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Sunday, November 20, 2011
Saturday, June 4, 2011
Snippets...
I seem to spend all of my time shifting between the child who dutifully creates sand castles and the bully who destroys them. I am constantly fighting against my own efforts at self-sabotage.
My friend Rachel, on her last visit to my area, once illustrated succinctly the probable psychological motivations around my weight gain over the past few years. She asked me if my gaining weight wasn't a shield to protect me from those who might want to be with me. Well, of course it is! I'm terrified of the prospect of being loved and let down by another significant other. *shudder* The horror! Of course, it's never quite that simple. Or is it? The whole "fat as a shield" thing is such an old story, I'm a bit embarrassed to cop to it. Oh well. Not everything I do is wondrous and amazing.
Conversations held in my head
while drifting off to sleep...
If I let you stick around long enough,
wouldn't you eventually give up on me,
like I gave up on myself?
If I allow you a room into my life,
wouldn't you soon tire of my ways and moods,
resenting me and yearning for escape?
I know I do.
I know I would.
I know I have.
I cannot think of any one lover
from my past
who has not soon cast me off
for another lover,
another drug,
another place,
another piece
of peace
without me.
It angers me so,
to be so typically bogged down
in rejection issues.
I'm too smart for this shit!
Aren't I?
Aren't I the one, the smart one,
the too smart for YOU one,
who isn't supposed to need any
one?
But there I go again,
heartlessly kicking into shambles
my painstakingly built sand castle
and running off shrieking down the beach.
Like a mad banshee.
And here I go again,
wondering why I don't have any one
to run to.
And yet.
When I'm being honest...
Aren't I the one
who shuts down,
who closes shutters,
who pushes people out
my door?
And aren't I
the one
who won't let any
one
in
long enough to grab
a good hand hold?
To hold
my hand,
my heart?
Ever the one afraid,
that the NEXT time it falls
not all of the tape in the universe
will be able to repair it.
My friend Rachel, on her last visit to my area, once illustrated succinctly the probable psychological motivations around my weight gain over the past few years. She asked me if my gaining weight wasn't a shield to protect me from those who might want to be with me. Well, of course it is! I'm terrified of the prospect of being loved and let down by another significant other. *shudder* The horror! Of course, it's never quite that simple. Or is it? The whole "fat as a shield" thing is such an old story, I'm a bit embarrassed to cop to it. Oh well. Not everything I do is wondrous and amazing.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Conversations held in my head
while drifting off to sleep...
If I let you stick around long enough,
wouldn't you eventually give up on me,
like I gave up on myself?
If I allow you a room into my life,
wouldn't you soon tire of my ways and moods,
resenting me and yearning for escape?
I know I do.
I know I would.
I know I have.
I cannot think of any one lover
from my past
who has not soon cast me off
for another lover,
another drug,
another place,
another piece
of peace
without me.
It angers me so,
to be so typically bogged down
in rejection issues.
I'm too smart for this shit!
Aren't I?
Aren't I the one, the smart one,
the too smart for YOU one,
who isn't supposed to need any
one?
But there I go again,
heartlessly kicking into shambles
my painstakingly built sand castle
and running off shrieking down the beach.
Like a mad banshee.
And here I go again,
wondering why I don't have any one
to run to.
And yet.
When I'm being honest...
Aren't I the one
who shuts down,
who closes shutters,
who pushes people out
my door?
And aren't I
the one
who won't let any
one
in
long enough to grab
a good hand hold?
To hold
my hand,
my heart?
Ever the one afraid,
that the NEXT time it falls
not all of the tape in the universe
will be able to repair it.
Brain Drivel
I've been somewhat depressed as of late. Well, for the past few years. It's not exactly constant- if I am busy I forget, which is why I like to stay busy. I endeavor to stay busy. My mood/levels of activity/interacting with others will always fluctuate/vacillate. I try to schedule a lot of stuff for me to do: work, friend dates, camping/piratey events, music viewing and photography, family obligations, and whatnot. Then, I get overwhelmed with the intense amount of energy that it requires for me, an overly-sensitive person, to be around other humans, and I burn out and shut down. That is when I sit on my couch, wasting countless hours reading/researching/being online/feeling useless and fat. That is when I feel the depression and get annoyed with myself. That is what I've been doing a LOT lately, since I burned myself out this past year or so with my efforts to connect with a male of the species in a meaningful/sexually satisfying/lasting way. Waste. Of. Time. More on this later...
I've always been annoyed with myself for how much of my mental energy is spent in fussing over love-relationships and my lack of/need for having one. Of course, when I write "love-relationships" I am not referring to any relationship that involves love. I have plentiful great relationships with people who I love. I am referring to love/sex/heart-wrenching relationships. The kind that involves SEX. Yes people. I am talking about sex. But in a loving and healthy, lasting relationship. This is something I've never really experienced in my life. Well, not one that's lasted for more than 3 months. This makes me sad and frustrated. It makes me want to give up entirely and it also makes me want to KEEP TRYING. Clearly, I am torn. Far too much of my writing has been about this topic. FAR. TOO. MUCH. But that is what engages us humans, isn't it? Loving relationships? Whole religions are made from our need for this love. Whole regimes are built on exploiting this need for love that we all feel. Sigh.
Anyhow. Lately, I've been in one of my more reclusive phases, and have been staying home more, avoiding other humans. This is in part because of the sad reality that I really cannot afford to go out and do as much as I used to, financially. Mainly though, it's because I'm hiding out and trying to regroup and rebuild. I've put my neck out a few times too many in the past two years, and I'm a bit shell-shocked. I like to think I am not that affected by heartache and by my disappointment in other humans (and myself- the killer), but I am deeply affected by these things. DEEPLY. I have always been deeply affected by others and my constant failure to comprehend or fit in quite how I feel like I should. I do realize this affliction of mine is universal, which does provide me comfort and encourages me to keep trying. Indeed, my skills at human interactions that feel successful have improved greatly over the years. I'm mostly okay and quite happy with myself, even a bit proud of myself. Aside from the ever-present depression that is.
I feel like I'm constantly embattled with myself; fighting to stay positive, fighting to Get Things Done, fighting to conquer challenges and make myself proud, and fighting desperately to avoid sinking into and being overcome by depression and anxiety and the shit pit that comes with giving up and letting my bad moods take over my life. I've been there before, and it was literally living a nightmare of hopelessness and despair. I don't want to go back. Whenever I am around people who are sunk into that pit of shit, I feel it deeply. I am an empath and I feel others' realities deeply. That is one of the reasons why I need so much down time/recovery time/alone time. That is also why I can't stand being around my mother for very long. She's a living example of my worst nightmare realized. As sad as that is- it is true; she's a living "don't become this" for me, and it kills me to be around her for very long. Being around anyone who is being controlled by their mental illness affects me in a very uncomfortable way. I can literally FEEL the anxiety and panic they are experiencing. Of course, it is probably merely my projections and anxieties and panic and depression, being recalled by seeing in others what triggers my shit. Blah blah. Who cares? My reality is my reality and what I experience is what matters to me. My rationalization of my reality is all that matters to me- it's all I can control or dabble with, and so it's my focus. I don't concern myself over-much with whether or not anyone agrees with me- that is irrelevant- I try to concern myself with what I can control somewhat: what I am doing, how I feel, and who I care about. Nothing else matters.
What I logged on here to express, actually, is some thoughts I had as I was drifting off to sleep last night. All that other stuff is just the preface. Now that I've written it al though, the main body seems too tiny. I think I'll make it into its own entry. Stay tuned...
I've always been annoyed with myself for how much of my mental energy is spent in fussing over love-relationships and my lack of/need for having one. Of course, when I write "love-relationships" I am not referring to any relationship that involves love. I have plentiful great relationships with people who I love. I am referring to love/sex/heart-wrenching relationships. The kind that involves SEX. Yes people. I am talking about sex. But in a loving and healthy, lasting relationship. This is something I've never really experienced in my life. Well, not one that's lasted for more than 3 months. This makes me sad and frustrated. It makes me want to give up entirely and it also makes me want to KEEP TRYING. Clearly, I am torn. Far too much of my writing has been about this topic. FAR. TOO. MUCH. But that is what engages us humans, isn't it? Loving relationships? Whole religions are made from our need for this love. Whole regimes are built on exploiting this need for love that we all feel. Sigh.
Anyhow. Lately, I've been in one of my more reclusive phases, and have been staying home more, avoiding other humans. This is in part because of the sad reality that I really cannot afford to go out and do as much as I used to, financially. Mainly though, it's because I'm hiding out and trying to regroup and rebuild. I've put my neck out a few times too many in the past two years, and I'm a bit shell-shocked. I like to think I am not that affected by heartache and by my disappointment in other humans (and myself- the killer), but I am deeply affected by these things. DEEPLY. I have always been deeply affected by others and my constant failure to comprehend or fit in quite how I feel like I should. I do realize this affliction of mine is universal, which does provide me comfort and encourages me to keep trying. Indeed, my skills at human interactions that feel successful have improved greatly over the years. I'm mostly okay and quite happy with myself, even a bit proud of myself. Aside from the ever-present depression that is.
I feel like I'm constantly embattled with myself; fighting to stay positive, fighting to Get Things Done, fighting to conquer challenges and make myself proud, and fighting desperately to avoid sinking into and being overcome by depression and anxiety and the shit pit that comes with giving up and letting my bad moods take over my life. I've been there before, and it was literally living a nightmare of hopelessness and despair. I don't want to go back. Whenever I am around people who are sunk into that pit of shit, I feel it deeply. I am an empath and I feel others' realities deeply. That is one of the reasons why I need so much down time/recovery time/alone time. That is also why I can't stand being around my mother for very long. She's a living example of my worst nightmare realized. As sad as that is- it is true; she's a living "don't become this" for me, and it kills me to be around her for very long. Being around anyone who is being controlled by their mental illness affects me in a very uncomfortable way. I can literally FEEL the anxiety and panic they are experiencing. Of course, it is probably merely my projections and anxieties and panic and depression, being recalled by seeing in others what triggers my shit. Blah blah. Who cares? My reality is my reality and what I experience is what matters to me. My rationalization of my reality is all that matters to me- it's all I can control or dabble with, and so it's my focus. I don't concern myself over-much with whether or not anyone agrees with me- that is irrelevant- I try to concern myself with what I can control somewhat: what I am doing, how I feel, and who I care about. Nothing else matters.
What I logged on here to express, actually, is some thoughts I had as I was drifting off to sleep last night. All that other stuff is just the preface. Now that I've written it al though, the main body seems too tiny. I think I'll make it into its own entry. Stay tuned...
Saturday, March 5, 2011
Friday night shenanigans...
Imagine, if you will, the luxurious Friday evenings I enjoy on a nearly-weekly basis.
Take tonight for example. After lounging on the puffy couch for a few hours, laid up by bronchitis and exhaustion but still optimistically watching old episodes of Northern Exposure, your hero sits. She tires of netflix instant streaming and wanders into the kitchen, looking around for intruders. AHA! Sneaking along the edges of the countertop, sidling down the wall and across the floor- a trail of suicidal ants can be plainly seen. Upon her knees our hero plunges, bravely smashing ants by the score, roughly rubbing them out onto the paneling, smearing their innards on the tile. Meanwhile, her brain wanders to other tragic acts of slaughter, and how humans had to pretend their enemies (humans) were insects or vermin so they could justify their wonton slaughter or genocidal removal. How different is it to smoosh or spray chemicals (vinegar) on an ant than to eradicate a people with bombs or chemical warfare? Deep thoughts indeed. That's just how intense Friday nights are around these parts.
Next, the chore of digging up more bags of cough drops so our hero can luxuriate on the poofy couch some more, idling time away on the interwebs. She idly unwraps another cough drop and plops it into her mouth, longing for the days when she can breathe deeply without coughing up not-enough-phlegm-to-satisfy again.
How different from last week's Friday, wherein our hero had some friends over for dinner and drinks, then went out to watch, shoot, and dance to her friends' bands that were playing at two different bars. Our intrepid hero had to deftly maneuver between bars that were blocks away, struggling to ensure that she caught at least two of the five bands she meant to witness. All the while avoiding annoying flirtations from drunken frat boys who thought it was okay to touch or grab at the photographer while she is shooting pictures of the band. Alas, two bands ended up being missed due to the strain. Such is the life of me. Of moi.
I peter out and can't finish my anecdote. Boo. Oh well, maybe I'll edit the paragraph above and fix it tomorrow when I'm feeling more chipper and have more ant carcasses on my soul. Or maybe I'll leave it be. But the ants, they must continue to die.
Take tonight for example. After lounging on the puffy couch for a few hours, laid up by bronchitis and exhaustion but still optimistically watching old episodes of Northern Exposure, your hero sits. She tires of netflix instant streaming and wanders into the kitchen, looking around for intruders. AHA! Sneaking along the edges of the countertop, sidling down the wall and across the floor- a trail of suicidal ants can be plainly seen. Upon her knees our hero plunges, bravely smashing ants by the score, roughly rubbing them out onto the paneling, smearing their innards on the tile. Meanwhile, her brain wanders to other tragic acts of slaughter, and how humans had to pretend their enemies (humans) were insects or vermin so they could justify their wonton slaughter or genocidal removal. How different is it to smoosh or spray chemicals (vinegar) on an ant than to eradicate a people with bombs or chemical warfare? Deep thoughts indeed. That's just how intense Friday nights are around these parts.
Next, the chore of digging up more bags of cough drops so our hero can luxuriate on the poofy couch some more, idling time away on the interwebs. She idly unwraps another cough drop and plops it into her mouth, longing for the days when she can breathe deeply without coughing up not-enough-phlegm-to-satisfy again.
How different from last week's Friday, wherein our hero had some friends over for dinner and drinks, then went out to watch, shoot, and dance to her friends' bands that were playing at two different bars. Our intrepid hero had to deftly maneuver between bars that were blocks away, struggling to ensure that she caught at least two of the five bands she meant to witness. All the while avoiding annoying flirtations from drunken frat boys who thought it was okay to touch or grab at the photographer while she is shooting pictures of the band. Alas, two bands ended up being missed due to the strain. Such is the life of me. Of moi.
I peter out and can't finish my anecdote. Boo. Oh well, maybe I'll edit the paragraph above and fix it tomorrow when I'm feeling more chipper and have more ant carcasses on my soul. Or maybe I'll leave it be. But the ants, they must continue to die.
Friday, February 18, 2011
These things...
There are some absolutely necessary things that I have determined I need in a fellow/partner who will remain with me for any significant length of time.
I've decided to make a list, however asinine.
I've decided to make a list, however asinine.
- Good Manners. FUCKING IMPORTANT. If someone does something nice for you, let them know that you noticed. Don't lick their ass, DO acknowledge the kindness. Asshole.
- MUSIC. Must love and know music. Must dig punk music, not shitty punk music, but decent punk music. Must love almost every other type, aside from C-Rap. AKA CRAP.
- Sense of Humor. Duh.
- Sass. Yep. Lotsa sass.
- Must love musicals. Or at least like/tolerate them.
- Intelligence. Please. I cannot tolerate less for long. I'm too fucking smart for my own good.
- Skills. Art, Cooking, Music, Sex, Sass, READING, learning for FUN, history interest, technologically savvy, industriousness, activity (not JUST sexual).
- HONESTY. Actually- that should be about number one. HONESTY. NO BULLSHIT.
- Respect my son. He's more important to me than ANYONE ELSE (aside from me).
- Sexiness. Doesn't mean rock hard abs, does mean sexy to me. It's mostly in the attitude, I think. So Sexual Confidence might be a better wording.
- Self-supportive financially. I can't afford another dependent.
- Playfulness. Make me laugh and play. Play with me. Play board games/word games/geeky games with me.
- Have a good vocabulary.
- Availability.
- BOLLYWOOD.
- For reals.
- - Raven - THASS WASS UPP!!!
Raven helped me edit this list. He does know me better than anyone else. He also added number 17, the cutie.
So. If you wanna come aknocking. You had better have this list checked OFF, SUCKAAAH!
Addendum: Um. I forgot what I was going to add. Oh well. I'm sure I'll come up with something clever later...
...Oh yeah- These are not in any particular order, because most are equally important. Most important on the list might be honesty and intelligence, with manners close third. ALSO- I want to add that I have many friends who have most of these qualities, just no man-friends who have all of them. Maybe my friend Rachel's comment that making lists tends to make the desired result manifest (MANifest- huhuhuh) will be true. That would be cool. And also horrifying. Heh.
I keep adding to this list! I guess it's going to be a work in progress, like myself. I've added 5 items already today, and it's just noon! Yowza!
ALSO- I do realize I'm a bit of a hypocrite and am not doing very well on the active side of things- I need to create more, get out more, do more. I'm going to work on that. Heck yes. I aim to make myself proud.
Thanks for reading, good people! I love you all!
Addendum: Um. I forgot what I was going to add. Oh well. I'm sure I'll come up with something clever later...
...Oh yeah- These are not in any particular order, because most are equally important. Most important on the list might be honesty and intelligence, with manners close third. ALSO- I want to add that I have many friends who have most of these qualities, just no man-friends who have all of them. Maybe my friend Rachel's comment that making lists tends to make the desired result manifest (MANifest- huhuhuh) will be true. That would be cool. And also horrifying. Heh.
I keep adding to this list! I guess it's going to be a work in progress, like myself. I've added 5 items already today, and it's just noon! Yowza!
ALSO- I do realize I'm a bit of a hypocrite and am not doing very well on the active side of things- I need to create more, get out more, do more. I'm going to work on that. Heck yes. I aim to make myself proud.
Thanks for reading, good people! I love you all!
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
Ugh.
Time for a grumpy old punk rocker rant. Or not. I've already bored myself. I was sucking time on facebook and tried to post a "status report" but apparently it was 40 characters too long so it got deleted. Asshats!
But anyways- I meant to say something like this: I'm watching this "documentary" called Punk & Disorderly. I'm not sure what the point is, aside from showing lots of footage of punk rock shows from the early 1990s primarily. Which makes me feel really old because by then I was busy trying to cope with a junkie husband and raising an infant boy, and was taking a dozen or so years off of the punk scene after being immersed in it for 5+ years. Yay. The whole "I'm more punk and for longer than you" bullshit hype that I hated when I was 15 in 1987 and the older punks chastised me and lectured about how dead punk was. Punk's not dead still, which is the point of this "documentary", I guess. But now I'm the old bint curling my finger at the young rascals, asserting how much more important and amazing and powerful it was back in "my day". Ugh.
I think the thing that annoys me more is that now I know a slew of younger cats, who are decent enough as far as humans go, but who are also so fucking entitled and spoiled and daft and think that being punk is being a drunken asshole and not giving a shit about other humans or about anything, really. I guess that's what punk was for SOME people, but not anyone I ever gave two shits about. My punk scene came from the poor, poverty stricken, undeserving and oppressed scum of the areas. We scrambled on our bloody hands and knees, uphill both ways, until we found each other in the sweet sweet mountain valleys of punk rock valhalla, and we banded together in amazing political outrage over how shitty and bullshitty everything was. We didn't have to dye our hair to be punk, or wear hot topic clothes, or have studded belts and leather jackets. We just banded together as fellow outcasts. Outcastes. Yep. We were HOLY, man. HOLY. You can't take that away.
Yep. Okay- so a lot of the footage is also from the late 1980's. Okay. And much of it is great. Dang it.
I sit corrected by the universe and my continued willingness to keep my eyes open and watch, regardless of my holy righteous indignation. But still. Dammit. I'm getting old and grumpy.
Yeah.
Addendum: Okay, so I now realize that the vast majority of the videos in the "documentary" were from the early-mid 1980's. My bad. Like I said- I'm a grumpy old arsehole. Full of steam and piss and vinegar. RIGHTEOUS vinegar, mind you, but still.
But anyways- I meant to say something like this: I'm watching this "documentary" called Punk & Disorderly. I'm not sure what the point is, aside from showing lots of footage of punk rock shows from the early 1990s primarily. Which makes me feel really old because by then I was busy trying to cope with a junkie husband and raising an infant boy, and was taking a dozen or so years off of the punk scene after being immersed in it for 5+ years. Yay. The whole "I'm more punk and for longer than you" bullshit hype that I hated when I was 15 in 1987 and the older punks chastised me and lectured about how dead punk was. Punk's not dead still, which is the point of this "documentary", I guess. But now I'm the old bint curling my finger at the young rascals, asserting how much more important and amazing and powerful it was back in "my day". Ugh.
I think the thing that annoys me more is that now I know a slew of younger cats, who are decent enough as far as humans go, but who are also so fucking entitled and spoiled and daft and think that being punk is being a drunken asshole and not giving a shit about other humans or about anything, really. I guess that's what punk was for SOME people, but not anyone I ever gave two shits about. My punk scene came from the poor, poverty stricken, undeserving and oppressed scum of the areas. We scrambled on our bloody hands and knees, uphill both ways, until we found each other in the sweet sweet mountain valleys of punk rock valhalla, and we banded together in amazing political outrage over how shitty and bullshitty everything was. We didn't have to dye our hair to be punk, or wear hot topic clothes, or have studded belts and leather jackets. We just banded together as fellow outcasts. Outcastes. Yep. We were HOLY, man. HOLY. You can't take that away.
Yep. Okay- so a lot of the footage is also from the late 1980's. Okay. And much of it is great. Dang it.
I sit corrected by the universe and my continued willingness to keep my eyes open and watch, regardless of my holy righteous indignation. But still. Dammit. I'm getting old and grumpy.
Yeah.
Addendum: Okay, so I now realize that the vast majority of the videos in the "documentary" were from the early-mid 1980's. My bad. Like I said- I'm a grumpy old arsehole. Full of steam and piss and vinegar. RIGHTEOUS vinegar, mind you, but still.
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