for a different blog.

Happy Halloween

Last Halloween, I got the fright of my life, from which I have still not recovered.

In the space of three hours, I experienced the death of my most favorite things: The Illusion of Love and the Illusion of Family.

It’s said that what is taken away is replaced. If there has been a replacement, I do not perceive it.

Sure, other things have happened since, few have been positive. The stripping away that began last Halloween continued for 364 days. What’s left is the cold, hard truth: Most of the people with whom I have sought some sort of connection reciprocated because they expected me to fulfill/meet/assuage a deep, narcissistic wound.

• Your refusal to connect with me was driven by an ego-fueled desire for me to not know how bad things have gotten for you. Newsflash: It was quite obvious how bad things had gotten for you in our first communication. I knew that going in. I chose to go in anyway. Out of love. That freaked you out even more. So, in the spirit of self-preservation, you destroyed me. Please consider how you have destroyed yourself in this process. For your own sake.
• Your demands for attention are really directed at your Mother. However, you are over 45 and it’s time to get over it. Capitulation to your outrageous demands will not make you feel better. Sleeping with every person you pass will not make you feel better. Gossip and back-stabbing will not make you feel better. Newsflash: What will make you feel better is resolution and recognition from your Mother (the same goes for you, Previous Bullet Point). Please go back to the Source and work it out with her. Stop expecting the rest of us to hold your hand because Mommy upset you. And please, consider how spreading misinformation will come back to you in thrices. For your own sake.
• No matter how much you wish me away, I exist. And will continue to. Newsflash: While my Dad breathes, no amount of dismissing or ignoring is going to remove me. He sees how cruel you are to me, so I suggest you change tactics. For your own sake.

So there it is: The sum total of the people I counted on, the people I placed my trust in, have not one clue as to what any of that means. They are too consumed by their unacknowledged anger.

What does this say about me?

(I know: Like attracts like. Let’s not discuss that right now.)

Yes, these Velveteen People have been replaced (for the most part) by real ones and for that, I am SO grateful. Thank you, Reals, for stepping into – at the last minute -- the holes left by the Pretends and wordlessly, without question, helping to put it all back together. I know who you are. (Finally).

What I am most pissed about is that Halloween is my favorite holiday and I have allowed my bitterness over last Halloween to mar this one. Well, no more.

This is NOT last year, and, while the most frightful things remain, most of the BS does not. The BS only continues because I keep thinking about it. Well, no more.

I may have to slit my throat to do it, but I will stop dwelling on my unwitting participation in the BS and stop being mad at the people who dragged me into it.

There are no friends or enemies, only teachers.

Thank you, Teachers of Displaced Infantile Rage. I have learned my lesson. I now give you my leave.

2010

Unbelievably, I now hate 2010 more than I hated 2009.

Yesterday, I heard the most outrageous thing I have heard all year. 

As you know, there have been some DOOZIES:

• Why can't YOU pay for my trash?
• Do you think you can get me a job?
• I DESERVE an explanation!
• I have no idea what's wrong.

And yet, in the bright light of the beautiful autumn day, these pale in comparison to:

I have at least five tumors on my brain, one on my right eye and one near my spine.  All inoperable.

All good vibes in the Universe your way, TR.



Family

If you do not remember what happened,
and I do not want to remember what happened,
can we agree
that it never occurred?

Stubbornosity

It has been said that I raise being stubborn to an art form and generally, I am quite proud of that.

One of my biggest pet peeves is people who are unable to stick to their own decisions. Of course, I am not talking about changing one’s mind because an initial decision turned out to be wrong or misguided or sheer folly – that kind of decision requires strength.

I’m talking about the kind of wishy-washy back and forth that, ultimately, is a betrayal of self. Vacillating on a decision so long that the thing/person about which a decision needs to be made leaves, withers and/or dies IS a decision: It is a decision to not actively participate in one’s own life – the ultimate form of betrayal, IMHO.

However, being so stubborn that one refuses to consider the existence of any other path is starting to piss me off, too. This is the kind of thing that can kill people.

Trying to understand the lesson of this latest development, I wonder what is being reflected back to me by the Great Mirror of Life. Have I been so stubborn that the only reason I didn’t kill someone was because of their own intractable stubbornosity?

I see the circles here: The only reason Blueprint’s intractable stubbornness didn’t kill me was because of my own and the only reason my Dad lives is because of his.

But what is being reflected back? How is it all related? I know Blueprint and I have tangoed for lifetimes, but my Dad and The Surgeon? How much of an asshole has my Dad been to have to suffer so much now? Who does he owe? And…when is it all going to end?

I realize Grace has blessed this situation since its inception; however, all of the aggravation and the frustration and the heartache and THE ENERGY IT HAS TAKEN TO NOT LASH OUT is disproportionate.

I realize I should be grateful for any Grace. Some people have none (or they refuse to see it, which is the same thing). I am depressed and angry about The Surgeon’s steadfast refusal to participate the discussion about why my Dad is worse today than he was before his $250,000 surgery, while at the same time beating myself up for being so upset when really, things could be so, so much worse.

It all seems to be a titanium circle that is getting tighter and tighter around my neck.

Autumn

No one has ever wanted to cast their lot with me, not really.

People have wanted things from me and wanted to do things to me, but…stand by me? No.

And so I begin the end of the year with the same question that I began it: WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME?

I have endured 63 hours of grueling psychotherapy, three spiritual enemas, one complete meltdown and the extraction of my heart and I am still none the wiser that I was 266 days ago.

MY HEAD CANNOT BE THAT THICK.

Can it?

Wednesday!

That's it, Wednesday:  I have HAD IT with you.  I expect you to CHANGE YOUR ATTITUDE by the end of the month.

God-Damned Mercury Retrograde

"I accept with grace and gratitude this opportunity that I have been given."

YOUR Trash is YOUR Responsibility

What if "something" got left in my Dad's heart that shouldn't be there?

Viva La Revolution!

I did something today that I have never done before. 

I have been completely liberated.

Wah-hoo!

Yikes

Yesterday was a doozie.  No more sweeping proclamations for at least another 28 days.

I must say, however, that I am totally over feeling like Life is against me.  Thank you, Life, for showing me that You really do care about something other than my complete and utter destruction.  I am ready to make up with You.

Notice

September, I know the first part is going to be difficult; however, I expect you to end on a high note.

Palholes

I learned a new word this week:  “Palholes.”

Palholes are those people we sometimes have in our lives who masquerade as friends but are really assholes.

For example:

• The “buddy” who stays close with your ex after she eviscerated you and spent all of your money; or,
• The “caring” friend who picks at your deepest vulnerabilities until you explode and then, incredulous, asks, “Why are you yelling at me?”

Why do we maintain these relationships? Meaning, why do I maintain these relationships?

Fear of dying alone.

Until one day, I realized: I have already died and I was alone and I lived to tell about it.

None of the palholes were there. It has taken a long time to realize this was a deep deep blessing.

When I die again, I will hasten the process if any one of my palholes is with me.

So: Time to let them go.

• Goodbye friends who congratulated me on my promotion by asking for money.
• Goodbye friends who invite me out and then tell me they will "get me next time” when the bill comes.
• Goodbye friends who will only piss on me after I provide a detailed explanation (with footnotes) of how I got set on fire in the first place. Does any of that really matter in the midst of conflagration?
• Goodbye friends who complain that my success makes them “look bad.”
• Goodbye friends who provide personal “kindnesses” with the expectation of professional gain.

Looking at the above list while contemplating the metaphysical principle of “We attract what we put out,” I wonder: Am I really that much of an asshole?

I would rather this be a case of “opposites attract.”

Either way, it appears that some asshole reduction is in order, whether it be external or internal (I suspect a mixture of both is what’s required).

Be forewarned: That sucking sound you hear from The North is going to last a while.

Question

My heart has been broken all over again every single day this year since 01/27/10. 

When in the hell is it going to stop?

Decorum, People

While I do love Facebook, I think that too many people share too many intimate details. 

Don't get me wrong; I am really really happy for you that your Pap Smear actually felt good.  I just don't want to think about you in that way (the way that has me picturing you moaning -- in the good way -- over a speculum).

Similarly, I do not want to picture that (thankfully benign) mole/pimple-like thing on the surface of your left testicle.

I mean, really.

Suggestion #1

Why do we have to work through things?

Why can't we PLAY through them?

Update

I know people can die from worry.

I am not going to be one of them.

I hope.

"Giving Myself to You Was Like Giving Myself to a Chainsaw"

That about sums it up.

Is THAT What It is All About?

All of the crap we have to endure just prepares us for the more elevated forms of crap we have yet to endure?

Really?

That's it?  That's the goal?

A high tolerance for crap?

* * * * *

As I consider this, I think about Jesus (I'm reading The Expected One).  He had a high tolerance for crap (basically). 

Is that what enlightenment is?  A high tolerance for crap?

I suppose it is enlightened to be able to understand that from crap comes the flower of understanding:  Our ability to love and forgive both circumstance and others is a direct reflection of our ability to love and forgive both our lives and ourselves.

It is definitely enlightened to be thankful for fertilizer.

What's the Point?

In an attempt to ward off Great Despair, I chose the “resolve my deep-seated psychological issues once and for all” shield of protection.

I DO NOT RECOMMEND THIS.

I thought that, by enduring this experience, there would be some resolution or at least some grace to The Situation.
 
But alas...my Dad is still sick and I am still missing.  In addition to the bad taste in my mouth.

Human Nature

I'm quite fond of saying, “I'm not a fan of human nature.”

I guess that really means I am not a fan of myself.

Hm.

Who's Going to Piss on Me?

I just read this blog from the beginning. Damn. I should read this thing more often!

I had forgotten about my pledge to let go of at least 100 things that are pissing me off during 2010. Damn. The year is more than half over!

There has been (frenetic) activity, however, and so let me run through the list and see what progress I have made toward my goal.

During the First Ten Days of the Year, I let go of:

• My general, overall anger.
• My anger over the karmic mood swing that wiped out all of my hope and happiness.
• My anger over all of the clutter. I hate clutter. Why is there so much of it?
• My bitterness over all of the love and compassion and empathy I poured into the world and the only result is the obduration of my heart.
• My resentment over my choice to not act out but instead act like a lady. For the record, “acting like a lady” is highly overrated.
• My resentment over my choice to (physically) stay where I am. It is time for a disappearing act, time to pack up and move, but instead, I stay. I stay to endure the consequences of both my actions and my personality. I stay to endure the sting of alienation and failure. What kind of masochist have I become? What’s next? Getting married?
• My bitterness that illumination has brought only clarity, not peace of mind.

That was a hell of a 10 days.

What I did not understand when I made my naïve declaration (“…while it may seem like the above should create more, additional, “things,” rest assured, I am letting all of those go, too.”) was that underneath the anger would be grief. Deep deep grief. Grief in direct geometric proportion to the amount of anger held.

While I let go of Anger, Grief held on.

For dear life.

Which is ironic because it made me want to give up on Life.

So, when one is engaged in a constant battle to not do something drastic and permanent, all of the things that used to bother a person simply don’t matter anymore.

For example, giving a God-damned rat’s ass what other people think. There’s just not enough energy for it in the struggle through the day.

Letting this go can lead to the letting go of a tricky form of anger: The anger that comes from trying to do what others want.

I mean, sometimes, you have to do what others want, like at work. I know this can dull the soul; that’s why “Happy Hour” was created. [1]  

But, I like paying bills so I choose to subject myself to someone else’s capriciousness for a mostly unreasonable amount of time. There’s some sort of reciprocity.

What I’m talking about is making myself extremely uncomfortable in order to appease someone who would not piss on me if I was on fire. The anger that comes as a result of that choice.
 
This form of anger is tricky because:

• it can be hard (and painful) figure out who would and who would not piss on one if one were on fire;
• it leads to another, deeper form of anger: the anger at oneself that comes when one realizes one has wasted SO MUCH time and energy on something SO FUTILE; and,
• How many people actually know what they want? Do you know what you want? Exactly.

That last point is even trickier because the day you realize you have performed a ballet in the hope that someone who is not in the theatre will applaud is a very dark and cold day.

 

The best you can hope for is that it occurs in the middle of summer.

   
[1]  That’s also why Three Martini Lunches were invented. I think we should reinstate this very reasonable practice. Unexpurgated bullshit is so much easier to endure when one is temporarily numb.
 
I also think Mondays should start at 10 a.m., but I digress.

Life is a Sassy, Sassy Bitch

Do Over

So.

After all of that, after all of the crying and the sobbing and the railing against God, we get an opportunity to go through THE WHOLE THING all over again.

I sure as hell hope we get it right this time.

I'm Not Going Back

It’s the last day of the most glorious four-day vacation I think I’ve ever had in my entire adult life. How wonderful it would be to stay and not go back all that.

What if I didn’t go back?

What if I stayed here?

What if?

That’s it.

I’m not going back.

Perspective

If one more person says to me “What is the lesson you can learn from this?” I am going to sock him/her in the head.

It just sounds like I am being punished, as in “I have not learned my lesson yet” and the flogging will continue until I do.

I *do* feel punished and have spent an inordinate amount of time on my knees and an incredible amount of energy trying to figure out the appropriate penance for whatever the hell I did in the first place.

To no avail.

So, in yet another attempt to make sense of the incomprehensible, I am going to STOP asking what I did wrong or to create this situation or what I am supposed to learn from all this.

Instead, I am going to be grateful for the gifts that come/came from this situation, even if they are silent and invisible. And not sparkly.

I know they’re there.

Maybe now I will finally understand what in the hell happened. What in the hell created the vacuum that sucked out all hope, joy and love.

The Reflexive Property, Metaphysically Speaking

So if it's true that when the student is ready the teacher appears, is the opposite also true?

That when the student is not ready the teacher disappears?

And Oh Yeah:

To the colleague who attempted to heckle me during my tutoring session last week:  Just because I do not "speak up" during faculty meetings does not mean I'm not in attendance...or don't know who you are.

Pretending to be a student is a new low, even for you.

Consider your next step very very carefully. 

Things I Resent Having to Explain

In no particular order:

Neighbor: YOUR TRASH IS YOUR RESPONSIBILITY.

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

When I finally break my silence – AT YOUR REQUEST – and speak to you about “what is going on,” I expect you to NOT be texting other people and then ask me to repeat myself because you are “too distracted.”

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

When you ask me a question, expect an answer.

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

No work = failing grade

Failing work = failing grade

Plagiarized work = failing grade

Work from another class = failing grade in my class

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

What you paid for is the privilege of being in my class. Nothing more. Nothing less.

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

My vagina does not have a revolving door.   This does NOT make me “stuck up,” “crazy,” or “unenlightened.” I prefer to wait for the right person than test results.

I have standards.

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

If you choose to violate my boundaries – after I have defined them for you several times – you also choose the consequences.

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

You (and you and you and you and you) do NOT know what is in my “best interest.” In fact, listening your (and your and your and your and your) advice has caused additional destruction.

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

How I cope with my circumstances is MY CHOICE.

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

Cousin: When you said, “Do not contact me for any reason under any circumstances,” I listened.

Aunt: That is why there is no interaction.

Different Cousin: When you told me, “We do not consider you part of the family,” I listened.

All Other Relatives: I do not participate in something of which I am not a part.  

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

As a result of my inability to cope with anything that has occurred since 08/12/09 (except the realization of Love. That is the one saving grace. Without it, I would have killed myself. I’m not kidding.), I am quite ill.

So when I say I cannot drop everything to genuflect for you, I mean it.

By the way: When’s the last time you genuflected for me?

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

MY PROPERTY IS MY PROPERTY. WHAT I CHOOSE TO DO WITH IT IS NONE OF YOUR CONCERN.

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

I am a passionate person. No amount of therapy or medication is ever going to change that; that is how I am hardwired. I cry when I am happy; I cry when I am sad. I cry in the face of great beauty and I will cry when I slap you.

Your choice to react to my passion (which has nothing to do with you) is NOT my problem.

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

Be very, very sure of your facts before you accuse me of impropriety.

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

I love without hesitation.

I love without reservation.

I pay the price.

I accept this.

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

Get. Out. Of. My. Way.

And Another Thing...

What in the HELL did I do to get kicked out of that bar in Long Beach?

Blueprint:

What the hell kind of karma do I have going on with you?

             You completely destroyed me.
             No warning, no blink.
             No glance over the shoulder.
             Confident of annihiliation.
             Good work.

How many times do I have to apologize, unclear on the offense?

            I’ve apologized three times in my entire LIFE.
            You’ve received the gift of more.
            Thanklessly.

What in the hell is all this about, anyway?

What the hell?

Happy Father's Day

This time last year I did not think I would be able to celebrate another Father's Day with my Dad.

Despite it all, he persevered.  Stubborn old coot.

Today, I am on my knees with gratitude. 

Thank you for this day.

I Believe! I Believe!

Maya Angelou came to my small town filled with smaller minds to speak last night.

I sat in the front row.

To endure ALL THAT to sit in the front row as the Queen speaks...

OK.

Update

I think the internal bleeding has finally stopped.  That was a four-month, four-day long gusher.

I hesitate to inspect the damage.

It's All Relative

I have the kind of family that calls at 3:00 p.m. on my birthday to say, “Hello! We’ve been in the state for two weeks and would love to see you! We have a couple of hours to kill at the airport before the plane leaves; would you like to come to the airport to see us?  Happy Birthday!” and then get offended when their invitation is declined.

When faced with such a prospect, the idea of champagne by the fire in the company of non-verbal companions seems wonderfully festive.

I totally understand why people leave their psychologist's office, get in the car, drive home or back to work, and put a gun in their mouths.

Enlightenment?

So, on another note entirely (thank goodness):

The fact that my 10 years working with the criminally insane perfectly prepared me for my current career as an Algebra professor is something I do not want to discuss in too much detail, but I do want to say this: Like repeat offenders, some students just do not get the message.

Case in point:

I am currently in the middle of a “dialogue” with a “student” that, so far, has used 5,274 words to explain the appropriate online comportment expected of a college student and 5,132 words to react inappropriately to these explanations.

I find myself wondering, “Is this bitch ever going to shut up?”

And I realize that, most likely, the student is wondering the exact same thing.

Should I laugh over the irony of it all or weep over the set of circumstances that has caused me to become so “understanding” of the mirror we provide for others?

And Another Thing...

I do not want to talk about my Dad.

I KNOW he is having some intractable problems.

I RESENT the assumption that my silence reflects indifference. Or worse, immature nonchalance.

NOTHING COULD BE FURTHER FROM THE TRUTH.

Someday, there will be someone who asks me how s/he can help, rather than criticize me for not helping enough. Or not talking enough. Or not doing enough.

Someday, there will be someone who understands what my silence says.

What Happened?!

I know you want to know “What happened?!” and I do not want to talk about it.

I don’t what to talk about it because I do not have an answer; I have no idea what happened.

What I *do* know is that, somehow, after all of those words, all that's left is silence.

I could just die from shame and humiliation.  I don't know which is worse:  the concrete prison I cannot bust out of or my part in constructing it.

The quest for the answer to “What happened?!!” has driven me insane. So to hear externally what I incessantly hear internally tears at the very fine threads that are barely keeping my insides in.

That’s why the retreat.

 

Update

To the two people who read this, I know I have been silent.

I cry all day long.

And that's WITH the therapy and the pills.

Mafia Love

The only Valentine I received yesterday was from the Wheel Man in my mafia.  This means something.  I'm not sure I want to understand what.

Happy Valentine's Day

Something essential has been taken away from me and I would like it back please.

The Last Word

This morning, right before waking, I dreamt of my Mother. Since she died, she has only come to me once before and this has really upset me. Doesn’t she want to see me? Doesn’t she care how I am doing? I AM her Only Child.

At any rate, her rare visits *do* tell me something BIG is happening: something that requires her attention.

The first time she came was the first night in my house. She came to tell me that my backyard was too big for one person to manage (this was before I permanently crippled myself) and that what I really needed was a goat. And then she laughed and laughed and laughed. Like I had never seen her laugh in Life.

This morning, she silently stood by as I waited, all dressed up, to go to a Christmas party I never attended. Eerily mirroring my waking life. Her silence and his are eerily the same. Her sudden departures and his are eerily the same. Her unresponsiveness and his are exactly the same.

Upon reflection, it seems that there were tears in her eyes. Something I NEVER saw in Life.

Lately I’ve come to understand all of the things I was certain reflected my Mother’s disdain and hatred were resolutely misunderstood. On a cellular level.

The cherry on top of this sundae of pathological (and archetypal) misunderstanding (how’s that for a slain metaphor) is that she told me this herself.

On July 4, 2000, my mother entered the hospital around 4:30 in the morning, after my Father discovered her on the floor of their bathroom, unable to move.

Despite the oxygen, she required a tracheotomy to breathe. It was clear to no one but me that her second stay at St. Joseph’s Hospital (her first was when I was born) would be her last.

There was a LOT of arguing and finally the priest said that my Mother had to speak her wishes for herself. However, she could not as the trach was still in place. Her hands were too shaky and her writing illegible.

She kept making scissor-cutting motions with her fingers, however, no one but me understood what she was saying.

My thinking was the clearest, despite drowning in grief. However, due to the tears and the denial, I went unheard.

The decision was made to remove the trach so my Mother could speak. This was a risky proposition as (a) by this time, the trach had been in place for two weeks and her vocal chords might be too damaged; and (b) she was so weak that she might not survive the operation.

My Mother, all five feet of her, possessed the strongest will I have ever come into contact with in all of my lifetimes. Of course, she survived the operation.

Of course, she survived the operation in order to be able to tell us how pissed she was at everyone for not listening to her.

Of course, her vocal cords were too damaged to do so.

But her eyes said it all.

Another thing only I could see: her absolute anger over the ninnies she was forced to rely upon.

Another two weeks passed as I sat by her bed and prayed relentlessly.  Late one afternoon, as she dozed, I stared into her face, willing God to finally notice her suffering.

Suddenly, she sat straight up, turned, and looked me right in the eye.

“I love you.” she stated, matter-of-factly.

I was clear-eyed as I looked into her heart for the first time and saw all that it was.

Then she fell back onto the pillows and slipped into a coma.

Less than a day later, life support was unnecessary.


~*~*~*~*~
To summarize:  It took 9½ years, 37 therapists, a move out of state, a stroke, a crippling, my Beloved Daddy’s own dance with the Grim Reaper, a devastating separation, 592 poems and 47,368 margaritas to find the answer I had all along. I had the answer before I began the journey. I began the journey with the answer.

My Mother was right: I *am* a God-damned ninny. She wasn’t being cruel; she was simply stating a very obvious fact.

 

 

And One More Thing...

Whoever has mistaken me for the Rock of Gibraltar please *realize* your error and STOP hurtling boulders at me.

Please and thank you.

Update

Yesterday my therapist said I seemed really grounded. I did not have the heart to tell her I had three Bloody Marys right before our session.

Accidentally Enlightening

Last night during my lecture, I said "Let's love forward" instead of "Let's move forward." (I told you I was Venus).

While I commit these types of Freudian slips all of the time (I do have a PhD in forensic clinical psychology), one of my students had a complete epiphany (her words) over the "love forward."

I find it ludicrous that anyone would find anything I say epiphonic.

The Love of Pizza

Goodbye Lenny’s

The only good thing about my most recent trip to California was the prospect of Lenny’s pizza.

I flew to California to stop a ship from sinking and, not only could I not find the harbor, I wound up wearing the same clothes for four days, buying underwear from Target that is two sizes too small and having to explain to my Dad (78 years old and recovering from open heart surgery) why I am in California, in addition to having to ask him for the car, a place to stay and money to get back home. 

In between all that, I walked out on a bar tab, wrote a poem and explained to some woman that the street was not a parking lot by side-swiping her car.

When I gave him his car keys, my Dad put away the bail money. I called Lenny’s to order a medium sausage, pepperoni and mushroom. My Dad’s and my all-time favorite. I have tried pizza all over the world and I can tell you Lenny’s is the best. Hands down.

I couldn’t believe what the operator was telling me so I made my Dad call.

I couldn’t believe what the operator told my Dad so we drove to Lenny’s.

I couldn’t believe what the sign said so we drove home and ate DiGiorno’s without putting it in the oven.

After all that.

After

All.

Of.

That.

There was no Lenny’s.

THAT was the final insult.

I Love You Mommy

So, approximately 37 nanoseconds after I wrote “To say that my Mother and I had a troubled relationship is like saying the Grand Canyon is a hole in the ground,” I had a revelation.

Not just any revelation, mind you, but the kind that wakes you up in the middle of the night with the cold hard facts of your life. The kind of cold hard facts that include irrefutable evidence that you have screwed everything up on a cellular level.

My Mother had her private battles, and, as her Only Child, I of course thought they began with me. After all, weren’t my parents happy for 11 years before I was born? Didn’t the problems begin with me?

No. They did not.

What I thought was rejection was in fact fear-fueled retreat. My Mother’s fear that she would hurt me in the ways she had been hurt. At best, she was completely ambivalent about having children out of fear of hurting them. Not an inability to love them. Not a lack of wanting them. An instinct to protect them.

Isn’t the most loving thing a Mother can do for her children (manifested or not) is to keep them from harm, even if she is the one who can inflict the harm? Particularly if she is the one who can inflict the harm?

When a mistake in her calculations created me, what was she to do?

My Mother was the toughest person I have ever met. I scared her out of her wits for 35 years.

When she retreated into silence, it was because she was trying to protect me, not abandon me. When I screamed about my abandonment, she retreated even further. Out of fright, not anger. Not hatred. Not rejection.

In her attempt to minimize the damage, I maximized it.

I understand all this 9½ years after my Mother died. Any chance for apology or reconciliation has been fertilizing her graveside magnolia tree for years.

My Mother loved me with her entire being.

I misunderstood completely.

My God it is hard not to jump on that easy slide into the pit of self-loathing.

For the Record

I know I am not supposed to say this for fear of tempting Fate; however, it's true.

I would rather break my ankle or have another stroke or watch my Mother die again than go through the pain of facing my own demons.

For the record, I mean this.

I really do.

My Family – Cousin #6

It is a truth universally acknowledged that everyone bitches about their family. However, when a person’s Actual, Real Life Family’s antics begin to mirror those of the Foxmans in This is Where I Leave You, it becomes ridiculous.

Case in point: Cousin #6 (on my Father's side).

First, some background:

• My Mother died on July 30, 2000 after a long illness (Chronic Obstructive Pulmonary Disease). 
• Watching her die was kind of like watching a balloon let out its air…for six and a half years. Of course, the balloon is someone you love desperately.
• To say that my Mother and I had a troubled relationship is like saying the Grand Canyon is a hole in the ground.
• So of course, when she died, I did.

A couple of months later, a cousin I never really interacted with growing up (she was five years younger and isn’t that so important when you are a child?) invited me up to her place in Portland, Oregon for a weekend of R&R. It was the middle of September.

Walking around downtown Portland for the first time ever was a complete revelation. The air was crisp, the sky was blue, and the trees…

Growing up in sunny So Cal I had never seen leaves turn color before. It was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.

I knew right then and there I had (finally) found my home.

It’s important to note here that my home was in Oregon, not with my cousin. A minor point that should be obvious to all, but unfortunately, it was not.

Two months later, I returned to Oregon for job interviews. Driving back home from massages at Skamania (to which I treated my cousin as a “thank you” for introducing the state to me), my cousin launched into an 80-minute diatribe about how, if I moved to Oregon, I was not to expect anything from her: she was not going to help me get settled, meet people and/or find my way around. And (the capper), “I’m not going to take care of you like your Father does.”

This from a person who grew up 2,273.01 miles away from me.

This from a person with whom, prior to this ride in the car, I’d spent approximately 168 hours in the previous 298,056.

Since then, we’ve spoken nine times in as many years. This includes her wedding (to which I did not receive an invitation) and after her Father’s funeral (which she was unable to attend; my job was to attend and report back to her. So this doesn’t really count: it was a forced communication).

She would say that she felt crowded by my “sudden” presence in her life.

I would say I chose to live in a town 65 miles away from her precisely for that reason (to not crowd her).

I would say that my decision to move to Oregon had nothing to do with her and everything to do with Oregon.

Yes, her invitation was the catalyst. Her invitation to Oregon; not to her life. I understood there was no invitation into her life. I didn’t want an invitation into her life. I wanted to hang out with the trees. I knew only they, if anything, could make me feel better.

(They did.)

It’s a sad God-damned state of affairs that the only way this misunderstanding can get resolved is by blasting it out into cyberspace rather than talking about it with the other party who lives an hour away.

That, in a nutshell, is how my relatives and I best relate: on completely separate, independent and non-intersecting planes.

Note:  While it may seem like I hold onto things for a long time (I do), that's not the entire point of this story.  This information is related to and sets up a more recent story that I will share toward the end of the month.  So...stay tuned, Mrs. Calabash, stay tuned.

Happy Groundhog Day

So Punxsutawney Phil saw his shadow today. Six more weeks of winter. Wonderful.

As February is the month of love and I *am* Venus, I've decided to devote the entire month to all of the times Love has bitch-slapped me so hard I bled out my ass.

I include all types of Love in this: Love of Fellow Man, Love of Country, Love of a Good Steak...along with more traditional interpretations and applications of this most maddening state of being.

Which I hate, by the way.

I hate being in love. I hate loving people.

(Yes, I know that "in love" and "love" are the same thing.  Sometimes I just like to verbally spar with people.  It's so rare that I find a worthy opponent.)

I swore to myself it would never happen again. I swore to myself that I would not add anyone else to the very short list of people that I love. It's just too God-damned painful. Being the goddess that I am, to ease my despair, I have to go out and zap someone/thing.

It gets messy.

I hope this dark winter ends eventually.

I hope to be able to once again enjoy a more stable, durable kind of Love: 

Love of Yardwork.

The First 31 Days

I had high hopes for this year; I really did.

I have let go of some deep hurts, rages, and resentments. So far, the space created by these extractions has been filled with something that hurts even MORE.

What the hell is that all about?

The Good Ol' Days

I thought things couldn't get any worse after getting stood up three times the week before Christmas.

What the fuck did I know?

Update

Well.

At least I can say that I gave it my all.

Now I have a whole NEW thing to be pissed off about:  I devoted every ounce of my being to a situation and I still got crushed.  Without reason or explanation.

I hate "Life."

Realization #1

Just because I've changed doesn't mean other people stop being assholes.

After the momentous "I didn't shoot (literally or metaphorically) anyone" experience the other day, I truly expected a thunderclap. Heavens opening, clouds parting, trumpets blaring...

Of course, there was that earthquake in Haiti, but -- despite dear Aunt Lorraine's contention that I affect the weather -- I don't think that was Heaven's confirmation that I have finally pulled my head out of my ass.  That's ridiculous. 

Is that how illumination comes? It slowly sneaks in and sits next to us, unconcerned that we haven't noticed it, knowing we eventually will?

Is illumination a cat?

Later, I worried that my newfound mellowness would dull my edge. I can be soft, but I prefer not to be, in general. I prefer people to be a little afraid. I don't want to turn into one of those dewy, "Let's all hold hands and sit in a circle and sing 'Kumbaya' " people. Ick. All I want is for The Shadow to stop running The Show. Does letting go of the latter ensure the former?

I hope the hell not.

JoJo pointed out that changes with me do not necessarily precipitate changes in others. As much as I'd like to believe in the Cosmic Ripple Effect, JoJo is right: There are dams everywhere. And pebbles, too. I take solace in that my emerging light will shine somewhere, although the recipient may be totally random.

Sort of like how I secretly hope the rantings in this blog will somehow lead to an engineer in Australia planting daffodils.

While the people Down Under may be basking in the warmth of my Sun, the people closest to me may not. Thus, the potential for encounters and interactions to feed my sharp wit truly has not diminished. 

This realization has made the path I'm on a little less agonious*: At least I still get to stab people. OK, so now most of it is in my head (again the quest for the high road, no matter how soul-numbingly mature), but there's still material. And now this blog. So both my Aurora’s (my Higher Self) and Amanda's (my Inner Child) needs are met.

All right.

I guess compromise (ick) is of a part of balance. I guess that means I am doing the right thing. I guess that means I should stop complaining. I guess bliss descended and I was too trivially preoccupied to notice.

Hm.

Does the silent thunderclap account for the invisible changes?

* Note: "Agonious" is a term I coined while I was working on my Masters in Experimental Psychology at Cal State Fullerton. It means "agony-filled."

Clutter Removal, Part 2 -- Trash Day

Today is Trash Day. 

I have a 90-gallon trash can that I fill up every week.  That's 90 gallons of trash (other than yard debris and recyclabes, mind you) for one person and three cats every week.  Granted, I have only been filling it for a few weeks (inspired by my neighbor who I discovered came over at 5 am on Trash Day to put his trash in my can.  This discovery irritated me to no end.  Yes, I am that petty.) but still...that's a lot of stuff I didn't/don't need.

Back to my neighbor:  Who holds onto their trash for a week, hoping that a neighbor's can has enough room to make a deposit?  I mean, these people have a dog the size of my car!  What do they do with all of that shit? 

I understand times are tough for most people (he says he can't afford the $30.00 a month for trash serivce), but this same neighbor likes to show off his vintage Stratocaster so I don't feel too sorry for him.

The point is:  I would love it if once, just once, someone else got up at 6 am on a Thursday morning (no matter *what* the weather) to put out my 90-gallon can.

What If I'm Not Funny Anymore?

I have been worried that, if I lose my anger, I will lose my edge.  I do enjoy my wit.

Grasshopper Pike pointed out that Life provides an endless supply of irritations and people to commit them. 

I realized that she's right:  there ALWAYS will be something to get pissed off about.  As long as there are politicians and students and bitchy self-absorbed women whose g-strings are too tight (and their husbands), there will be something to get pissed off about.

{sigh}

I feel better.

Onward!

Update

This morning, I walked out onto my patio to discover two scruffy-looking men helping themselves to my (pressure-treated, pre-cut, stacked) wood.

While this situation eventually got straightened out (in 2008, I told my next door neighbors they could use the wood to repair the fence that we share); that’s not the point.

The point is: Had this situation occurred any day before today it would have turned out totally different.

Had I heard a strange noise on the patio and discovered two men helping themselves to my pressure-treated, pre-cut, stacked wood any time between June 2006 – January 11, 2010, I would have:

• called 911;
• activated the alarm;
• stormed out the back (gun drawn); and,
• roared “GET THE HELL OFF MY PROPERTY.”

When the police arrived, I would have filed charges.

Today, January 12, 2010, I did none of those things. I calmly went out the back door – I think I surprised them more than they surprised me – and asked what was going on. I might be able to talk them into doing a couple of things for me. 

That’s progress

Of course, I remain insulted by Life and I have a hole the size of the Grand Canyon in my heart, but…this situation could have turned out sooooo much differently. In fact, I’m not sure it wasn’t all a dream.

And...someone else removed one pile of clutter!  Maybe there’s hope for 2010 after all!!

Clutter Removal, Part 1

How did I end up with all of this shit?

PS

I realize I should be down on my knees with gratitude that my Beloved Dad made it through his surgery and recovery with flying colors. Please do not misunderstand; I AM down on my knees with gratitude over my Beloved Dad flying (albeit with a walker) colorfully through his major surgery and excruciating recovery.

But, at the same time, I am down on my knees in despair over what it cost both of us.  I can't remember ever being so joyful and so desolate at the same time.  And sooooo guilty that my Dad's restoration is not enough to keep me from crying over the turned cups. 

It's the dichotomy that is slowly driving me insane.

The First 10 Days

So I have been releasing my anger for 10 days. During those 10 days, I have let go of:

• My general, overall anger.  
• My anger over the karmic mood swing that wiped out all of my hope and happiness. 
• My anger over all of the clutter. I hate clutter. Why is there so much of it?  
• My bitterness over all of the love and compassion and empathy I poured into the world and the only result is the obduration of my heart.
• My resentment over my choice to not act out but instead act like a lady. For the record, “acting like a lady” is highly overrated.
• My resentment over my choice to (physically) stay where I am. It is time for a disappearing act, time to pack up and move, but instead, I stay. I stay to endure the consequences of both my actions and my personality. I stay to endure the sting of alienation and failure. What kind of masochist have I become? What’s next? Getting married?
• My bitterness that illumination has brought only clarity, not peace of mind. 

That’s 7 out of 100 things. Not bad for the first 10 days. And, while it may seem like the above should create more, additional, “things,” rest assured, I am letting all of those go, too.

Reading over my list, it strikes me that a person must have a lot of anger (and a close relationship with it) to have it all neat and organized and categorized. Now only if I could get my office that organized. Or my house. Or my tax receipts.

Having completed 7% of my task, how do I feel? Bitter, angry, resentful, hopeless, and more depressed. I thought this exercise was supposed to help. I understand I am supposed to keep going; to forge ahead; that this is the fire, but…does it have to be so God-damned hot?

Illumination

Today, January 6, is the Feast of the Epiphany and, technically, the last day of Christmas (if you count 12 days starting with December 24, you will arrive on January 6).

The Epiphany is when the Wise Men visited the baby Jesus and recognized Him as the Son of God.  So the Feast of the Epiphany celebrates illumination.

I always want illumination; I want to know WHY things are the way they are and WHY they go down the way they do. 

The problem with illumination is, once you see something, you can't un-see what you have just seen.  You can't un-know what has just been burned into your brain.  You can't barf back up the red pill, although wouldn't this be wonderful. 

This is exactly why Oedipus blinded himself.

Alchemy, Part 1

I'm not the same person I was on 08/09/09 and I resent that.

I’m sure it is for the greater (and my) good that I learn more about compassion generally and forgiveness specifically, but God dammit! Did it have to come at such a price?

I understand intellectually that forgiveness is a good thing (especially forgiveness of self) but emotionally…that is another story.

When I am on the receiving end of (however unintentional or misunderstood) cruelty, I place as much distance as possible between myself and the offending person/place/thing to prevent a recurrence. I have done this for years. I have done this to myself (placed as much distance as possible between me and myself).

What I’ve come to understand is that there is no running from emotional pain and no matter how much you try to distract yourself from it, it sits and lingers and festers and boils over. Usually at the most inappropriate time.

Of course I understand this about other people (I have been a psychologist for over 20 years). The pisser is that *I* have done what I have counseled hundreds of others not to. I don’t mean this in an egotistical way (“How could this happen to me?!”); I mean this in a who-is-that-idiot-in-the-mirror way (“How could I be so CLUELESS???”).

It was a good 10 years after the last sprint (which took me to an entirely different plane) that I experienced (yet another) cycle of mind-erosion, soul-numbing, and ass-bursting. There were a couple hints that a pachakuti (1) was on its way, but I stayed put. I own property now, so disappearing is not so easy.

After the Cosmic Hurricane left, there was a hell of a mess to clean up.

Rather than just leave, like I always do, I wanted to stay. More accurately, I did not want to leave the situation in the center of the storm. I liked the situation too much. I loved the situation. I did not want it to end. Undergo major surgery; OK. Endure an excruciating rehabilitation; all right. But end? NO.

This wanting to stick it out and re-work and repair…what a totally foreign and incomprehensible thing.

I understand this really is all about forgiveness of self—what we can’t own or face is reflected back to us by others—but…I have really pissed myself off! How could I forgive that and set myself up for recurrence?

What I have learned is that The Lesson is not about prevention. Life is going to happen whether we want it to or not. We are going to hurt ourselves (and others) whether we want to or not. The Lesson is about coping better the next time and minimizing the damage.

Just like it (should) only take one dead battery incident to learn to keep jumper cables in the car, it (should) only take one life-altering cycle to learn that, eventually, God does reset the playing pieces.

Yet some of us don’t understand the first (or second or third or fourth or 187th) time that it’s not really about the dead battery. It’s about how you cope with the dead battery. You know you will eventually get a new one and the car will start. Getting the car to start is the adventure.

There is also a Lesson about commitment here, about finding a situation you want to maintain and MAINTAINING it. I never saw the value of that before 08/09/09; I preferred new situations, still in their wrapping. Once the wrapping came off…onto the next one! An endless Christmas morning for a two year-old.

This all boils down to: I chose to take a grow-up pill and the side effects are uncomfortable on a cellular level. I realize that caterpillars change on a cellular level to become butterflies and that fairy tales are really all about transformation.

However…

My Inner Child is still crying over her abandonment and I just can’t convince her that this time, this time, I will not leave her.

_____


(1) “Pachakuti” is a Peruvian shamanic term for, basically, “cosmic upheaval.”