Puzzle Pieces

“The Troll was well over seven feet tall, and smelled of body odour and Germolene.” – Andrew Barrett, A Splendid Salmagundi

You must pay the toll!

It looks like I’ve made a new friend. There was an anonymous comment left on this blog entry. I inadvertently deleted it. However, look what I found in my e-mail: “’He had our HR person handle the situation. I’m furious . . .’ you are not just furious, you are bat shit crazy. Of course he had HR deal with you. Nobody ever wins an argument with a crazy lady!”

In my attempt to respond to the comment, it was deleted. Then another comment was left. I’m flattered, really. Someone invested that much energy in leaving an anonymous comment and then going back to my blog to see what their handiwork had accomplished.  

That’s as much of a platform I’m willing to give. Anonymous comments have been disabled – so if someone wishes to tell me I’m awful it must be done publicly. I’m sorry.

Just kidding! I’m not. This is my space.

I have a busy month ahead of me. I’m officiating a wedding for a friend, hosting his rehearsal and also mc-ing for the groom and bride. I’m not sure how the bride is fairing, but I can say that I feel like pulling my hair out every now and then. I’m honored they’ve asked me to do this for them, which is why I want everything to go smoothly.

Guess who gets to go back to biking next week?! This gal. My knee is finally healed from my stupid crash. I’ve felt like running in circles a little bit because I haven’t had an outlet for stress due to my knee being busted. I’m looking forward to getting back out there – and also intend to try riding up the hill to work someday. I’ll flaunt my victory when it’s done (it’s a heavy bike!). The next time I see someone with their fancy bike and gear I’d love nothing more than to lean over and whisper I’m better than you.

For the record, I wouldn’t really do that; these are the kinds of thoughts that cross my mind.

I'd say this is a pretty adequate representation of me right now.

Because I wasn’t biking while my knee was healing, I rode a different bus route to work that gave me an extra 20 minutes before I had to leave. I met a man on the bus. I think he has mistaken my friendliness as flirtation and has sent me a couple of email messages (he works for the same organization as me – and it’s a huge place). I’m just not interested and sounded very much like a petulant teenager when I was telling someone about my interaction with this man and exclaimed, I don’t want to!

Any person with common sense would simply say no. I am one of those idiots who has a really hard time doing that – which is why I’m scattered in 8 different directions more often than not. For now, however, I’m just avoiding the issue altogether.

If I can't see you I can't hear you. 

The last few weeks have been fairly intense. I’m in my new position. I love it immensely and I’m scrambling to learn everything as quickly as possible. It’s been an interesting transition. I work with a great and highly organized group of people with a high standard. When they reached out to me about the opening in their division I took that as high praise. I’m a lucky lady.

In other news, the hound and I may be volunteering for a weekend this summer at a camp for children with arthritis. A patient told me about it. I was floored; I thought arthritis was something that only comes with age. I can’t imagine experiencing that kind of pain. The organizer of the events seems happy to have the hound and me onboard. Merlin is going to be thrilled. Basset hounds are social by nature. Merlin has that trait magnified 10 times over. That’s one of the things that makes him so wonderful.

The cuteness! It kills me. Merlin does enjoy a good belly rub. Disclaimer: This is not Merlin.

As anticipated, memories have surfaced as I’ve been working on my blogumentary. It’s unpleasant but not impossible. It’s frustrating, but not overbearing. I’ll speak frankly, because this is my space and there’s something to telling secrets rather than trying to bury them. Clarissa Pinkola Estes touches on this in Women Who Run With the Wolves, “The keeping of secrets cuts a woman off from those who would give her love, succor, and protection. It causes her to carry the burden of grief and fear all by herself, and sometimes for an entire group, whether family or culture. Further, as Jung said, keeping secrets cuts us off from the unconscious.”

Her words are a source of strength while I keep digging. 

I’ve been surrounding myself with childhood things to remember my past. A plethora of things I had buried so far down that I had forgotten about them resurfaced. I was 19 and recently back from Africa. I met a man who asked about volunteering for one of the groups I worked with. I gave him my number because I was trusting and naïve. His name was Rajinder. I simply referred to him as ‘Raja’. He helped distribute food baskets to families in need over the holidays. We grabbed dinner together and I remember him telling me that he was recently released from prison for kidnapping and wanted to be upfront and honest with me. I don’t remember how he diminished that charge with his explanation, only that I didn’t feel threatened by him. I was in his apartment one evening and he started tickling me. He then kissed my neck and said, “It’s either this or tickles.” I have no idea what took place after that because I don’t remember and I’m bothered by that. I do know that I never spoke to him again. I feel as if I left there unscathed. I’ll hold on to that feeling.

Recently, I reached out to someone on facebook because his daughter was struggling with depression and suicidal tendencies. We’ve never met in person, we just know each other from an online group we both belonged to at one point. In his response to me, he referred to me as ‘yummy’ (he was looking at my photos for some reason). I feel nauseous and angry at the same time – not just because I felt objectified by him, but also because he has a wife and a teenage daughter struggling with depression. He’s been blocked and I’ll probably never speak to him again. I feel anger for his words to me and also for what I feel is blatant disregard for the emotional wellbeing of his teenage daughter. That’s not okay in my book.

I, on the other hand, am not a cheeseburger. Don't refer to me as 'yummy', asshole!

Perhaps I overreacted because of the fuzzy memory that resurfaced from when I was 19. I don’t know the answer.

I do know that I'm still putting the pieces of my life puzzle together. I should have been doing this work a long time ago. I am now, I suppose that's what really matters. I'm digging up the secrets I've buried and telling the stories that I never told. 

Something’s gotta stop the flow.

If you don’t recognize that line, it’s from an amazing movie called Ink. If you haven’t seen it I suggest putting it on your list. I’ve always had a hard time explaining it. It’s just that good.

The pathfinder in what is arguably one of the most memorable scenes. 

Now that my knee is better I think I might take up running again. I really need to. I know Merlin would want to join me, but he needs to take it easy. I used to be filled with an immense amount of guilt whenever I left him alone because I leave him alone when I’m at work all day. I’ve just acknowledged recently that I need to take time for myself, too. I doubt Merlin will hold it against me. He’s a happy camper as long as he gets his slow, meandering walks in the morning and evening. 

"I hope you will go out and let stories, that is life, happen to you, and that you will work with these stories . .  water them with your blood and tears and laughter till they bloom, till you yourself burst into bloom."  - Clarissa Pinkola Estes, Women Who Run With the Wolves

Turning Demons Into Ghosts

“When a woman insists ‘I am a survivor’ over and over again once the time for its usefulness is past, the work ahead is clear. We must loosen the person’s clutch on the survivor archetype. Otherwise nothing else can grow. “-  Clarissa Pinkola Estes, Women Who Run With the Wolves

There were a couple of nights last week when I simply just didn’t feel like sitting around in my tiny apartment, so I hit the pub by my house instead. On one of these nights I brought a copy of Women Who Run With the Wolves. I was specifically looking for a passage I had in mind to bring encouragement to a former co-worker. As I was shifting through the pages, I kept finding words that felt as if they were meant for me. I imagine I brought a tad bit of attention to myself, appearing as a mad woman by the constant change of my facial expressions with joy from one epiphany after another mixed in with the scowling of defeat while flipping through pages and not finding what I originally sought . . . . and every so often sipping my Feckin Ale.

The passage from Pinkola Estes struck a chord with me. At some point I had come to despise the word ‘survivor’, because I began to associate it with ‘victim’ and I really have no desire for any label whatsoever. Then I wondered how long I had felt that way towards that mentality; I couldn’t remember. And then I wondered if the book had planted that idea in my head at some point. Well played Pinkola Estes. Well played.

Can we just agree that I'm awesome and badass in general?

I can’t remember the last time I’ve felt at peace with myself and the life I’m living. I wonder if I ever have until now. I’m not the only one who’s noticed. I actually had my adopted brother tell me that this is the first time since he’s met me that I haven’t seemed scattered and emotionally overwhelmed. He’s known me since I was 15. A good friend I’ve known since my early high school years has made the same observation through our online conversations. Since we live so far apart, we write each other notes and give ourselves the space to be honest with each other about what we’re thinking and feeling in life.

A large portion of my sense of finally having control of my life can be attributed to the project I began after watching Dear Zachary. It was such a sad story and had my mind running in circles over so many different things. Then I remembered what the director of the film said early on: he wanted to document the memories of his dear friend before they were lost forever. I realized I had a treasure trove in my possession: a large package sent to me by a distance relative several years ago that contained old letters my father had written to his grandparents ranging from the age of 10 up until he was 24.

A letter my father wrote around age 10 on the heading of my great-grandfather's business paper. This is too precious for words. 

I had to do something with this.

I started scanning and uploading old photos, letters, and documents. They tell a story. In fact, they tell many stories. I’m still piecing it together. I started what I call a ‘blogumentary’ – a good friend of mine equated it to a time capsule and is fascinated by my project while coming up with brilliant ideas of different directions I can take with it. I think the most important aspect of this project was the letters. It brought a piece of someone dearly missed in my life back to me. I laughed, I cried and I remembered. I remembered so many happy times I have with him. I’m still trying to wrap my mind around how I remember my father so much more over anyone else. I don’t have an answer. Perhaps it has to do with attachment theories and how closely I was bonded to him – perhaps it’s because I was given a great gift. I’ve seen many dark times in my life, and those memories were literally the only thing that kept me going. Knowing that someone loved me so selflessly at least once in my life kept a candle burning in me somewhere.

Reading the letters validates how I remember him - someone genuinely lovely and one of a kind. Of course, he had his flaws as all of us do in some form. I'd like to ask him about certain times in his life. I wish I could sit down and chat with him about all of this and also laugh at him - because he looks ridiculous in the photo of him smoking at 15. He was obviously a late bloomer. 

HA!

Eventually I’ll talk about the others and probably how my life played out in very distinct chapters after their deaths. I’m trying to remember and I’m processing. The entry about my father was emotionally difficult. The difference this time was that I wasn’t drowning in emotion – merely experiencing the sadness of loss. It didn’t feel like a floodgate had opened, causing me to feel so many things at once that I was not only overwhelmed, but in despair. No. I wasn’t the emotion this time. It was merely a small part of me for a moment. As my therapist put it when she noticed such a stark change in my demeanor that I know she’s never seen before: I’m turning my demons into ghosts.

Of course, my blogumentary may not be the only thing that deserves credit for my new aura. I started working for my new division two weeks ago. The division manager and I had been talking about me onboarding with them about a month prior to that. I guess it helped that there was a light at the end of the tunnel. The interpersonal atmosphere of my previous job began to get the best of me and I was all but miserable. I knew I needed to get out and I suppose knowing that I wouldn’t didn’t cause me to feel helpless. I heeded the advice of a good friend and kept submitting applications and going to one interview after another. She told me that it would make me feel like I was doing something about it, even if I knew I was ultimately at the mercy of the interviewers. She was right. I felt like I was in control of the situation even though I knew I wasn’t really. The majority of us spend most of our time at work. I think it’s important to be with people that make us happy and give us a sense of value.

Stupidity and meanness in general. How is that kind of attitude ever acceptable? 

Additionally, reconnecting with an old and dear friend who has encouraged me through the tough times has been a blessing in my life as well. When I doubted myself she reminded me of who I was. She reminded me of who I was so long ago – a version of myself I had all but forgotten. She reminded me of who I was. My father, through his letters, the photos and the memories that I’ve held close to me throughout my life – he also reminded me of who I was. I reconnected with that part of myself somehow.

Perhaps everything aligned in the perfect order at the perfect time. I don’t know the answer, really. I just know that I’m grateful.

While emotional pain has been off the dockets, physical pain is something else entirely. I was up late Monday morning with Merlin at the pet hospital. I thought he might have cancer and I was preparing myself for the worst – telling myself that I’d make him as comfortable as possible and give myself, and those who knew him ample time to say goodbye. The end result was arthritis. Arthritis from old age and also from the genetic ailments of being a basset hound. Not the best news in the world, but certainly not the worst, either. He can’t do any more trail hikes, and for the time being we only walk a block or two at a time.

I felt badly about it for a few days because I realized that while I’ve simply thought that he’s just slowed down over the last several months he’s been in a considerable amount of pain. He limps a little still. I hate it because I know he’s hurting and I don’t want that for him. Admittedly, I am a little sad over it – but I knew this would come eventually. Merlin won’t out live me and someday he won’t be with me anymore. To date, he has been the only constant presence in my life throughout my journey of healing and self-discovery. He’s pretty special, and I’m not the only one who sees it.

Just look at him! He's so many levels of awesome in a short legged package. 

So, after being at the pet hospital for nearly 5 hours and getting home quite late – I decide to bike to work the next day. I distinctly remember having some form of a subliminal message telling me that, for that morning in particular, it wasn’t a good idea. I’m sure it was because I knew I was tired from the late night. It had been a very long day overall. The ride was fine until I got to the tram that transports us bottom dwellers to the top of the hill. It was then that I rode my bike just a tad bit farther in than usual before dismounting and walking the rest of the way. That tiny bit of extra distance was enough for me to get my front wheel caught in the street car tracks and flip over with my bike. I think the adrenaline prevented me from knowing the extent of my injuries until a couple of days later. OMG! It hurts!

Yeah . . . . that really happened. I'm never riding near those things again.

I’ve been limping around like an arthritic drunkard. I took a huge chunk of flesh out of my knee. It’s growing back and that process is unpleasant – it’s a sharp, stinging pain followed by a constant, dull aching. I impacted both of my wrists and somehow managed to jar one of my shoulders. I’m finally able to lift my right arm upwards to full extension, but not for long because the pain kicks in. Merlin and I are quite the pair these days. We both limp around the neighborhood on short walks.

This isn't my knee, but from the looks of it, a fairly similar grappling match with the concrete. 

Seeing that it was only the second week of me biking to and from work – I’m slightly disappointed. My landlord was kind enough to agree to look at my bike to make sure it’s safe to ride and even offered me the use of his mountain bike in the meantime. A kind offer, but I have a feeling my knee would split open and then I’d fall of the side of the road, land in a ditch somewhere and barely manage to crawl myself out only to be hit by oncoming traffic. I decided I wasn’t biking for at least the rest of the week. If my knee is still recovering, possibly not next week, either. I just want to throw a bandaid on the stupid thing and be done with it. I was proud of myself for biking that hilly road home using a heavy framed 3 speed bike when everyone else has fancy lightweight bikes with pedal assist. Biking made me feel efficiently tough for a few days and then I tipped over and realized I’m not. Fine.

That's a potentially real scenario. This photo proves it. Sort of. 

Two of my favorite people took me to dinner last night. Considering that this week has been draining in general, it was a treat to be around two folks who are so uplifting. I admitted that I thought that waiter was cute and could barely manage eye contact with him. It’s pathetic, really. Then again, I don’t care. Having a shyness about me doesn’t bother me a bit. I’m quite content with where I am. Granted, I have had some moments which cause me to stop and think to myself, What on earth has come over me? I don’t know how it works. Maybe I’ll learn to tap into that boldness energy as well.

Someday I won't cling to the wall avoiding what's in front of me nearly every single time. 

I realized I haven’t been dancing in over a year now. I’m okay with that. For some time I missed it a good deal. I have too many other things going on right now. I’ve gone back to writing and that’s an art form that genuinely makes me happy. I’m focusing on my new job. Also, I’m focusing on the hound. I don’t want him to leave this world and have regrets about time I could have spent with him and things I could have done for him and with him. I suppose there’s always room for more, but I give him as much as I can. For someone who has given so much to me and supported me through times when my mind got the best of me, he deserves every good thing I can give him. 

Merlin's smug look of self fulfillment after walking into my doctor's office and barking at him.

When walking with Merlin I'm now in the habit of automatically saying, "Excuse me! Will you let my dog say hello?" He's a love. A big, gigantic, wonderful love. 

Quandaries

“The curtain of the universe is moth-eaten, and through its holes we see nothing now but mask and ghost.” Emil Cioran, A Short Story of Decay

I’ve turned over the conundrum of fairness in my mind lately. I wonder if this is a concept that is purely human made, if this is something that actually applies to the Universe, or if we have a flawed perspective how we think this should apply to our lives and what we perceive as a linear pattern set before us by a deity or the Unmanifest. There have been a few studies that barely scrape the surface of the concept of fairness, and none of these seem to give a definitive answer. Some of these studies examine the behavior of young toddlers, concluding that at such a young age there is an understanding of the morality of fairness. There are many theories on this rudimentary understanding of a moral compass: evolutionary for the survival of tribes, cultural and taught by birth through actions of parents and other figures in the child’s life, some even suggest a Western-invented concept that has nothing to do with biology. I’d agree that this is a learned behavior – and yet this concept, in some form, exists in every single culture. Isn’t that something?

My current philosophical quandary is not that the concept of fairness exists, but how it has come to be that we believe it should apply to all aspects of life. I see this belief as something antiquated that was an ideal that I simply needed to hold on to for the sole purpose of my own survival. If I didn’t believe there would be a silver lining in the clouds someday I would have given up ages ago. Perhaps I never understood the concept of karma, but hasn’t there always been a belief that good behavior, a good life, is somehow rewarded? I just can’t believe that anymore. I suppose it’s because I thought that there was some sort of purpose to my life, some linear path . . . . some force behind all that I’ve lived. That doesn’t exist. What takes place in life that is outside of our control is purely random.

There is no linear projection - no path to follow.

When something awful happens our first thought tends to be, ‘It’s not fair.’ No, it’s not. This is simply life. It’s not fair that anyone we love in this life suffers, or has left us suffering by their departure from this world. Would it be any fairer if that fate had befallen someone else? I ask myself that a good deal, and recently saw something that caused me to pose the question again.

Kurt Kuenne filmed a documentary in the wake of his best friend’s death, ‘Dear Zachary’. He intended this tragically beautiful film as a letter to his departed friend’s son, Zachary, who would never know his father. It’s the celebration of one man’s life, and also the mourning of his passing as well as a tremendous loss that should have never happened. It should never have happened because it was preventable and it should never have happened because these are the tragedies in life that make us say, “It’s not fair” and leave us to question that powers that be.  

It made me think of my own father as well. What are his thoughts on what I've done with myself?

I can think of only two people who live on this earth, aside from my therapist, who know the dark secrets my past holds, particularly regarding my father’s death – and that fact that I know I will never see justice for him is one of the many issues I’ve been working through. For those few that know me in this regard and watch this documentary, I think one could easily make the correlation of why this young boy’s short lived life struck such a chord with me . . . .  There were so many parallels regarding his father and mother, his grandparents, custody, and the blatant failings of the legal system. Nothing is perfect in this life. The judicial system exists to protect most, but the same rules don’t apply to all and this is why something so awful was allowed to happen; because it could have been prevented.

I think I can begin to understand how hard my grandmother fought for me. She never stopped, not even when cancer was besting her. I can't imagine the anger and sadness she felt when she would have to look my mother in the eyes, hand me over to my mother, and know that she was giving me to the person responsible for my father's death. I understand now why my grandmother had so much worry for me when I wasn't where I was supposed to me. I can't imagine how she felt knowing she was grappling with the devil and knowing there would never be justice for her son, my father.

Dearest Zachary - you are in my thoughts and I've never met you.

I have often asked myself what my life has exactly amounted to, and if I would have been better off had I not survived . . .  because at times I honestly feel as if I’ve made nothing of myself and perhaps the gift of life was wasted on me entirely. Please don't think me suicidal. That's not the case. It just raises the question in my mind and I'm searching to find what, if anything, of value I have contributed to the world. I wonder about that boy, Zachary, who happens to share the name of my father. I wonder how his life would have formed knowing what happened to his father, knowing who was responsible. I wonder if the outcome of my own life thus far would be any different had I never known that truth about my own parents.

My grandmother, Patricia, in her young years of motherhood. 

My father, Zachary, just as I remember him. Always smiling. 

This is where they are now.

One thing I’ve heard throughout most of my life that drives me slightly batty is, “You’ve had more than your fair share.” I know they mean well. It’s just something that weighs heavy on me because I know how unfair life can feel and the saying almost insinuates that there is still something better, something somehow deserved solely because life has beat me up a bit. Being good, or trying to be good in this life does not guarantee that good things will happen. Suffering doesn’t guarantee that, either. I remember my babysitter telling me frequently when I was a young girl that I was destined for great things because I had suffered so much. At the time her words were encouraging. Now I feel as though I’ve somehow failed.

It’s during these times in life I work harder to count my blessings because sometimes they are hard to see. It’s far easier to see what is going wrong in life and how unfair it is that someone I loved died; someone I loved lost a battle to cancer, someone I love may not be here much longer because of Alzheimer’s. It’s during these times in life I am grateful to those who know who I truly am and remind me of that.

I have known someone for many years of my life. We lost touch because that’s what happens in life and since we’ve reconnected we’ve been solid ground for one another during our transitions and doubts. I’ve shared with her my spiritual journey of working with a psychic and being protected and guided by the Wolf Spirit through that amazing journey in the spiritual realm. My beautiful Sister reminded me of who I was, who I am now, and what I can be. I’ve re-posted those blog entries due to her words of encouragement . . . . . because these things we experience, even if only small glimpses, really are something amazing and of value – if not to the individual, than perhaps to someone else hearing the story.

We run and howl together, even if from a distance. 

On that note, Beautiful Sister – if you’ve ever doubted (as I have) your purpose in life, how you fit into this world, know that you are the world to me. You remind me that I’m strong, loved, and still evolving in this life. Our spiritual journeys are never over, just as our journeys in life are not. Even though we’re separated by many miles, you emanate such a radiant light in my life. 

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 . . .