Conventions and Conciousness

"All boundaries are conventions, waiting to be transcended. One may transcend any convention, if one can first conceive of doing so. . . . .My life extends far beyond the limits of me.  - Cloud Atlas

A basic law of the universe is that energy cannot be created nor destroyed, it can only change form. The same law applies to our consciousness.

I’ve finally picked up Women Who Run With the Wolves the past couple of days and continued to read it. The author mentions a Japanese philosopher, Shotoku Taishi, who lived at the turn of the 6^th century. Among other things, he taught that one must do psychic work in both the inner and outer worlds; even more so, he taught tolerance for every creature, human, and emotion. Imagine that? She goes on to say, “Even raw and messy emotions are a form of light, crackling, bursting with energy.”

This makes more sense to me than anything I've heard up until now. 

This particular topic resonated with me this morning, mostly because I still feel an intense form of rage. It’s one of those unpleasant and taboo emotions that we’re often told we can’t feel. “Just get over it” is something I’ve heard more times than I care to count. PTSD doesn’t work that way. I sincerely wish I could just get over it and let it go, but that’s not really addressing the issue, is it?

I had an interesting conversation with the bartender at a wine bar recently. He suggested several books which I feel like I have to get immediately . . . but then I remember I’m still working through my beloved journey with the wolves and have a couple of Dean Radin’s works that I’ve set aside as well. One of the names he mentioned (I think it may have been a philosopher and not an author) was this: from birth, we spend the rest of our lives trying to heal ourselves. Why is that? My best guess is that we spend more time suppressing feelings (particularly the ‘bad’ ones) rather than expressing them, or finding an outlet to expel those emotions.

I think it's the permission part that I struggle with. It's a common theme with me, isn't it? 

So I’m feeling an intense rage right now. I can acknowledge that. Nothing spells out ‘rage’ more than a flurry of messages sent online that are rampant with grammatical errors. This was an exchange that took place between the friend from tango and I, because I’m still trying to wrap my head around why he’d badger me into admitting something I didn’t want to share. Perhaps I need to stop asking ‘why’ and simply accept that we’re all human and flawed to some degree.

Perhaps the Irish Lass needs to remind herself of this more often.

It’s not only the PTSD relapse, but other things taking place in my life that have compounded my current anger. I’m angry at a few people in my life at the moment.

My office environment feels toxic to me now. I sincerely don’t want to come into work (but I don’t really have a choice, do I?) because I don’t want to be subjected to such an insidious personality (DF) and a manager who sticks his head in the sand. For the record, I like him very much as a person. He’s just poor management material. It took me taking a sick day because I was simply not functional and sending him an e-mail again explaining the toxicity of my interactions with DF, my PTSD was triggered and that I had called the union to mediate a meeting for him to pay attention. Still, this was something he didn’t handle himself. He finally had our HR person handle the situation after over a year of complaints not only from me, but from others in the office, regarding DF's behavior. I’m furious that it had to come to this before anything was done about the atmosphere of the office in which I work 5 days a week. I'm sure only a few words spoken to her by someone of authority (because she appeared to take my own concerns with a grain of salt) would have remedied the situation fairly quickly. I currently spend most of my life at work and it’s the last place on earth I should be triggered because someone else needs to scream about her victimization. I’m tempted to include an excerpt from her ranting, but I just can’t bring myself to do it. I’ll just say that it surmounts to a 12 page diatribe of someone in a victim contest crying wolf. That’s the best description I can give.

I don't like using this expression. It's an insult to the wolves. 

I have one friendship that I wasn’t sure about and when I spent a weekend with this friend after not seeing her for a couple of months, I ultimately decided that her presence in my life is not beneficial to me. I’ve grown tired of friendships that are clearly one sided and I was mentally exhausted by the end of the weekend. Part of that was due to me having to pay for 85% of everything that weekend and she knows full well that I’m struggling and, unlike her, I don’t live rent free with my parents who pay my bills. The other part was a consistent domination of conversation: if I brought up a topic she’d quickly interrupt me and rattle on and on and on; and the conversation would quickly turn to something that she was angry about: mostly people. If she didn’t talk over me to express anger over something, it was to tell me something along the lines of her speaking several languages or that she’s a descendant of the Romanovs. The last portion is her need to make herself seem so important to others . . . and also her love of drinking. This is not a person I care to have in my life. I’m trying to figure out a way to phase her out. While the mature thing is to have a conversation with her, I’m simply done with exerting energy of any form into this friendship and I’m done with explaining myself.

I no longer have the patience for this.

Another friendship began with an agreement to support one another through the difficult times. I had done my best to prop him up, particularly when my life was in a state of chaos. When he asked how I was doing and I honestly told him, he all but vanished from my life. It’s the feeling of abandonment that upsets me; it’s also the feeling of being used.

A good friend who has known me for many years, particularly through one of the harder times in my life as a young teenager, said something in one of our online exchanges that resonated with me. She said I was so used to having to take so much garbage from everyone else (because I had no choice in the matter) that I feel guilty when I ask, “What’s left for me?” I consider this friend to be a kindred spirit. In fact, as I define soul mates in a way that differs from the general consensus, I’d say she’s one of my soul mates. I think her observation was spot on. I feel undeserving most of the time which is probably why the slightest form of kindness almost always brings me to tears.

I think what's left for me is nature and the hound.

I made a promise to myself that this year would be better. I’m cutting off as much dead weight as I can. I’m still trying to find a new position. I’m still submitting applications and am now seriously considering looking outside of this organization. It’s a pity when I think about it, because all of this work-related nonsense was preventable. I’m cutting off ties with friends who use me for whatever resources they can take.

My energy is better spent making room for more genuine things in my life.

While I can’t cut off my emotions, I’m trying to find the best way to channel them. I don’t know if my best plan of attack right now is to dig deeper and see what other unresolved aspects of my life experience are surfacing on some subconscious level, or simply acknowledging that the anger is a real thing right now. 

I still have yet to find the 'hardest' thing in life. Unfortunately, I tend to take a match to things. 

Cheats, Liars and Anger

“Bitterness is like cancer. It eats upon the host. But anger is like fire. It burns it all clean.” – Maya Angelou

I have a sense that this will be a rage fueled rant of epic proportion.

I am royally pissed off. My closest friend and mentor has been telling me for years that there is always an ulterior motive with men. That message is starting to sink in now and I’m feeling resentful, embittered and enraged at the vast majority of males that I have encountered in my lifetime.

One of the things in the world I hate the most is liars and those trying to gain my trust through false pretenses. It’s dishonest and only makes me angry at the offender. I met someone a little over a year ago at a company function and asked his name. I remembered him at this year’s gathering. It’s part of my job to remember people and also a personality trait. I’m curious. I want to know what people are about. That said, I try not to be invasive and let another person share with me at their own pace.

So, upon seeing the aforementioned person again, he suggested we meet up sometime, as friends and also to discuss psychology because that’s his current area of study, he’s new to the area, etc. In hindsight, there are things that should have been red flags to me much earlier on, but I’m not going to ruminate on what I overlooked. We exchanged a few e-mails and he wanted my number because it was his preferred method of contact. I’m rolling my eyes as I type these words because I’ve heard that line a million times. Like an idiot, I eventually gave it to him.

why? Why? WHY??????

He sent me a text on New Year’s after wrapping up at the event he had worked saying he needed an ‘Irish Lass’ hug. The fact that I didn’t call him out right then and there makes my blood boil a little bit. That was the first indicator that this guy was after something more than his false pretense of friendship. I should also note that he is twice my age and has children older than me. Something is very wrong here. Granted, I do have older friends – but now that I think about it those older friends come in couples, not some prowling male hoping to make it with a gal half his age.

This past Sunday he said he wanted to get together – a kind gesture to pull me out of the state of sadness I’ve managed to wallow in for some time now. I had no idea what we were doing and he didn’t say where we were going when he came to pick me up. I was startled because I thought we would do something downtown and he was driving towards Washington. I asked him where we were going. He told me we were headed to a vineyard in Ridgefield. I have no idea where Ridgefield is, panicked a little and told him that I carry weapons.

There is no point to this photo. Just the intense level of cutenss. 

During the drive, he kept probing me about my life, asking for more details on what I shared with him. This is another behavior I hate. Something is wrong here. If you barely know me, you have no right to ask such personal information about me – you wretched pretentious prick. What bothers me the most about this is that I am a horrible liar and my answers are always honest. I don’t know how to respond any differently. It’s clear to me now that I either need to work on building up my psychological walls or learn to spew untruths with a poker face. I am royally pissed off. Don't examine every detail of my life through a microscope unless you are prepared to be ripped to shreds by my words. 

Can you feel that rage? It's a very real thing right now.

Wine tasting at a vineyard . . .  it was nice. He had packed a picnic saying he wasn’t sure how the weather was going to turn out. Now that I think about it, his explanation makes no sense whatsoever: it was pissing rain all day long. I thought his gesture was kind for going through the trouble of preparing something. As we got in the car I suggested we go back to my apartment, watch a movie and eat his ‘picnic’ meal when he expressed disappointment in the bad weather.

I'll set them on fire myself! He knew what the weather was like. Pretentious bastard.

There had been a nagging question in the back of my mind the entire time I was with him. What is this guy’s angle? What the hell does he want from me? I ask him as much and his response starts with, “I’m a hot blooded male . . . “ and he went on to say that he’d never force himself on me. Holy fucking hell! I should have fled from the moving car right then and there. I don’t know why I didn’t. I wasn’t quite processing his true intentions at the time, I only knew that something didn’t feel quite right: That small voice in the back of your head that tells you to run away. That small voice in my head that told me I should cancel on Sunday until I learned more about this guy. I ignored it. I’m currently angry at myself for ignoring it, but acknowledging that at long last I’m finally starting to pay attention to it, even if it doesn’t have my full attention yet.

Hot blooded male?! I am grinding my teeth in anger!!

I put on a movie and he puts food onto plates. He continuously grazed my knee with his hand, put his arm around my shoulder, asking me to sit closer to him. I was rigid. Any person within their right state of mind could probably pick up that I was tense because I was uncomfortable. He hugged me as he left and attempted to kiss me. I physically recoiled. He didn’t back off and instead said, “Just a small one?” I barely let my lips touch his because I wanted to be far removed from him and, at that time, seemed to be the only way that I would be able to manage to get him out.

Underneath her barley there smile is a woman who desperately wants to punch him in the face. I feel like doing a lot of punching right now. I physically resisted. He is clearly an asshat and he disgusts me.

I decided the next day that I’m ghosting his sorry ass. He’s blocked from e-mail and my phone. I have nothing to say to him. Idiot! I’m past explaining myself and I’m past making excuses for others. That pathetic piece of shit; men like him are the reason I have trust issues. If he was trying to groom me into some form of dependence on him by being so invasive on my life experiences he failed miserably.

I’ve been turning the actions of a former friend over in my mind – the one who demanded to know what was on my heart. When I expressed anger at what I felt was a cross of my personal and emotional boundaries, he became offensive. He told me that it didn’t come as a surprise. If that’s the case, why did he have to hear me say it? The only thing that makes any form of sense to me is that his ego needed that from me. Fuck him and his ego right up the ass.  Apparently my efforts to build him up emotionally weren’t enough, so he had to take it one step further. He sickens me; and I think my anger here isn’t just his disregard for my emotional boundaries, but also when he asked how I was doing and I gave an honest answer he pretty much faded himself out. I guess it was fine for me to listen to his problems but that action couldn’t be reciprocated.

Unfortunately, I think this is the driving force in most of us. 

I’ve been walking around with a consistent form of bitch face – I’m that angry. This is a stark contrast from someone who smiles warmly at the world around her. Lately, I have people who see me on a regular basis ask me if I’m okay . . . . the bitch face is that strong in this one. I also feel like punching things and am avoiding the male population as much as possible to save myself from exploding on some poor, unsuspecting soul who had nothing to do with anything I’m feeling right now.

Yesterday I went through a wide range of emotions as I hashed it all out in therapy. My anger over the actions of these self-proclaimed ‘friends’ who are now dead to me. My anger over the recent antics of the Dirty Faerie Creature (DF) in the office, and the recent news of my adoptive father’s Alzheimer’s diagnosis.

I’ll start with DF. She involved herself with a man who was sexually coercive and manipulative. It’s now a huge thing in the anarchist vegan feminist biking community. On a tangent, when a vegan and a cyclist are mixed into one person it can only mean bad news. It’s a form of smug self-righteousness from opposite sides of the spectrum that meet somewhere in the middle to create a form of evil spawn that can only be described as the love child of Satan and Hades. Sprinkle in anarchy and feminism with shouts of ‘Fascist!’ and ‘Misogyny!’ and Portland now has a whirlwind of smug self-righteousness that’s sure to drag every last one of us to hell.

Funny, right? Now imagine the love child of those two assholes. 

I know about DF’s experience because she has made a point of telling me about her experience – as well as everyone else in the office. I felt bad for her the first day she talked about it and then that all went down the drain fairly quickly as she started writing posts about her hickeys from a new year’s celebration. It wasn’t just that, but her need to talk about it to me and my office mate that didn’t sit well with me. She said his actions triggered her long subdued PTSD and it was because of this state of mind that she had sex with this guy in the first place. I am by no means an expert of PTSD, but I have dealt with it for many years and I know of not one person with a history of sexual abuse who, upon being triggered, would willingly have sex with someone who has just upset them by inappropriate behavior. Her continual discussions about this topic in the workplace have triggered my PTSD – and that royally pisses me off. I go to therapy once a week. I have put in many hours, a hell of a lot of work, and have paid a significant amount of money to make progress. Perhaps DF should consider going to see a professional instead of using her co-workers as therapists. I discussed this topic at length with my therapist yesterday, wondering if I was a horrible person, a calloused human being because I could not give DF any support. My therapist doesn’t see me in that light, but pointed out how the unchecked behavior of DF that never experiences a form of consequence is frustrating and her topics of discussion are almost always unsettling to me.

I don't think I could have described her better . . . .Misogyny!

For the first time in a while, I visited my adopted family over the weekend. I offered to make dinner in exchange for the use of an iron and ironing board . . . . and I was also dying to try out my new spiralizer. It was during this time that my adoptive mother, Morgan, told me of my beloved Jefe’s illness. I watched how she interacted with him. I’m sure she means well – she just has a way of infantizing others, rendering them to the level of a 5-year-old that is utterly helpless and can do nothing for himself/herself. I listened as she told him, “Look at what I’m doing. I’m writing your hike on your calendar for tomorrow. Tomorrow is Sunday.” I saw the expression of frustration on his face. I know that feeling, I truly do. The problem with a diagnosis is that people do start to treat you differently, despite their protests that it’s just not so. Whether they realize it or not, the label of a diagnosis causes most people to look at the diagnosed in a different light. I’ve been where he’s been in that regard. My adoptive father, Jefe, has every ounce of empathy I have to give.

Over the course of that day, I got the impression that Jefe had simply given up. He’s accepted the label and he’s mirroring the symptoms that others are projecting on him – levels of forgetfulness that have always been a part of his personality, but now ascribed to a disease. Witnessing his surrender, his refusal to keep fighting may be one of the most disheartening things I’ve ever seen.

Don't let anyone tell you who you are. 

My adoptive father and brother gave me a ride home from therapy yesterday. I was in tears when they picked me up. I am past the point of shoving anything down because I don’t think there’s any room. I’m feeling a wide range of intense emotions and it won’t let up. I hate crying in front of anyone and I couldn’t keep it at bay. The traffic was piling up as they drove me home, and I don’t know why, but I wanted to jump out of the car and run until my feet were blistered and bleeding and broken. I don’t know what or where I wanted to run towards, only that I felt suffocated and devastated. 

Today, I feel both anger and suffocation. I don't know how to bring this one to an end and I can't remember the last time I've felt such intense anger and mixed emotions. Maybe I'll delete this entry, maybe I'll print it out and burn it to give me some form of symbolism for burning bridges . . . and liar's pants . . .