Thursday, December 11, 2014
I think I had the basic concept even when I was fairly small that all those things that I believed in, there weren't all true. Santa, while amusing, was a representation of all the caring feelings that for some reason we bottle up til the end of the year until the time of year we have culturally chosen as the giving season then we flood out our guilt and try to make ourselves feel better about being so damn stingy towards causes that we should be participating in all the time. Reindeer don't fly, fairies are... questionable, etc etc etc to the ends of the earth. Giants, and mermaids, and trolls, and wizards, and magic doors, and secret other lands, and you name it. I know that depending on who you are some of these things and other things which might be considered fairy tale by some is reality for others but I am just trying to make a point here.
I also believed that people, in general,were or wanted to be good. Parents would never hurt their children, and always wanted good things for them. People were honest, unless they had good cause to be otherwise. Police officers were there to protect people. Soldiers believed in a better country and were fighting for it. Good was the nature of things and bad was not something someone was born as or enjoyed being but was because something had happened to them and they were trying to figure out how to reconcile the differences between their own experiences and them selves.
Oh, how much more wrong could I have been. People are evil things. They cause hate and discontent at their best sometimes. They are terrible things and malicious, and cause fully intended direct harm to others in too many occasions for me to believe. But we are still supposed to hope and work for better, and believe in the possibility of good. Parents are sometimes the perpetrators of the worst harm that a child can experience, from emotional trauma of telling them how worthless theyare and how little they will ever be, direct physical harm and assault which is flatly unforgivable in my mind, no other way for me to put it, and then when an adult child has failed to be the superhero which they thought they were going to grow up to be, they can rub their nose in it, remind them of how much they have failed to accomplish, and then tell them something terrible like they don't deserve to have children.
I have to shorten things here and say: what did I do wrong? Why do you hate me like that? Because I listened to you tell me about the horrible things that happened to you? Because I grew up doing what any grandchild is supposed to do and admiring a grandparent whom I have just found out, years after their death, was a, no other word for it, monster? I cannot choose to hate someone who I grew up loving. They have done me no harm but in no way do I excuse the things that happened in the past. Holding me accountable for someone else's atrocities is far beyond unfair. But now you are going to say you think I don't like you? Sure, I don't like you, I only spend hours talking to you on the phone and trying to have some connection to you as a parent, and you still insult me with clothing that you bought for yourself and tried to pass off as being for me. This story just keeps getting longer, but I cannot and refuse to apologize for you telling me I don't deserve to have a family. I won't take responsibility for your words and I am not going to forgive you something like that without you even saying you are sorry. What a terrible things to say to anyone. How would you have felt if your parents said such a thing to you????
Wednesday, December 10, 2014
I won't lie, I am not going to even try to make this short.
Burning in a boonie-fire- I used to write. No, really, I used to WRITE. All the time. I had notebooks and notebooks of things. Conversations, overheard snippets while I was sitting having coffee or just wasting time, thoughts about my day, and people (because I have always felt a little disconnected, but that comes later.. maybe), profound subjects like spiritualism and religion and eternity and spinning through space as a flea on a rock and the end of the sun, and brutality (like the Holocaust), and how there are still people who starve, and the rich and the poor, and nonsensical things like "do I matter?", and "what will my legacy be?".
Things. In notebooks. Lots of Notebooks.
For the most part, I did not write with the intention or assumption that anyone, ever was going to read what I wrote. In fact, for the most part, I wrote with the belief that writing with the thought of someone else reading what your writing would cause one to guard themselves from writing EXACTLY what it was that they NEEDED to write about in the first place. And that was really the key. I believed that people who write NEED to write. Need like they need air. Need like they need a hug, and a home, and a family, and a story. They need to write, to breathe, to feel, to hurt when that is what they needed to do, to write. Flowing ink, frantic keystrokes, beating heart, flowing blood, it was all the same. Tow rite thinking of someone else, and stopping words that needed to be said, that was a tourniquet.
They, the notebooks started when I was just beginning to be. By that I mean, other forms were being lost to me. Pets and people beginning to die around me, I lost the ability for drawing the things I used to be able to draw, I was starting to feel the pressure of trying to be the version of me people saw from the outside and the me that I saw from the inside (wildly different variations, in case you were wondering... and still is). I was trying to squash my SELF into SOMETHING, some kind of variety of what I was supposed to be that was acceptable. Only a couple of my expectations were my own, and to go ahead and get this part over with I will go ahead and say, I have failed all of those things, the things I wanted for myself, but I am sure I can come back to that later.
Socially awkward, and curious, and shy, and energetic, and reliant, and easily bruised with an affect that made others believe I was callus. Wanting to make others happy and f-ing that up at every turn, and all that before I got good and into teenage years. Teenage years = apparently more disappointing to others than I can even begin to comprehend.
So, I wrote. About confusion, and not knowing left from right, and first jobs, and finally making what I thought might REALLY honestly be friends that actually LIKED me, for me, the screw up, and everything. About making plans, and taking tests to prepare for the future, and mentally discovering that I was opposed to military injection into places that don't belong to us, and my conflict knowing that my dad spent forty years recruiting for the military, and I was ready to join myself. (Huge mental volcanic earthquake that was.)
I wrote. And I had notebooks and notebooks. Those books, I now realize, were more my friends than any person I have met before, and, currently feel as though, since. And Then came the day. The day that I realzed that no one was intended to read what I had written,and no one ever would. No one, I thought, would ever care to read them. No one would ever care enough about me to be able to read all the things I had written in those books, and not judge me harshly by them. No one.... no one even knew. No one spent long hours wondering what made me tick, what things I had thought, what profound thoughts had grazed my mind, what pain I had felt when I found my Uncle's clothing after he passed away, how terrible I felt when I found out I had swung a fist at someone when they tried to wake me up, no one cared, no one would care, it my own pain and burden and thought, and occasional joy, and witticism, and no one, would ever know.
I never wrote for someone else to read, but I wouldn't have refused to let someone read them. There were some painfully childish things in those books, some growing up that had been done in the pages that would have been embarrassing, but they were the truth, from my own eyes, from my experience. Feelings and actions can be interpreted and discussed and dissected at later dates, but who you and how you feel, no matter how "incorrect" from another's vantage they are, self is self, and that is what was in those books, my self.
The concept - a "boonie-fire" (I admit, I didn't look up spelling on this so, it may well be wrong but the concept still holds true), a spirituous-religious fire in which participants write (carve) upon sticks their worries, their illnesses, their problems, their grievances. All the things that trouble them, worry their hearts, and are holding them back from embracing their days, enjoying their lives and families, making them ill and keeping them from living. They them cast their sticks, and their troubles into the fire, releasing them the spirits-god(s)-God-etc., relinquishing them to the powers that be and putting them into the faith of something outside themself. I burned my notebooks. In hope that the troubles within could be troubles no more, in hope that by not having the negative things contained in them physically present I could let them go, in hopes that all the good things would not be forgotten and that although no person would read them my words would mean something more in ash that the thoughts about how no one would read them, the wind would read them, God would read them, and they would matter more then.
It was a mistake. I erased myself. I dis-existed my own history. I can't remember things now, and I burned my connection to my own past. I cut my own pathway to myself. It was a HUGE mistake, and I have lost everyone whose nuances I had recorded in those pages. I have lost myself, I have lost them, and I can't get them back. But I have recently decided to change something. I am going to write. I spend so much time thinking. Thinking is such a lonely activity, and thinking can sometimes only make things worse, but writing, writing no matter how extraordinarily painfully honest it can be, always helps.
Saturday, June 07, 2014
my cousin is getting married in october, and back in december of last year i gave myself a weight loss goal that had me losing something like 3/4 of a pound a week.... totally doable right??? I had ten months to reach this goal and was going to be happy going to my cousin's wedding feeling a little better about myself, not carrying so much of this 50 pounds i am trying to lose.
and now here it is, june, and i have managed to lose maybe five pounds (depends on the day of the week and the mood of the scale).
completely stuck and, of course beating myself up for it. no, beyond beating myself up for it, adding "inept at not being fat anymore" to my list of reasons why i hate myself. that's more like the truth.
and, before you get all huffy about "well, the wedding isn't about you, it's about your cousing, etc. etc. etc" YES, the wedding is all about my cousin who was my best friend growing up and I am happy for her, and excited to see her, but i wanted to feel okay with me, at least in the less fat sense too, and i am failing at it, and it makes me feel like crap about myself.... and i needed to vent that.
Tuesday, May 13, 2014
I put hungry in quotations because I KNOW that the reality of it is that this, being my one day off a week, is the day where the rest of my weeks worth of TIRED catches up with me.
I am glad I got in two GOOD workouts plus some lawn mowing time this weekend because, the way I calculate my days, I have now missed three days of working out... and to top it all off today I ATE all day long. I KNOW I am not hungry but being at home and tired I tend to make a thousand trips back and forth to the kitchen because I feel like snacking because I am bored and tired and I went over my calorie goal by almost 500 (which is a third of my total).
I would LOVE to go hang out with people but I live in the middle of nowhere and my partner borrowed my car today, and I always feel guilty wanting to leave the house on my one day off because I know my pets need some time with me as well. I moved out to no-where with my partner and we have no friends here (and you can tell by my previous posts, my partner doesn't even hang out with me or pretend to be my friend anymore), .... blah blah blah.
I also ate all day long to try and keep myself awake because I feel like I should be working to clean my stinkin' dirty house, on my one day off, but all I want to do is go back to bed and sleep all day....
and then it snowballs into, I still didn't get a whole lot of housecleaning done becuase I feel tired and so I feel guilty about that, and I feel guilty because I KNOW I have overeaten AND not worked out today... guilty guilty guilty bored tired lonely....what a terrible day after having such a good weekend.
Sunday, May 11, 2014
This week, I have had my mind blown, twice.
As per previous post in the week, firstly I had my mind blown by having one single day at my stupid gas station job where there were not threats made to me by some angry someone regarding my refusal to sell them alcohol or tobacco (that could be stretched into a much longer story but no novels today, I promise). Magically this managed to happen TWO days in a row, but that was not the second mind blowing I was referring to.
Second brain-boom awards goes to - mindfulness, I think that is the correct term. Basically, I have been suffering for almost two years now with an injury from doing Insanity. DISCLAIMER: It was not the fault of the workout, I should've had a different pair of shoes, and instead of doing something about my footwear (mostly because I didn't have dollars for new footwear) I continued to do an INTENSE workout in sub-par footwear, and BY GOLLY ( ) I have suffered for it. Think, the feeling on someone sneaking into your room while you sleep and pulling a classic "Misery" hobbling move on you, then beating the bottoms of your feet with a baseball bat while you sleep... that is the closest approximation I have for what my feet have felt like for more than a year, almost two.
Okay, okay, I promised no novels today so, what happened was, I read a "life-hack" guide to exercising and they mentioned mindfulness, allowing yourself to FULLY experience whatever it is you have not been allowing yourself to feel in order for you to learn to move beyond it, or that is my rough explanation of the concept. SO... three (wait no four, night shifts mess with perception of days) nights ago when I went to bed, I very purposely and consciously let myself experience the pain in my ankles, balls of my feet, arches, toes, heels, and even into my calves and my knees, then mentally told those muscles and tendons to relax, relax, relax, relax....
Crazy part is... it worked. No. REALLY. It DID.
My almost two year old pains have finally subsided, almost absolutely. I am still working on my left ankle, which was a bit worse apparently, but it really is unbelievable how well it worked.
Moral of the story: Take good care of your body when exercising. It is GOOD to want to push yourself, and to challenge yourself with new levels, but for goodness sake don't break yourself in the process. And, mindfulness can work, surprisingly well in fact.
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