Wednesday, December 5, 2012
Faltering in the margins of Impolite to Discuss
My head is full of bees. I feel like I have nothing to say but I should. There are a million tiny strings to pull but the wrong string unzips it all. My thoughts are constipated and it's dumb to mention it but not talking about it makes it harder to start solving it. I've learned the hard way that no one wants to hear about money problems, depression or how sad it is when your beautiful boyfriend is really far away. But that's pretty much what I'm dealing with. It's an impressively personal ball of fuckadoodle. What's my point? My point is it has to get better right?
Saturday, November 10, 2012
Powered by fixiness
(Cleaning out an old file folder I found a fake response I once wrote while working a chargeback case for a credit card company.)
Of course your incredibly low fees entitle you to Never Wrong lie detector services, but did you know about our cutting edge HD Story Support monitor wall where we view endless and infinitely zoomable security videos that can see around corners and capture alternate endings? Were you aware that right down the hall, bathed in lavender, light and positive thinking is our tireless and fully energized Excellent Client Care Army, all psychic handwriting experts with strong backgrounds in social work? Before you can even finish asking what the hell is going on with your money, they will have instantaneously gained, filtered and interpreted every nuance of your data and will begin to emit soothing flattery and waves of powerful fixiness. Rest assured, here at Super Giant Mega Corp, we never leave and nothing hurts our feelings. Our burly truth pilots are always suited up and ready to determine why your beans were not, in fact, magic.
Of course your incredibly low fees entitle you to Never Wrong lie detector services, but did you know about our cutting edge HD Story Support monitor wall where we view endless and infinitely zoomable security videos that can see around corners and capture alternate endings? Were you aware that right down the hall, bathed in lavender, light and positive thinking is our tireless and fully energized Excellent Client Care Army, all psychic handwriting experts with strong backgrounds in social work? Before you can even finish asking what the hell is going on with your money, they will have instantaneously gained, filtered and interpreted every nuance of your data and will begin to emit soothing flattery and waves of powerful fixiness. Rest assured, here at Super Giant Mega Corp, we never leave and nothing hurts our feelings. Our burly truth pilots are always suited up and ready to determine why your beans were not, in fact, magic.
Wednesday, November 7, 2012
In your face fruit science
I popped the cap on some Garnier Fructis and squeezed the bottle just a tad to test the scent, but there must have been an air bubble because half a teaspoon of "fortified fruit science" shot me in the face.
There was another woman in the aisle with me, also sniffing bottles, and when she heard my startled, "Oh!" she looked over and nearly peed herself laughing when I held up the bottle and told her, "Try this one, it seems very excited!"
There was another woman in the aisle with me, also sniffing bottles, and when she heard my startled, "Oh!" she looked over and nearly peed herself laughing when I held up the bottle and told her, "Try this one, it seems very excited!"
Wednesday, October 17, 2012
No more pinto bean blues
My mom used to make a massive pot of pinto beans and a side of cornbread, about once a month, sometimes more if we were really hurting for groceries. The sight and smell of that pot used to make me want to cry because I knew that would be dinner for three days and after day one all the cornbread would be gone, leaving us alone with just beans.
You might imagine why I didn't work too hard to get good at making beans, which is sad really because beans are delicious. So, I made a beef and vegetable stock the other day (stock takes all day, no rush makes better use of all the ingredients, drawing everything out of the bone, pulling all the flavor from the veggies and putting moisture back into the dry air of my house). I soaked some pinto beans, the bean I've been avoiding most. Then I simmered them all day in my all day stock, covered in a pot, then put them in a very low oven all night long. This is slow food. These beans are amazing.
This is how I unravel one small knot at a time.
You might imagine why I didn't work too hard to get good at making beans, which is sad really because beans are delicious. So, I made a beef and vegetable stock the other day (stock takes all day, no rush makes better use of all the ingredients, drawing everything out of the bone, pulling all the flavor from the veggies and putting moisture back into the dry air of my house). I soaked some pinto beans, the bean I've been avoiding most. Then I simmered them all day in my all day stock, covered in a pot, then put them in a very low oven all night long. This is slow food. These beans are amazing.
This is how I unravel one small knot at a time.
Friday, September 14, 2012
Goodness
Right at this moment, when I sip some coffee and get ready for work, stars are exploding. And cells are dividing. And plants are making food out of sunlight, babies are giggling, grandpas in hilariously monochrome outfits are pushing their grandkids on swings, puppies are running in their sleep and someone is making cinnamon buns. All those things are happening at once and that's pretty rad.
Also, these things came to me over the netstream, in this glorious order:
> <
Selma Heyek
Salted Caramel Sauce
Super nova
Thursday, May 31, 2012
Long distance ache
I have not yet eaten, I am empty. Hungry and annoyed by that. It’s not so much that I can’t get food. I could. I could have cold melon straight from the fridge. I could make iced coffee. I could figure out how to work up some of the amazing yarn I just acquired. I could stop moping that Mike was here and now is not. You would think long distance would get easier after four years but it just doesn’t.
There are a lot of choices I’m not making because I’m instead overwhelmed with a loud need for stillness. I used to get mad at myself for these moments until I relaxed into the idea that this is a cycle and for me it has always been this way. No sense fighting the need for stillness and quiet. No point in getting worked up about the nothing.
Maybe it’s a gift. In fact, I know it is. There were other, louder times in my life, where I felt like I couldn’t do anything about the noise and quiet was tear-stained impossible. When my children were tiny and would have screaming days. When my mother was drunkmad and slamming things into the sink. Living in shitty neighborhoods where I couldn’t sleep from loud parties or drunk neighbor fights. Living with old people who watched all the news, which then melded into some insanely loud Joyce Meyer Ministries or Little House on the Prairie. Tied to the phone, yelled at by mad idiots. Forced to hear Achy Breaky Heart at the grocery store. Stuck in boring meetings. Trapped in a classroom with the dumb squeaky teacher. Married to an idiot who followed me around for days demanding that I think back to the moment he was obviously right and admit anything I said after that was obviously wrong and we would need to non-stop talk about it until I could articulate words he could agree with. Quiet was what I wanted. I even made a medicine once, based on motherwort. I called it A Quiet Place to Stick Your Head. I rarely used it, but seeing in the bathroom cupboard was calming enough.
I remember when I was 17 and had just moved out of my parents house and in with a friend. I was sitting in what had become my room, a miracle of quiet space in the basement that also had its own attached bathroom. The walls were pink, which was weird but sort of calming. I had space to BE in. I was sitting still in it when I noticed my friend in the doorway, obviously annoyed. “What are you DOING?”, she asked me, emphasis on DOING, with a hint of disgust and disbelief. Nothing. I was doing nothing, and though I had no established obligation for my time in that moment, I traded calm for scorn and shamed myself for being lazy. Sitting still was tainted by that moment for a long time. At least when people are loud you can keep tabs on where they are. Too quiet might sneak up on you and catch you trying to be alone.
I went and made coffee. Iced it. Mixed a can of sweetened condensed milk from the back of the cupboard, with some regular milk and a little vanilla. 50/50 mix and a shake makes perfectly lovely coffee creamer.
I cleaned the kitchen and made some couscous. Chopped a million tiny chunks of every color I could find and folded it in like confetti. Confetti cukes and tomatoes. Confetti parsley and mint. One straight chop on the wood and the mint would release from the tight little stack and poof out on the other side of my beautiful knife. The poof was so delightful I wished there was more mint to chop.
I rolled the lemons, zested them onto a white plate to dry for later, cut them in half and reamed out the juice. I strained out the pulp and seeds and poked my fingers around in the gel just because it’s such a neat substance and lemons smell incredible. I got lemon oil on my finger, which seemed to piss off the touch screen on my phone. Some of the lemon juice went into an ice cube tray to freeze for cooking later.
I chopped a mountain of ginger to freeze into a log. It makes it easy to add chopped ginger to pretty much anything. I still have a ton more. Some will be for juicing. Perhaps in the morning parsley, carrot, apple and ginger?
I added a bunch of veggie ends and bits to the gallon sized ziplock bag in my freezer. When it fills I will make veggie broth. I might throw in some bones if I have them. Homemade broth is my new favorite cooking thing that took too damn long to do (weird, because seriously, so good, so easy, so satisfying.) My other new favorite thing is a trick I just learned from my awesome boyfriend. Dry fried tofu. basically, drain some firm tofu (or don’t, I don’t know your life), slice it up like SPAM (haha, how did I sneak that terrible comparison in there?) and fry it without oil on a hot cast iron pan until it’s brown on both sides, then marinate however you want. It’s good on sandwiches or chopped up and added to things.
I made jasmine iced tea. I had a bunch of green onions that were starting to get weird on the outermost leaf tube, so I pulled those parts off and washed them. I left the roots attached, trimmed them on top and put them in a sweet square vase my sweetie got me for Mother’s Day. It fits in my windowsill and I can use it to keep my green onions growing. I’ve never done that before but it happens on its own sometimes in the fridge, so this way seems kind of logical and rad.
I also did all my dishes and a load of laundry. Cleaned the catbox. Scheduled some things for tomorrow. Wrote a little. Had some gin and tonic with mint. I did not leave the house. Not even for a second.
In the continuing lovely and intense strangeness that is a longtime long-distance relationship, Mike was just here and it was marvelous but now he isn’t and the struggle of that never really feels easy to me. For some reason, post goodbye day three seems to be the worst. I think the first day I am sad but I just saw him so it’s OK. Day two is full of the things I didn’t do while we were busy hanging on to each other. Having stuff to do is quite distracting in a mostly good way. Day three, the pressing distractions are tamed, the longing has room to unfurl and takes over. Ache gets in the cracks. Bed feels big, stupid hot and empty. The cat comes back to sleep on my head. When I wake up from a weird dream there is no one to tell, which helps me remember my dreams, which means when he is not here I have a harder time remembering. A shame because lately the ones I can recall are layered, absurd and charming to me and if sleep wants to hand me gifts I would like to be able to receive them all. Even sadder than that I don’t get to hear the warm deep rumble of him, half asleep reporting to me from the sidelines of his own strange trip. We wake enough with each shift to settle back against each yes. It’s the slowest dance. Tangled asleep is a recharge, the best stillness, the most contented quiet. A stupid pillow is no substitute.
There are a lot of choices I’m not making because I’m instead overwhelmed with a loud need for stillness. I used to get mad at myself for these moments until I relaxed into the idea that this is a cycle and for me it has always been this way. No sense fighting the need for stillness and quiet. No point in getting worked up about the nothing.
Maybe it’s a gift. In fact, I know it is. There were other, louder times in my life, where I felt like I couldn’t do anything about the noise and quiet was tear-stained impossible. When my children were tiny and would have screaming days. When my mother was drunkmad and slamming things into the sink. Living in shitty neighborhoods where I couldn’t sleep from loud parties or drunk neighbor fights. Living with old people who watched all the news, which then melded into some insanely loud Joyce Meyer Ministries or Little House on the Prairie. Tied to the phone, yelled at by mad idiots. Forced to hear Achy Breaky Heart at the grocery store. Stuck in boring meetings. Trapped in a classroom with the dumb squeaky teacher. Married to an idiot who followed me around for days demanding that I think back to the moment he was obviously right and admit anything I said after that was obviously wrong and we would need to non-stop talk about it until I could articulate words he could agree with. Quiet was what I wanted. I even made a medicine once, based on motherwort. I called it A Quiet Place to Stick Your Head. I rarely used it, but seeing in the bathroom cupboard was calming enough.
I remember when I was 17 and had just moved out of my parents house and in with a friend. I was sitting in what had become my room, a miracle of quiet space in the basement that also had its own attached bathroom. The walls were pink, which was weird but sort of calming. I had space to BE in. I was sitting still in it when I noticed my friend in the doorway, obviously annoyed. “What are you DOING?”, she asked me, emphasis on DOING, with a hint of disgust and disbelief. Nothing. I was doing nothing, and though I had no established obligation for my time in that moment, I traded calm for scorn and shamed myself for being lazy. Sitting still was tainted by that moment for a long time. At least when people are loud you can keep tabs on where they are. Too quiet might sneak up on you and catch you trying to be alone.
****
I went and made coffee. Iced it. Mixed a can of sweetened condensed milk from the back of the cupboard, with some regular milk and a little vanilla. 50/50 mix and a shake makes perfectly lovely coffee creamer.
I cleaned the kitchen and made some couscous. Chopped a million tiny chunks of every color I could find and folded it in like confetti. Confetti cukes and tomatoes. Confetti parsley and mint. One straight chop on the wood and the mint would release from the tight little stack and poof out on the other side of my beautiful knife. The poof was so delightful I wished there was more mint to chop.
I rolled the lemons, zested them onto a white plate to dry for later, cut them in half and reamed out the juice. I strained out the pulp and seeds and poked my fingers around in the gel just because it’s such a neat substance and lemons smell incredible. I got lemon oil on my finger, which seemed to piss off the touch screen on my phone. Some of the lemon juice went into an ice cube tray to freeze for cooking later.
I chopped a mountain of ginger to freeze into a log. It makes it easy to add chopped ginger to pretty much anything. I still have a ton more. Some will be for juicing. Perhaps in the morning parsley, carrot, apple and ginger?
I added a bunch of veggie ends and bits to the gallon sized ziplock bag in my freezer. When it fills I will make veggie broth. I might throw in some bones if I have them. Homemade broth is my new favorite cooking thing that took too damn long to do (weird, because seriously, so good, so easy, so satisfying.) My other new favorite thing is a trick I just learned from my awesome boyfriend. Dry fried tofu. basically, drain some firm tofu (or don’t, I don’t know your life), slice it up like SPAM (haha, how did I sneak that terrible comparison in there?) and fry it without oil on a hot cast iron pan until it’s brown on both sides, then marinate however you want. It’s good on sandwiches or chopped up and added to things.
I made jasmine iced tea. I had a bunch of green onions that were starting to get weird on the outermost leaf tube, so I pulled those parts off and washed them. I left the roots attached, trimmed them on top and put them in a sweet square vase my sweetie got me for Mother’s Day. It fits in my windowsill and I can use it to keep my green onions growing. I’ve never done that before but it happens on its own sometimes in the fridge, so this way seems kind of logical and rad.
I also did all my dishes and a load of laundry. Cleaned the catbox. Scheduled some things for tomorrow. Wrote a little. Had some gin and tonic with mint. I did not leave the house. Not even for a second.
In the continuing lovely and intense strangeness that is a longtime long-distance relationship, Mike was just here and it was marvelous but now he isn’t and the struggle of that never really feels easy to me. For some reason, post goodbye day three seems to be the worst. I think the first day I am sad but I just saw him so it’s OK. Day two is full of the things I didn’t do while we were busy hanging on to each other. Having stuff to do is quite distracting in a mostly good way. Day three, the pressing distractions are tamed, the longing has room to unfurl and takes over. Ache gets in the cracks. Bed feels big, stupid hot and empty. The cat comes back to sleep on my head. When I wake up from a weird dream there is no one to tell, which helps me remember my dreams, which means when he is not here I have a harder time remembering. A shame because lately the ones I can recall are layered, absurd and charming to me and if sleep wants to hand me gifts I would like to be able to receive them all. Even sadder than that I don’t get to hear the warm deep rumble of him, half asleep reporting to me from the sidelines of his own strange trip. We wake enough with each shift to settle back against each yes. It’s the slowest dance. Tangled asleep is a recharge, the best stillness, the most contented quiet. A stupid pillow is no substitute.
Wednesday, May 16, 2012
Getting fancy with my new shoulder dong
I had a dream that I was sitting at my computer when I was overwhelmed by raging technicolor libido and realized I was sporting a monumentally huge boner. I was too busy buzzing to worry much about the surprise or origin my new penis, instead my brain thought, Dang, I think I could just lean forward slightly and probably suck this magnificent thing!
So I did.
Except it didn't feel as rad as I expected and the flesh got weird, I thought, to hell with it, this whole thing is pretty rare so i'm just gonna ride this weird wave for a minute, and I'm gonna keep sucking this thing.
Except it stretched. I had created a rope-like flesh tube. Instead of sucking my sweet new wang, I was sucking on my own shoulder, and I had begun to swallow it. I was trying to pull it back out of my throat but it just kept getting longer and longer and I was starting to panic because I thought a) I'm either going choke to death in the weirdest way possible or b) I am going to have a flaccid rope hanging off my shoulder for the rest of my life. I even had a moment to contemplate. Of course I'm not going to die, but holy shit, am I going to have to wind up the tube like a ball of yarn? How might I fashion a smallstylish sack to hold the ball against my arm so I wouldn't have to go around with a weird jibbley dingus swinging from my shoulder. Tank tops would totally be out.
WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK.
So I did.
Except it didn't feel as rad as I expected and the flesh got weird, I thought, to hell with it, this whole thing is pretty rare so i'm just gonna ride this weird wave for a minute, and I'm gonna keep sucking this thing.
Except it stretched. I had created a rope-like flesh tube. Instead of sucking my sweet new wang, I was sucking on my own shoulder, and I had begun to swallow it. I was trying to pull it back out of my throat but it just kept getting longer and longer and I was starting to panic because I thought a) I'm either going choke to death in the weirdest way possible or b) I am going to have a flaccid rope hanging off my shoulder for the rest of my life. I even had a moment to contemplate. Of course I'm not going to die, but holy shit, am I going to have to wind up the tube like a ball of yarn? How might I fashion a smallstylish sack to hold the ball against my arm so I wouldn't have to go around with a weird jibbley dingus swinging from my shoulder. Tank tops would totally be out.
WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK.
Monday, April 16, 2012
Big feelings. How annoying.
The day is really beautiful, big swooping winds and nodding flowers, whistling gusts creeping in through the screen. The sky is blue. The clouds are puffy. I am a good person. I am not homeless yet, but I am feeling restless and unrooted. It feels weird that the day is so nice but my anxiety is so strong. What if? How? When? How much?
Outside someone is cooking hamburgers and the smell is coming through my window. I feel bad for wanting to eat their burger. I feel bad for feeling bad when the day is nice and I should be in it making amazing things happen because I am alive and the world is full of possibilities.
I meant to call a woman I know who has late stage breast cancer. I mean to call her every day. I think about her all the time. I don't know how to talk to her right now because I just lost another friend to breast cancer. It makes me mad that cancer can even exist inside of people who are friends and mamas and sisters and daughters. Boobs are for feeding babies and looking lovely in sundresses, not turning into mean killers. I miss my friend. The one who is gone and the one who is not. I feel terrible that I am such a horrible person and didn't try harder to connect and that I am still not doing it even though I should be. I just don't know how to not be a downer. My problems are big and stupid, but imminent death is bigger and stupider. I don't even know what to say to death. Maybe fuck off until we're all 120 years old? That seems reasonable right? Everything is so fragile. How gorgeous and terrifying.
Update: Buh. I re-read this and find that it came out all wrong. Basically it feels like everyone else knows what to do and their ducks are all in a row and their priorities are all straight and their emotions are the just right kind and that's the kind of mojo I'd like to get in on. Not this other thing. This terrified apathy where things are still beautiful but mostly only for other people. I've got big things in front of me. I feel like I'm about to high dive into a pool but I know there is no water in it. I am supposed to jump and know that somehow its going fill up in that brief time between jumping and landing. I'm running out of faith. And telling myself to just cut it out is overly simplistic and ineffective. So now what?
Update Some More: I am also yelling at myself in the voice of my sister. She judged me pretty harshly and since then we haven't spoken. So now I have picked up the flavor of that conversation and I am hitting myself over the head with it. How dumb. How merciless. How unfair to everyone. I miss my sister. She took a lot of things really wrong and now it's all full of bees and I am still pissed off but not how she might imagine. And she is probably still pissed off but not how I would imagine, and in between all this imagining is the fact that we are not communicating and in the meantime, life just keeps running out and rolling on and filling and emptying and all those other things it does.
Outside someone is cooking hamburgers and the smell is coming through my window. I feel bad for wanting to eat their burger. I feel bad for feeling bad when the day is nice and I should be in it making amazing things happen because I am alive and the world is full of possibilities.
I meant to call a woman I know who has late stage breast cancer. I mean to call her every day. I think about her all the time. I don't know how to talk to her right now because I just lost another friend to breast cancer. It makes me mad that cancer can even exist inside of people who are friends and mamas and sisters and daughters. Boobs are for feeding babies and looking lovely in sundresses, not turning into mean killers. I miss my friend. The one who is gone and the one who is not. I feel terrible that I am such a horrible person and didn't try harder to connect and that I am still not doing it even though I should be. I just don't know how to not be a downer. My problems are big and stupid, but imminent death is bigger and stupider. I don't even know what to say to death. Maybe fuck off until we're all 120 years old? That seems reasonable right? Everything is so fragile. How gorgeous and terrifying.
Update: Buh. I re-read this and find that it came out all wrong. Basically it feels like everyone else knows what to do and their ducks are all in a row and their priorities are all straight and their emotions are the just right kind and that's the kind of mojo I'd like to get in on. Not this other thing. This terrified apathy where things are still beautiful but mostly only for other people. I've got big things in front of me. I feel like I'm about to high dive into a pool but I know there is no water in it. I am supposed to jump and know that somehow its going fill up in that brief time between jumping and landing. I'm running out of faith. And telling myself to just cut it out is overly simplistic and ineffective. So now what?
Update Some More: I am also yelling at myself in the voice of my sister. She judged me pretty harshly and since then we haven't spoken. So now I have picked up the flavor of that conversation and I am hitting myself over the head with it. How dumb. How merciless. How unfair to everyone. I miss my sister. She took a lot of things really wrong and now it's all full of bees and I am still pissed off but not how she might imagine. And she is probably still pissed off but not how I would imagine, and in between all this imagining is the fact that we are not communicating and in the meantime, life just keeps running out and rolling on and filling and emptying and all those other things it does.
Monday, April 9, 2012
"These are things that I'm gonna do."
I will survive financially. I will have fresh food to eat and I will keep my apartment. I will pay everyone back. I will stop having anxiety attacks every time I think about money. I will reach an equitable agreement with my ex-husband. I will enjoy my life. I will keep my integrity and enjoy meaningful work.
Thursday, April 5, 2012
Four weird dreams
Four days ago I woke from a dream I was getting ready to tell a story on stage at Wild Goose but realized (suddenly) that I was about to give birth. I gave birth onstage, privately, quickly and behind a partion. The crowd gasped when I presented her. She had pigtails and could already stand up and she told me I could tell my story now.
Three days ago I woke from a dream my ex-boyfriend had an adorable tiny blonde girlfriend with whom he had an adorable tiny blonde girlchild. He looked happy and responsible. It was nice.
Two days ago I woke from a dream I was standing in a crowded field with Mike, Miles and Katie. I noticed a strange ripple in the sky and suddenly the air was full of low helicopters. They were shouting to us over a loud speaker to get down and that we needed to be checked for radiation. In the middle of the crowd there was a man who was still standing. He had some kind of hand held device that he used to scan the people around him. It made weird beeping noises for everyone, including Mike and Katie, but when he got to me and Miles it made no sound. We were pulled out of the crowd and taken to a room where we were re-scanned. Everyone nodded, we were herded out of the room and told to walk to a helicopter. We walked past Mike and Katie, they were both shouting for us and wondering what was happening. We were not allowed to say goodbye, we were just whisked off without explanation. I woke up sweating. It scared the shit out of me.
This morning I woke from a dream that I was about 10, walking home from school with my cousin Kathy. We passed this old building that had a weird Dr. Suess looking facade and I wanted a picture of it really bad. The sun was just starting to go down and the way the light was hitting it was just breathtaking. I couldn't get my camera function to open on my phone and I was frantic that I was going to lose my golden moment. As I was fumbling I looked up to see that my cousin had walked on and was now just a tiny dot on the horizon. Suddenly the sky went fantastic, giant white billowy clouds over the Detroit skyline, with the light just shooting through in a breathtaking way. I was fumbling with my camera again, frustrated that no matter how many pictures I tried to take, none of them ever captured what it looked like in real life. Night started to settle in and I knew I had a long walk ahead of me if I was going to make it to Hamtramck on foot. I was on a regular, well marked path that suddenly turned claustrophobic and hard to follow. It was like one of those built up walkways leading out over a swamp, hemmed in By sharp razor grass. I was getting scared and about to turn around. It was dark, there were loud bugs and frogs all around. I saw a creepy man coming and crawled under the walkway and curled up on a beam to wait it out. He paused above me and announced that it was time to irradiate and then he chuckled and I could feel a weird buzzing through my whole body. He was trying to flush me out and I was trying to take it, silently. The body buzz got stronger, almost paralyzing. I could still feel it when I woke up. It felt like the electro-stim I used to get from my chiropractor. It was weird, but I remember thinking, "Ha ha bastard, joke's on you, I can crank that shit up to 10 and not fall off the beam."
Tuesday, March 27, 2012
Monday, March 26, 2012
At least there are kittens in this world
The thing about depression is that it doesn't just go away when the therapy stops, especially when the therapy stopped only because the free sessions ran out.
And the extra sucky part about depression is that my brain keeps piping up in the meanest way, and most of it is rooted in deep old fears. I was given the choice to get on meds, and I understand that could be helpful, but considering my long jacked up past and how much I need to get the words out, I don't think a long term pill is the answer for me. I really wanted to try talking it out, with someone kind and competent and more clever than I am about the ways in which I entrap my own self in punishment out of shame for ever busting through the hellish gates of my reluctant mother. It really goes that deep. All the way to a tiny clump of cells that grew and divided inside the womb of an angry abused girl child who wanted a different life.
The way my mother told it I always imagined that I climbed out of her body while she was lying there, frozen and terrified, "A baby having a baby", and I just decided to fuck up every single thing I could. Having any need at all was just my way of manipulating her, having memories of my own was just me being crazy, telling anyone anything about my life was just me, lying my way into getting what I wanted. Wanting anything was due to my innate terribleness. I know all that is weird and hard to grasp for most people. I know (now) that her perspective is sick and sad, and I know her to be a creature worthy of empathy. I also know that she is mentally ill, a pickled recluse, wasting in her own hoarded slum of self-loathing, waiting for me to come and apologize to her for her terrible birth experience and for not fulfilling the promise she tricked herself into believing, that I was supposed to be born because I had some kind of great thing to accomplish. Maybe I do, maybe I will, but I'm pretty sure she will never know about it. Not because I am a mean asshole with no empathy, but because I have so much empathy I can't be near her or it physically hurts. I make everything may fault, everything everything. Every. Thing. Things that happened to her before I was even born settle against me and I let them in. It is toxic, so toxic it leaks into me even now, when I have not seen her for more than ten years.
My sister saw my dad at a family event not long ago, my mother did not go. I did not attend, I don't live in the same state and also there is a part of me that feels like my family never cared much for me in the first place. But not going left me wracked with guilt and fresh anger. Where were they when I was being abused and neglected? Why didn't my needs matter to them then? Why should theirs matter to me now? And in therapy I kept getting the same tired line about how I need to forgive for me and not for them. I get that, I understand the hurt of it, trust me. I really get it. But telling someone who was fucked over as a child to grow up and forgive or else it will just keep hurting is kind of a dick move. It means, "Yes, you were hurt by other people and that sucked super bad, but now here comes shitloads of judgey simple words about how you are doing it all wrong by still feeling it." If the root of my problem is a sense of absolute worthlessness and I still feel like certain people expect me apologize for the fact I even fucking exist, how the hell am I supposed to feel about the idea that my reasoning is off and I'm doing it all wrong and that what I really need to do is get over it and forgive. If I can't, if that feels totally fucked up and wrong to do because none of that shit was ever OK, it leaves it all right back in my lap. My fault. Again. And again, I will figure it out somehow. I always have. I know that to be true. But holy shit would I like a break from all this horrifying head stuff.
Meeting with my ex-husband is what set this all off. I felt his anger rolling off in waves and it occurred to me how sick it was that I never wanted him to know that I thought of him as an abuser. I wanted to protect him from my extreme opinion, because how could he do anything other than hate that and fight against it and that feels extremely dangerous. Explaining that to the lawyer was hard for me. Later that night I met with a friend and somehow it morphed into this giant discussion about sexual abuse and my entire terrible history spilled out. I went from uncle fondled toddler, blamed for being sexy, to raped and crying 16 year old, also blamed for being sexy (with far too many pit stops in between) in the course of one unbroken narrative, strung together on one long desperate breath. That was a week ago. In between I have managed to find solace in laundry and dishes and making broth. I have avoided silence and sleep. I am so fucking mad that any of this is coming up now. Why now? The reason I ended up with my ex husband in the first place is that he was the only one who cared when I told him what had happened to me. The only one. That felt like a lifeline. Now he hates me with all the rushing blood pulsing through that big mean vein in his forehead. Now he wants to punish me for breaking the spell. Having him near me is just as toxic. I swapped my mother for him, as if I needed to be treated like shit but I needed to pretend that's what love looked like. No wonder I can't just forgive. I haven't even begun to process the horrible shit I lived though, I just went from one catastrophe to another until I ended up here. No wonder everything feels like sped up slow motion.
And the extra sucky part about depression is that my brain keeps piping up in the meanest way, and most of it is rooted in deep old fears. I was given the choice to get on meds, and I understand that could be helpful, but considering my long jacked up past and how much I need to get the words out, I don't think a long term pill is the answer for me. I really wanted to try talking it out, with someone kind and competent and more clever than I am about the ways in which I entrap my own self in punishment out of shame for ever busting through the hellish gates of my reluctant mother. It really goes that deep. All the way to a tiny clump of cells that grew and divided inside the womb of an angry abused girl child who wanted a different life.
The way my mother told it I always imagined that I climbed out of her body while she was lying there, frozen and terrified, "A baby having a baby", and I just decided to fuck up every single thing I could. Having any need at all was just my way of manipulating her, having memories of my own was just me being crazy, telling anyone anything about my life was just me, lying my way into getting what I wanted. Wanting anything was due to my innate terribleness. I know all that is weird and hard to grasp for most people. I know (now) that her perspective is sick and sad, and I know her to be a creature worthy of empathy. I also know that she is mentally ill, a pickled recluse, wasting in her own hoarded slum of self-loathing, waiting for me to come and apologize to her for her terrible birth experience and for not fulfilling the promise she tricked herself into believing, that I was supposed to be born because I had some kind of great thing to accomplish. Maybe I do, maybe I will, but I'm pretty sure she will never know about it. Not because I am a mean asshole with no empathy, but because I have so much empathy I can't be near her or it physically hurts. I make everything may fault, everything everything. Every. Thing. Things that happened to her before I was even born settle against me and I let them in. It is toxic, so toxic it leaks into me even now, when I have not seen her for more than ten years.
My sister saw my dad at a family event not long ago, my mother did not go. I did not attend, I don't live in the same state and also there is a part of me that feels like my family never cared much for me in the first place. But not going left me wracked with guilt and fresh anger. Where were they when I was being abused and neglected? Why didn't my needs matter to them then? Why should theirs matter to me now? And in therapy I kept getting the same tired line about how I need to forgive for me and not for them. I get that, I understand the hurt of it, trust me. I really get it. But telling someone who was fucked over as a child to grow up and forgive or else it will just keep hurting is kind of a dick move. It means, "Yes, you were hurt by other people and that sucked super bad, but now here comes shitloads of judgey simple words about how you are doing it all wrong by still feeling it." If the root of my problem is a sense of absolute worthlessness and I still feel like certain people expect me apologize for the fact I even fucking exist, how the hell am I supposed to feel about the idea that my reasoning is off and I'm doing it all wrong and that what I really need to do is get over it and forgive. If I can't, if that feels totally fucked up and wrong to do because none of that shit was ever OK, it leaves it all right back in my lap. My fault. Again. And again, I will figure it out somehow. I always have. I know that to be true. But holy shit would I like a break from all this horrifying head stuff.
Meeting with my ex-husband is what set this all off. I felt his anger rolling off in waves and it occurred to me how sick it was that I never wanted him to know that I thought of him as an abuser. I wanted to protect him from my extreme opinion, because how could he do anything other than hate that and fight against it and that feels extremely dangerous. Explaining that to the lawyer was hard for me. Later that night I met with a friend and somehow it morphed into this giant discussion about sexual abuse and my entire terrible history spilled out. I went from uncle fondled toddler, blamed for being sexy, to raped and crying 16 year old, also blamed for being sexy (with far too many pit stops in between) in the course of one unbroken narrative, strung together on one long desperate breath. That was a week ago. In between I have managed to find solace in laundry and dishes and making broth. I have avoided silence and sleep. I am so fucking mad that any of this is coming up now. Why now? The reason I ended up with my ex husband in the first place is that he was the only one who cared when I told him what had happened to me. The only one. That felt like a lifeline. Now he hates me with all the rushing blood pulsing through that big mean vein in his forehead. Now he wants to punish me for breaking the spell. Having him near me is just as toxic. I swapped my mother for him, as if I needed to be treated like shit but I needed to pretend that's what love looked like. No wonder I can't just forgive. I haven't even begun to process the horrible shit I lived though, I just went from one catastrophe to another until I ended up here. No wonder everything feels like sped up slow motion.
Wednesday, March 21, 2012
Every word means something else
It is just so much safer to write about cats. And by safe I mean, safe. Fluffy. Nonthreatening. Accessible. Unsad. Unmad. Unbad.
Saturday, January 28, 2012
How to make your face awesome
1) Pull your hair back. Put five aspirin in a little bowl and drip a wee little drop of water on each one. Put it aside for a second while it breaks down. Mix a teaspoon of honey with the aspirin and spoonmash it while making big eyebrows and giggling about the weird paste of two household things you can't believe you are mixing together. While you are giggling, look at your face in the mirror, see the crows feet? That means you are a human who can still find amusement in the world, congratulations! Now rub the weird paste on your face, in gentle circles. The aspirin will take care of redness and also exfoliate. The honey is has good things about it too, but those are secret. Leave it on for 15 minutes. Then rinse it off.
2) Now that the pores are all cleaned out it's time to close them. Get a cotton ball and fill it will apple cider vinegar. Use it like a toner all over your face. Congratulations, you smell anti-social! Let it sit there for 15 minutes. I know terrible, there there. If you listen though, you can hear all your pores slamming shut. Rinse your face. Then, holy crap, look at it! Your skin is already lovely!
3) Get another cotton ball, this time load it up with olive oil and mop you face with it. Rub it in. Use a little too much. Let it sit for 15 minutes. Take a warm washcloth and wash your face without soap. Be gentle. Pat it dry. Close your eyes. Don't even look at your skin, just feel it with your fingertips. Isn't that gorgeous? Now you can look. OMG HOW CUTE!
Tuesday, January 3, 2012
Columbus Dining Room Geographic
I saw this clip the other day and realized that Jasper is the lion and I am the hippo.
Jasper wanted in my lap but I said No. I was writing, which he wanted to make impossible. Me too apparently because I allowed it. There really is a part of me that finds it super weird to voluntarily share my home with an animal. An animal so sheltered and pampered he doesn’t even know how ridiculous he is. He thinks he’s allowing me to stick around in his house.
To him pens or fingers moving fast is an invitation to be a moron about everything. Ankles are both menacing and delicious. Toes are snacky bed weasels. And any time I sit at my desk he claws his way to my lap and twists his big body to make himself comfortable. For Jasper, everything is about the comfort of Jasper. I end up trying not to get bumped in the nose with his BH business, while he turns in circles, stepping on my keyboard and fucking shit up. He just stood on my desk and gave me weird looks because I was singing. He actually stood with his paw out, twitching and totally ready to smack me silent. I pushed him off the desk, because damn dude. I’m bigger and I pay the rent and I can sing if I want you fluffy razor sharp narcissist.
He gave me dirty looks and jumped to his second favorite spot, wedged behind me, between the chair and my back. So now when I sing, I sing through him. He must like it, he’s purring. Together we are making noises and pressing them into each other. Even for the 20% of time he’s not intentionally being an asshole, he’s still kind of an asshole. How is it so compelling to care for a biting creature with no sense of gratitude or clue what happens outside of this house? His only responsibility is to sass around his tiny universe, slapping the Christmas tree, washing his face, napping on my head, eating, licking the nip spot on the carpet, dragging his ragged stuffed bunny up to my bed, jumping at light spots on the wall and shitting in or near a box in the basement. It’s a pretty easy life. I’m pretty sure this fucker never worries about anything.
It’s 2012 and I’m home again. What next plotnick?
To him pens or fingers moving fast is an invitation to be a moron about everything. Ankles are both menacing and delicious. Toes are snacky bed weasels. And any time I sit at my desk he claws his way to my lap and twists his big body to make himself comfortable. For Jasper, everything is about the comfort of Jasper. I end up trying not to get bumped in the nose with his BH business, while he turns in circles, stepping on my keyboard and fucking shit up. He just stood on my desk and gave me weird looks because I was singing. He actually stood with his paw out, twitching and totally ready to smack me silent. I pushed him off the desk, because damn dude. I’m bigger and I pay the rent and I can sing if I want you fluffy razor sharp narcissist.
He gave me dirty looks and jumped to his second favorite spot, wedged behind me, between the chair and my back. So now when I sing, I sing through him. He must like it, he’s purring. Together we are making noises and pressing them into each other. Even for the 20% of time he’s not intentionally being an asshole, he’s still kind of an asshole. How is it so compelling to care for a biting creature with no sense of gratitude or clue what happens outside of this house? His only responsibility is to sass around his tiny universe, slapping the Christmas tree, washing his face, napping on my head, eating, licking the nip spot on the carpet, dragging his ragged stuffed bunny up to my bed, jumping at light spots on the wall and shitting in or near a box in the basement. It’s a pretty easy life. I’m pretty sure this fucker never worries about anything.
It’s 2012 and I’m home again. What next plotnick?
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