It's not time to wake up, it's 3 am. Therefore, despite your experience with me, I am not waking up now, but in several hours, when it is quite safe to come out from under the covers. Nevertheless, the blog needs doing, and coffee is looking mighty good right now. I will have to write faster, so as to avoid making some and waking up at 3 am.
December can be difficult to say the least. True, I love Christmas. I love the scent of the candles, the cold feel of the tree; I love hanging the ornaments laden with meaning from years past. And laden with meaning from years past is why December can be difficult. Memories of those gone, and those I no longer am friends with is the hard part...The easy part is throwing a party and celebrating with new friends, and what family is left.
Meanwhile, in the real world, I find I have to address a problem: Max is chasing the new unicorn meat eating cat out of a sense of fun and camaraderie. Georgia, the cat, does not see it that way at all. So I am going to have to start re-introducing them every day. She can't stay in the bathroom forever. I need the washing machine.
Well, the chocolate covered doughnut is making me sleepy. Until later.
Monday, August 26, 2013
Sunday, August 25, 2013
Caturday
I could think of nothing else funny this morning, except the above. Forgive me. It is a grim morning. My moods are capricious sometimes, and sometimes they are not. Sometimes I am faced with truth about my character I would rather face after a few cups of coffee, and some breakfast. Add physical pain to the mix and voila! A needy person emerges...
Instead of looking at 'me, being human,' I would rather think of the unicorn meat eating cats. But part of my mind holds myself hostage and won't let me be human. No mistakes allowed.
Instead of looking at 'me, being human,' I would rather think of the unicorn meat eating cats. But part of my mind holds myself hostage and won't let me be human. No mistakes allowed.
This Is Saturday
This is how PTSD and Bipolar work...some loving friends recreated a scene from my life yesterday. I am humbled and grateful that they took the trouble. It was a scene that really took place, and ended up with a friend being estranged. She is a dear friend, and I deeply regret , and did not remember, what I had said to hurt my friend's feelings.
These are the blank spots in my mind, and they are frightening, of short duration, and a result of something I have no control over, which is no excuse.
The recreation of the scene brought up the desired memory. It is 6 a.m and I am stuck with it., and she doesn't read my blog. My heart is full of hurt for my stupidity and my friend's hurt feelings. I try to convince myself that what I said wasn't so bad...but obviously, it was.
I do realize this happens everyday: I not only said something thoughtless, but was judgmental about it. At least that's what my memory tells me.
These are the blank spots in my mind, and they are frightening, of short duration, and a result of something I have no control over, which is no excuse.
The recreation of the scene brought up the desired memory. It is 6 a.m and I am stuck with it., and she doesn't read my blog. My heart is full of hurt for my stupidity and my friend's hurt feelings. I try to convince myself that what I said wasn't so bad...but obviously, it was.
I do realize this happens everyday: I not only said something thoughtless, but was judgmental about it. At least that's what my memory tells me.
As New as Mint
I am a writer, with a degree in writing, and still cannot express to
you the whole of my past. Nor am I meant to at this time. Life is a
series of processes, not a journey with an end. I have said before that
it takes decades, sometimes a life time, to write a poem. Because a
poem, or a work, are just markers along the way. They are the process,
and therefore, Life itself.
I took the dog out last night, and stepped into the light cast by a full moon. The ground was covered by newly fallen snow, and my breath steamed out. Max loves the snow and I love moonlight, and so we lingered as long as we could. There are so many things to see in the moonlight; the trees' shadows rest on one another, and cut across the ground. The shadows are the same color as the color of the mountains on a winter clear day, in this corner of the world. They are called the Blue Ridge, and another lovely name, Shenandoah. It's a liquid sounding word handed down to us by Native Americans, and it rightfully fits such a beautiful march of mountains.
I have been busy thinking about my writing, and where I want to go with it. I have refound my senior portfolio, but no one is published in poetry unless you're Charles Burkowski, a legendary poet of the alcoholic variety, and his ilk. Cane by Jean Toomer, an African American poet of the '20's, is a lovely example of how to sneak your poetry into your writing enough to be published. But I think my best writing is about nature, and my travels.
I took the dog out last night, and stepped into the light cast by a full moon. The ground was covered by newly fallen snow, and my breath steamed out. Max loves the snow and I love moonlight, and so we lingered as long as we could. There are so many things to see in the moonlight; the trees' shadows rest on one another, and cut across the ground. The shadows are the same color as the color of the mountains on a winter clear day, in this corner of the world. They are called the Blue Ridge, and another lovely name, Shenandoah. It's a liquid sounding word handed down to us by Native Americans, and it rightfully fits such a beautiful march of mountains.
I have been busy thinking about my writing, and where I want to go with it. I have refound my senior portfolio, but no one is published in poetry unless you're Charles Burkowski, a legendary poet of the alcoholic variety, and his ilk. Cane by Jean Toomer, an African American poet of the '20's, is a lovely example of how to sneak your poetry into your writing enough to be published. But I think my best writing is about nature, and my travels.
The Superbowl
Which I totally missed last night, for the pleasure of home made lasagna and chocolate ice cream served up at the smallest and loveliest house I have ever been in. The smallest and loveliest house also has no TV, and so my friends and I kept up with the game by calling someone at a Superbowl party. We listened to Steely Dan and ate...and talked until the windows steamed up. I had the best deal all the way around, I have no doubt.
I lost my internet connection for a week, to the whims of fortune.
I lost my internet connection for a week, to the whims of fortune.
Vicksburg
is what we have been promised, but I will believe it, my friend, when I see it.
It's almost New Year's, bah humbug. I have never seen the point, but numerous folks have, down through the centuries, and who am I to question the popular vote? Me. I am me. I have just never understood celebrating the advent of a New Year, which will be just like the old year...I told you Bah Humbug.
And so I bake. Many women friends have told me that the start of the Christmas season (right after the Fourth of July celebrations), is when they feel like making tasty morsels. I put it down, practically, to the heat of the oven. A small cold snap, after a global warming summer, is enough to send many women into the kitchen to cook that first vat of pinto beans.
For those of you not located in The South (southern states of the US), the accumulated ceremony of the first vat of pinto beans can be hard to explain. Mama did it, Granny did it, and no doubt, her mother did it too. Cause that's all them Yankees left us to eat when they left The Old South after The Occupation that signaled the physical end of The Civil War. Whew.
In the world of The South, only women know the exact moment it is right to cook the first batch of pinto beans. It is always accompanied by corn bread. I don't know any Southern woman who makes the mistake of premature pinto beans cooking, except for yours truly. I love pinto beans and eat them year round.
Anyway, the right moment...there is a cold snap, but it's still not time. It will get hot as blazes after the first 20 cold snaps. So there is an artistry, not only in the making of the pinto beans, but in the timing. If one makes them too early, they will go to waste, and then you'll be mentioned in the same breath as That Woman down the street who pulls her shades at noon and smells like mouthwash when she goes to the grocery store.
No, the 'cold' must have settled in good before the first batch can be made. But once that perfect moment makes it's advent, there is a rush for the finish. Southern women will make huge vats of the stuff, to give to their friends, after all, we are all in this together, only to find out their friends have also made the obligatory vat themselves and don't need any of your beans. Although cornbread. No one will turn down cornbread. But this fact comforts Southern women. They have made the right decision as to timing, and we laugh, comforted by our insight. The world, The South, civilization itself, will go on.
Sometimes, with Very Close Friends, one will exchange a batch, just to see how the other half lives. It is viewed as living on the wild side, and pulling 'Mary's' beans out of the frig to be heated up takes on the taste of riotous adventure. And you have to be careful whom you exchange batches with...what if they use meat in the beans and you don't? No, no. Adventurous as you are, that would never do. My mother never used meat, but salted well, and made the best cornbread this side of Atlanta. One of my best friends uses sidemeat to flavor her beans, and I just can't go there, even for her. My very bestest friend in the whole world uses no meat, just like me, and so her beans are to be trusted. No surprises there. Which is the whole point...
After all, the first vat of pintos is a tradition, a sacred trust, handed down from the ages, from one woman to another. Like the rare stories, growing rarer still, of that dear, departed Uncle, who bought it at Vicksburg. The time is long past when those who knew that Uncle turned to dust, but their recipe for pinto beans lives on...
It's almost New Year's, bah humbug. I have never seen the point, but numerous folks have, down through the centuries, and who am I to question the popular vote? Me. I am me. I have just never understood celebrating the advent of a New Year, which will be just like the old year...I told you Bah Humbug.
And so I bake. Many women friends have told me that the start of the Christmas season (right after the Fourth of July celebrations), is when they feel like making tasty morsels. I put it down, practically, to the heat of the oven. A small cold snap, after a global warming summer, is enough to send many women into the kitchen to cook that first vat of pinto beans.
For those of you not located in The South (southern states of the US), the accumulated ceremony of the first vat of pinto beans can be hard to explain. Mama did it, Granny did it, and no doubt, her mother did it too. Cause that's all them Yankees left us to eat when they left The Old South after The Occupation that signaled the physical end of The Civil War. Whew.
In the world of The South, only women know the exact moment it is right to cook the first batch of pinto beans. It is always accompanied by corn bread. I don't know any Southern woman who makes the mistake of premature pinto beans cooking, except for yours truly. I love pinto beans and eat them year round.
Anyway, the right moment...there is a cold snap, but it's still not time. It will get hot as blazes after the first 20 cold snaps. So there is an artistry, not only in the making of the pinto beans, but in the timing. If one makes them too early, they will go to waste, and then you'll be mentioned in the same breath as That Woman down the street who pulls her shades at noon and smells like mouthwash when she goes to the grocery store.
No, the 'cold' must have settled in good before the first batch can be made. But once that perfect moment makes it's advent, there is a rush for the finish. Southern women will make huge vats of the stuff, to give to their friends, after all, we are all in this together, only to find out their friends have also made the obligatory vat themselves and don't need any of your beans. Although cornbread. No one will turn down cornbread. But this fact comforts Southern women. They have made the right decision as to timing, and we laugh, comforted by our insight. The world, The South, civilization itself, will go on.
Sometimes, with Very Close Friends, one will exchange a batch, just to see how the other half lives. It is viewed as living on the wild side, and pulling 'Mary's' beans out of the frig to be heated up takes on the taste of riotous adventure. And you have to be careful whom you exchange batches with...what if they use meat in the beans and you don't? No, no. Adventurous as you are, that would never do. My mother never used meat, but salted well, and made the best cornbread this side of Atlanta. One of my best friends uses sidemeat to flavor her beans, and I just can't go there, even for her. My very bestest friend in the whole world uses no meat, just like me, and so her beans are to be trusted. No surprises there. Which is the whole point...
After all, the first vat of pintos is a tradition, a sacred trust, handed down from the ages, from one woman to another. Like the rare stories, growing rarer still, of that dear, departed Uncle, who bought it at Vicksburg. The time is long past when those who knew that Uncle turned to dust, but their recipe for pinto beans lives on...
Saturday, May 25, 2013
Friday, May 24, 2013
Thursday, May 23, 2013
Blooms in Winter
This morning is easier. The frogs sound nightly in the Pond, and I almost got all the lawn mowed yesterday. This morning is rich with humidity, but is still cool enough to enjoy. Rain overnight, apparently. I miss the sound of it in this basement apartment.
But when I walk out, to take the dog to his line, the grass is especially green, emerald green, on fire green. The flowers appreciate the overnight drink.
I need to take pictures today. Last night, my midnight snack was popcorn. The New Adventurers, the kittens, have gotten to the bag, and dug out what is left. They carry it in their mouths all over the apartment, like swarming tiny ants.
Tomorrow they leave, except for Autumn, now named Pancake.
Tomorrow, Winston Churchill, the biggest of the litter, will go to his new home, and Shrek and Minkins II will return to Angels of Assisi, to be showcased, and eventually, adopted.
Pancake will stay with me for more socialization, until she moves in with a friend of mine, who is her new parent. I know you rejoice with me that two of them are adopted already. I hope that Shrek and Minkins II will not stay at Angels for too long. I have hope.
Tomorrow morning, I will again start to blog from Whisper of Fields. I will post on Facebook, Twitter and Google the same as always, so it will not be hard to find me.
This morning, the grief is less. It slowly leaves, slower than a stream in a forest. It was as loud as a cicada, and now only murmurs. It stirs the wind like butterfly wings, instead of roaring by in a torrent. It is therapy day, a day when shafts of sunlight shine down through the trees. The forest is oak today, and there are no brambles between the trunks. Just pale silver, tallish grass, like a prairie.
The paving stones outside my door are still festooned with the violets. And the stone is dark grey today, and the ground steams. The impatiens wait like small, colorful soldiers, straight and tallish. The yellow wildflower has two more blooms. I hope today will be a cool, still day.
But when I walk out, to take the dog to his line, the grass is especially green, emerald green, on fire green. The flowers appreciate the overnight drink.
I need to take pictures today. Last night, my midnight snack was popcorn. The New Adventurers, the kittens, have gotten to the bag, and dug out what is left. They carry it in their mouths all over the apartment, like swarming tiny ants.
Tomorrow they leave, except for Autumn, now named Pancake.
Pancake will stay with me for more socialization, until she moves in with a friend of mine, who is her new parent. I know you rejoice with me that two of them are adopted already. I hope that Shrek and Minkins II will not stay at Angels for too long. I have hope.
Tomorrow morning, I will again start to blog from Whisper of Fields. I will post on Facebook, Twitter and Google the same as always, so it will not be hard to find me.
This morning, the grief is less. It slowly leaves, slower than a stream in a forest. It was as loud as a cicada, and now only murmurs. It stirs the wind like butterfly wings, instead of roaring by in a torrent. It is therapy day, a day when shafts of sunlight shine down through the trees. The forest is oak today, and there are no brambles between the trunks. Just pale silver, tallish grass, like a prairie.
The paving stones outside my door are still festooned with the violets. And the stone is dark grey today, and the ground steams. The impatiens wait like small, colorful soldiers, straight and tallish. The yellow wildflower has two more blooms. I hope today will be a cool, still day.
Wednesday, May 22, 2013
Liminal Reading
For out-of-towners: Liminal, An Alternative Artspace is an event created by Cara Ellen Modisett to showcase local talent. It's held at the Community High School, in downtown Roanoke. Local and guest artists are invited to share their work in an informal setting, a "conversation".
I have been privileged to be able to read at two of these events. I have to say, last night was my favorite. Usually a theme is set, and writers loosely keep to the topic. Last night, it was a no-holds-barred free for all. Writers are also filmed and posted on Youtube, so if you want to meet me, you can Google the event...
I read about my adventures in Scotland, with my brother, Marc. It's actually on my blog, "Whisper of Fields" at http://whisperoffields.blogspot.com/
My reading is from the very beginning of Whisper of Fields. I hope it brings as much fun reading, as it did writing.
I would like to start blogging from Whisper of Fields again, but don't want to confuse, or lose readers. Let me know what you think, won't you?
I struggle this morning with feelings that are unpleasant. All the bane of an alcoholic/mental health diagnoses survivor: resentment, hurt, anger, grief, sadness and gratitude. It's a difficult time for me, but that's the life I live since my diagnoses.
Today is easier than yesterday, and perhaps tomorrow will be even easier, as I re-acquire my routine. There is a good deal of comfort, of course, in everyday events. Liminal made me feel amazing, and I thank Cara, Maurice, and the other writers and the audience for that. I suppose it is meant to be a showcase of talent. But I see it as a way to have a conversation with thirty people at once. That is an astonishing interaction, from both sides.
I have been asked to pull the weeds from around the paving stones outside. I kept saying, "The violets?" because violets they are. I like their broad, spade shaped leaves, even after the violets have faded. I was assured, in a firm voice, that they were weeds.
I need to mow the lawn, and weed the front beds, which of course, is much more important, and should remain my first priority. There is a bright yellow wildflower out there, as well. It's leaves look a bit like wild onion. The hydrangea is about to bloom, big blue blooms, and the impatiens need to go into the ground today. They do well in the strip of earth by the back door. I would love a rose bush, and climbing rose, out there as well. But higher Power doesn't make roses that like that much shade.
The lavender blooms, and spreads, at the same time. Clover dots the grass, and the azalea are pink blooms under the maple tree. The poison ivy spreads there, as well. The lemony light that I love in the fall is replaced by a white dawn, and still cool breezes.
Kittens and unicorn meat eating cats get kisses this morning. Soon the kittens will go back to Angels of Assisi, to await adoption.
That event will be this Friday, May 24, 2013. I think I will pick that day to start blogging from Whisper of Fields again. This version, of the same blog, will wait until the winter, when the shadows of the trees line up like iron bars on the frost tipped grass.
I have been privileged to be able to read at two of these events. I have to say, last night was my favorite. Usually a theme is set, and writers loosely keep to the topic. Last night, it was a no-holds-barred free for all. Writers are also filmed and posted on Youtube, so if you want to meet me, you can Google the event...
I read about my adventures in Scotland, with my brother, Marc. It's actually on my blog, "Whisper of Fields" at http://whisperoffields.blogspot.com/
My reading is from the very beginning of Whisper of Fields. I hope it brings as much fun reading, as it did writing.
I would like to start blogging from Whisper of Fields again, but don't want to confuse, or lose readers. Let me know what you think, won't you?
I struggle this morning with feelings that are unpleasant. All the bane of an alcoholic/mental health diagnoses survivor: resentment, hurt, anger, grief, sadness and gratitude. It's a difficult time for me, but that's the life I live since my diagnoses.
Today is easier than yesterday, and perhaps tomorrow will be even easier, as I re-acquire my routine. There is a good deal of comfort, of course, in everyday events. Liminal made me feel amazing, and I thank Cara, Maurice, and the other writers and the audience for that. I suppose it is meant to be a showcase of talent. But I see it as a way to have a conversation with thirty people at once. That is an astonishing interaction, from both sides.
I have been asked to pull the weeds from around the paving stones outside. I kept saying, "The violets?" because violets they are. I like their broad, spade shaped leaves, even after the violets have faded. I was assured, in a firm voice, that they were weeds.
I need to mow the lawn, and weed the front beds, which of course, is much more important, and should remain my first priority. There is a bright yellow wildflower out there, as well. It's leaves look a bit like wild onion. The hydrangea is about to bloom, big blue blooms, and the impatiens need to go into the ground today. They do well in the strip of earth by the back door. I would love a rose bush, and climbing rose, out there as well. But higher Power doesn't make roses that like that much shade.
The lavender blooms, and spreads, at the same time. Clover dots the grass, and the azalea are pink blooms under the maple tree. The poison ivy spreads there, as well. The lemony light that I love in the fall is replaced by a white dawn, and still cool breezes.
Kittens and unicorn meat eating cats get kisses this morning. Soon the kittens will go back to Angels of Assisi, to await adoption.
That event will be this Friday, May 24, 2013. I think I will pick that day to start blogging from Whisper of Fields again. This version, of the same blog, will wait until the winter, when the shadows of the trees line up like iron bars on the frost tipped grass.
Tuesday, May 21, 2013
Moss and Lightning
There is a calm after the storms yesterday. Lightning darted from cloud to cloud, pink and violent. My meds kicked in this morning, and I, too, feel calmer. My friend who had the cookout the other day, the household goddess, brought me fresh trout for dinner. How she takes care of all those who are around her, and comforts me as well, astonishes me.
I am not my mental health diagnoses, nor am I, what Eckhart Tolle calls, the Mind. Any more than I am gender role imposed by culture. There is a core Me, that surpasses all of my surface identity, and all of my past. I could call it the soul, or the Holy Spirit. I think of it as simply, Me. It is the core self, and you have one, too.
I lean heavily on Tolle's teachings right now, in this season of hurt. I am not all the definitions imposed on me by others, anymore than I am the Mind. And I lean on the old saying, "This, too, shall pass." Events move on, in a too frenetic pace. I am withdrawing some, in an effort to slow events down. I practice Core Mindfulness, to stay sane. Core Mindfulness is nothing more than breaking the pace of time down, the pace of life down, to each separate minute. I pay attention to each moment as it comes, and then, let it go. I concentrate on my breathing, to the rise and fall of breath. I extend my other senses, to notice each moment to the fullest.
That is what Nature does for me. How easy to stand in a quiet forest, listening to each bird's song, and seeing each blade of grass. How easy it is to imagine my higher Power as a ball of energy in the middle of this forest. There are ferns there, that grow by the path, and small Lady Slippers. The sunlight comes down in shafts between the trees. There is moss at the base of each tree. Eddie, my service animal, waits there, quietly. There is a beautiful stream that talks on the edges of the forest, that rushes past rock spun down to its essential form, by the water.
The hurt is taken by the water, downstream, away from the forest's core.
I am not my mental health diagnoses, nor am I, what Eckhart Tolle calls, the Mind. Any more than I am gender role imposed by culture. There is a core Me, that surpasses all of my surface identity, and all of my past. I could call it the soul, or the Holy Spirit. I think of it as simply, Me. It is the core self, and you have one, too.
I lean heavily on Tolle's teachings right now, in this season of hurt. I am not all the definitions imposed on me by others, anymore than I am the Mind. And I lean on the old saying, "This, too, shall pass." Events move on, in a too frenetic pace. I am withdrawing some, in an effort to slow events down. I practice Core Mindfulness, to stay sane. Core Mindfulness is nothing more than breaking the pace of time down, the pace of life down, to each separate minute. I pay attention to each moment as it comes, and then, let it go. I concentrate on my breathing, to the rise and fall of breath. I extend my other senses, to notice each moment to the fullest.
That is what Nature does for me. How easy to stand in a quiet forest, listening to each bird's song, and seeing each blade of grass. How easy it is to imagine my higher Power as a ball of energy in the middle of this forest. There are ferns there, that grow by the path, and small Lady Slippers. The sunlight comes down in shafts between the trees. There is moss at the base of each tree. Eddie, my service animal, waits there, quietly. There is a beautiful stream that talks on the edges of the forest, that rushes past rock spun down to its essential form, by the water.
The hurt is taken by the water, downstream, away from the forest's core.
Monday, May 20, 2013
Red Sky
I am back into my routine, doing all the right things for me. I hate that I lost my sobriety last week, on Wednesday, but that is the past. The only thing to do is move on. Today I am grateful for: rain, shelter, food, my animals, coffee.Yesterday, I divorced all troubled relationships from my mind for the day, and surrounded myself with people who love me. There is a woman who helped me with my Mother, when Mom was dying. She is a household goddess in human form. As she cooked, she tended a baby playing at her feet, and one barely a month old. She moved between the stove, and both children, with practiced hands. Somehow, she understands that I am not my mental health diagnoses. It's soothing to be in her presence.
The frogs are back in the Pond. Every year here, the Pool devolves into the Pond, over the winter. To clean the pool, I have to get in the pond and sweep it, with a pool brush. The water is too cold yet. Cause I said so.
There is one lone bird out there this morning, and my lavender is about to bloom. We have had 3 days of differing kinds of rain: hissing, spitting, floating. The impatiens do wonderfully in this weather. I love the new green of the leaves, as the rain makes them gleam. The grass is lush, and hints of the pleasure of mowing. The violets have gone from the stones outside my door, but one lovely yellow flower blooms there, now. I think the zinnia will go in the ground, today.
The sky is light enough to turn off the porch light, which I leave on for the unicorn meat eating cats, to hunt by. My coffee is strong this morning, and I watch the gladiolas grow.
The frogs are back in the Pond. Every year here, the Pool devolves into the Pond, over the winter. To clean the pool, I have to get in the pond and sweep it, with a pool brush. The water is too cold yet. Cause I said so.
There is one lone bird out there this morning, and my lavender is about to bloom. We have had 3 days of differing kinds of rain: hissing, spitting, floating. The impatiens do wonderfully in this weather. I love the new green of the leaves, as the rain makes them gleam. The grass is lush, and hints of the pleasure of mowing. The violets have gone from the stones outside my door, but one lovely yellow flower blooms there, now. I think the zinnia will go in the ground, today.
The sky is light enough to turn off the porch light, which I leave on for the unicorn meat eating cats, to hunt by. My coffee is strong this morning, and I watch the gladiolas grow.
Sunday, May 19, 2013
Emotion Mind
So I go off my meds for 6 days, and it's a total disaster. I don't rail at myself for doing it, although I shouldn't have done it. It's the simple desire to be "normal" again. To live without pills and constant and unending appointments and group.
It's about facing reality everyday, in every decision I make. It's real. It's fear.
It's about the look on someone's face when they realize, "This woman is a bit off." It's wanting to tell them up front, what they are in for, when I form friendships. It's about not scaring them to death up front.
In my case, it's about having irreparable brain damage. I was injured in a car accident. The frontal lobe, that governs judgement, is severely damaged...
I had a dream last night about my old therapist. He was smiling wisely, and it was a joy to see him.
It's about having Emotion Mind, the condition of having no reasoning skills on board at the moment. Reason Mind is not acknowledging feelings, and not being in contact with myself. Wise Mind is the best of both worlds...to know and care for myself, and behave responsibly toward others.
It's weariness about having symptoms: I will turn to Wikipedia for that.
It's about facing reality everyday, in every decision I make. It's real. It's fear.
It's about the look on someone's face when they realize, "This woman is a bit off." It's wanting to tell them up front, what they are in for, when I form friendships. It's about not scaring them to death up front.
In my case, it's about having irreparable brain damage. I was injured in a car accident. The frontal lobe, that governs judgement, is severely damaged...
I had a dream last night about my old therapist. He was smiling wisely, and it was a joy to see him.
It's about having Emotion Mind, the condition of having no reasoning skills on board at the moment. Reason Mind is not acknowledging feelings, and not being in contact with myself. Wise Mind is the best of both worlds...to know and care for myself, and behave responsibly toward others.
It's weariness about having symptoms: I will turn to Wikipedia for that.
Borderline personality disorder (BPD) (called emotionally unstable personality disorder, borderline type in the ICD-10) is a personality disorder characterized by unusual variability and depth of moods.[1] These moods may secondarily affect cognition and interpersonal relationships.[n 1]
Other symptoms of BPD include impulsive behavior, intense and unstable interpersonal relationships, unstable self-image, feelings of abandonment and an unstable sense of self.[2] People with BPD often engage in idealization and devaluation of themselves and of others, alternating between high positive regard and heavy disappointment or dislike.[3] Self-harm and suicidal behavior are common and may require inpatient psychiatric care.
Saturday, May 11, 2013
Yard Sale
To Yardsale: an American expression; to describe the activity of driving around in the suburbs, and stopping at people's houses, to buy things they put out for sale.
Saturday is the prime day for yard sales, and I am going to the Salem Civic Center today, for the March of Dimes yard sale. Of course, it's not in a yard, per se, but that's alright. It rained last night and is supposed to rain again today. Not like any good hurricane ever stopped a yard sale. Sellers and shoppers alike, will be out in droves. It's summer. It's Saturday. Time to yard sale.
It is that time of year, to put out Great Aunt Sadie's mismatched decorative bathroom owl hangings, and her last pack of Depends. For .10 cents, these treasures can be yours. After all, one will need something to put out, later on in the summer, in one's own yard sale. When the clutter in the house reaches the ceiling, and several people suspiciously disappear when they enter the "craft room" it's time to hold one's own yard sale.
It's a never ending, fun, way to recycle all your stuff, and get new, to you at least, stuff.
There is one caveat: in order to get the really good stuff, one has to get up about 3 a.m., because yard sales begin at the crack of dawn, no matter the time you have planned or posted, to open. The official crack of dawn, is when people will knock on your door to see your stuff.
By 10 a.m., the whole thing winds down, and everyone takes a breather for breakfast.
Saturday is the prime day for yard sales, and I am going to the Salem Civic Center today, for the March of Dimes yard sale. Of course, it's not in a yard, per se, but that's alright. It rained last night and is supposed to rain again today. Not like any good hurricane ever stopped a yard sale. Sellers and shoppers alike, will be out in droves. It's summer. It's Saturday. Time to yard sale.
It is that time of year, to put out Great Aunt Sadie's mismatched decorative bathroom owl hangings, and her last pack of Depends. For .10 cents, these treasures can be yours. After all, one will need something to put out, later on in the summer, in one's own yard sale. When the clutter in the house reaches the ceiling, and several people suspiciously disappear when they enter the "craft room" it's time to hold one's own yard sale.
It's a never ending, fun, way to recycle all your stuff, and get new, to you at least, stuff.
There is one caveat: in order to get the really good stuff, one has to get up about 3 a.m., because yard sales begin at the crack of dawn, no matter the time you have planned or posted, to open. The official crack of dawn, is when people will knock on your door to see your stuff.
By 10 a.m., the whole thing winds down, and everyone takes a breather for breakfast.
Friday, May 10, 2013
Gently
It's a lovely morning with birdsong. The west is pink with the sunrise, and it is supposed to rain again. J.R.R. Tolkien once wrote that beautiful things are their own song, while they exist, and do not pass into song until they are gone forever.
It's the same with this morning, and this time. The air is fresh and invites me to come outside, to see the sunrise. The grass is still damp with warm dew, and is green again. I saw a herd of deer last night, on the greenway, behind the apartment. The dog had been barking, to warn me of them. A small silver kitten rests on my arm, purring much louder than his body size permits. He vibrates with it. The air outside is the color of his fur, and life has him once again, and he is gone to play.
The gladiolas have come up, the dark spears stand against the white fence. Another unicorn meat eating cat climbs into the dawn through the window. The bats no longer swoop for mosquitoes. Still, the New Adventurers play on.
They are as green as springtime. It is usual anymore, in this small part of the world, that it would already be summer. But we have a late Spring this year. The birdsong becomes more lazy, and remote; a crow caws above the crowd.
The coffee is especially good this morning. I must buy some half and half today; I love iced coffee at noon. I am trying to write poetry for the next reading in town: the topic is War.
I am reminded of a poem by Wilfred Owens:
Futility
It's the same with this morning, and this time. The air is fresh and invites me to come outside, to see the sunrise. The grass is still damp with warm dew, and is green again. I saw a herd of deer last night, on the greenway, behind the apartment. The dog had been barking, to warn me of them. A small silver kitten rests on my arm, purring much louder than his body size permits. He vibrates with it. The air outside is the color of his fur, and life has him once again, and he is gone to play.
The gladiolas have come up, the dark spears stand against the white fence. Another unicorn meat eating cat climbs into the dawn through the window. The bats no longer swoop for mosquitoes. Still, the New Adventurers play on.
The coffee is especially good this morning. I must buy some half and half today; I love iced coffee at noon. I am trying to write poetry for the next reading in town: the topic is War.
I am reminded of a poem by Wilfred Owens:
Futility
Move him into the sun -
Gently its touch awoke him once,
At home, whispering of fields unsown.
Always it woke him, even in France,
Until this morning and this snow.
If anything might rouse him now
The kind old sun will know.
Gently its touch awoke him once,
At home, whispering of fields unsown.
Always it woke him, even in France,
Until this morning and this snow.
If anything might rouse him now
The kind old sun will know.
Think how it wakes the seeds, -
Woke, once, the clays of a cold star.
Are limbs, so dear-achieved, are sides,
Full-nerved,- still warm,- too hard to stir?
Was it for this the clay grew tall?
- O what made fatuous sunbeams toil
To break earth's sleep at all?
Woke, once, the clays of a cold star.
Are limbs, so dear-achieved, are sides,
Full-nerved,- still warm,- too hard to stir?
Was it for this the clay grew tall?
- O what made fatuous sunbeams toil
To break earth's sleep at all?
Thursday, May 9, 2013
My Nicest Clothes
I think I said it all yesterday, and illustrated my borderline as well. Tant pis pour moi.
The rain, rain, rain stopped, and a beautiful sun appeared while it got chilly quickly. If this were the new weather pattern for the coming years, I would be happy enough, but it seems to be the old weather pattern, before the unending drought appeared. I think the drought will come back.
But let's be happy together this morning. The New Adventurers are here right now, and run about with reckless abandon. They made a friend smile yesterday, over coffee, and what better job have they done for me? I need them, too. But I am resolved, no matter my anxiety as to their future, not to keep them. I think they have someone to make them very happy, who waits for them. That's my kitten prayer.
I think next, I would like to foster a cat who is either senior, or has been in the shelter a long while.
I should have gone to therapy yesterday, and didn't. It's something in my head, that I am not prepared to discuss at the moment, and may not reach the blog. I try to give as much information as I can about my disorders, a first hand account, to promote understanding while I reserve enough of my own boundaries to keep my sanity. A violated boundary, by another, or even oneself, is a truly terrible thing.
It seems to me to be a deep matter, that of boundaries, but it's bound to be cultural and changeful. What seems to be an inviolate part of my person, a very real acknowledgement of my right to some portion of human dignity, is a very needful thing to a person with MI's, or mental 'illnesses'. Especially since a good many live in poverty: everyone, government, one's neighbors, relatives, want to know what is done with 'the money'. How are resources expended?
My life is stripped bare on government forms. Do I have a vehicle? Any remnant of previously having had money? I must be utterly destitute, for the government to start helping me. I understand the rationale behind that way of thought. I have paid taxes most of my life, and pay them today.
The point I think about is this one, obviously. People with MI's are targets. Not only does the government, society, want to keep us at a certain level of poverty, but we are targets for those who have always had targets...the stalkers, thieves, con-artists, those without conscience.
Back to government forms and societal norms: it's especially poignant that there exists a level of poverty that is acceptable. For instance, $10 here or there, and one loses food stamps. No gain is possible. There is no way to save for a car repair, or buy organic food. If one makes too much, one loses healthcare. In society's eyes, I feel that one is asked to wear the marker of poverty, so that one can be seen and dealt with. Profiling, as it were.
I have found, especially on places like Facebook, open, naked hatred of those who live with MI's, or in poverty. Those who receive public assistance, are particularly targeted. Although, mercifully, most of those who post that rubbish have unfriended me.
And yes, yes, yes, I do know those who live with public assistance, who are irresponsible with their money. Some people are, poor and rich alike. It is a lot to ask: to look and be treated, and buy with the same respect that the middle class have.
One really pays with TIME. Modern conveniences, fast food, quicker cars are luxuries Americans of all classes have come to expect. But the poor are denied that luxury in most ways. The poor "shouldn't" be able to grab a quick meal, as they run about their daily lives, which are just as busy, if not busier than others. Because they are expected to expend their lives, and pay with time, what cannot be bought with money.
For instance, instead of a quick burger at McDonald's, a person of limited income is expected to cook at home, and somehow keep it with one at all times, in case hunger and inconvenience strikes, or there is a delay in schedule. It takes 10 minutes to pick up a burger. It takes 4 hours to cook a pot of beans. Or an hour to cook some chicken. And the toys they give out with the apple slices in the kid's meals. Should poor children really expect toys? After all, they are "welfare babies" and can't expect any more than that...upon which time we may castigate their generation.
They do have an easy out: selling drugs, or weapons, or sex slaves or whatever the market calls for.
And yes, now I rail on about injustices. I mind life under a microscope. I don't like to ask for help in the first place. And then to be judged for it, is too much for my borderline mentality to handle. I never wanted to be in a car accident, or raped, or assaulted by a coworker. Where is the justice in that?
It was supposed to be a happy morning. And I am not unhappy. In a very sad way, I have my "things"; I have reminders of how much I used to mean, materially. I have my nicest clothes, still, and my best furniture. I have good shoes that will last for many years.
I have to say that the source of this rant, is having used my food stamps card at the grocery store yesterday. Ok, Kroger. I will tell you that I shop Kroger because it is a union grocery store. I don't like to shop Wal-Mart because of their labor practices. But I stick out much less at Wal-Mart, using my EBT card, than I do, at Kroger. In fact, I once had a manager at Kroger, poor man, try to teach a young clerk a lesson about how to mind his business when a customer used food stamps to pay for food. Unfortunately for the manager, and the clerk, the customers who stood in line, and myself, being brought to attention in front of others like that, singled out, triggered a dissociative episode for me. All the poor man said was, "Exactly why do you get food stamps?"
I suppose that he expected me to point out that it was none of anyone's business. Thus would have ended the lesson. But no, I told everyone, very loudly and clearly, exactly the most excruciating, and embarrassing events of my MI's. The rapes, and by whom. And once triggered, I could not stop. The boy actually ended up with the dry heaves.
So now, every time I walk into any Kroger, and I go to that one particularly, almost every day, I am reminded of what I consider to be a most horrible and devastating event. I feel the same way walking into my bank. It's just too many people, with too much information, that I would not willingly divulge to anyone. So much of our self worth is tied to money, and the jobs we hold that provide it.
I have friends that do not target me for what they can get. Being mentally ill and poor is to be a target for the rapacious, as well, as men used to move on a battlefield, stripping the dead of anything useful. I have my mind, my values imbued by my class, and my education. They are all markers of "what used to be." They are the star on my lapel, my red robe with gloves, my beggar's hat.
I could go on and on this morning, and I have. It is a day for writing, and I would like to put some poetry together for the next Liminal reading, downtown. So I will leave you with the pleasant picture of my room: the four kittens, all grey, and fluffy, and precious, are settling on the bed covered with the wedding ring quilt, and the red, toile blanket. The patient, loving, gold-colored dog, snores by my side. He has to touch me to sleep.
And even this, is tinted with poverty. I would like to buy them Iams kitten wet food, not the adult cat food they eat.
But what should really matter, is that there is room to spare in my heart to raise them, and give them back up, so that they have a good life. What should matter, is the friends who worry about how I will feel, when I give them up.What does matter, is that all of my animals are rescue, and neutered and spayed, and well groomed.
What does matter, is the love I feel now that I am taking the correct anti-Evil pill. This is love that is blocked without the pills. I simply cannot see it. I am blind to love without the pills. I cannot imagine anything more terrible than to be blocked from love, simply by the twist of a brain injury. Can you?
The rain, rain, rain stopped, and a beautiful sun appeared while it got chilly quickly. If this were the new weather pattern for the coming years, I would be happy enough, but it seems to be the old weather pattern, before the unending drought appeared. I think the drought will come back.
But let's be happy together this morning. The New Adventurers are here right now, and run about with reckless abandon. They made a friend smile yesterday, over coffee, and what better job have they done for me? I need them, too. But I am resolved, no matter my anxiety as to their future, not to keep them. I think they have someone to make them very happy, who waits for them. That's my kitten prayer.
I should have gone to therapy yesterday, and didn't. It's something in my head, that I am not prepared to discuss at the moment, and may not reach the blog. I try to give as much information as I can about my disorders, a first hand account, to promote understanding while I reserve enough of my own boundaries to keep my sanity. A violated boundary, by another, or even oneself, is a truly terrible thing.
It seems to me to be a deep matter, that of boundaries, but it's bound to be cultural and changeful. What seems to be an inviolate part of my person, a very real acknowledgement of my right to some portion of human dignity, is a very needful thing to a person with MI's, or mental 'illnesses'. Especially since a good many live in poverty: everyone, government, one's neighbors, relatives, want to know what is done with 'the money'. How are resources expended?
My life is stripped bare on government forms. Do I have a vehicle? Any remnant of previously having had money? I must be utterly destitute, for the government to start helping me. I understand the rationale behind that way of thought. I have paid taxes most of my life, and pay them today.
The point I think about is this one, obviously. People with MI's are targets. Not only does the government, society, want to keep us at a certain level of poverty, but we are targets for those who have always had targets...the stalkers, thieves, con-artists, those without conscience.
Back to government forms and societal norms: it's especially poignant that there exists a level of poverty that is acceptable. For instance, $10 here or there, and one loses food stamps. No gain is possible. There is no way to save for a car repair, or buy organic food. If one makes too much, one loses healthcare. In society's eyes, I feel that one is asked to wear the marker of poverty, so that one can be seen and dealt with. Profiling, as it were.
I have found, especially on places like Facebook, open, naked hatred of those who live with MI's, or in poverty. Those who receive public assistance, are particularly targeted. Although, mercifully, most of those who post that rubbish have unfriended me.
And yes, yes, yes, I do know those who live with public assistance, who are irresponsible with their money. Some people are, poor and rich alike. It is a lot to ask: to look and be treated, and buy with the same respect that the middle class have.
One really pays with TIME. Modern conveniences, fast food, quicker cars are luxuries Americans of all classes have come to expect. But the poor are denied that luxury in most ways. The poor "shouldn't" be able to grab a quick meal, as they run about their daily lives, which are just as busy, if not busier than others. Because they are expected to expend their lives, and pay with time, what cannot be bought with money.
For instance, instead of a quick burger at McDonald's, a person of limited income is expected to cook at home, and somehow keep it with one at all times, in case hunger and inconvenience strikes, or there is a delay in schedule. It takes 10 minutes to pick up a burger. It takes 4 hours to cook a pot of beans. Or an hour to cook some chicken. And the toys they give out with the apple slices in the kid's meals. Should poor children really expect toys? After all, they are "welfare babies" and can't expect any more than that...upon which time we may castigate their generation.
They do have an easy out: selling drugs, or weapons, or sex slaves or whatever the market calls for.
And yes, now I rail on about injustices. I mind life under a microscope. I don't like to ask for help in the first place. And then to be judged for it, is too much for my borderline mentality to handle. I never wanted to be in a car accident, or raped, or assaulted by a coworker. Where is the justice in that?
It was supposed to be a happy morning. And I am not unhappy. In a very sad way, I have my "things"; I have reminders of how much I used to mean, materially. I have my nicest clothes, still, and my best furniture. I have good shoes that will last for many years.
I have to say that the source of this rant, is having used my food stamps card at the grocery store yesterday. Ok, Kroger. I will tell you that I shop Kroger because it is a union grocery store. I don't like to shop Wal-Mart because of their labor practices. But I stick out much less at Wal-Mart, using my EBT card, than I do, at Kroger. In fact, I once had a manager at Kroger, poor man, try to teach a young clerk a lesson about how to mind his business when a customer used food stamps to pay for food. Unfortunately for the manager, and the clerk, the customers who stood in line, and myself, being brought to attention in front of others like that, singled out, triggered a dissociative episode for me. All the poor man said was, "Exactly why do you get food stamps?"
I suppose that he expected me to point out that it was none of anyone's business. Thus would have ended the lesson. But no, I told everyone, very loudly and clearly, exactly the most excruciating, and embarrassing events of my MI's. The rapes, and by whom. And once triggered, I could not stop. The boy actually ended up with the dry heaves.
So now, every time I walk into any Kroger, and I go to that one particularly, almost every day, I am reminded of what I consider to be a most horrible and devastating event. I feel the same way walking into my bank. It's just too many people, with too much information, that I would not willingly divulge to anyone. So much of our self worth is tied to money, and the jobs we hold that provide it.
I have friends that do not target me for what they can get. Being mentally ill and poor is to be a target for the rapacious, as well, as men used to move on a battlefield, stripping the dead of anything useful. I have my mind, my values imbued by my class, and my education. They are all markers of "what used to be." They are the star on my lapel, my red robe with gloves, my beggar's hat.
I could go on and on this morning, and I have. It is a day for writing, and I would like to put some poetry together for the next Liminal reading, downtown. So I will leave you with the pleasant picture of my room: the four kittens, all grey, and fluffy, and precious, are settling on the bed covered with the wedding ring quilt, and the red, toile blanket. The patient, loving, gold-colored dog, snores by my side. He has to touch me to sleep.
And even this, is tinted with poverty. I would like to buy them Iams kitten wet food, not the adult cat food they eat.
But what should really matter, is that there is room to spare in my heart to raise them, and give them back up, so that they have a good life. What should matter, is the friends who worry about how I will feel, when I give them up.What does matter, is that all of my animals are rescue, and neutered and spayed, and well groomed.
What does matter, is the love I feel now that I am taking the correct anti-Evil pill. This is love that is blocked without the pills. I simply cannot see it. I am blind to love without the pills. I cannot imagine anything more terrible than to be blocked from love, simply by the twist of a brain injury. Can you?
Wednesday, May 8, 2013
Where I Can't Go
Some mornings, I am afraid to go back to sleep, after I wake from bad dreams. So it is this morning, and the very best I can do, is let the New Adventurers out of their crate. A jingle bell is rolling behind my bed right now, and soft slithering noises, as they navigate around whatever is under the bed. Dog toys, most likely, although there is my Mom's large punchbowl tray under there as well.
I have rearranged sleeping places for the unicorn meat eating cats, so that they are out of reach, although they won't be for very long. The New Adventurers will go back to Angels of Assisi soon, to be put up for adoption. The apartment will be terribly quiet, but some measure of serenity will return for the adults.
This picture is Minkins, one of the unicorn meat eating cats, in a moment of sanity recently.
It has rained for 5 days now, and last night, it turned cold again. Some few flowers are still on the trees, and the lilac and iris bloom now. The unicorn herds have moved north already, except for a few stragglers here and there, summer unicorns that can bear the Virginia heat and humidity. It really pisses the cats off, that they have missed most of the hunt season for the year.
Here is Ratty, in a super pissed mood. That he is eyeing the dog, is not a good sign.
I had a pedicure yesterday, at Ilema's Esthetique, in Salem. It's always a very spa-like experience there, and I came away with baby soft feet, and a nail polish called, "Let's Go Out for a Drink of Lunch." Really, alcoholics can pick them, can't we?
I also like the color called "Meet Me at the Copier" and there is "Last Night, On Wisteria Lane" which is also in the pink color family, but yesterday, "Let's Go Out for a Drink of Lunch" would only do.
I am now on Youtube, under "Alise Stewart reading at Liminal". Check it out. I didn't remember the time going that quickly, it all seemed like slow motion, but apparently, it was quick.
Today is therapy day, and I will be happy to see my friends. We are not a group that attracts much attention: we wouldn't stick out in a crowd, if we went somewhere as a group. Just average middle-aged women, getting together, and talking about a terrible stigmatized disorder, Borderline Personality. We have all been traumatized, at one point in our lives, and we are careful of one another's feelings. It's a fun group, for the most part, and we work hard at having fun at it...as we try to heal.
I am trying to be careful here: it has been pointed out to me, that what happens in our group is very, very private. That's something I am careful about and aware of, as I write. I will not write about individual members, or my therapist. I will share things like, we have two interns, taking class as we are, and participating in group, who may go on to specialize in treatment for Borderline Personality disorder. Meetings of Alcoholics Anonymous has health professionals attend meetings sometimes, for clinical experience, and I think it is fascinating to be 'studied.' I like to study, the studiers.
These young and personable women are real pioneers in this field, if they do go on to specialize. It is only about 20 years ago that treatment was developed for Borderline. To take the class, as a person with the disorder, can be both liberating and heartbreaking, as any successful treatment can be.
I am curious about my own disorder, to try to tease the silk from the corn, so that I may address my challenges. And there I go, intellectualizing. It is always much harder to face the stigma of having the disorder, than dealing with the disorder itself. To live with Borderline isn't hard...but it is hard on others.
There it is, again. I push it away, to distance myself on the page from my feelings. I hold the topic at arms' length, as being too big of a morsel to bite. I am a writer, but my capacity for self-expression is not limitless.
There are places in my writing, and in my heart and mind, where I cannot go even for you. I push myself every morning, to produce something that will help you to understand how I feel, even why I feel, when feeling isn't regulated for any other group on earth. I want to touch you, and be part of your life. I want to spread understanding about mental health issues. I would like to make life easier for the next person in line for my disorders.
In a room full of people, the ones with mental health issues are easy to spot, most of us just drip poverty. In other societies, we might be shamans, or witchdoctors, or soothsayers. Don't get me wrong. Mental "illness" is stigmatized everywhere, it can be. But in America, we can be cordoned off into a population. Sometimes we are handed just enough to eke out an existence. All of that creativity, and experience, just flushed down the toilet. Lives, circling the drain.
I put it down solely to the influence of the Puritans, and a more benighted population of immigrants has never been. No color in clothing, music was evil, and older women who could no longer bear children were hunted and shunned and put to death. The Arts, and creativity itself, was a sign of the Devil.
Enough. That's what I say when the injustice chokes me.
So I write my small blog, and try to do-unto-others-as-I-would-be-done-by. I try to be a good friend, and a productive citizen, to give something back. Because I am grateful to be a woman born in this day, in this country. With all our problems, and so much that is wrong that I live with, I could be some woman in Somalia, or Cote d'Ivoire, being raped daily, and watching her children grow up with AIDS, and tuberculosis...instead of a woman living in a rape culture, who has been raped, twice.
Here is the core of the injustice I feel today: From the year 2000, to 2005, I worked at a place in Roanoke, called Southeast Rural Community Assistance Project, Inc. We secured funding for water/wastewater projects for the rural poor in Virginia, down to Georgia.
I was physically assaulted by a coworker in 2005. What the agency, Southeast RCAP, decided to do with that is particularly shameful. While I was actively ill, and fully at the mercy of my mental disorders, Southeast RCAP asked me to sign a contract releasing me from my duties. Depending on the 'goodwill' of the then current CEO, Mary C. Terry, and lost in the world of mental illness, with no one to advise or help me, I signed that contract. The firm of Woods, Rogers and Hazelgrove enforces that contract to this day.
It says: that they may tell any future employer that I was fired for failing to show up for work after my assault. Only they don't have to mention the assault. Any damage sustained by me during an assault was 'my own problem.' And no responsibility of theirs.
My appeals to Southeast RCAP and Woods, Rogers, and Hazelgrove for mercy and some fairness in this matter is met with, "She (that is, me) signed the contract, and enforce it we will until the end of time." Or, translated, Tough Shit.
There are always two sides of the story, you may be thinking. But there is truly only that. I tried to interest person after person in my assault: lawyers, the media, the police, the District Attorney's office. No one gives a rat's rear end about my story, from that day to this. In fact, the Roanoke District Attorney's office helped the Agency, by sweeping the whole thing under an ugly rug.
So I live with it, and you do too, make no mistake.
I don't like the conclusions that I come to every morning. And every morning I reluctantly take my anti-Evil pills. I swallow them, and my pride as a hard worker. I lump the letters I get from Woods, Rogers, telling me to stick it where the sun don't shine. I can live with rape, everyone knows that a despicable act. But I cannot live with the rape of my reputation, so easily.
So the bitterness breaks through, and there is my core, and all the attention of my ire and resentment. There sits my hatred of a formerly worthy charity. And the inattention of the world, is too much.
I have rearranged sleeping places for the unicorn meat eating cats, so that they are out of reach, although they won't be for very long. The New Adventurers will go back to Angels of Assisi soon, to be put up for adoption. The apartment will be terribly quiet, but some measure of serenity will return for the adults.
It has rained for 5 days now, and last night, it turned cold again. Some few flowers are still on the trees, and the lilac and iris bloom now. The unicorn herds have moved north already, except for a few stragglers here and there, summer unicorns that can bear the Virginia heat and humidity. It really pisses the cats off, that they have missed most of the hunt season for the year.
I had a pedicure yesterday, at Ilema's Esthetique, in Salem. It's always a very spa-like experience there, and I came away with baby soft feet, and a nail polish called, "Let's Go Out for a Drink of Lunch." Really, alcoholics can pick them, can't we?
I also like the color called "Meet Me at the Copier" and there is "Last Night, On Wisteria Lane" which is also in the pink color family, but yesterday, "Let's Go Out for a Drink of Lunch" would only do.
I am now on Youtube, under "Alise Stewart reading at Liminal". Check it out. I didn't remember the time going that quickly, it all seemed like slow motion, but apparently, it was quick.
Today is therapy day, and I will be happy to see my friends. We are not a group that attracts much attention: we wouldn't stick out in a crowd, if we went somewhere as a group. Just average middle-aged women, getting together, and talking about a terrible stigmatized disorder, Borderline Personality. We have all been traumatized, at one point in our lives, and we are careful of one another's feelings. It's a fun group, for the most part, and we work hard at having fun at it...as we try to heal.
I am trying to be careful here: it has been pointed out to me, that what happens in our group is very, very private. That's something I am careful about and aware of, as I write. I will not write about individual members, or my therapist. I will share things like, we have two interns, taking class as we are, and participating in group, who may go on to specialize in treatment for Borderline Personality disorder. Meetings of Alcoholics Anonymous has health professionals attend meetings sometimes, for clinical experience, and I think it is fascinating to be 'studied.' I like to study, the studiers.
These young and personable women are real pioneers in this field, if they do go on to specialize. It is only about 20 years ago that treatment was developed for Borderline. To take the class, as a person with the disorder, can be both liberating and heartbreaking, as any successful treatment can be.
I am curious about my own disorder, to try to tease the silk from the corn, so that I may address my challenges. And there I go, intellectualizing. It is always much harder to face the stigma of having the disorder, than dealing with the disorder itself. To live with Borderline isn't hard...but it is hard on others.
There it is, again. I push it away, to distance myself on the page from my feelings. I hold the topic at arms' length, as being too big of a morsel to bite. I am a writer, but my capacity for self-expression is not limitless.
There are places in my writing, and in my heart and mind, where I cannot go even for you. I push myself every morning, to produce something that will help you to understand how I feel, even why I feel, when feeling isn't regulated for any other group on earth. I want to touch you, and be part of your life. I want to spread understanding about mental health issues. I would like to make life easier for the next person in line for my disorders.
In a room full of people, the ones with mental health issues are easy to spot, most of us just drip poverty. In other societies, we might be shamans, or witchdoctors, or soothsayers. Don't get me wrong. Mental "illness" is stigmatized everywhere, it can be. But in America, we can be cordoned off into a population. Sometimes we are handed just enough to eke out an existence. All of that creativity, and experience, just flushed down the toilet. Lives, circling the drain.
I put it down solely to the influence of the Puritans, and a more benighted population of immigrants has never been. No color in clothing, music was evil, and older women who could no longer bear children were hunted and shunned and put to death. The Arts, and creativity itself, was a sign of the Devil.
Enough. That's what I say when the injustice chokes me.
So I write my small blog, and try to do-unto-others-as-I-would-be-done-by. I try to be a good friend, and a productive citizen, to give something back. Because I am grateful to be a woman born in this day, in this country. With all our problems, and so much that is wrong that I live with, I could be some woman in Somalia, or Cote d'Ivoire, being raped daily, and watching her children grow up with AIDS, and tuberculosis...instead of a woman living in a rape culture, who has been raped, twice.
Here is the core of the injustice I feel today: From the year 2000, to 2005, I worked at a place in Roanoke, called Southeast Rural Community Assistance Project, Inc. We secured funding for water/wastewater projects for the rural poor in Virginia, down to Georgia.
I was physically assaulted by a coworker in 2005. What the agency, Southeast RCAP, decided to do with that is particularly shameful. While I was actively ill, and fully at the mercy of my mental disorders, Southeast RCAP asked me to sign a contract releasing me from my duties. Depending on the 'goodwill' of the then current CEO, Mary C. Terry, and lost in the world of mental illness, with no one to advise or help me, I signed that contract. The firm of Woods, Rogers and Hazelgrove enforces that contract to this day.
It says: that they may tell any future employer that I was fired for failing to show up for work after my assault. Only they don't have to mention the assault. Any damage sustained by me during an assault was 'my own problem.' And no responsibility of theirs.
My appeals to Southeast RCAP and Woods, Rogers, and Hazelgrove for mercy and some fairness in this matter is met with, "She (that is, me) signed the contract, and enforce it we will until the end of time." Or, translated, Tough Shit.
There are always two sides of the story, you may be thinking. But there is truly only that. I tried to interest person after person in my assault: lawyers, the media, the police, the District Attorney's office. No one gives a rat's rear end about my story, from that day to this. In fact, the Roanoke District Attorney's office helped the Agency, by sweeping the whole thing under an ugly rug.
So I live with it, and you do too, make no mistake.
I don't like the conclusions that I come to every morning. And every morning I reluctantly take my anti-Evil pills. I swallow them, and my pride as a hard worker. I lump the letters I get from Woods, Rogers, telling me to stick it where the sun don't shine. I can live with rape, everyone knows that a despicable act. But I cannot live with the rape of my reputation, so easily.
So the bitterness breaks through, and there is my core, and all the attention of my ire and resentment. There sits my hatred of a formerly worthy charity. And the inattention of the world, is too much.
Monday, May 6, 2013
Compulsion
That's all it is, is Monday. It is unseasonably cold in this corner of the world. I keep expecting it to snow again. The clouds and wind belong to the snow, but it really isn't quite that cold, and so, it rains. Considering that I am mowing the lawn in a jacket, in May, really doesn't push winter back for me. There are no hard frosts, but it is only a trick of the wind.
The grass grows, but the morning can be bitter. It is too cold to leave the window open for the unicorn meat eating cats, and their hearts, hardened by exposure to the New Adventurers, alternate between sleep and growls.
The New Adventurers? Wound up like small toys on springs, a small herd of elephants, lightening fast baby bunnies, they eat.
Some of us, are not amused.
It makes me grateful for the quiet that exists in the lives of my cats. The solace of wisdom is an older cat.
My disorders are managing themselves quite well. Sometimes they run on ahead of me, announcing my presence, but for the moment, they are quiet. I choose to take the anti-Evil pill in the morning, every morning, not thinking about it. I try not to notice that I take them, despite the weight gain, which is hard to ignore.
Some friend described me as calm, the other day, and I marveled at appearances. Calm? The Abilify is truly a miracle drug for me to appear calm. I think of the itchy, crawly person I was two years ago. How utterly miserable it is to live at the whim of a disease. Booze.
It had trampled me into the dirt, at the fairgrounds, and I laid there, sweaty and shaky. I remember the mornings, days even, barely able to hold onto my stomach. I prayed for something to stay down, anything. To drink until I was sick to my stomach, and then try to hold down booze, so that I could eat. And sometimes, I was successful, but most of the time, I wasn't. I roll those days over in my hands, an entire world. There is still so much stigma to being an alcoholic, particularly as a woman. I truly take my courage in my hands to write of being a miserable, sloppy, skin-crawling drunk. How the smell oozes out of the skin, the yellowing eyes, the shaky hands.
The visits to different stores everyday, because I knew just not that many people sauntered up to a counter with a case of beer to buy, at 7 a.m. There is nothing like that sinking feeling, as if the ground itself moved downward. Desperately trying to look 'respectable.' As if I were buying cases of beer for some imaginary work crew, everyday. And such a liberal employer I was! Yes! I was simply popping out for the crew, as they worked on my mansion, you know those painters, those plumbers, those roofers. Yes! Those scads of men who worked for me and surely deserved a cold beer on a hot day, for all their troubles.
Oh, an alcoholic is so sensitive to that kind of thing. The looks I got, even comments, the jokes, all of it. Knowing I couldn't leave the house without a shower, at least, and some clean clothes. Scrubbing hard at the skin to get the smell that came out with the sweat, even in the coldest of winter. Carefully putting on makeup, with my shaking hands, hands that would not stop shaking except after a beer or two. And I couldn't go out smelling like fresh beer! The planning it took to not write a check at the grocery store, because I couldn't sign my name properly. The casual way I bought a few things for the workman, along with that huge case of beer. Or buying two. Now, no one can drink that much in a couple of days! Surely I was buying for a crowd! A party!
And then, the utter relief to reach home, and know I didn't have to think about doing that, and feeling that, for another 24 hours. A whole day free of that kind of shame. Against that kind of shame, the emotions I felt about wasting my life was nothing. After all, I could make it to the trashcan. Sometimes, I could wash the dishes, or dust. I was respectable! I was! Look, I can wash dishes and dust like the rest of them! I looked normal! I did! I wore makeup, and styled my hair. I was ready for a visit from the Pope at 4 a.m.! I washed clothes even, and swept the floor. And huddled in the bedroom, waiting for the President, and the Secret Service to show up, so we could all crack a beer and be jolly.
Yes, it did nothing good for the stomach to stand there, with that case of beer, and feel nothing but total humiliation. There could never be enough makeup, or friends' love, to sooth that cracked place, that split open and bled every morning. And it took until 6 a.m. the next morning to cover that oozing spot up, to go out and do it all over again.
I was helpless, all addicts are helpless, against those feelings. To live in the grips of that terrible compulsion is truly a horror. And as I mentioned, no love could make me feel as if I were human. We are stigmatized even by ourselves. I felt as if I deserved no mercy, no kindness or sympathy. I was despicable. Only another alcoholic could love someone like me, to the depths that would do any good. Only other sufferers could see me and know and say, "I have been like that, too. I know exactly how you feel. Let me help."
My medicine is to know all of this, and remember, and be grateful that I don't have to feel that way today. I think it's time to play with a New Adventurer.
The grass grows, but the morning can be bitter. It is too cold to leave the window open for the unicorn meat eating cats, and their hearts, hardened by exposure to the New Adventurers, alternate between sleep and growls.
The New Adventurers? Wound up like small toys on springs, a small herd of elephants, lightening fast baby bunnies, they eat.
It makes me grateful for the quiet that exists in the lives of my cats. The solace of wisdom is an older cat.
My disorders are managing themselves quite well. Sometimes they run on ahead of me, announcing my presence, but for the moment, they are quiet. I choose to take the anti-Evil pill in the morning, every morning, not thinking about it. I try not to notice that I take them, despite the weight gain, which is hard to ignore.
Some friend described me as calm, the other day, and I marveled at appearances. Calm? The Abilify is truly a miracle drug for me to appear calm. I think of the itchy, crawly person I was two years ago. How utterly miserable it is to live at the whim of a disease. Booze.
It had trampled me into the dirt, at the fairgrounds, and I laid there, sweaty and shaky. I remember the mornings, days even, barely able to hold onto my stomach. I prayed for something to stay down, anything. To drink until I was sick to my stomach, and then try to hold down booze, so that I could eat. And sometimes, I was successful, but most of the time, I wasn't. I roll those days over in my hands, an entire world. There is still so much stigma to being an alcoholic, particularly as a woman. I truly take my courage in my hands to write of being a miserable, sloppy, skin-crawling drunk. How the smell oozes out of the skin, the yellowing eyes, the shaky hands.
The visits to different stores everyday, because I knew just not that many people sauntered up to a counter with a case of beer to buy, at 7 a.m. There is nothing like that sinking feeling, as if the ground itself moved downward. Desperately trying to look 'respectable.' As if I were buying cases of beer for some imaginary work crew, everyday. And such a liberal employer I was! Yes! I was simply popping out for the crew, as they worked on my mansion, you know those painters, those plumbers, those roofers. Yes! Those scads of men who worked for me and surely deserved a cold beer on a hot day, for all their troubles.
Oh, an alcoholic is so sensitive to that kind of thing. The looks I got, even comments, the jokes, all of it. Knowing I couldn't leave the house without a shower, at least, and some clean clothes. Scrubbing hard at the skin to get the smell that came out with the sweat, even in the coldest of winter. Carefully putting on makeup, with my shaking hands, hands that would not stop shaking except after a beer or two. And I couldn't go out smelling like fresh beer! The planning it took to not write a check at the grocery store, because I couldn't sign my name properly. The casual way I bought a few things for the workman, along with that huge case of beer. Or buying two. Now, no one can drink that much in a couple of days! Surely I was buying for a crowd! A party!
And then, the utter relief to reach home, and know I didn't have to think about doing that, and feeling that, for another 24 hours. A whole day free of that kind of shame. Against that kind of shame, the emotions I felt about wasting my life was nothing. After all, I could make it to the trashcan. Sometimes, I could wash the dishes, or dust. I was respectable! I was! Look, I can wash dishes and dust like the rest of them! I looked normal! I did! I wore makeup, and styled my hair. I was ready for a visit from the Pope at 4 a.m.! I washed clothes even, and swept the floor. And huddled in the bedroom, waiting for the President, and the Secret Service to show up, so we could all crack a beer and be jolly.
Yes, it did nothing good for the stomach to stand there, with that case of beer, and feel nothing but total humiliation. There could never be enough makeup, or friends' love, to sooth that cracked place, that split open and bled every morning. And it took until 6 a.m. the next morning to cover that oozing spot up, to go out and do it all over again.
I was helpless, all addicts are helpless, against those feelings. To live in the grips of that terrible compulsion is truly a horror. And as I mentioned, no love could make me feel as if I were human. We are stigmatized even by ourselves. I felt as if I deserved no mercy, no kindness or sympathy. I was despicable. Only another alcoholic could love someone like me, to the depths that would do any good. Only other sufferers could see me and know and say, "I have been like that, too. I know exactly how you feel. Let me help."
My medicine is to know all of this, and remember, and be grateful that I don't have to feel that way today. I think it's time to play with a New Adventurer.
Friday, May 3, 2013
I Should Be Asleep
The unicorn meat eating cats are in a tizzy this morning. They discovered yesterday, that the New Adventurers will be around for a couple of weeks more, not days, as they had anticipated. Panic ensued.
You can see how Minkins feels about this.
The expression on the faces of the unicorn meat eating cats, as they watch the gyrations of the New Adventurers, has been scientifically proven to be the exact same expression, that older members of the public wore, when seeing the Beatles on TV for the first time.
My life is rich. It's made even richer by the fact of my official entry into menopause. Some mental illnesses become milder at this time of life. I certainly hope that mine do. I am prepared to celebrate this great event, and will be having a mani/pedi (manicure and pedicure) on Tuesday. I can't afford it, but am getting them anyway, as I can't afford anything and still don't have any money left at the end of the month.
I don't know exactly if Sequestration will put a temporary hold on my mental health treatments.. I check in at my shrink's office to see if my mental health workers are being paid, and so far they are. It won't be long though...
Other than all of this, my life is better now than several months ago. I still feel afraid to leave the house at times, but it is easier to face when I simply have to interact with a lawnmower. And to watch a New Adventurer recklessly fling itself off of my bed, heedless of peril, into the void, is not to be missed.
My paranoia is also in abatement, which makes life easier as well. I put it down solely to the action of Abilify, although it does put the weight on. It is rare to run into the creature that is the psychiatric medication that doesn't put on weight. I actually cannot think of one. But I am bitter right now, as I have eaten a raspberry filled doughnut as a midnight snack, instead of yoghurt.
As for the state of this world, and of events I have no control over, the Sequester, bombs, war, inequality, I push them out of my mind when I am not asked to speak up over them. I know, more than some, that dwelling on madness, only increases madness. I do what I can, help where I can, speak when I can.
But, for right now, at this small hour of the morning, all I think of, is the suspicious slithering sounds coming from the next room, and watch over the gentle, sleeping cat who dreams of unicorns.
The expression on the faces of the unicorn meat eating cats, as they watch the gyrations of the New Adventurers, has been scientifically proven to be the exact same expression, that older members of the public wore, when seeing the Beatles on TV for the first time.
My life is rich. It's made even richer by the fact of my official entry into menopause. Some mental illnesses become milder at this time of life. I certainly hope that mine do. I am prepared to celebrate this great event, and will be having a mani/pedi (manicure and pedicure) on Tuesday. I can't afford it, but am getting them anyway, as I can't afford anything and still don't have any money left at the end of the month.
I don't know exactly if Sequestration will put a temporary hold on my mental health treatments.. I check in at my shrink's office to see if my mental health workers are being paid, and so far they are. It won't be long though...
Other than all of this, my life is better now than several months ago. I still feel afraid to leave the house at times, but it is easier to face when I simply have to interact with a lawnmower. And to watch a New Adventurer recklessly fling itself off of my bed, heedless of peril, into the void, is not to be missed.
My paranoia is also in abatement, which makes life easier as well. I put it down solely to the action of Abilify, although it does put the weight on. It is rare to run into the creature that is the psychiatric medication that doesn't put on weight. I actually cannot think of one. But I am bitter right now, as I have eaten a raspberry filled doughnut as a midnight snack, instead of yoghurt.
As for the state of this world, and of events I have no control over, the Sequester, bombs, war, inequality, I push them out of my mind when I am not asked to speak up over them. I know, more than some, that dwelling on madness, only increases madness. I do what I can, help where I can, speak when I can.
But, for right now, at this small hour of the morning, all I think of, is the suspicious slithering sounds coming from the next room, and watch over the gentle, sleeping cat who dreams of unicorns.
Wednesday, May 1, 2013
A New Adventure
Tuesday, 30 April 2013
I lit a partial cigarette this morning, and puffed deeply, only to find a burning itty bitty kitty dingleberry, dangling, and burning on the end...
Now that I am awake...I am out of kitten food, and need someone to hook me up today, probably Kroger. Angels of Assisi is so short of wet cat food, that they have none to spare that I can't better. That is, I am set on Iams wet kitten food, as being nothing short of a miracle for my own unicorn meat eating orphans, so long ago. I am convinced the reason they thrived was the Iams.
Wednesday, 1 May 2013
I have zero motivation to write today, but sometimes being a writer means doing it anyway. It's the same as being a human being, or any other job, for that matter. Now that the kittens are healthy and healing from their tummy upsets, I am sure it is time for them to go back to Angels of Assisi. One of the unicorn meat eating cats, Minkins, actually played with one of the kittens this morning. True, it was only "tiny toes under the door" but it was a wacking good game of it, all the same.
Someone is hissing under the bed, and a kitten runs across the keyboard, but this is a good morning. No one is vomiting, or has diarrhea...
If I could keep one or two, or only one, of course I would pick one of the smaller ones...Shrek, or Autumn. Of course, I would rename Autumn, and give her the name Shaherazade. She was the Princess in the Tales of the Arabian Nights who told all the stories, one after another, drawing them out, to stay alive.
Winston is absolutely going to be one of the biggest cats I have ever seen.
He is twice the size of his litter mates. Oh, dear. I know I will cry when I give them up. I hope someone who absolutely adores cats are their new parents.
I hereby agree, to foster any of them again, if they are returned to Angels, at any time in perpetuity.
Although it appeals to the poet in me that I can now say, I have seen Autumn in April, and she is very beautiful...
I lit a partial cigarette this morning, and puffed deeply, only to find a burning itty bitty kitty dingleberry, dangling, and burning on the end...
Now that I am awake...I am out of kitten food, and need someone to hook me up today, probably Kroger. Angels of Assisi is so short of wet cat food, that they have none to spare that I can't better. That is, I am set on Iams wet kitten food, as being nothing short of a miracle for my own unicorn meat eating orphans, so long ago. I am convinced the reason they thrived was the Iams.
Wednesday, 1 May 2013
I have zero motivation to write today, but sometimes being a writer means doing it anyway. It's the same as being a human being, or any other job, for that matter. Now that the kittens are healthy and healing from their tummy upsets, I am sure it is time for them to go back to Angels of Assisi. One of the unicorn meat eating cats, Minkins, actually played with one of the kittens this morning. True, it was only "tiny toes under the door" but it was a wacking good game of it, all the same.
Someone is hissing under the bed, and a kitten runs across the keyboard, but this is a good morning. No one is vomiting, or has diarrhea...
If I could keep one or two, or only one, of course I would pick one of the smaller ones...Shrek, or Autumn. Of course, I would rename Autumn, and give her the name Shaherazade. She was the Princess in the Tales of the Arabian Nights who told all the stories, one after another, drawing them out, to stay alive.
Winston is absolutely going to be one of the biggest cats I have ever seen.
He is twice the size of his litter mates. Oh, dear. I know I will cry when I give them up. I hope someone who absolutely adores cats are their new parents.
I hereby agree, to foster any of them again, if they are returned to Angels, at any time in perpetuity.
Although it appeals to the poet in me that I can now say, I have seen Autumn in April, and she is very beautiful...
Monday, April 29, 2013
Tales from the Wind
So, of course, I am awake in the wee hours, with the wee kittens, and my lovely, unicorn meat eating cats. The cats are long suffering at this point, going through a sort of martyrdom of catness. I, myself, love the New Adventurers, the litter, and I am going to suffer when I give them back to Angels of Assisi. They each have developed their personalities while they were here, and I love each one of them, as individuals, worthy of the name of Cat.
They grow larger each day, and their crate, that used to be so big, can barely contain them, now. It's almost impossible to get good pictures of them, they run like the wind and several small varieties of rabbit.
They will have to go to the adoption center, all too soon.
April here is rushing on as if it were March, it was wet, cool, rainy yesterday. It was a day of lowering clouds, and grape hyacinths in the grass. The flagstones outside the door were a dark slate color, and the grass now is serenely green, flaming, in it's own way. Zinnia from last year are popping up in their bed. I will spread them this year, to other parts of the garden. I have always felt that one cannot have too much lavender, or too many zinnia. They grow twice as much when cut, and in such a rainbow profusion, that it is impossible to go wrong with them.
The tomatoes should have long been in the ground, but I am tardy this year, with this glorious weather, that reminds me so much of Scotland. My brother, Marc, and I did visit Scotland at the end of March, beginning of April, for our birthdays. Which is a lovely time of year, bearing in mind that we were traveling towards The Orkneys, a spot above Oslo, Norway in longitude. We damn near died of exposure, but it was invigorating.
We felt the strong pull of our deep, ancestral roots, while discovering why all the Scottish we met, wanted to move to Florida. I have never, until this year, felt so much wind. If there is anything eternal in Scotland at all, it is the wind. Known to lift small children, and deposit them in Africa, the wind followed us from one wet, rain-whipped tower to the next. Watching the fishing boats putter about in the harbor at one island, and pelted by freezing rain, and sleet, showed us why the prime vacation time in Scotland was August.
The wind was so strong at John O'Groats, that the van we arrived in, was in danger of being overturned by it. The local ferry refused to run, because of the storm coming up on the North Sea. But the Norwegian line (and surely they had experience?) was running, come wind, rain, shine, or sleet. And run the passage we did.
At one point in our journey from John O'Groats to Kirkwall, the boat actually stood up on one side, pulling the stabilizers out of the water. This resulted in a noise as if Satan himself were riding on that side, and very upset about it, too.
The passengers had all been called down to the bowels of the vessel, to try to stabilize it. There wasn't any question of surviving if we capsized. The water temperature of the North Sea is colder than the dark side of the moon. I was having a conversation with the bartender, who refused to give me another Americano, a dark, rich coffee concoction that I can get down at Mill Mtn. Coffee and Tea. It's water added to espresso, I believe. Anyway, I was wondering where all the other passengers had gone, and asking for some more coffee from this man behind the counter. To this day, I don't remember his name, but our conversation is one I will think of for many years.
My brother had disappeared, simply saying, "Stay here." If they had been going to the lifeboats, I would be dead now, watching over the luggage with his camera collection. To be honest, he did check and make sure they weren't evacuating us: it would have been pointless. If that boat couldn't make it in that storm, little ones certainly weren't going to.
Anyway, this is how dissociation works: all of a sudden, I am standing alone in a large, comfortable, ultra-modern cabin, where moments ago, all had been a bustle around me. And then someone mentioned that the ship was going down. There was a scramble, as if people were trying to board the subway at rush hour, and then I and this fellow were alone, staring at each other from across the bar.
We did some shouting at one another, simply for clarification...I wasn't going to get anymore coffee at that moment, and I didn't want a whiskey. The boat was making some tremendous straining-engine noises. I really 'came to' when the jewelry in the display cases down the hall, catapulted through the windows, still attached to the neck models they were draped on. Some newer, pinball games, chained to the wall, fell over, with a large, heavy crash.
Events stopped rushing, and my hair started crawling around on my head. There was dead silence after the crashing, except for the faint, distant screech of metal on metal. I found out later, it was the cars in the hold scraping against each other. The bartender and I simply stared at each other. The idea finally came into my mind, that this might be the last human face I saw. I know that the thought had occurred to him earlier, much earlier, but I had missed his reaction, dissociating as I was.
Then, the bow lifted clean out of the water, and I was clinging to the rail in front of me. My body was almost perpendicular to the floor, but I managed to wonder how all those bottles of booze stayed upright. If I hadn't known I was an alcoholic from way back, that was my clue.
I finally located the other passengers from the screams coming down the hallway. They were at the center of the ship, acting as ballast. I decided that if I were going to die, I wanted to be in my brother's company, but letting go of the rail was impossible, at the moment. I would have joined the group like dropping in on them from a building.
And then the boat righted, and slipped behind an island, and everywhere was a deep, satisfying silence.
That was the beginning of our tour of Scotland. I had promised my brother adventure, and I had delivered. From that point on, big Sister rocked.
They will have to go to the adoption center, all too soon.
April here is rushing on as if it were March, it was wet, cool, rainy yesterday. It was a day of lowering clouds, and grape hyacinths in the grass. The flagstones outside the door were a dark slate color, and the grass now is serenely green, flaming, in it's own way. Zinnia from last year are popping up in their bed. I will spread them this year, to other parts of the garden. I have always felt that one cannot have too much lavender, or too many zinnia. They grow twice as much when cut, and in such a rainbow profusion, that it is impossible to go wrong with them.
The tomatoes should have long been in the ground, but I am tardy this year, with this glorious weather, that reminds me so much of Scotland. My brother, Marc, and I did visit Scotland at the end of March, beginning of April, for our birthdays. Which is a lovely time of year, bearing in mind that we were traveling towards The Orkneys, a spot above Oslo, Norway in longitude. We damn near died of exposure, but it was invigorating.
We felt the strong pull of our deep, ancestral roots, while discovering why all the Scottish we met, wanted to move to Florida. I have never, until this year, felt so much wind. If there is anything eternal in Scotland at all, it is the wind. Known to lift small children, and deposit them in Africa, the wind followed us from one wet, rain-whipped tower to the next. Watching the fishing boats putter about in the harbor at one island, and pelted by freezing rain, and sleet, showed us why the prime vacation time in Scotland was August.
The wind was so strong at John O'Groats, that the van we arrived in, was in danger of being overturned by it. The local ferry refused to run, because of the storm coming up on the North Sea. But the Norwegian line (and surely they had experience?) was running, come wind, rain, shine, or sleet. And run the passage we did.
At one point in our journey from John O'Groats to Kirkwall, the boat actually stood up on one side, pulling the stabilizers out of the water. This resulted in a noise as if Satan himself were riding on that side, and very upset about it, too.
The passengers had all been called down to the bowels of the vessel, to try to stabilize it. There wasn't any question of surviving if we capsized. The water temperature of the North Sea is colder than the dark side of the moon. I was having a conversation with the bartender, who refused to give me another Americano, a dark, rich coffee concoction that I can get down at Mill Mtn. Coffee and Tea. It's water added to espresso, I believe. Anyway, I was wondering where all the other passengers had gone, and asking for some more coffee from this man behind the counter. To this day, I don't remember his name, but our conversation is one I will think of for many years.
My brother had disappeared, simply saying, "Stay here." If they had been going to the lifeboats, I would be dead now, watching over the luggage with his camera collection. To be honest, he did check and make sure they weren't evacuating us: it would have been pointless. If that boat couldn't make it in that storm, little ones certainly weren't going to.
Anyway, this is how dissociation works: all of a sudden, I am standing alone in a large, comfortable, ultra-modern cabin, where moments ago, all had been a bustle around me. And then someone mentioned that the ship was going down. There was a scramble, as if people were trying to board the subway at rush hour, and then I and this fellow were alone, staring at each other from across the bar.
We did some shouting at one another, simply for clarification...I wasn't going to get anymore coffee at that moment, and I didn't want a whiskey. The boat was making some tremendous straining-engine noises. I really 'came to' when the jewelry in the display cases down the hall, catapulted through the windows, still attached to the neck models they were draped on. Some newer, pinball games, chained to the wall, fell over, with a large, heavy crash.
Events stopped rushing, and my hair started crawling around on my head. There was dead silence after the crashing, except for the faint, distant screech of metal on metal. I found out later, it was the cars in the hold scraping against each other. The bartender and I simply stared at each other. The idea finally came into my mind, that this might be the last human face I saw. I know that the thought had occurred to him earlier, much earlier, but I had missed his reaction, dissociating as I was.
Then, the bow lifted clean out of the water, and I was clinging to the rail in front of me. My body was almost perpendicular to the floor, but I managed to wonder how all those bottles of booze stayed upright. If I hadn't known I was an alcoholic from way back, that was my clue.
I finally located the other passengers from the screams coming down the hallway. They were at the center of the ship, acting as ballast. I decided that if I were going to die, I wanted to be in my brother's company, but letting go of the rail was impossible, at the moment. I would have joined the group like dropping in on them from a building.
And then the boat righted, and slipped behind an island, and everywhere was a deep, satisfying silence.
That was the beginning of our tour of Scotland. I had promised my brother adventure, and I had delivered. From that point on, big Sister rocked.
Sunday, April 28, 2013
A Night in Cairo
It seems so long since I posted that I hardly know what to write, or how.
This is Minkins, nicknamed 'Me me' with my dog, Maxwell, and his sister, Autumn, below. Even as we speak, the scent of cat poo wafts from the next room. I had to light a candle. My eyes are watering. They have had some kind of fungal tummy infection, and their poo reminds me of a day in Cairo, Egypt. Cairo is cat heaven, and Chelsea Ellis, of Angels of Assisi foster coordinator fame, should have her ashes spread there. She, like Cairo, is all about things Cat.
The city of Cairo is home to about 9 million people and innumerable cats, most of them friendly. Kittens wander in and out of restaurants, and we fed one at our table one glorious day. Due to circumstances beyond my control, I didn't get to float on the Nile, but I got to experience Cat. Every shop I went into, had it's resident cat...particularly at the cloth markets. This is pest control in Egypt. Egyptian cats are not American cats, domestic short hairs, but they look just like someone's house pet, although a bit dusty, as everything else is, as well.
They are a part of everyday life, particularly in Cairo, as grass is here. No cat wanders the streets, they truly own the streets.
I would like to visit again. I went there in the beginning of summer, 2002, the year after the World Trade Centers fell. People thought I was a fool to visit after that event, but I found Cairenes to be particularly sensitive to the loss, and devastation America suffered. (This photo is by Lorraine Chittock)
Cairenes are particularly silly over their cats and it is easy to fall in love with the human inhabitants of Cairo, as an intelligent and loving populace, with a sense of humor of the situation, not far from the surface. Rumor has it that Cats are not so well treated since Tahrir Square, the Revolution pushing them aside. But it is hard for me to believe that a country simply so infused with the life of Cat, can put them off permanently. They have just had them for too long, and regarded them with so much love, for it to change in one, or even many, generations.
Once, when visiting me, a friend from Cairo asked to stay in the room with no access to cats. He said sleeping in the room he was in, where the cats roamed freely, was akin to sleeping on the street, in Cairo. I took it as a compliment.
After writing all of this, and searching for the perfect picture to show you, I simply long for Cairo, and its' beautiful, ancient Marketplace, Khan al Khalili, and a small cafe, named Naguib Mafouz, after the Nobel winning author. His novel is set in an alley in Khan al Khalili. And I want an hibiscus nectar, steaming so cold in the air, and some coffee.
But my only recourse is to let the kittens out, and dream.
The city of Cairo is home to about 9 million people and innumerable cats, most of them friendly. Kittens wander in and out of restaurants, and we fed one at our table one glorious day. Due to circumstances beyond my control, I didn't get to float on the Nile, but I got to experience Cat. Every shop I went into, had it's resident cat...particularly at the cloth markets. This is pest control in Egypt. Egyptian cats are not American cats, domestic short hairs, but they look just like someone's house pet, although a bit dusty, as everything else is, as well.
They are a part of everyday life, particularly in Cairo, as grass is here. No cat wanders the streets, they truly own the streets.
I would like to visit again. I went there in the beginning of summer, 2002, the year after the World Trade Centers fell. People thought I was a fool to visit after that event, but I found Cairenes to be particularly sensitive to the loss, and devastation America suffered. (This photo is by Lorraine Chittock)
Cairenes are particularly silly over their cats and it is easy to fall in love with the human inhabitants of Cairo, as an intelligent and loving populace, with a sense of humor of the situation, not far from the surface. Rumor has it that Cats are not so well treated since Tahrir Square, the Revolution pushing them aside. But it is hard for me to believe that a country simply so infused with the life of Cat, can put them off permanently. They have just had them for too long, and regarded them with so much love, for it to change in one, or even many, generations.
Once, when visiting me, a friend from Cairo asked to stay in the room with no access to cats. He said sleeping in the room he was in, where the cats roamed freely, was akin to sleeping on the street, in Cairo. I took it as a compliment.
After writing all of this, and searching for the perfect picture to show you, I simply long for Cairo, and its' beautiful, ancient Marketplace, Khan al Khalili, and a small cafe, named Naguib Mafouz, after the Nobel winning author. His novel is set in an alley in Khan al Khalili. And I want an hibiscus nectar, steaming so cold in the air, and some coffee.
But my only recourse is to let the kittens out, and dream.
Thursday, April 25, 2013
Waiting for the Sun
Petrichor:The scent released from the ground, from a rain, after a dry spell.
I found the above posted in a fellow blogger's post for the day, and it hit a chord. After some good snow and rains in this verdant corner of the world, it reminds me of riding in the National Forest after a rain, with the steam coming off of the ground, and the haunches of the horses.
Now, I am simply waiting for the sun.
This year is rushing on much too quickly. I do not have enough time for my garden, yet. Nor do I have time to properly express to the unicorn meat eating cats how very much I love and appreciate them.
Particularly, this morning, Ratty, (see above).
Who, while strenuously trying to return to 'his' place on the bed, found his way blocked by kittens. After a scolding from me, and from the dog, and a much to do from the kittens, we all found that poor Ratty was simply sleepy. He is peacefully sleeping now at the foot of the bed, right at my feet. And to think I almost put him out because of his fussing, on this cool, windy night! O, woe is the life of a Cat!
My Borderline therapy group is shifting, in not some good ways. Yesterday, group was canceled because I was the only one to show up. I am not complaining, mind. I needed a nap after waking at 3 a.m. But I am afraid that the interventions of life, and the various unparticipation of the women will end the group, precipitously.
It is a tough slog for anyone, meeting a day a week for a year. The diagnoses of Borderline personality disorder can be disconcerting for the medical profession, much less, the average 'sufferer'. Especially since the diagnoses carries such stigma. Despite being simply a disorder of "emotional dysregulation."
Since my coming out in this blog about having this disorder, I have had a few good reactions, but mostly bad reactions. And I wonder if I communicate too much? Or not enough? There is no good public relations for Borderline yet. No Facebook posts about how famous people throughout history have had Borderline, and yet succeeded. No revelations about movie stars telling others that their BPD is the source of their artistic creativity. No discovery that Shakespeare truly was Borderline, and didn't know it.
Mind you, the only bad reactions I get are in person. No one yet, has given me 'that look' in a Fbook post. Just a reminder, for those new people out there:
From Wikipedia:
I found the above posted in a fellow blogger's post for the day, and it hit a chord. After some good snow and rains in this verdant corner of the world, it reminds me of riding in the National Forest after a rain, with the steam coming off of the ground, and the haunches of the horses.
Now, I am simply waiting for the sun.
This year is rushing on much too quickly. I do not have enough time for my garden, yet. Nor do I have time to properly express to the unicorn meat eating cats how very much I love and appreciate them.
Who, while strenuously trying to return to 'his' place on the bed, found his way blocked by kittens. After a scolding from me, and from the dog, and a much to do from the kittens, we all found that poor Ratty was simply sleepy. He is peacefully sleeping now at the foot of the bed, right at my feet. And to think I almost put him out because of his fussing, on this cool, windy night! O, woe is the life of a Cat!
My Borderline therapy group is shifting, in not some good ways. Yesterday, group was canceled because I was the only one to show up. I am not complaining, mind. I needed a nap after waking at 3 a.m. But I am afraid that the interventions of life, and the various unparticipation of the women will end the group, precipitously.
It is a tough slog for anyone, meeting a day a week for a year. The diagnoses of Borderline personality disorder can be disconcerting for the medical profession, much less, the average 'sufferer'. Especially since the diagnoses carries such stigma. Despite being simply a disorder of "emotional dysregulation."
Since my coming out in this blog about having this disorder, I have had a few good reactions, but mostly bad reactions. And I wonder if I communicate too much? Or not enough? There is no good public relations for Borderline yet. No Facebook posts about how famous people throughout history have had Borderline, and yet succeeded. No revelations about movie stars telling others that their BPD is the source of their artistic creativity. No discovery that Shakespeare truly was Borderline, and didn't know it.
Mind you, the only bad reactions I get are in person. No one yet, has given me 'that look' in a Fbook post. Just a reminder, for those new people out there:
From Wikipedia:
Borderline personality disorder (BPD) (called emotionally unstable personality disorder, borderline type in the ICD-10) is a personality disorder characterized by unusual variability and depth of moods.[1] These moods may secondarily affect cognition and interpersonal relationships.[n 1]
Other symptoms of BPD include impulsive behavior, intense and unstable interpersonal relationships, unstable self-image, feelings of abandonment and an unstable sense of self.[2] People with BPD often engage in idealization and devaluation of themselves and of others, alternating between high positive regard and heavy disappointment or dislike.[3] Self-harm and suicidal behavior are common and may require inpatient psychiatric care.[4]
People with BPD feel emotions more easily, more deeply, and for longer than others do.[9] For instance, while an emotion typically fires for 12 seconds, it can last up to 20 percent longer in people with BPD.[10] Moreover, emotions in people with BPD might repeatedly re-fire, or reinitiate, prolonging their emotional reactions even further.[10] Consequently, it can take a long time for people with BPD to return to a stable emotional baseline following an intense emotional experience.[11]
In Marsha Linehan's view, the sensitivity, intensity, and duration with which people with BPD feel emotions have both positive and negative effects.[11] People with BPD are often exceptionally idealistic, joyful, and loving.[12] However, they can feel overwhelmed by negative emotions, experiencing intense grief instead of sadness, shame and humiliation instead of mild embarrassment, rage instead of annoyance, and panic instead of nervousness.[12] People with BPD are especially sensitive to feelings of rejection, isolation, and perceived failure.[n 3] Before learning other coping mechanisms, their efforts to manage or escape from their intense negative emotions can lead to self-injury or suicidal behavior.[13] They are often aware of the intensity of their negative emotional reactions and, since they cannot regulate them, shut them down entirely.[11] This can be harmful to people with BPD, as negative emotions alert people to the presence of a problematic situation and move them to address it.[11]
People with BPD can be very sensitive to the way others treat them, feeling intense joy and gratitude at perceived expressions of kindness, and intense sadness or anger at perceived criticism or hurtfulness.[25] Their feelings about others often shift from positive to negative after a disappointment, a perceived threat of losing someone, or a perceived loss of esteem in the eyes of someone they value.
The intense emotions of people with BPD can make it difficult for them to control the focus of their attention. In other words, it can be difficult for them to concentrate.[33] In addition, people with BPD might dissociate, which can be thought of as an intense form of "zoning out."[34] Dissociation often takes place in response to a painful event, or to a "trigger" that causes someone to recall a painful event, and consists of directing partial or full attention away from that event.[34] Although blocking out painful emotions provides relief from them, it inhibits the natural experience of emotions, and decreases the ability of people with BPD to function in their daily lives.[34] Sometimes it is possible to tell when someone with BPD is dissociating, because their facial or vocal expressions might become flat or expressionless, or they may appear to be very distracted; at other times, dissociation might be barely noticeable.[34]
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