imagine

27 july 2010
part two

imagine

being able to suddenly (and I mean in a leap from one generation to the next, not meaning within one’s own lifetime) process data and information at much higher speeds than others around you?

Autism. I’m convinced that it’s a feature, not a bug, but people can’t see it because most of them aren’t as smart as the autistics.

[Massive disclaimer:
Please note: I have never been diagnosed with autism or anything resembling it. I find myself consistently fascinated by autism and what I've *read* about it, but have no direct experience whatsoever either working with, living with or interacting with, in any significant way, folks who have been labeled as being along the autism spectrum. All my thoughts here are purely SPECULATIVE, from my own head, not backed by any research (that I know of). If anyone who actually has been diagnosed as along the autistic spectrum reads something here and finds it offensive or objectionable, please feel free to comment and straighten me out and/or educate me if you're so inclined. I use the words 'autism' and 'autist' here based on my own, very limited understanding. I am using this language as a way to try to understand whether there are, in fact, real parallels and/or connections between some of the things I personally experience and the stories I've read from people who self-identify as being on the autism spectrum. I resonate quite strongly with the writings of several of these people, and have been drawn to autism as a concept for a number of years. Hope that clarifies things.]

Now, this cannot be a broad sweeping categorization. But:

imagine a person whose sensory capacity is – say – twice? that of her parents’. And in addition to that, her raw processing capability is – some order of magnitude – in other words, significantly – higher than that of her parents.

It may actually be a natural growth stage that hasn’t been achievable for many generations because of sub-optimal conditions for growth? Perhaps humans in the past were just this ‘smart’, but the Machine Age, the Industrial Revolution and the ‘Age of Reason’ have caused us to lose so much of our pure, raw, animal intelligence (that’s what I loved about Mo: His raw, animal intelligence was always in full evidence.)

Culture blocks it, including so-called ‘education’, which is really just a way of herding the unwashed masses into a big pen and dumbing them down enough so that they won’t fight it too much when you make them a meaningless cog in the big machine.

Thoughts are all over the place, trying to get enough of them down to not lose any, will maybe ‘corral’ them later?

***
So, whether it’s a return to an old thing lost and now found again? Or something new, the ‘autistic’ suddenly has access to brain parts that either didn’t exist or fell into disuse for many generations past.

It’s the intuitive part of the brain that I’m talking about here – that ability to make a massive mental leap, from a standing start, compiling (want a different word?) a whole HUGE series of small bits of data and experience into an instantaneous ‘grokking’ (Robert A. Heinlein coinage, means, roughly, a grasping of the gestalt, or whole picture view, of a situation).

It’s the cognitive dissonance bit that gets us by the short hairs: The ‘sheeple’, who’ve been successfully brainwashed and/or dumbed down by culture to accept unquestioningly what’s fed them, have very – simplistic? and/or limited? comprehension of the interactions between humans. The subtler nuances of feeling are not communicated to or by them - they seem to miss out on most of what is communicated non-verbally.

Whereas the autist is exquisitely, almost painfully attuned to every slightest interactional nuance, and the so-called ‘normals’ ability to ignore any- and everything that they don’t find applicable to their own immediate, personal ‘goal’ (whatever it may be) drives us absolutely fucking nuts. It’s like being able to see the full spectrum of colors and trying to communicate with beings that can only perceive (whether willfully or by training [aka brainwashing]), say, red and blue. Or something.

The autist is left not knowing whether the so-called ‘normal’ literally can’t perceive those subtler cues of body language, tone of voice and facial expression, or is simply ignoring them for reasons that are incomprehensible to the ‘autist’.

The one-eyed woman in the land of the blind, or something?

***
Perhaps being raised by unattuned, distracted parents has become so common that the resulting ‘dissociated’ humans are now considered the norm? Scary.

And those of us whose ability to process the information has somehow remained intact, despite our upbringing? What do *we* do?

***
The ‘normals’ have the same kind of hubris, the unthinking assumption of superiority, that the whites did when they encountered ‘savages’ (such as the Incas, who’d developed astrology while the white races were still running around in short pants, or some such thing). Or when humans study non-human species: There’s the immediate assumption of superiority, of having something to ‘teach’ the Other (but rarely ever is there the humility to recognize that they might have something to learn.

unconscious parental cruelty

27 july 2010

unconscious parental cruelty

mom was cruel in a sort of defensive way – she blocked me out, as if I were – something frightening?

and my dad was just mean – he’d smash me down as cruelly, unkindly, unthinkingly as you would a bug. I think he gave me just about as much thought, too – and when I got old enough to ‘talk back’ to him? learning to do things just the way he did (no surprise – why are parents *always* so fucking surprised when their children – miniature mirrors that we all are at that age – start mimicking them? parroting them, perfectly, word for word, gesture for gesture, capturing tone, body language, and facial expression as well as the best comic mimic?) it was as if I’d stung him, unexpectedly, like that harmless, fuzzy little bug that would be so easy to squish because it’s so small, and therefore, weak and helpless, right? suddenly giving you one HUMDINGER of a bite on the ass [evil grin here :-]

So. I got even. But boy, did he ever make me pay for it. I think I said something cutting to him when I was about in 7th grade (maybe 12 or so? remember, I skipped a grade so my numbers were off by a year at that point.) and he never, EVER forgave me for it. Way to go, dad, way to set an excellent behavioral example for your offspring. Rock ON, dude.

My parents were fucked up (emotionally) in so many ways it’s a little embarrassing to try to catalog them all. I guess that was at a time when everyone wore their fucked-up-ness on their sleeve, as if it was some kind of badge of individuality or something.

Actually, I thinking it was the beginning of what some call ‘the Age of Aquarius’ – that vast, cosmic, universal ‘enlightenment’ that’s supposedly happening to us all right now.

I think the potential for such a thing is there, but I think there’s going to have to be a whole hell of a lot of pain, fear, anger and resentment on a pretty much world-wide level for it to really start happening. I’ve been wondering if the massive oil spill off the Gulf and the ensuing fucked-up responses, both the actual physical attempts to deal with it, as well as the political posturing and endless finger-pointing (trying to find a scapegoat, as usual – last night it sounded, on NPR, as if some folks were going to try to pin it on NOAA, one of the most underfunded and least powerful agencies on the planet, as I understand it) might end up acting as a trigger to set it all off.

mouse in the kitchen

[These next few (half dozen?) entries will just simply be cut and pasted from Word docs, don't have easy internet access just now, so they'll be even more like straight-up, unedited journal entries than usual. Including date in title because they were written over the course of several days even though all are being posted today.]

26 July 2010

Housesitting for some friends, they’ve got a little problem with sugar ants (those tiny, little bitty ones) in the kitchen.

I’d been doing battle (yes, with a tiny sword and armor!) with some on the kitchen counter, which was where she’d told me they had a problem.

It was a really hot day, blistering, really, compared to our part of the world’s usual standard. I hadn’t eaten all morning and had been out in the sun too long watering plants, so I was suffering from both low blood sugar and a bit of heat stroke.

As I came back in through the back kitchen door (the one that leads out onto the back porch/stairs) I noticed some movement on the floor out of the corner of my eye. I looked down, and there was an absolute river of ants coming in on either side of the door sill. AAAAaaagggghhhhh!!!!! I dashed to get the cinnamon and sprinkled it madly all over the threshold, trying to dam up the flow.

I then commenced with the murdering, smashing little be-feelered crawlies like a madwoman. This took care of the immediate flow on the *right* side of the door, but unfortunately, it looked as if on the *left* side I had merely trapped about a million ants on the *inside* by confusing their scent trail and ‘blocking’ them inside the kitchen.

Now, here’s the funny part: In my fog of brain-sugar deprivation and sun-addlement, I glanced down to where the big pool of ants was, and wondered where they were all trooping off to. I saw two funny-looking little sticks on the floor and an odd little scrap of wood, kind of up near the baseboard a few feet from the back door, behind the leg of the little table the toaster sits on. My mind immediately flashed, “Mouse! Dead mouse, eww, in the kitchen! EEWWWWWWwwww!!!!! GROSS! YUCK!” Which thought I immediately proceeded to block out of my mind.

I attribute it to the brain fog, because three times my mind tried to flash me the ‘dead mouse’ message, and three times I blocked it out, not wanting to know, see, think about or deal with it. Yuck. So the remaining so-called ‘reasoning’ part of my brain that was attempting to operate oh-so-fuzzily on the maybe two or three remaining brain cells that hadn’t been fried by the heat, thought (very slowly and muzzily), ‘Hm, two little sticks. Little block of wood. Look closer. YUCK! No, don’t wanna don’t wanna! (all this of course happens in a split second, nowhere near the length of time it’s taking me to describe it). “Dead mouse and a trap,” my intuiting brain-part declares. “NO!” The other part is still in denial. Finally, the third time I looked at it, as I was bending down sprinkling cinnamon, red-hot chili peppers and cayenne on the *other* side of the big ant puddle (while removing the previous cinnamon-powder road block) to try to redirect the ant stream back out on their old path – I got close enough to see that, yes, indeed, those two little funny-looking ‘sticks’ were indeed the dead, dried-up hind legs of a poor little old mouse corpus. And the ants! Were EATING him! GROSS!!!!!!! AAAAAAaaaaggghhhhh!!!! All this went on entirely too long for a person who otherwise generally tries to comport herself as a grown human as often as she’s able.

So finally I’d faced it. I re-routed the ants as best I could, squashed a bunch of the unruly ones that weren’t heeding my attempts at ant-traffic control, and finally dealt with the dead mouse body. EWWWW!!! YUCK! Two plastic baggies between hand and – it – YUCK! Then a third bag to put the works in. Then very gingerly, after thoroughly scrubbing hands with hot soap and water, took a glove and (trying not to touch the bag while still carrying it) got it in the trash. EW.

Then came back in and dumped a huge pile of baking soda on the remaining ICK and muddle of confused ants. I think a lot of them got suffocated (and also possibly dessicated? I think baking soda has some drying action). A score of bold explorers seemed to set off for parts unknown, seeking sugar, for I later found a few in places heretofore un-beset (?) by them, such as in the bathroom. But after diligent death duty over the next few days, I didn’t see any more except the occasional odd wanderer. Interesting, they seem to sort of travel in small ‘herds’. I wonder if there are ‘leader’ or ‘scout’ ants that break the initial trail, leaving the scent path that the more sheep-like followers, um, follow?

[29 july addition: Sitting at the kitchen table this morning, saw a little guy running along the tabletop, proudly (I imagined) holding aloft his prize of some small white crumb, traveling some unimaginable distance to carry it home to his family. Or whatever. Anyway, I hesitated to squash him, tried to pick him up on a piece of paper to set him outside, where he could go about his business. But - he evaded my every attempt to 'help' him, and finally I gave up in frustration and not wanting to let him run free in the house: I squashed him! VERY sad face. For some reason, seeing him carry his little bit of food made him more - human??? to me, and therefore I suddenly couldn't play goddess any more. But I still killed him anyway, out of pure expediency. Guilt :-(

link on attunement

http://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC2169321/

Long quote:

"While attachments develop throughout the lifespan, clinical and neurobiological evidence indicates the importance of early foundations, remaining, as in a wall, important whatever is added. Like any relationship, infant attachment is a two-way, mutually-reinforcing process, which depends on what each contributes, on opportunity for closeness, on the attitudes of others, and on wider social factors. It develops through sophisticated maternal attunement to the baby's overtures, involving tone, pitch and rhythm of voice, posture, facial expression, movement, and touch. In this way, the parent reflects back the baby's emotions, giving them meaning and regulating them, which moulds development of the right pre-frontal cortex. This requires the baby's ability to elicit a response, and the parent's to respond.

"Attachment allows emotional regulation before infants can self-regulate. Involuntary stress regulation, mediated by the hypothalamus–pituitary–adrenal (HPA) axis (indicated by salivary cortisol), is ‘set’ in infancy — and probably antenatally — at a level adaptive to the prevalent environment and reflecting the effectiveness of calming. Stress regulation is important for exploration, learning, independence, and effective relationships. While poorly regulated infant stress can produce persistently exaggerated stress responses, serious abuse can cause them to ‘switch off’, leading to fearlessness, and, for example, relative bradycardia. Altered HPA axis function relates to childhood behavioural difficulties, anxiety, depression, and post-traumatic stress disorder. Disturbed attachment may also affect immunity and healing, and predispose to ‘psychosomatic’ illness, mediated by physical manifestations of autonomic dysfunction. While neuronal plasticity, developing cognition, and experience modulate stress responses, they do so around a baseline influenced by the first relationship an infant experiences.

"Attuned parenting imparts meaning to the ‘inner world’ of body signals (for example, hunger, satiety, full bladder, thought, and emotions). It teaches children that others recognise their needs, and establishes foundations for trust, empathy, understanding relationships, and verbal and non-verbal communication. Preconceptions are established for subsequent relationships, close and otherwise.

"Anything that interrupts the cycle of attunement affects the quality of attachment. If substance abuse or depression, for example, intermittently disturb otherwise good attunement, children experience attention as valuable, but unreliable, and not necessarily easily achieved, causing anxiety. Maternal stress, anxiety, and fatigue have similar consequences, by affecting the reading of social cues and subtlety of response. These children learn strategies for achieving and holding attention — over-compliance, constant smiling, disruptiveness, soiling, or use of symptoms — whatever works. Any attention, positive or negative, may be better than none. Management involves focusing attention on desired behaviour. The emotional ‘separation’ of discipline is difficult to tolerate and fear of rejection colours relationships. Breaks in attunement are unreliably resolved and stress is poorly regulated.

"Sometimes attuned, sometimes antagonistic parenting conveys attention as valuable, but unreliable and frightening, causing children to be ambivalent about seeking or sustaining it. Hypervigilance to parental mood affects concentration and causes ‘over-reading’ of disapproval. These can be difficult and confusing children to parent. They may seem to push away those to whom they are closest, while also craving their attention.

"Consistently unattuned parenting (for example, because parents have poor foundations for attachment, or learning difficulties), fails to teach children the benefit of closeness, while aggression can make them fear it. These children become ‘avoidant’ loners, inept at understanding non-verbal cues and the subtleties of language, and often seeking control through ‘sameness’. The resulting picture resembles ‘innate’ autistic spectrum disorder.

Pervasively abusive parenting can leave children disorganised and ineffective both in self-sufficiency, and with relationships, and without empathy. Successful independence is improbable, and adult criminality likely.

"Throughout life, individuals fall on a continuum of attachment style, ranging from ‘loners’ to those craving attention and approval — some seeming wary of sustaining the relationships they seek. The pathology implied by the labels ‘avoidant’, ‘anxious’, or ‘ambivalent’ attachment styles respectively (collectively described as ‘insecure attachment’), has qualified justification when 40% of the population are so categorised. However, the greater the deviation from ‘secure’ attachment, the greater the likelihood of dysfunction. In the middle of the spectrum are the 60% who are classified as ‘securely attached’. They may find the more comfortable personal path through life, valuing relationships yet independently competent. Although moulded by subsequent experience, childhood attachment continues to be reflected in adult personal, social, and professional relationships, and in approach to parenting. Adult attachment style also relates to how trauma and loss are handled, and to career choice. For example, medical students with ‘secure’ attachments are more likely to opt for a career in primary care than those tending to avoidant or anxious patterns. Childhood attachment might also influence aging, which relates to HPA-axis function."

more from Reich

From this link again: http://www.philhine.org.uk/writings/ess_reich.html

Character armour then, in Reich's terms, is the sum total of our defences against external threats and internal excitation or distress. It stays with us in later life, and limits our freedom of expression, the depth of our emotional responses and our feelings of aliveness. Reich would say it arises as a response to fear and threatening situations, as well as from frustration of our primary needs - the latter being for healthy, warm physical and emotional contact. It is both psychic and somatic. He said "functional identity means nothing more than muscular attitudes and character attitudes have the same function in the psychic mechanism: they replace one another and can be influenced by one another. Basically they cannot be separated … tensions are not the "results", "causes", "accompanying manifestations" of "psychic processes"; they are simply these phenomena themselves in the somatic realm". The unity of psyche and soma is expressed in the diagram on the cover of all his books — two arrows curling in to meet each other, both expressions of an underlying energetic process.

highly sensitive?

Quote from Elaine Aron's Highly Sensitive Person:

"...bright, angry little fairy who lived in a secret garden and would allow no one in. [She] has used food, alcohol and various drugs compulsively - in amounts that bordered on excessive. But she was too smart to go over the edge, having a very practical streak and an IQ of over 135. In one dream she was wheeling a starving, angry infant through a banquet hall filled with food, but it wanted none of it.

We discovered that the baby was starved, in a greedy, desperate way, for love and attention."

That's me! The part I've bolded, that last sentence, is exactly what I'm pretty sure happened to me, because I've tried to fill that gigantic void in the middle of me for so long now in so many ways.

But my body is more and more rejecting all substitutes, and forcing me to go out into the world and face my fears.

The scary thing is, having had no training whatsoever in healthy ways to deal with and express anger, I find myself raw and vulnerable, irritable and cranky, just like a baby. Everything has to be just so, and if it's not, I can lose it.

I think the anger comes from feeling that I was never allowed to have boundaries or borders - my mom could come and take what she needed from me (emotionally) whenever she wanted, and I was absolutely powerless to stop her (being an infant, and all, when it first started).

The pattern between us became so deeply ingrained that even now, with two years of almost total non-communication between us, I still have a very hard time setting limits of almost any kind with people, even complete strangers. I always give them the benefit of the doubt, always second-guess myself, feel guilty that I've been too stingy with my time or energy.

I think the anger, irritability and bursts of rage is the raw inner core of me trying to protect myself from this incessant energy drain: It sometimes feels the way I imagine a dog feels when it barks or growls at somebody who frightens it or it dislikes or wants to stay away from.

But we are so trained to 'be nice,' not to make waves, put on a happy face, etc. etc., that it's very difficult.

Tonight a guy at a convenience store asked me how I was, and I said, "Cranky and irritable." I get so sick of totally random strangers asking, "How are you?" when you know for a fact they couldn't care less. I mean, what if somebody's feeling totally miserable and suicidal? Isn't it a form of cruelty, of sadism, almost, to ask such a casual question when so many people truly are suffering or in some kind of physical or emotional pain?

I mean, would you ask a beggar, or a one-legged person, "How are you!" in this bright, cheery voice that practically dares the askee to give any other answer than a chippy, "Great!"

***
Hypervigilance; Reich's theory about segments, especially the eye segment and association with anxiety and hypervigilance.

I've been working a lot on the armoring around my eyes for months now, and sometimes I feel it let go. I think it's come a long way in the last 10 years since I started worked on all the stuff in this Pandora's box of mine :-) Wonder how much further I have to go? I imagine certain aspects of it will always be present, and will always require a certain amount of - maintenance? - work, or something. It's like someone who learns a language as an adult never has quite the same fluency, freedom or comfort level as someone who learned the same language from the cradle on.

***
A couple of interesting Reich links:
http://www.orgonomicscience.org/training/appearance.html

The Ocular segment [...] is always involved in processes of psychosis and disassociative disorders. [...] for example, in schizophrenia, there is a problem in eye tracking.... In orgonomy, that fact is regarded as a central issue. The fact that the eyes are not in contact with the world to the extent that they are in normal people, we think is a factor in being able to distinguish reality from unreality.

What one learns when one investigates how eyes are armored is sometimes surprising. For example, one patient reports that when she looks into a mirror, what she sees is her body outline. Another patient reports that when he is in a painful confrontation, he has learned to endure that confrontation by focusing on one point on the other person's body and keeping his eyes fixed at that point. That way he is able to get through the confrontation. Another patient reports that she has no visual memory. When she looks at something and closes her eyes, she cannot remember what she has just seen. These are things that happen not only in psychotic people, but people who are walking around as if they are normal.

http://www.philhine.org.uk/writings/ess_reich.html

Reichian work differs from pranayama in that in doesn't try and impose a rhythm on the breath — instead; it just tries to loosen it, to allow it's natural function and depth to return. This can be really powerful — the first time I tried it, I couldn't conclude the session, I found myself overwhelmed by the intensity of feeling. With breathwork, moods can shift rapidly and I've frequently found myself completely exhilarated, laughing ecstatically or on the brink of tears. .

I began working with the ocular segment by allowing myself to notice my peripheral and the area to the sides of my eyes. I think this is worthwhile as it's an area of the body we don't normally notice. I noticed that allowing this alongside becoming conscious of my peripheral vision brings up some odd indefinable sensations — hard to describe, a "deepening of feeling" is the best I can come up with. You start to see the connection here between the emotional tone of our gaze, perhaps we have habitual patterns of staring, or a gaze which flicks rapidly from thing to another. You begin to notice other qualities in the act of seeing. I've followed this with another Reichian therapeutic procedure which is, after some work with the breath, to have someone manipulate an object (such as a fingertip, a pencil or penlight) near the eyes in irregular patterns, while you try and track it with your eye — the random movement is supposed to loosen the armouring, the muscular stiffness around the eyes. I've found this to have very powerful effects. When this has really hit home something "clicks" between you and what you're looking at, and all of a sudden, you're flooded with emotion and bodily sensations, breathing deepens rapidly, and sobbing reaches right down into the chest.

Some other techniques of mobilising armouring in the segment would be to have a patient roll their eyes, and raise their brows, or make suspicious or angry or needful expressions, expressing as much as they can through the eyes. I've found it a useful meditation to study people's gaze as I go about my day to day business and see if the quality of their eyes tells me anything about their character.

More from Elaine Aron HSP book:

Like hungry chickens, when we cannot be fed what we need, we feed ourselves what we can find. [bold mine.]

in a market-driven culture, even *people* become commodities

This thought comes to mind just at this moment, I *think*, because we no longer (in the vein of the previous post) rely on one another the way we evolved to. Our literal survival no longer depends on the kinds of close bonds our (ancestors?) formed.

However: Our brains haven't evolved much since then.

So what we've got is prehistoric brains in hyper-modern, over-technologized environments. Monkeys flying rocket ships, in other words. (There's a catch-phrase I can't remember.)

I notice this especially on online dating sites, where people seem to see even themselves as objects to be marketed and commodified: I have this, this and this trait, and am looking for someone with that, that and that. Like ordering your mate from an L.L. Bean catalog or something. "Can I have a red ribbon with that?" Erg.

mother who turns to infant for comfort

Mom said something once that shocked me into a revelation that I think had always lurked at the back of my mind, but never really wanted to face: "I love babies because a new baby is the only time I get unconditional love."

I was too flabbergasted to scream at her, though some part of me wanted to strangle her; and in the end? I realized it was pointless. I had my answer, my key, the missing piece of the puzzle, my Rosetta stone: My mother is totally, utterly, completely clueless as to the basic caretaking dynamic that *should* exist between mother and child, and never the twain shall meet (*her* concept and reality, that is).

I felt as if (in retrospect) I was some kind of oversized doll, that she would feed and diaper and cuddle, but all the messy stuff of a real baby, such as crying endlessly and projectile poop and so on were not part of her plan. I *think* (meaning, I of course don't know for sure, but it just feels true) that she would often abandon me, in the sense of walking away and leaving me when I was crying, or she would laugh at me, as if my terror was some kind of joke? (I still don't get this part) hoping whatever was wrong would just go away. I think my mother actually terrified me, sort of the way clowns terrify some children: The clown is in your face and you can't get away from him; and he's bigger than you; and: He's doing all these things that scare you and nobody seems to notice how frightened you are. It's all supposed to be this big funny joke, but it's not funny to you - and none of the adults around you seem to care. They're all busy trying to get you to act some particular way that fits their script of what should be happening; your reactions, feelings and needs are completely invisible to them, or possibly so inconvenient that they can't be bothered to deal with them.

***
I no longer feel angry about it; the impulse to anger is there, but my body/mind/psyche has experienced the futility of that particular path enough times now to seek an alternate course of action: Think about something else. Do something else. Find another path. Blood from stones, and all that - I think it just took me some time to recognize her as an ungiving 'stone'.

The odd thing is, she seems quite receptive, quite approachable, on the surface. Until you actually ask her for something, at which point she becomes the proverbial stubborn donkey, all four feet firmly planted in absolute opposition to whatever it is you're asking for, almost as if it's a reflex. There seems to be no cognition involved, no consideration, no rational thought. Just a pure, gut level, knee-jerk reaction. Almost as if she's still - three? or six? Or some such really frightening, terribly young and completely inappropriate age for someone to be in charge of very small children. Yikes.

And she took care of us well enough physically - clean clothes, well fed, hot baths every night, all that; it was in the mental and emotional arena that she just didn't seem to have any awareness whatsoever as to what was needed (and, in my case, still *is* needed, all these long years later.)

***
I think what I saw as 'receptiveness' was really her need to be seen herself, in the same ways *I'm* currently battling. In other words, that engaging gaze, the friendly smile, was really her way of trying to get me to take care of her. Yikes. I think I encounter (possibly draw?) a lot of people like this in my life. I'm like a magnet for them, a caretaking magnet?

It's not my fault, and I don't blame myself. I'm working on discouraging people from relying on me in these ways. I think I'm learning how to set boundaries here (yay grasshopper!)

The images that were trying to pop into my mind above were: Cobra, mesmerizing you while waiting for a chance to strike; and carnivorous plants, such as the giant venus fly-trap in Little Shop of Horrors. Once again, yikes.

***
Now for the REALLY hard part (as if the rest of it's all been a walk in the fricking park, right? :-):

I have to recognize the ways in which her behavior shapes/shaped my behavior; I have to look at how/if/whether I'm duplicating those same behaviors myself, and *if* in fact I am reproducing those same behaviors (and I suspect I am, to some degree, though I'm far more aware of same than my mother ever has been or ever will be [which is not to compete with her, just to cut myself some slack and not give into the little voices that try to say, "You're just as bad as she is!"])

So: I suspect that I'm 'needy' in ways that seem 'age-inappropriate'; and I'm ok with that.

I don't buy into the cultural bullshit that we all are (or should be) self-sufficient and/or responsible for everything that happens to us (nuke that 'Secret' bullshit and the fucking kamikaze elephant it rode in on).

I'm ok with asking for the help I need; I no longer take it personally when someone says, "No," but just move on and keep asking for what I need.

I don't buy into the 'co-dependence' bullshit; we're all interdependent - that's how humans evolved. We're a tribal species, and a whole huge portion of our brain (limbic) evolved specifically to deal with the bonding necessary for a largely hairless, somewhat slow, dull-toothed and clawless mammal to survive an otherwise scarier-than-shit environment: We co-operated with one another.

what's been most helpful

is to recognize what function any particular behavior is serving. In other words, instead of criticizing, judging, dismissing any behavior, instead, try to understand what purpose it serves.

By understanding the purpose of the behavior, one can then recognizing the underlying need that is trying to be met. By understanding the underlying need, one can then, eventually, perhaps, under the right circumstances, meet that need in more direct ways. Possibly.

Or not - sometimes this is where Fundamental Attribution Error comes into play: When there are circumstances beyond our control, sometimes we have to adopt coping mechanisms in order to survive the situation. In which case, we must always remember that our circumstances are not necessarily our own fault.

And: It is possible that some situations will never be under our control.

For example: Sexism. Misogyny. I cannot control the fact that I am, as a female, treated in ways over which I have very little control. I can change my behavior to try to mitigate how I am treated; but I can't change the culture, nor the other humans who perpetuate that culture.

But I still fight it, anyway, still try to educate men, in particular, that it's ok for me to be the way I am. That I am not required to conform to their, or anybody else's expectations.

And introversion: In a culture of extroverts, the (supposedly) 20% of us who turn inward instead of outward are considered freaks, unnatural, not normal. Something broken, to be fixed.

I myself have wondered whether introversion is in fact *not* an innate character trait, but is rather the product of a person's native temperament combined with their upbringing, so that a person who grows up in an environment that's sympathetic to her nature and/or way of being is comfortable around other humans; whereas, someone who grows up encountering only friction with those around her, will generally resist the company of other humans, based on her long-term childhood experience of not fitting. Again, my readings suggest that as many as one third of all children are a mismatch with their parents. The gap between that 30% and the 20% statistic I've seen about introversion could be accounted for by the fact that *some* folks *do* find a place to fit later in life, such as with a colleague, a friend, a spouse, etc. Or maybe some of those folks actually have a sympathetic other somewhere in the family-at-large, such as an aunt or grandparent.

beetle

I think not having a time in my life where I was allowed to be totally dependent has kept part of me forever frozen at that developmental stage: Always needing someone to hang on to, to cling to when I'm afraid or uncertain.

It's really quite a small thing, as a percentage of my average day; but when I get stuck there and there's no one to turn to for comfort? I suddenly become, emotionally, that terrified infant again. That baby with arms and legs she can't control, a body she can't move around, lying there helplessly, unable to change her situation. She screams and flails (huh, just like the beetle! So that's where that image comes from!) ineffectively, and this big face looms at her and smiles, as if her antics are merely entertaining.

Somehow this person who's supposed to be my surrogate arms and legs has no clue that I need her (or his) HELP! I'm not just flailing to amuse myself! My howls, my terrified, wailing face, are a cry for succor, for HELP, you fucking idiots! Who the hell allowed you two to be parents, anyway? Jesus fucking H. Christ on a toothpick. I want a do-over.

rudderless? or is it something else?

I feel not so much out of control, and it's not directionless, or purpose-less...

It really has to do with the people in my life. Whenever I have someone to interact with, someone who actually expects me to show up and cares whether or not I *do* show up, whether physically, or by phone, or by email - suddenly there's a reason for me to be here, another hand with which to clap, to make a sound. Without that, I suddenly spin my wheels, have no purpose or meaning.

It doesn't have to be any particular person, just a person. Even one, who cares whether I show up, who cares what I say or do. My existence then has meaning.

it feels

as if there was a specific time and place at which it all went wrong. More than once. And the compounded effect of all that was to flatten me into one of those post-Wile E. Coyote moments where I'm nothing more than a grease spot on the road.

My father was such a fucking hammer, emotionally. He flattened me, over and over again.

And what makes it worse is that I trusted him. If I'd never trusted him, if I'd always been on guard would things have turned out better? I don't know.

All I know is, one day I was in, like Flynn, the next day I was out. Out of favor, out of my father's heart, and nothing I could do forever after that ever won him back over.

I wish I could ask him: "Dad, why do you hate me so much? Why are you always mean to me? Why do you treat me as if I'm nothing and nobody, as if I don't matter to you at all, in any way, shape or form?"

feeling totally, completely rudderless

[added: I keep changing the title because I can't figure out what that last word should be.]

I know this is ridiculous, but I just feel like I'm flailing here.

I feel like, my whole life, what've I've really needed is somebody to care. To notice. To pay attention to what I'm saying and doing and give some USEFUL fricking feedback.

I feel like nobody can really see who I AM, what I'm good at, what I'm useful for. I mean, the culture, of course, has all kinds of definitions of what a woman 'should' be and what a grown adult human 'should' be able to do and achieve.

But how does one get there, to this magical place of 'adulthood', all grown up, all figured out, all put together?

Nobody ever seems to want to talk about this stuff, and the people who seem to HAVE it together seem to have no idea whatsoever what I'm talking about. If I try to ask them questions or talk about it, it's as if I've sprouted three heads or started speaking Swahili or something.

I feel like Rip Van Winkle, like somehow I've been asleep or something all this time, and my body has kept aging, and I've continued to live life and have experiences, but - somehow, I, the essential me, has been disconnected from it all. And now all of a sudden I've got all this catching up to do, and no CLUE whatsoever how to it with very few financial, emotional or other resources.

What am I supposed to DO? People look away, as if you're something shameful, when you try to talk about this stuff. So I try to avoid such people, who are either in denial that anything like that has ever happened to them, or who really never have experienced having no safety net. Or, not the safety net you always assumed was there until you found yourself falling, screaming through space, terrified, and realized that - you were going to shatter. And no one was going to care. No one was going to help you pick up the pieces, or put them back together again. No one was going to care whether you managed to put the pieces together again. You begin to feel like some kind of Frankenstein's monster - all patches and seams and crooked places out of joint, like you've got this gigantic hump on your back that no one can literally see, but everybody reacts to as if you're some kind of - FREAK.

***
It's the same as it ever was - that feeling of not belonging, of having no place to fit in. Of being accepted (and even liked) in certain places, but it's just not enough - little fragments here and there that are never enough to create a whole picture. Like trying to put together a puzzle with half the pieces missing, or trying to sew a queen-size quilt with 3 square feet of fabric.

I keep searching for metaphors, some simple, straightforward explanation, something that fits neatly into a nutshell so that when I'm trying to explain, for the thousandth time, what's going on with me and WHY I need help (you can't ever just say, "Hey, I really need help with this, could you help me?" There's always this, "Why? Why can't you just do it yourself?" and it always seems pretty goddamn self-evident that, hey, if I could have done it all by myself I would have fucking DONE it by now, you fucking maroon.)

***
At this moment I feel less angry than simply perplexed, puzzled, at a loss, frantic to figure out WHAT THE BLOODY FUCKING HELL I'm supposed to DO.

I keep trying things, and nothing ever seems to make a substantial change. I've said this before, but I feel like one of those stupid beetles that keeps falling over on its back, and every time it falls over it lies there, helplessly, with no one to set it upright. It just flails its stupid beetle legs in the air, gaining no traction, making no progress. And if I *do* turn it over? It immediately falls over on its back again. It's like it LIKES lying there on its back, flailing its little legs with no meaning or purpose. Stupid beetle.

***
When your parents use you as a projection screen for their hopes, fears, needs, etc., you never have a chance. You never have a chance to be seen, to be heard, for who you really are. Because all you are is fragments of the bits that they project onto you - you never really get to be yourself.

(Thinking of the Snow Queen here, and the mirror shard that gets into


***
The pieces I need help with are (I'm pretty sure) developmental stage issues as far back as that murky, shadow time when I was a blob of cells lurking around in amniotic fluid, more than a twinkle in somebody's eye, less than a fully-formed, fully embodied being.

Gah. It gets so - esoteric, so weird, so quickly. I mean, I've spent years reading the literature, googling seven million questions from Sunday, and feel like my head is full of all these ideas of how things could be, should be, but simply AREN'T.

And then the three-heads phenomenon: Either they're touchy-feely, woo-woo New-Age bullshit practitioners who have no more clue what I'm on about than the most ill-read, ill-educated average Joe Clueless, or they're people who ought to know better, but somehow, they don't.

Just got a flash of an answer, try to grab its tail: Friend, lots of money, divorced, teenage kid. When she was quite young he was worried how the divorce was affecting her, and was afraid that he wasn't doing a 'good job' as a parent.

Now, I'm glad he asked for help, and that he had the money to BUY the help.

But there's this sneaking suspicion that, in a way, having money let him off the hook of doing his job properly. That these so-called 'experts' are just another scam, and he basically paid somebody to pat him on the head and tell him it's all going to be ok. Kind of like a mutual admiration society or something, or like one of those crystal ball readers who only tells good fortunes. Can't seem to quite capture the thought here...

***
Another attempt at nutshelling: The feeling is like, I've got all these parts, and I'm pretty sure they're supposed to make a bicycle - there's the wheels, and these gears, and a chain, and a seat. And some other bits and pieces that seem pretty bicycle-like.

But somehow there's something missing - the main frame, maybe? So, what the hell IS this thing, and how the hell do I put it together, all by myself with no models, no help, no frame of reference, and no fricking instruction manual? HELLO, can somebody PLEASE HELP ME????

The thing that's REALLY crazy-making is that all my life, people seem to act as if *I'm* in charge, as if *I'm* the one who knows what I'm doing. It's as if, when I ask them for help, I'm letting them down, somehow, because they NEEDED me to be the one in charge. Or something. Gah. I wish somebody would read this and tell me that it makes sense.

***
The word crawstep seems applicable, here - a kind of indirect, sideways shuffle that gets you where you're going, eventually, but you have to look nonchalant, as if there's no purpose or meaning to your movements, and sort of trick people into looking the other way while you're doing it, so that suddenly, while nobody's looking, you're there (wherever *there*, is. Cryptic.)

***
I think what I need is just someplace where I fit, where I'm *not* the oddball, odd woman out, etc. Someplace where I feel needed, wanted, accepted, understood. I don't have that feeling with my nominal 'family', (though I feel like my youngest brother accepted me pretty well til our falling out about a year ago).

Someplace that isn't a job, isn't a place of employment. I know it's supposed to be your 'family', but so often the cost of that so-called 'unconditional acceptance' is a whole lot of silence, an entire elephant shoved under the rug of 'issues we do not discuss'.

***
I think the truth is, everybody's faking it. Everybody's playing that 'man-behind-the-curtain' role, filling their lives with smoke and mirrors and we all accept it because - why? The alternative is too scary?

I've asked other people about this - that feeling that one day, you'll be there, that you'll know, you'll actually FEEL grown-up. But the truth is, most of us? are children hiding our insecurities in ever-aging bodies.

***
I've answered my own question: I don't have enough support.

How do I get enough support? Where is the support system for smart, sensitive, talented people who've somehow washed up onto the beach of later life without many of the things we're 'supposed' to have achieved by now, but somehow haven't?

I have to remember Fundamental Attribution Error. It's so easy to blame oneself for circumstances beyond one's control, especially when nobody else will accpet any responsibility.

embarrassing

So, the other day I desperately needed to get out and get some exercise. The weather was finally perfect - not too hot, not too cold :-) I hadn't been for a run in eons, and wasn't sure I could even coax this creaky machine into gear to do it. Plus I knew I'd have to run the gauntlet of the construction crew I'd had a run-in with a while back in order to get to the path, plus it's a dry, dusty route with little shade and lots of traffic (read: Breathing copious quantities of exhaust fumes while trying to 'exercise' seems like - stupidity? Cost/benefit ratio doesn't pencil out. Or something.)

So I was nervous, and unshowered to boot (it gets harder to feel 'presentable' as one gets older, even leaving the house can be a bit scary unless you've 'done yourself up' properly. The way a woman alone gets treated if she hasn't conformed properly to expectations is - painful, to say the least. And especially if you're reasonably attractive, it seems as if they punish you more for it than if you're unattractive. It's as if they're saying, 'You're so close to being what I expect you to be, why don't you just make that little bit more effort and make yourself look good so I can have some eye candy?')

Argh. Sometimes I wish I could just shut my brain off for a while, just do whatever the hell I feel like without being affected the least bit by what others say or do, how they look at me, how they respond to me, how they treat me. I sometimes wish there could be less me about it all, and just live. Sort of like I imagine an animal lives: Not cursed by this horrible disease of self-awareness.

So I finally got myself dressed, out the door, down the hill, past the construction site uneventfully - didn't hear a peep from them, maybe by chance I happened to go past at lunch? Didn't have the nerve to even glance over there. Anyway - whew, fears were unfounded in that particular case. Yay! Then felt a little bolder, started to trot. Got down to the main drag and the path, and it was dusty and dry and traffic-laden as predicted. Slowed down again, feeling overwhelmed by the ugliness of it all, even though this is a well-used, well-maintained path - I just needed something quieter and more friendly.

But I kept going, stopping to rest when needed. Came to the golf course and was annoyed that these over-moneyed folks got to enjoy the nice green grass and shade while I had to do my work out in the hot (it was getting hotter) sun on dusty pavement too close to the cars. So I detoured onto the grass and under some shade along the edge of the golf course for a bit, til I got to a place that was too close to the putting greens, with too much risk of getting hit.

Got to the stretch where there are two casinos in a row, which is even more miserable and barren - no trees, giant parking lots with loose, slippery gravel all over the place and alien beings in weird, glittery get-ups on their way to smoke themselves to death in some darkened cave while feeding their money to hungry machines that maybe never give them anything back... actually never been into one of those places, so I really don't know. No desire to visit that particular universe.

I almost turned back at this point, was feeling overwhelmed by the ugliness of it all, and was starting to get a little tired. But I was almost to the one section of the path that's usually pretty attractive, the part along the river that bends away from the road for a mile or so, and has lots of nice trees and growies. Being the middle of the day on a weekday, it should be pretty quiet.

So I got onto the river part of the trail, and begin to feel a second wind, started to cheer up, actually began to feel happy! And then, around the bend, I could hear some infernal combustion engine roaring away. What the hell??? Don't I get any breaks at all today? Isn't there anyplace in this fricking area that I can get away from the constant construction/destruction/noise/etc? Apparently not. I hesitated, not sure whether to continue or not. I was so frustrated at this point, having gotten this far, surmounted all the hurdles, to have the 'prize' of a few quiet moments in a pretty place snatched away from me.

'Dammit,' I thought, 'I'm not going to let the buggers get me down.'

So I belted ahead, thinking I'd just run past whatever it was as fast as I could. I got around the corner, and lo and behold it's this guy with giant headphones on and one of those industrial size leaf-blowers smack in the middle of the path, blasting up dust and dirt, filling the air with unbreathable clouds. I got angry, and stood there, staring at the guy, who appeared not to notice. I stuck my fingers in my ears and approached slowly, hoping he'd get the message and at least shut the thing off so I could pass without being deafened or blasted by the stupid thing.

Lo and behold, when I got about 20 feet from him, he shut the thing off! Will miracles never cease! I was grateful, gave him a quick smile and nod, moved forward to pass.

But then he did that creepy thing that so many guys do when they think they're doing you a 'favor', (as opposed to just doing the fucking right thing), and he kind of leered/smirked at me as I passed, as if he expected some further kind of interaction from me as 'payment' for him being 'a nice guy'.

Fuck. I just turned away from him and kept walking. At which point, the *second* I was past him, he started that leaf blower up again before I'd gotten five feet away from him, and the sound was overwhelming! It was like someone had hit me in the head.

My response was visceral: I turned and shoved him as hard as I could. Unfortunately, my adrenalin surge wasn't enough to overcome the fact that he out-massed me by a significant margin, plus he was carrying that 50-pound (?) gizmo, so it was basically like trying to shove a rock.

Not to put to fine a point on it, I fell over (laws of physics and all that, for each and every action, there will be and equal and opposite reaction, etc.)

I would have laughed, except I was too busy scrambling to get up because this yayhoo (sp?) appeared to be threatening me with the damn leaf-blower, as if he was going to hit me with it or something! As if that wasn't enough, he was asshole enough to say something like, 'Get back down there on the ground or I'll...' at this point I tuned him out and just shouted, 'You did that on purpose! You jerk!' And I almost bit him, I wanted to so badly, one of his hands was on the leaf blower nozzle very near me, and I could have done it. But my mind was thinking, 'Blech, he's all dirty! You don't want to bite that!' Besides which, I didn't know what he'd do, or whether he'd get violent.

He seemed clearly shaken up by the whole thing - one of these guys who thinks women can just be shoved around and treated any old way they want. Or maybe it's a power/bully thing? Maybe he just saw me as 'weaker', and didn't really think of it in terms of me being female. I have to say, it felt a bit more like the latter.

I felt so victorious, I almost did a victory dance! But I thought the best thing was to hightail it out of there as fast as possible, before he found some further way to come after me. Because there was a maintenance truck a little further down the trail, and I could just see him coming after me in it, he seemed like that kind of guy. I just wanted to get away as fast as possible.

I so felt like I won, even though *I* was the one who fell (and fell hard - though I didn't really *feel* the bruise til the adrenaline started draining away, I knew I'd done some damage, I felt it hurt when I hit the ground, but was too busy getting up again to think about it just then).

I STOOD UP to the motherfucker! I didn't let him just walk all over me! It felt so fucking good to actually, physically, push back against someone who was obviously used to being able to throw his weight around in the most literal sense. I didn't even care that I fell over! It was almost funny, it was worth it just to see the flicker of shock and dismay on his face that he hadn't managed to frighten this little pipsqueak. Hah! Take that, you bullies of the world!

***
I had another run-in with some guys in a parking lot a few days later, I was getting into my car after picking up a few things at the store, and the radio of the car next to me started blasting some rap. I looked over, not having realized there was anyone in the car til then, and there were two late-teens, early-20s guys looking all tough and staring at me as if daring me to say anything.

I just stared back, and they backed out, stopping while one of them spit out the window right in front of me.

I spit right back at him (though unfortunately most of it just drooled down my chin - d'oh!), but enough of it went toward him for him to see it and yell at me, 'what the fuck, crazy lady', and they drove away while I shouted how rude they were, how obnoxious, and they drove away calling me names, while I yelled back over the top of them, 'Ooh, what tough guys,' practically dancing with rebelliousness, daring them to come back (but only in my mind - and really hoping they'd just go away - they seemed like the kind of lame losers who'd key my car or something rather than deal with me directly).

Feeling victorious yet again for having not backed down, I returned to my car and this middle-aged couple asked me what was going on. I admitted that it was kind of stupid, but the guys were rude and seemed to be trying to (almost casually?) intimidate me, and the spitting pissed me off, and the couple agreed and said, 'oh, you should be careful!' And I said, 'well, you know, if we don't stand up to them they just keep doing it. I have to stand up to them.' I don't put up with that shit (unless I seriously think I might be endangering myself, in which case my spidey sense usually tells me to shut up.)

At which the guy said, 'You're one in a hundred, you know that? Not many people would stand up to them like that.' I said, 'I know, I wish more people would do it, then maybe they'd stop being bullies! Because they'd know they couldn't get away with it.' We talked a little more, the woman told me she'd been hit with a gun once, which had made her a little wary. But the guy was more encouraging and appreciative, I guess because he maybe hadn't ever been 'quashed' himself? Dunno. Anyway, nice 'validation' moment. Ka-ching! :-)

emotional dialects?

Sometimes I feel as if my ability to communicate is like a car with a broken steering wheel, or trying to drive with a linkage that's been tampered with. You turn the wheel, but the car goes some other direction entirely. Who's steering this damn thing anyway???

To some degree I think it's just human nature: Even though many of us nominally learned some form of 'English' as children, we each learned our own peculiar variant or emotional 'dialect' from our families. And if as many families are dysfunctional as seems to be suggested by the shrink literature, then it's no wonder so many of us can't communicate with each other.

What compounds the frustration for me is when the other person not only doesn't seem to get what I'm saying, but doesn't seem to be aware of any miscommunication. They walk away, perfectly content (or so it seems), while I'm left with this slightly sick feeling in my stomach from being unheard yet again.

It seems that the only thing to do is to try as hard as you can to *only* allow people in your life who 'get' you, and you 'get' them. Because otherwise the frustration level is phenomenal, and severely impedes forward motion of any kind. It's like trying to run with 50-pound weights around your ankles. Or something.

I think I must have written something similar to this a thousand times, but I guess it can't be said often enough. And maybe, since I was the 'odd woman out' in my family, I'm so used to fighting to be heard and swimming upstream and all that, I almost don't feel at home unless there's a certain amount of friction going on. Is that true? That seems like a really stupid and counterproductive thing to have happening. But maybe it *is* true. Hm. So: Should I fight it, tooth and nail, or just do the old 'radical acceptance' thing? My gut says to go with the latter. Notice it, try to pay attention to it, but don't try to change it particularly, one way or another. Sometimes just observing, as if from outside of oneself, can be enough to begin to shift the pattern.

Anger is a PRIMARY emotion

I get irritated by this idea that anger is a 'secondary' emotion. It seems patently stupid.

Look at a newborn infant. See that squalling, red, angry face? That maddened bellow is pure, raw life force, expressing itself from the very deepest level of the organism's need to survive. That newborn hasn't yet had the chance to develop the multitudinuous and ever-increasingly complex layers of obfuscation and delusion that allow us to survive in a world filled with bullshittery. That baby is telling it like it is: "I want what I want, and I want it NOW! And all y'all better drop everything you're doing and get it for me or I'll just scream and scream and scream 'til my little lungs come out my body or I DIE, whichever comes first..."

Anger is, then, the ultimate protective force, the power that is our shield, our armor, our battering ram, the life force that propels us unstoppably through life.

It's all the other emotions that are secondary, that come afterward, from damming up and blocking that life force, such as shame, guilt, humiliation, even sadness. Sadness at opportunities lost comes rather painfully to mind.

Calling anger a 'secondary' emotion is a cop-out by generations of sheep-people who've been too brainwashed to see or think straight any more. It's another one of those bogeymen/man-behind-the-curtain distractions used to scare children (and not very bright people) into conforming to the expectations of others. It's just another bludgeon or cudgel that power abusers use to keep others in line with their expectations. (People who see anger as a problem in *others* are often the ones who most often use anger as a weapon themselves...)

This (shrink-written) article says some things about anger that I quite agree with (and says a few other things that I find objectionable - shrinks are always a little too sure of themselves, making broad sweeping generalizations based solely on their own experiences. Like Freud, e.g.)

I've split it up into smaller pieces so that I can focus on each bit more easily. From this website:

www.psychologytoday.com/blog/evil-deeds/200901/the-primacy-anger-problems

In psychotherapy, the single most powerful and healing intervention the clinician can offer is to listen to the angry patient, and to acknowledge and accept his or her rage.

Yay! One of the paid brainwashers finally tells the truth!!!

Anger and rage have to first be validated, expressed and understood before the underlying affects or cognitions can be effectively addressed. The dilemma is that most mental health professionals denigrate and demonize anger, dismissing it as an inappropriate, destructive and negative and neurotic emotion.

Yes, exactly. The whole reason people remain 'trapped' in anger is because people trap them by being unwilling to listen to, hear or understand their perfectly valid reasons for being angry in the first place. Thus perpetuating the cycle endlessly.

Like the stupid idiot who wonders why you're hassling him about his behavior yet again. Clue stick, asshole: I'm hassling you again because you're still being a fucking asshole.

Very simple equation for you, you mindless twit: You do something to piss me off? I'm pissed. It's not random, or crazy, or wacky, or incomprehensible. It is a totally rational response to YOU being a complete fucking asshole.

***

This is how I see anger:

But anger is an appropriate, natural and healthy response to frustration, injury, insult, and anything that threatens one's survival or psychological integrity. We need to be able to get angry at such obstacles, challenges and assaults.

Anger can bestow strength and tenacity in the face of adversity.

Our culture expends vast quantities of human energy on bottling up anger, one way or another. I've always thought this was stupid, and wrong. Yes, I agree it's important to try not to do damage with one's anger. But I think it's like sword-fighting - in theory a person who really knows what they're doing with a rapier can be like a surgeon, cutting away the dreck and using their sharp edge to keep others from doing them harm. But like anything else, an inexperienced swordsperson can do incredible amounts of damage. So, they need to be trained. Not how to not use the sword, but how to use it carefully, in a controlled fashion. Like some of what I've read of martial arts training, where preparedness is everything. Or, as Edna Mode puts it,

"I'm sure I don't know, dahling. Luck favors the prepared."

Also:

When we are socialized to view getting angry as negative, evil, immoral or unspiritual, as so many of us have been, we repress our anger--as we repress other impulses or passions of which we are ashamed.

This is exactly what Jung describes as the shadow: those aspects of experience we find unacceptable, reject, and quarantine to unconsciousness. Anger is commonly experienced (if it is consciously experienced at all) as a shameful emotion which must be hidden from others, and often, even from ourselves.

The last thing therapists should do when working with angry patients is to further shame them for feeling angry.

Shout it from the rooftops.

For my dad to FORCE me

to get a job when I didn't need the money was STUPID.

My dad always seem to think it was necessary to take some kind of fucking 'preventative' measures, rather than recognizing that I was

a) Really fucking smart
b) Self-motivated
c) Really good at doing the right thing when the right time and circumstances presented themselves.

In other words, when I needed the money, namely to pay my tuition costs, then I fricking went right out and got a fucking job. Two of them, in fact. Which my asshole father failed completely to notice or comment on or offer ANY praise whatsoever for. Not only was I working full-time during the day at a job relevant to my field (and yes, mom, if you ever read it, you do get some credit for helping me get that job through your connections - but I wish you would also recognize that I wouldn't have gotten the job if I wasn't qualified for it. Which I was, in spades. It was exactly all the stuff I was studying about in school, and fit perfectly with my learning curve. Anyway.)

The crack in the sidewalk

through which I can grow

seems to be getting smaller by the minute.

The life force within me is still quite strong, but it's getting turned inward on itself by all the outward pressures to - be something other than what I am.

I can't do it. I can't be something else. I am ME. That's IT, period. Not open to discussion or negotiation.

I am ill

because of a complete and utter absence of caring and concern from the people around me. I apparently do not know how to elicit caring and concern of the sort that I need.

People give what's easiest for them to give, what's convenient, what makes them feel good. That's the 'golden rule'.

I heard about something called 'the platinum rule' recently, which basically says something like, "Give unto others what they really need, rather than what's convenient for you."

To me, love is giving a person what they need, as defined by them, not by you. But most people seem to have been raised by the adage, "You'll take what you get and like it." Shiver. Cruel brutality disguised as kindness. The most poisonous pill of all.

What I NEED is a massive dose of Vitamin L, as defined above, in my terms, on my time, to suit my needs. I'm still making up for those long-ago unmet needs from childhood, and you know what? I won't be done til I'm DONE. Period. No ifs, ands or buts. It's like an engine that won't run until it's got the right kind of fuel. Not the engine's fault that it can't run on whatever old crap you happen to have lying around - that's not the way it was made. It was made to run on love, and nothing else. That's human nature.

I thought of an analogy, earlier, for what I'm trying to do right now: It's as if I were a car that had to hunt for it's own gasoline, without speaking a word of english, going from place to place hoping, desperately, that just by chance someone would know exactly what it needs and give it exactly that thing.

Now, according to some folks who write and think about this stuff, we tend to 'call in' what we need by our behavior. But there's also the fact that our upbringing 'teaches' us certain ways to behave - that is, our mental wiring gets kind of 'set' by the patterns we experience in childhood.

So, it's just simply taking time (and lots of practice!) to learn how to undo these patterns.

****
I'm finding myself saying 'no' a lot, shutting out those intrusive, unwanted thoughts. I'm getting pretty good at it, like slamming down some kind of protective shield, like one of those 'screens' I used to read about in sci-fi books that talked about telepathic powers and how to protect oneself from invasive attacks by other people.

my biggest fear

is that no one will ever care.

No one will ever see
or hear
my fears
my tears
my pain
my terror

at being so alone
for so long.

With nobody to EVER catch me when I fall,
to help me put things back together again,
to even fucking NOTICE when I'm hurting
or ashamed
or frightened

They turn away from me
constantly
shun me
as if I am something too horrific to be borne.

A monster,
a freak,
something that belongs in a circus
because of my unwillingness to

(cut and pasted the rest from a Word doc - had to bail from Blogger 'cause it kept locking up on me)

because I am unwilling to conform, to submit,
to their culture of silence.

So they shun me, they shut me out, even though I’m sitting right there with them, in the same room, at the same table, maybe even engaged in a conversation.

They shut me out because – why? I do not know.

Is it too hard?
Too frightening?

What are they scared of?

Are they simply greedy, lazy, selfish, stupid? All of the above?

I just don’t get it. I assume that if I were actually bleeding to death, they might stop to help me. I would hope. But I’m not so sure.

My uncle is dying, and I don’t care.

I feel nothing.

It is as if all those years of feeling too much were a kind of emotional ‘cry wolf,’ and now the machine is broken, it doesn’t work any more, there’s no more sympathy, or empathy, or compassion left for anybody but ME. If they won’t give me any, then I’ll have to fucking do it myself.

And right now? At this moment? It’s taking every fucking ounce of strength I’ve got just to get through each day, one day at a time. I have to carefully construct every hour, every event has to be carefully strategized so that I don’t somehow use up my tiny scraps of energy before the main event. Some days I have to choose between eating and taking a shower, because it’s too much trouble to cook, even to wash a can so that I can have a can of soup. Even washing the spoon is too much trouble – I’ll boil a kettle of water, then pour it over the dishes, and wipe them with some paper towels, and hope for the best.

I have dropped to many of the stones of my life’s meaning into that bottomless well of silence, hearing no echo, no sound in return to show that I was fucking HEARD, at any point whatsoever. They think that silence is a fucking VIRTUE.

Well, FUCK them. They can all go to hell.
****
My only option these days is to shut them all out, cut them off. Just as they have done with me my whole life.

How can you live with people who can’t SEE or HEAR you, who act as if you’re COMPLETELY FUCKING INVISIBLE?

And how the fucking HELL are you supposed to survive two parents who are so utterly, totally, COMPLETELY fucking CLUELESS? I mean, why didn’t they just fucking let me play on the FREEWAY while they were at it? If they hated me that bad, if I was that much of a fucking NUISANCE to them, then why the HELL did they keep me around?
****
Right now I am terrified of getting some kind of cancer – of my reproductive organs. I’m having all these weird sensations in my bladder area, and my periods have started again, but have gotten heavier. And now I’m having spotty bleeding in between, which I haven’t had since I was on the pill 20 years ago.

I’m afraid to talk to a doctor about it (I don’t have health insurance) – it seems like they’ll tell you anything to get you to go away and leave them alone. They don’t want to have to address your fears and concerns as if they’re real and valid, any more than your family did.
****
I want to move on.

I want to find people, NOW, who know how to fucking CARE about each other.

Not in this touchy-feely, woo-woo bullshit way, but in real, solid, tangible ways. Like an actual hug now and then, for fuck’s sake. That isn’t about fucking SEX. Like, concern. Caring, you know? Is that really such an impossibly difficult concept???
****
A culture that pays attention to all the wrong things, and doesn’t give a shit about any of the things that actually matter.
****
I feel as if my father has poisoned me – as if he passed on his cancer to me. As if I took it on – all the pain for the entire family, like this kind of – shunt, or conduit, or some kind of device that is meant to handle the overflow when there’s just too much.

But I can’t do it any more. My system is worn out. No one human is ever meant to process, single-handedly, the kind of pain a family can dish out and accumulate.

They want me to heal them, to take care of them, to make it better, like I always did.

Well, I won’t. They’re on their own now. I am no longer a dumping ground for their
****

random

I've been watching too many movies lately - it fills the empty hours, helps block out the things I still can't deal with.

I've stopped my friend Jack, been two or three months now, wasn't even an effort, really - he just sort of stopped working, stopped doing the job I was paying him to do. So I let him go.

And my friend CoCola, well, it's been a few weeks now, that one's been a little tougher, been jonesin' fer summa that caffeine in a serious way. But have found a few substitutes that nearly fill the gap - the sugar cravings haven't given up at all. My theory? I eat so much sugar to counteract the bitterness, to bury it under a pile of sweetness so relentless that the anger doesn't stand a chance.

Most of the time it works. Until I look in the mirror and see how fat I'm getting, and think, ok, this sugar thing is seriously messing you up. So then I look for yet another alternative, and find myself trekking down the path of these weird-ass diet sweeteners that I basically consider to be just another form of poison. Lesser of the weevils, once again...

So, as always, I'm doing the best I can.

My aunt and uncle wrote me a letter a few weeks back, after getting a weird phone message from me when they were in town and wanted to get together. I decided my moratorium on family interaction has to be across the board - no exceptions. They're all the same kind of apples, after all, though how I got to be the one variant out of that huge box-full never ceases to mystify me. Maybe there really was a little moment with the postman, after all.

Anyway.

Just watched a movie that made my world feel temporarily surreal. I was feeling good after being out and about and being flirty and friendly with lots of folks (out running various errands). It doesn't escape me that people are generally friendly when you're giving them money...but this included a few other random folks as well. Maybe it was partly the weather? It was perfect today - clear blue sky, warm but not hot, one of these precious early fall days where everything is calm and serene, you could almost believe there might be a god somewhere out there.

Whatever it was, I was in a good mood.

Came home, went for a walk, still floating pretty good.

But then I'm back inside the house again, confronted with an impossible pile of bills, soot on the carpet, ceilings, blinds, everything slightly dingy and gray from that grease fire (just on the stove, but in that few minutes managed to gunk up everything pretty good).

And the ongoing saga with the fucking washing machine - I've tried everything I can to get that piece of crap to clean my clothes without destroying them - fading the shit out of them, stretching them out of shape, shredding them, wearing them out. It's just not happening - they're not only shredded and faded, but they're still not fucking clean. And in addition to that old mister smoker yay-hoo downstairs must've washed something greasy in his last load, because now all my whites, which I ran through 6 rinses, and hauled god knows how many buckets of hot water by hand down those stairs because the washer has no hot water hookup.... which I wouldn't mind if it actually worked. All I ask for is clean clothes that aren't destroyed in the process.

But no, all my whites are now a slightly grimy gray, slightly crispy (with grease?), the cotton knits are all stretched out and stiff instead of soft like I'm used to. I'm actually afraid to use that damn washing machine. The landlady said I can go ahead and return it to the place and hunt for another one on Craigslist, but for god's sake! What a fucking crapshoot! Which I, yet again, have to do single-handedly, with no help from anyone. I may be able to get some friends to help haul the thing, but there's no one but me to care whether I actually succeed in getting something decent or not. Mr. Pig downstairs crams everything he owns into one single gigantic load, dumps some kind of cheap-ass, perfume-y detergent that has the softener mixed in, whites mixed with every color in the rainbow, plus grease and whatnot. Between the crappy washer, the cold-only, hard water, and the buildup from his crap laundry soap, it's like dunking clean dishes into a pan of dirty, greasy water to get them clean. Yuck.

But at least I've had a few good hair days - it's astonishing how much difference it makes, both in how I feel about myself and how much attention I get from guys. I've had old, young, black, white, every kind of guy you can imagine flirting with me. Very good for my ego :-)

And the women have been friendly too, and helpful. Maybe it's partly because I'm friendlier when I feel more attractive and confident? Seems likely.

Having a period today for the first time in months, a real one, where I actually have to use tampons and everything! In fact, it's been so heavy that I've even had cramps. Never thought I'd be happy to see them back again, eh? Must be doing something right.

*****
I seem to have banished fear from my mind - the panic button had been pushed so many times that not only did the button itself stop working, but the wiring shorted out and fried the entire neural network connected with it. I don't know if this means I've totally fried my adrenal system, or if some kind of protective numbness has kicked in to keep me from doing any more damage to my system. It's like some kind of cosmic override - all of a sudden I was off the Jack Daniels, without any premeditation or particular effort on my part, and the Coke too, and most of the sugar. My body demanded organic, healthy food, none of this greasy fried crap (though I've still had pizza and fish'n'chips). It's still doing the balanced, gradual thing, but I've started making herbal teas like mad, making every shower a decadent spa experience where I try out new soothing herbs. My skin and hair have put a near-total moratorium on all chemicals, being dry to the point of pain. But as I've gradually shifted my diet out of the red zone (toxicity-wise), my overall toxicity level seems to be dropping enough so that I don't have to be quite so hard-core. But man, for a little while there I was afraid that I'd end up in one of those glass bubbles, the isolation chambers.

I guess that's what kicked in the survival commando team - knowing for a fact that there's nobody out there to help me with any of this, that I have to do it all myself. It's like all this data I've collected over all these years, all the experimenting, all the trial and error, has finally added up and paid off and I'm just marching along as if it hasn't been like being pulled through the eye of a needle backward (or something) to get to this point.

I feel kind of - disconnected, like I've shoved all the bad, difficult stuff far enough away from me so that I can just simply survive, just simply stay alive at all. It's as if I'm becoming this stripped-down, highly efficient machine that has no time or energy for anything whatsoever except taking care of myself. I have no energy to waste on anyone else, unless there's something in it for me.

It's like I don't even get angry any more (or not much), and when I do, it's a very tight, focused, efficient kind of anger, that expends exactly as much energy as necessary to do job in front of me and not a speck more. If I get tired, I stop and sleep, or eat, or take a break in front of the tube with a movie. If I need company, I turn on a video. I just do what I need to do, one foot in front of the other. Where it leads? I have no idea. Again, like grandfather said, I'm just trying to get through it.

***
Maybe I'm in some kind of emotional free fall? You know, where you've jumped out of the plane, and you've pulled the rip cord, and the only thing left is either you live or you get smashed to bits on a bunch of rocks? I mean, what choices are there at this point? You just fall, and hope to hell it's a good ride, and try to keep your wits about you and your eyes wide open on the way down. Because, if you live? It's going to be a great story. And if you don't? No worries. It'll be over. No more stress.

I guess that's what it feels like - I've got one more shot, and then I'm done. I've got just enough juice left in this baby to make one more try at 'success', whatever the hell that means. I mean, creating something 'sustainable', as they say. It feels like a slalom ride where I can't see further than the very next obstacle, there's so much spray and flurry from the current event that I have no energy for anything else except surviving what's directly in front of me. Only this, and nothing more. Quoth the maven.

Well. I seem to be devolving into silliness. I truly hope somebody, somewhere, someday reads this shit and thinks, what a cool person. I'm sorry she had to struggle so hard. I wish more people would have helped her when she needed it. Something like that. My ghost will thank you for it, and not even haunt you very much.

****
You know, just for the record? It's not that I think my problems are extra special and unique or anything. It's more just my consistent inability to get any kind of useful support or understanding to help me cope with any of it. I mean, obviously I'm perfectly capable of solving any and all of the problems that come my way. The point is, what's the point? I mean, why bother when there's nobody to care about any of it but me?

It's like with Piggy downstairs - I carefully rinse out all my recyclables, only put 'clean' stuff in the bin, bag up everything in paper bags so that we don't end up with trash scattered hither and yon on collection day.

I go out there, all proud of how tidy and responsible I'm being, how organized and capable and whatnot, and lift the lid to the recycling bin to - jesus fucking christ what is that smell???!!??? I mean, the asshole dumps half-full beer cans in there, slopping sticky, funky beer all over the place, half the time he forgets which bin is which and throws his disgusting, horrible butts in the recycling bin, for fuck's sake. Jesus, that thing reeks. I tried rinsing it out one day, I just couldn't even stand to touch the thing, but next morning it was yet again full of crap. Forget it. Why try? Why bother? Why make the effort? It truly is like living with a pig. Cigarette butts everywhere, can't be bothered to pick up his own trash - what, are we living in a trailer park here? When he first moved in I tried to inspire him a bit by planting a few flowers outside his window, but he's like a blight, like PigPen from the Charlie Brown comics. His massive indifference, his total 'fuck you' attitude to any kind of responsibility whatsoever is like this miasma, this psychic ectoplasm that just fucking slimes you any time you try actually fucking care about something anywhere near him. He has like this massive negativity field that cancels out any good intentions, any desire to make an effort to improve something. He's like anti-matter. (Good god, I think I'm channeling a Valley Girl.) I even found fucking cigarette butts in the fucking yard waste bin, in the middle of droughty summer when he could have had a lovely little bin-fire. Nice. I mean, is he just stupid? Or careless? Or too drunk/tired/whatever to notice? I don't get it. Even on my worst days I still pay attention. I fucking care. Why do I care so much? Why does he care so little? How the fucking hell did I end up sharing a duplex with this fucking asshole? Jesus. I hope he fucking chokes on one of those fucking cancer sticks. Hell, I may choke him myself.

And the dog shit! For fuck's sake, he absolutely refuses to even touch the stuff. I mean there's some right outside his fucking window, for fuck's sake, and rather than fucking pick it up and put it in the trash, he leaves it lying there, and pours, I swear to god, aftershave on it to kill the smell.

There is no god. No way, no how. Or if there is? He's a fucking psycho, with the weirdest-ass, most twisted fucking sense of humor you've ever seen in your life. Jesus, Mary and Joseph. And I'm not even fucking Catholic.

***
Surviving life as an ultra-sensitive person seems to add a whole other course of hurdles (?) to the Sisyphean climb, as if there's a whole ladder you have to climb each day to deal with the sensitivity before you even get to the 'normal' ladder that everyone else seems to be climbing. It's like a handicap, where even the simplest tasks become unbearably complicated.

And it's not about perfectionism. I've tried letting absolutely everything else go to hell so that I have any energy left at all for something besides the basics. But the sink is full of dirty dishes that have been sitting there for months; the dust is a 1/4 inch thick on the carpet; I haven't worked in the garden since spring (since Piggy moved in, basically). It's amazing what an enthusiasm-killer he is. Wish I were oblivious.