I wrote the first half of this a few weeks ago, then stuck it on the desktop. I opened it, read it, and continued on as indicated where I’ve given today’s date. The difference a diagnosis makes?
I wonder why I’m stuck in my room and I realize:
Because I am content here.
I could live my life inside of a nutshell
and count myself the king of infinite space
if not that I have
And this is not a bad thing for a girl who is afraid of being sent to a concentration camp. I look out the window on the left where Dee Dee has hung a feral bougainvillea over the clamshell awning, so that its pink flowers fill the window now. They are always in bloom. I fertilized this plant once several months ago, otherwise, I’ve done nothing with it. No longer do I live in the caustic salt air at the seaside…
maybe now I’ll thrive like the bougainvillea.
I needed to prove to myself I CAN be happy with one window filled with beautiful pink blossoms dancing in the wind, playing with light and shadows, frolicking amidst my lace curtains….this is becoming an Owning Pink blog for sure…
It’s not a bad thing, Anna. To be able to reassure yourself in such simple ways. To be able to dissociate from the mess so you can do something active that will allow you to gain the confidence, energy, strength you need to clean up the mess.
You can’t clean up the mess first. A bit at a time and you are doing that…
still you BALK at simple tasks that should, yes I am shoulding on you, should be DONE. Because not doing them leads to ghastly consequences.
ooo you are all excited. You LOVE ghastly consequences. You are in your element, aren’t you?
Wait till everything seems to be going against him, then you’ll see him shine. It’s a joy to watch him…Bernard Cornwall, in the Arthur series, having Arthur’s mistress describe what she’s seen through the years as Arthur has fought his way into the power of a kingdom and gained respect and fear.
yeah. life isn’t a movie, Anna. There are no plot twists. It’s dull plodding. You can’t wait for the deux ex machina to come save the show every month. It’s not a recurring soap opera. It’s your life, child.
Ours. Lets take care of it, OKAY? It’s been hard, so hard. I understand, I empathize (how can I not? empathize with myself, I mean? easy—D.I.D.) and you’ve been overburdened. Your nerves are frayed. You are at the end of your rope. Can no one see how close you are to total breakdown?
No because I hide you when we’re in public. I won’t let you cry and rant. We can do that at home.
Meantime, let’s live a life, okay? This is rehab, only we’re in control. Let’s focus on getting well.
Not making money, not cleaning the house, not doing the laundry,
But getting well.
Inner health. Spiritual wellness. And the rest will follow. Guaranteed. Do you believe in miracles today?
Magic is difficult, and it doesn’t always work, but yes, I believe in it.
Beyond magic there is a hand of god, ineffable.
And on that I can must shall will rely.
ps what means ineffable? LOLzzz not sure…got it from Cats. Sounds good, though, and from context peeps can figure out what I mean to say even if none of us really knows the true meaning of the word.
too great or extreme to be expressed or described in words : the ineffable natural beauty of the Everglades.
Ah, not only did I chose the correct word, the dictionary supplied me with an affirming example: the Everglades. I love when it works out that way. Is it mere coincidence? sometimes. LOL
My feathery soft spirit guides surround and enfold me in their loving wings…they purr…here’s one now…flap flap flap…we can has do this, little chicken-head.
I ate a pop tart and almost puked. Yeah, too much sugar in AM sent you back to bed, huh? Where you most love to be anyway. That’s not a bad thing, Anna, loving your own company.
But even you get a little stale and need some airing, just like a baby. You need your diapers changed, the shit shoveled out so the light can come in. It’s not so hard. People do it every day. Normal people, abnormal people, hurt people, mean people, sweet people, we all do it to various degrees…
what is it like inside the brain of a normal person? I know I’m a person, no better no worse than anyone else. I’m just a tad off. How did my schizophrenic friend put it? 95 degree tilt on reality. Another comrade who did not do well. I tried to be his friend but…once outside the hospital I started getting better and he stayed sick and I was scared and annoyed by him both.
Bast forgive me, I was young. I needed to protect myself. I probably did the right thing, if not in the kindest way.
Same with Dino, nursing student bud.
May 16 2011
Baltimore basements pasta fazool endless rows of houses all look the same how do you know you are home? Aunt Bridgie’s little house probably a lot like Anne Tyler’s Baltimore. Taste of pasta fazool in my mouth. sooo good. but I ate so much i was sick and had to stretch out on the floor of the bathroom. I confessed this to my cousin Joanie she just rolled her eyes.
I served a patient with low mental functioning a triple helping of potatoes because she wanted them, then she threw up. As a nurse, I should have known better. But my little kid put those potatoes on her plate for sure. wink wink. Then was sorry. She learns.
Not all of me is up front at all times. That’s when I seem childlike. Parts of self slither off, craven, until what’s left is the part too dumb to run and hide. Doe in headlights. No wonder I panic.
That’s not nice of you guys. To leave the little one, the precious little one, all alone. Just because you can. Don’t do it. Try. At least some of you stick around. The nice girls. The goody 2 shoes. That’s fine, let the smart arises slink away we’re better off without them when dealing with the public.
And everyone is the public. everyone who isn’t us.
When I answer the phone: public
Step out my front door: public
FEAR grips me. I am exposed. I am sweating now, broke out in a hot flash sweat when I first thought about dealing with the public.
Body doesn’t lie. Palms itchy, sweaty. And I’m all alone in bed with my laptop, not even connected to the internet.
There’s a ballgame going on tonight I’m trying to ignore (we live in the Stadium Trailer Mobile Home Park and you can hear the eponymous stadium’s intercom from my bedroom). Why do I pretend it doesn’t bother me when I can
a. shut the windows
b. make covering noise (fan/air conditioning, even music–oh, wow, that’s right, I have a stereo system, I can play whatever music I want! I had it all set up to work with remote speakers in my bedroom. It worked the first day then never again. *cries* It’s all soooo complicated I can’t bear to go re-set it up again. And that’s probably all it will take. A simple reset. Yet I will sit and cry that I have to bear the imposition of garbled foozball announcements or whatever games they are up to (I am not a sportsfan) while denying it bothers me in the least…
How bizarre. But at least I have an excuse today. I have multiple personalities. What’s your excuse? LOL
No wonder everyone I talk to sincerely tells me, ‘wow, you really understand me’ Yeah, now I realize it’s because there’s enough ‘mes’ in here to assure one of me will match your single you. And that’s…splendid. Isn’t it?
I sure hope so…once the dust settles. My former therapist, my soul friend, the woman who grabbed hold of a human being inside the hollow shell I presented to the public 5 years ago and would NOT let go until she shook me free of my self-imposed cage…I owe her my life yet I have to move on. She’s taken me as far as her expertise can go. (Inner child work. Grief counseling. Freedom from abuse. Spiritual healing. 12 step recovery.)
Small stuff like that. It’s delicate…I can’t analyze my therapist, that would be ungracious. She is a miracle worker. And a human being. With all the faults and blessings of a human being. It seems to me she has a hard time showing that to me, her former student.
(I never wanted to be her patient because I could not help but be her friend. And somehow the ethics of that get sticky by certain measures in certain circumstances. When you’re a zebra on the Arizona plains you can’t afford to turn away a kindred spirit when you find one.)
And my Zebra-ness was used against me when relationships exploded though now I see I was not to blame but was the victim of a narcissistic personality disordered spouse who I chose, as Karma rules say, to fine-tune myself to the person I truly need to become in this lifetime. So no blame. Not here. I can save it for more appropriate time place and space. Is that dishonest? Or efficient?
do I babble on and on like a babblefish because each persona has to have her say before I’m done? And is that why sometimes it’s repetitive but sometimes I surprise and delight myself with what I come up with when the paragraph’s done. I don’t know when to start/stop. start stop stop.
MOSAICS & MORE, a set on Flickr.
Mostly sold work, some I still have
I’m starting a fiction catagoy of blogs here, and some of my stuff gets racy, if not downright pornographic. So I’ve password protected the posts I thought some of you would rather not read.
For peeps looking for hardcore pron, forget it, that’s boring and I’m not into it. But I realize I go overboard sometimes in my fantasies and my writing advice has always been OVERwrite, you can always cut later.
As Loresnna Bobbit would have said. For those too young for the reference, I’ll spare you. If you NEED to know, Google it. I’ll not be responsible.
You know, LOLcat for porn? Pron. But tropical, shrimp, prawn. Helps ME remember it anyway.
So if you can’t stand to see words like p-nis spelled out or dislike graphic thrusting in group scenes of various genders, then skip the stuff you need to password access. I hope that solves the problem and my entire blog doesn’t get labeled unsuitable.
says the young teacher who is suspected by some students of being a werewolf. In these days of Vampire Everything, gullible and bored jr and high school kids are all too willing to get into the mystery of this oddball teacher’s real identity. Even if it means calling in Van Helsing and sacrificing a virgin or two.
Which is one reason Rhiannon is wild to give up her virginity. Sadly, the girl’s had no takers, despite the statistics and the movies saying all you needed to do was manuever a bare half-nipple into a guy’s pubescent fingers and he’d have your hymen a shredded banner to your former naivete and unpopularity metaphorically desintigrating to nothingness behind the plump firm fancy favor the girl sews and presents to her man and the world if her man (boy) won’t grab it up and wave it. Hell, she’ll wave it herself. And no more lonely nights (why did putting music behind the most banal lyrics elevate them to something strong and poetic? Was a magical material change happening in the dance of beats per minute and beats per heart and rhymes per line? Or was it smoke and mirrors?)
Her best gay girllfriend Kenneth would role/roll his eyes: Both, they are both, Annon.
I say he roled his eyes, spell it both ways because that’s what happens. His eyes roll and take on a new role. He’s the best actor at Rafters High School, but he doesn’t get the best parts because, well, he’s kind of faggy, to be honest. And tall without being buff or imposing. And he lets his hair grow pretty long and natural and curly, sort of like Brian May or Peter Frampton, which are adorable looks, but not leadiing man looks.
Robert Daltry pulled it off. He must have been real macho or something. My friends tell me I should get with the popular musicians of today, not moon about the raisins of my mother’s generation. But she’s already got the collection and I’ve been hearing it since birth, in utero, actually, as she never fails to reminicse with me as an embryo as if I would remember this ‘special time’ we had together. My mom’s a little nuts. But she’s okay, I guess. She doesn’t make me call her 15 times a day just to keep track of me. And I DO listen to new music and I have looked at the new boys. My mom swears they are the same boys as when she was my age, only a little air-brushed to make it not obvious– that the studios, movie and audio, have pods of stars who have the bone structure, chemistry, charisma already pre-set and they just keep cloning them when the ones already out get too old or lose their voices or die of an overdose or find out something about the pod factory.
‘Just like in Brave New World.’ And I know he knows what he’s talking about because he never looks up outlines online and he doesn’t even OWN a Kindle. He always goes to the bookstore (the BOOKSTORE!) or the library and buys or borrows the book. I’ve never seen anything like it. He has bookshelves in his room. His mother doesn’t even mind–mine would FREAK. Books?! Why add clutter and dust-collecters to the house? With your brother’s asthma? Download it on your Kindle.’
So mostly that’s what I do, when I bother to read the whole book, which I can’t see the point of. It’s not like the old days when there were only Cliff Notes, like my mom tells me about, so even if you did cheat everyone had the same cheat book so you’d be caught out right away. Kenneth’s mom says that might matter if the teachers had ever read anything but the Cliff Notes themselves, but she doubted it. She’s a little bitter and starved for conversation since moving to Lyonesse Isle in Florida from her parent’s university subsidised mansion overlooking Lake Cayuga’s sparkling waters at Cornell. Her parents were both professors there, and she had the run of the University pretty much, including the electron accelerator lab (she had a souvenir nametag that collected radiation and chirped like a canary when the concentration got too high.
should have blog only for fiction…yes?
anyway, teacher turns out to have DID from childhood abuse trauma, exaserbated by Jonestown. (from seething pot into flame), then Nimue and band in Ithaca??? here’s where the connection’s getting tangled/untangled.