qualities of resilience
independence
insight
creativity
humor
the ability to develop relationships
initiative
morality
i'm profoundly grateful to have received these gifts.
just the facts: a timeline
"One who gains strength by overcoming obstacles possesses the only strength which can overcome adversity." ~ Albert Schweitzer (1875-1965) French philosopher & physician-missionary to Africa
I've decided to try once again to set down an autobiographical timeline. I've tried to do this before, but I haven't been able to withstand the pain. I'm always afraid people think I'm crazy or just making it all up when they learn of my childhood experiences. I suffer from post traumatic stress disorder and major depression, but I've never been delusional. You can't make this shit up; it's too bizarre.
The timeline.
I was born in 1953 in a city in the deep south. In 1956, we moved to a different state. The
first episode of violence I can remember was my dad's attempt to set my mom on fire. I can't recall the timeline for all subsequent violence against my mom.
In 1961, I began elementary school. My father was having an affair with a woman and he took me along when he went to her house so that he could lie to my mom about where he was. I was expected to go along with the lie. Eventually, he stopped lying and started fucking her at our house. He beat her up pretty regularly, too. I think that went on for a couple of years, maybe. Then I think she got pregnant and my family drove her to some place in another city. Probably a home for unwed mothers. I never saw her again.
In the second grade, we moved to a different house. At some point my dad's ex-wife came to live there and my mom moved into a little apartment located on the same property. I had to continue to live with my father. It broke my heart.
His ex-wife used to try to get me to do things, like let her give me a bath. That pissed me off. I spent as much time as possible with my mom. My father had some real issues with jealousy; I was keenly aware of that. I think maybe he asked me (or maybe I just volunteered) that some guy had been over. He beat her up really badly in front of me. She left rather abruptly and my mom moved back in. I never saw her again, either.
This is about all of the timeline I can manage today. It's very emotionally difficult, because when I remember, I relive. It's hard to really identify when one's personal history begins. Obviously, there was a specific time and place when I was born, but I'm not certain if one can just start there and expect to make sense of personal history. My parents lived through things that created deep and irreparable damage. Some of that damage no doubt was inflicted because of the woundedness of their parents.
Maybe the events that define our lives will always be a mystery, because of the impossibility of gaining reliable information about their roots. In addition to that problem, there's also the nature/nurture question. I know for a fact that my father's family has some serious mental illnesses which are generally considered to be genetically-linked. On the other hand, to say they received inadequate nurturing would be a profound understatement. I don't know of any mental illnesses present at an early age in my mother's family. She did have some traumatic events early in her life, though she would not define them as such.
I suppose I will speak to some of those issues as I explore my life. For some reason, I believe if I can just create this timeline, it will be healing for me. That remains to be seen.
perfectionism and diligence
my therapist, psychiatrist, family and co-workers would take great exception to the word "slacking." they tell me i never give myself a break; i've been trying to come to terms with that thought, but i have to admit it's not easy. my therapist says that sometimes people who have been left to raise themselves demand far too much from themselves. sounds right to me, but i'm just not sure i believe it fits for me.
i also get accused of being a perfectionist, to which i generally respond, "no one can ever do anything perfectly, certainly not i." i'm told that being a perfectionist just means that i try to do my very best at every thing i do. what's wrong with that? isn't that what we should all do? it's my firm belief that self-esteem grows from that desire. effort is the key, not execution. i may fuck things up, in big ways or small, but as long as i've done my best, i can feel good about myself. i forgive myself for fucking up, sometimes i'm even amused by it, but that doesn't mean i didn't try to do better.
trying to mediate between what i see as two extremes (me: slacker; everyone else: too demanding) makes me crazy. i end up spending way too much time trying to find ways to lighten up without actually have to lighten up. finally, i pick one or the other and spend the rest of the day quieting my inner voice telling me i should have done more/less. i've got way too many problems to devote that much time to every task.
i have tried to change my ways by cutting off the critical voices in my head when i need rest--emotional, physical or intellectual. if i'm having a particularly difficult time figuring out what to do, i try to step outside myself and respond as i would for someone other than me. if a friend told me she was too tired to do laundry in the evening, i would most definitely tell her that rest is important and laundry can be done tomorrow. so far, this works better than any other tactic.
now, since my head feels like it's stuffed with cotton and the day is getting late, i would tell my friend that she should stop looking for an organic way to end this entry and just stop typing, for god's sake. that's what i'm going to do.
quote of the day:
"Thank God every morning when you get up that you have something to do which must be done, whether you like it or not. Being forced to work, and forced to do your best, will breed in you temperance, self-control, diligence, strength of will, content, and a hundred other virtues which the idle never know."
~ Charles Kingsley (1819-1875)
English clergyman & writer
let me just add, hell yes!
haunted
i guess that's why i've had some flashbacks over the past several days. last night, my husband was late returning home from a recording session. i kept telling myself that he was definitely okay; he had my cell phone to call for help if needed. i tried breathing techniques to calm down, but they didn't work, either. then, out of the blue, i remembered that feeling i was having.
when i was a little girl, my father was both actively psychotic and was self-medicating with alcohol. not a good combination. he always became very violent when he drank. he was supposed to be home around 5:00 p.m. every day, but when he wasn't, you could pretty much count on the fact he was out drinking. i remember, as every hour passed by and he still wans't home, i got more and more afraid.
there are many old movies and television programs that i still can't watch because they trigger flashbacks. i remember sitting on the living room floor once when i was maybe 9 or 10 and i was watching the twilight zone. it was a television program that came on around nine-ish, i think. i kept watching and trying not to seem afraid, but i had my eye on the time constantly. i was not only afraid of the bodily harm that would most assuredly come to me and/or my mom, i was also afraid that someone might have killed him. even now i can remember with startling physical clarity the icy feeling in my stomach and the almost unbearable anxiety.
i don't specifically recall just what horrors were visited upon us that particular night. after a while, incidents of horrific violence and sadism are difficult to place in time. they happened so often it was sort of routine--if one can call torture routine. there's also the problem of dissociation. when things became too unbearable, i would lose all feeling and numb out. there are huge chunks of my life that are inaccessible to me. i'm just as happy not knowing, though.
anyway, it was this flashback that i felt last night while i was waiting for my husband to get home. i hate it that these emotions and memories superimpose themselves over a life i've taken so much care to make safe. no one hits me anymore. no one yells at me anymore. nor does anyone hit or yell at anyone i love. and yet...the past is alive, in a way. those images of violence and the overwhelming emotions that accompanied them still haunt me. they always will.
middle ground
i'm resuming my rigorous workout schedule this week, after my standard one-week hiatus. i'm always a little ambivalent about it. i'm really tired today, so i'm not all that enthusiastic. on the other hand, if i don't resume my workout i'll feel worse in the long run. i've been trying to figure out which video tapes to use for this six-week stint. last cycle i focused on pilates and bellydance. unfortunately, bellydance, though great for abs and hips, doesn't really get my heart rate up to the required level. i have a new pilates tape that's very fast-paced, so i may try that out this evening. as for strength training, i'm tempted to stick with the pilates mat work exercises. my only hesitation is that one's body stops working when you do the same things over and over. i know this is just fascinating, but it's very important to me. by the way, have i mentioned lately that my butt is in fantastic condition? (do note that i'm laughing at myself as i type this.)
i watched "holes" this weekend with my mother. one thing you can count on with disney is they're not going to put in any explicit sexual scenes that are going to embarass me to watch it with my mom. i made the huge mistake of going to see "bad santa" with her this past christmas. i knew it wasn't a children's movie, but i had no idea there would be blow jobs and other sexual activities. "holes" started out slowly and it was difficult to sustain my interest, but it got better as the movie progressed.
enough trivia. here's the quote of the day:
"The modern sympathy with invalids is morbid. Illness of any kind is hardly a thing to be encouraged in others."
~ Oscar Wilde (1854-1900)
Irish writer, & playwright
fuzzy blankets and ptsd
when i told gabrielle that she was the first person i've ever told about the experience, she told me to expect some emotional fall-out. she said it's a little like opening pandora's box. the funny thing is, aside from the blanket memory, most of my ptsd difficulties this weekend were actually related to my father. but more of that later....
approaching anniversary
unfortunately, eight years dead and i still haven't really come to terms with his memory. the suicide, of course, fucked everything up. maybe it would have been easier to come to terms with our shared past if he hadn't bailed out. since he checked out, any anger i experience towards him ends up just bringing me back to the image in my head of him pulling the trigger. it reminds me of his fear of death. it reminds me that maybe i could have done more to keep him alive, even though i am abundantly aware that, when someone really wants to die, there's no force on earth that can prevent it. it's one of the legacies of my childhood, the feeling that, if i could have been a stronger, smarter, more loving, ad infinitum, i could have repaired the damage that was done to him by both nature and nurture. my intellect knows the truth, but my heart can't embrace that truth.
my dad always wanted someone else to be responsible for him. when i was a little kid, he would talk to me in a pathetic way about how he was going to get old and die. it made me cry every single time. when i was about ten, i finally got it. i realized that he was just yanking my chain; i'm not sure why it was so gratifying for him to make me cry, but that's how it was. that was one of the junctures in my life when i made a decision to harden my heart towards him a little more.
there were many years when my anger towards him was so intense that we weren't really having a relationship at all, even though i would visit my parents and stay at their house pretty regularly. i had finally managed to find a way to have a relationship with him and i always thought i could control his behavior to some extent. by keeping in touch and open to his pain, maybe i could manage to limit the damage he could do to other people. of course that was a ridiculous thought. that delusion was shattered the day he died.
i guess that's the positive side of his suicide. i became crystal clear about my inability to control anything. it's been quite liberating, really. nowadays i just float through my life, profoundly aware that i'm not even in much control of what's going to happen to me in the next five minutes. for some reason, i don't even find that particularly frightening. i just try to come to terms with the things that occur in my life by acceptance.
my dad spent so much of his life making everyone he came into contact with miserable. my therapist says that she thinks he was a sadist. i agree. i don't particularly like that diagnosis, but he was a cruel person who actually did seem to enjoy making other people suffer. i can't write about this anymore. too painful.
quote of the day:
"The thought of suicide is a great consolation: by means of it one gets successfully through many a bad night." ~ Friedrich Nietzsche (1844-1900)
what's rape have to do with it?
david and i never actually had sex. i don't think i liked him very much and i'm pretty sure he didn't like me, either. just a sexual thing for him, you know. we went out together a couple of times and it became abundantly clear that i needed to make him go away. luckily, as it turned out, the end of the semester was at hand. i left school for the upcoming semester on the urgings of my parents. that worked out great. i didn't even have to be mean to him...yet.
he wrote letters to me that spring semester and i responded. i really don't know what prompted me to do this, but eventually i pointed out to him that he should just go ahead and have sex with russ and cut out the middle(wo)man. he stopped writing me. it seemed like a logical thing to say (even though i'm sure i knew he'd be upset). it wasn't like we were in love or anything.
i didn't date anyone at all that spring, but when summer came around i registered for some classes at a local college. i had a job, working at an electrical supply company. it was there that i met my next mistake. this guy used to come in regularly to pick up parts and i was immediately attracted. somehow i managed to get him to ask me out. right here you might say, "hey, probably not such a good idea." good point.
i had absolutely no intention of getting emotionally involved with him. he was a blue-collar guy, not much interested in knowing anything and not much interested in ever leaving my hometown. totally unsuitable for long-term relationship, but quite suitable for sex. notice how every time i pick the guy it turns out the only thing i'm looking for is sex? hmmm...seems to be a pattern here.
at first, i refused to fuck him because i wasn't doing any kind of birth control. at some point in our "relationship" he told me he was using a condom, but that was a lie. everyone i knew at that time of my life was baffled as to how i could be fooled. they didn't really know my history though. i was adamantly opposed to actually touching penises...it was far to reminiscent of the abuse suffered at the hands of my uncle. no touching. ever. as you might guess, i became pregnant. so what the hell, don and i spent the summer having incredible sex whenever we could.
there was absolutely no way on god's green earth that i was going to have that baby and be forced to live in my hometown permanently. no way i was going to marry don. i knew exactly what i had to do and i did it. all alone. i paid for the abortion and i went to have it alone. all of that part of the tale occurred when i went back to the other university. once again, just like with the date rape episode, i accepted total responsibility for my mistake. that's one of the good things about me...i don't shirk responsibility. after i went back to school, i didn't really need don anymore. don't get me wrong...i doubt that he missed me at all. i'm sure i served the same purpose for him as he did for me.
i'm not so sure that my need to be in control of sexual relationships has anything to do with the date rape episode. i think it's probably more a product of my upbringing, which i will get around to talking about sooner or later. i guess the big revelation for me is just how angry at men i must have been. had you asked me about it then, i would have said i wasn't angry at all, except in a broad feminist context. i don't feel particularly angry now, either, as i contemplate the past. i guess mostly i feel sorry for that young person who suffered through such great difficulties.
here's the quote of the day:
"Although the world is full of suffering, it is full also of the overcoming of it."
~ Helen Keller (1880-1968)
cretins and feral kitties
My husband is at a sound studio somewhere on the west side. He and his co-author have been invited to write liner notes for a cd currently being recorded. There's some possibility that Bob Dylan might show up. I have to admit I'm a little envious, but whenever I think about what it would be like to meet Dylan (or any number of other artists I admire) I can't imagine what I could say. "Oh my god! you're Bob Dylan! did you know that?" That's pretty impressive, right? "I've listened to your music since I was 13." Never heard that before, I'm sure. My other experience with meeting a musician I admire happened about 20 years ago.
I was working at a fundraiser where the artist was performing. The concert was over and I was looking for my supervisor. I went flying into a room somewhere backstage and came face to face with the artist and someone with whom he was talking. I'm sure absolutely every bit of blood drained out of my face. I mumbled something about looking for Anne, but no one there knew where she was. My husband was with me and we leaned against a table while my husband talked to the artist. I didn't say anything. I was mortified that I'd inadvertently invaded his space. I also just couldn't think of a thing to say.
Hubby is having a pretty good time, whether Bob shows up or not. Meanwhile i'm stuck at the company from the twilight zone. I haven't had much contact with my co-workers today; I've been trying to limit contact lately. Too much negativity. I did get to spend some time with the feral cats I've been feeding since they were babies. So far, I've managed to tame four of them. One of the little guys allowed me to pick him up and put him on the bench where I was sitting. He lay down next to me so that his whole body was touching my leg. After about ten minutes of petting, he started grabbing my fingers with his paws, claws in. I wish I could take him home with me, but my beautiful huskies would kill him in less than five minutes. I'm going to try to get him neutered next week. I hope to get all of them spayed or neutered, but I don't want to rush the getting-acquainted process. I'd like to try to minimize the trauma, if I can.
iIm so happy some of them started trusting me. It's far more important to me that animals like and trust me than humans. Animals are completely predictable. they won't hurt you unless they're scared or injured. I suppose the same could be said of people, but it's not as easy to intuit their fears and wounded places. I think I've always preferred animals to humans. I spent most of my life as an only child, but I had animal companions from the time I was very little. My experiences with other children didn't inspre a lot of confidence. My mom started taking me to daycare at some point. She says she feared we were too close and she wanted to try to help me individuate more before I entered grade school.
Unfortunately, those experiences at day care did little to move me in the direction of sociability. There wasn't much adult supervision at any of the day care places I was in. It was a little like Lord of the Flies. Kids would just come up and be aggressive for no apparent reason. (I don't know...maybe there was a reason and I just couldn't see it.) My solution was to stay as far away from them as possible.
Another critical incident occurred at home. I was friends with a little girl who lived across the street from us. One day, she had a cousin (I think) over and I was going to go over and play. The girl I knew told me not to come over. Well, hell, I just thought she was kidding. I think i was laughing as I crossed the street. When I made it to her side of the road, she picked up a Coke bottle and slammed it down on my head. The coke bottle didn't break, but it caused a deep cut and I started bleeding heavily. I was infuriated. I went into my house, blood streaming down my face, and demanded a Coke bottle. My mom says I was white and shaking. Fortunately, she didn't give me a weapon. Her primary goal was to make sure I wasn't going to bleed to death in the kitchen. When my father came home, he was irate. He made me sit out on our back porch for about a week with a huge stick, waiting to beat the shit out of the little monster child. I never was very good at that sort of thing, though. I hit people when they hit me first, but if they cried, it made me cry, too, and I would try to comfort them.
By the time I got to the first grade, I was extremely wary of other children. My mother says my dad would drive by the schoolyard sometimes at lunch or recess to find out how I was doing. I was doing fine. I immediately crawled up to the very top of the jungle gym and hung out there until it was time to go back in. He told my mom he felt really sorry for me. When I got my first report card, all of the grades were a's except for one that must have had something to do with socialization. I got a "needs improvement" on that. That really pissed me off. I was forced to start socializing with the little cretins. I don't think anyone ever did me any harm, but I really resented the teacher forcing me to do something that didn't even seem germane to my education. (Yes, I thought I was imminently qualified to make that judgment.)
My relationships with people never improved much. There have always been one or two people I trusted and cared for. As an adult, I have many acquaintances (who would probably call me their friends) but few friendships. I'm a very unusual person, in part because I have a rare personality type and in part because of my highly unusual history. I like most people, but I maintain an unbreachable emotional distance.
here's the quote of the day:
"Odd things: animals. All dogs look up to you. All cats look down to you. Only the pig looks at you as an equal."
~ Winston Churchill (1874-1965)
British prime minister during World War II, winner of Nobel Prize for literature 1953
love and despair
I started the morning by reading some email from a post traumatic stress disorder group to which I belong. it's amazing...even that made me quake inside. None of the posts detailed the causes of people's ptsd; they were descriptions of the challenges people still face in their lives many, many years after the traumatizing event(s). I haven't contributed to the list yet and I may never do so. I fear the possibility of triggering more of my own symptoms, which I have pretty regularly without any clear reason. I mean, I know the reasons why I have ptsd; I'm just not always sure how reactions get triggered.
Yesterday I was talking about trying to fit the "new" rape information into my understanding of how I became who I am now. After the sexual assault, I embarked on a relationship with a guy who was a junior at the time. We dated for a while before I agreed to have sex with him. Having gotten the test case out of the way, I still embarked on physical intimacy with some trepidation. Finally, I decided to go over and spend the night. In retrospect, I'm not sure why I made the decision. It may have been that I believed he cared about me or it may have been that I just wanted to have sex. It was less than fabulous. I remember thinking "hmmm...this doesn't really feel very good." Detached and numb, I focused on a faucet dripping in the bathroom and I knew that sound would lodge in my memory.
I think i was probably dissociated. That would be a good guess considering my childhood and my recent experience at college. I was really good at dissociating...I still am, as a matter of fact. I'm not sure how long it took to become proficient in slipping away from my body. I know that when I was left alone with my uncle when I was five, I decided that, though he might be so big as to make physical resistance impossible, I could prevent him from having access to my mind and heart. The television was on and there were cartoons, so it must have been a Saturday. While he proceeded to do as he pleased, I turned my head away from him and concentrated on the cartoons.
He didn't like that. He wanted me to pay attention to him and what he was doing. after he turned off the television, I started studying the ceiling. After that, my memories of that episode fade away. I was very angry with him and I knew that by ignoring him, A was in some way thwarting his desires. A little child's body may be easy for adults to control, but it was not in the least bit easy to control my mind. I guess he made do with what he had because he did not stop.
There were plenty of other times in my life when I continued to practice dissociating. So many, in fact, that I ceased to recognize it as an altered state of consciousness. By the time I got to Russ, I could choose to not be present without actually realizing that's what I was doing. I know that's very paradoxical, but I guess learning to regularly survive dangerous situations at some point becomes commonplace. Being absent from self can also become mundane and difficult to identify.
Russ and I continued to see each other for a month or so. I recall being very intellectually competitive with him. He was an engineering student of some kind, but I didn't have much respect for that kind of knowledge and I let him know that. Much, much later in life, I understood that the competitiveness arose out of both my own intellectual competition with my father and the fact that, throughout my life, he demeaned my mother by constantly telling her (and me) how stupid she was. My mother is not stupid. It was a tool of control, an outgrowth of malignant narcissism. Until I met my husband, I measured every man by his intelligence and found them all surprisingly lacking. In retrospect, I know that they were bright people; I just couldn't allow them the opportunity to feel intellectually superior. Keep in mind that these events transpired in the early 1970's, when women were regularly intellectually dismissed. I had so many reasons for my obnoxious behavior.
Some people who had known Russ for a while told me about his history. The semester before he met me, he had been involved with some young woman who had become pregnant. She had an abortion before she left to continue her education somewhere else. I guess the breakup wasn't his idea. I do know that she didn't wish to have further contact with him. According to his friends, he was still trying to regain his bearings. Starting a relationship with me probably wasn't the most mentally healthy thing for him.
Eventually Russ decided to end our relationship. It was then that I hit the wall. All of my feelings of abandonment rose up like some monster inside of me. I thought about suicide a lot, but didn't attempt it. Since my attempt when I was 11, I had managed to stop myself from trying to die. As was so frequently the case, I'm not sure I even particularly liked him, but I wanted to get him back...really, really badly.
Other young men, including one named David, wanted to get to know me, but I was angry with them and I didn't trust them. I guess I wanted to get Russ back so I could continue to dislike him. Sex had gotten a lot more interesting and satisfying, but only if I was emotionally disconnected. Disliking a lover suited me just fine. As a matter of fact, it was the optimal situation for me.
I must go now...the person I'm supposed to meet has just shown up. More psychobabble later.
"Life is Just One Damn Thing After Another," Elbert Hubbard
Last week the topic of conversation with my therapist was the ways sexual abuse altered my life. The obvious first answer to that would be the profound lack of trust I have in men. That doesn't mean all men, nor does it mean that I'm unable to be emotionally close with men. after all, I've been married for almost 31 years now to the same man. It does mean the majority of them. My upbringing and the years of abuse I suffered in my childhood has also had a very negative impact on my ability to trust anyone, male or female.
In the course of exploring this issue, I related to her the circumstances of my first chosensexual experience. The boy i dated in high school applied a lot of pressure to get on birth control pills so we could have sex. I didn't do it, in part because I thought there was a very strong possibility that sex had become so contaminated for me that I might find myself hating anyone I slept with. I loved Michael, but I broke up with him because of that fear. I never told him anything about my home life and I certainly never told him why I was afraid of greater intimacy.
I decided that the best course of action for me was to find someone with whom I had absolutely no emotional connection and use that person as a test case. (Just call me highly pragmatic.) My first week or so in college gave me the opportunity to carry out the plan. I kept seeing this great looking guy around campus, but I thought I probably wasn't good looking enough for him to notice me.
One of my friends and I ran into him (Dave) in one of the co-ed dorm hallways and he invited us back to his room. Needless to say, we went. I'm not exactly sure of what the sequence of events were, but finally we were alone. We had been making out before, but when everyone else left, things just naturally proceeded down the road toward making love. That was fine by me; it fit right into my plan. However, as he entered me, I began experiencing a lot of pain (I mean a lot, probably because of a subconscious clenching both emotionally and physically). I asked him to stop, but he didn't. At some point, I began screaming for him to stop, but he didn't.
I slept over that night and when we got up the next day, it was apparent that he wanted to have a relationship with me. I gave it my best shot, but I think I was enraged with him that he didn't stop. (Unfortunately, it's taken me 30 years to figure that out.) He continued to call and we continued to hang out together, but we never had sex again. After a couple of weeks, I managed to extricate myself from the situation. Extrication from relationships, especially those that included sex, became consistent pattern for me.
The curious thing about all of this is that, up until last week, I didn't really count that experience as rape. If anyone else had related the same events, I would never have any hesitation to label it as such. I'm a feminista....how could I not see it as rape? Well the answer to that question is obvious in some ways.
My therapist had no trouble whatsoever in identifying it as rape. At some point saturday, I started to try to put that experience within the context of all of my relationships. It was quite unsettling. It was so unsettling, in fact, that I was too overwhelmed to continue. I think I need to make this exploration slowly, but now isn't the time. For now, I'm holding it in my heart and allowing things to come to fruition without intellectualizing.
here's the quote of the day:
"Rape is a culturally fostered means of suppressing women. Legally we say we deplore it, but mythically we romanticize and perpetuate it, and privately we excuse and overlook it."
~ Victoria Billings (1856-1950)
Pseudonym of Henry Wheeler Shaw Irish playwright & critic
bikini wax at the office
Last night I started thinking about the fact that this weblog is the only place I've ever felt I could be completely honest. No one I know is aware that I even have a weblog and anyone who stumbles across it won't ever know who I am. You will never see a photo of me here. I try to limit details which may make me recognizable to people who populate my daily life. I don't have to protect anyone's feelings or refer to events in code. Wow...how liberating!
In celebration of total honesty, I have to share one of my office (Crazy Land) stories with you. A couple of months ago, one of my coworkers decided to get her first Brazillian bikini wax. I've never had a bikini wax of any kind, so I told her to let me know how painful it was...just in case I lose my mind at some point and decide to get one for myself.
The day after the waxing, she came over to my office, locked the door behind her and started telling me about the procedure. Then, she pulls her dress up and her underwear down and SHOWS me the bikini wax. I glanced down and looked up immediately, commenting that it did look a little odd. She stood there and continued the conversation without any wardrobe adjustment. Finally, to my great relief, she pulled her underwear up and left. You can not imagine how relieved I was. I mean, I'm pretty comfortable with my own body and I certainly have seen friends in various stages of undress, but never, never, never has anyone wanted to show me their genitals. Luckily for me, she hasn't felt the need to expose herself again.
The company I work for is the weirdest place I've ever worked. Here's a brief glimpse into the madness that I call Crazy Land.
Owner never participates in any office activity, including work. He sits in his office all day, playing cards online. If you have a work-related question, you'd better make it snappy because he's not going to be happy that you're intruding on his game. It's just as well, really, because generally speaking, he won't know the answer and won't care about whatever it is you're there for.
Then there's the Information Superhighway, who got the bikini wax. I don't really think she needs any more introduction.
Next to her office is Money Man, who's a right wing, bigotted, hypocritical, bible-thumping asshole who's pretty sure he's got all the answers. Just ask him. He's mean spirited, doesn't like anyone particularly (probably not even himself) and spends most of his time complaining about the company.
Crazy Employee is our newest addition, whose husband lost his job and was unemployed for about six months. She's famous for her win/win situation arguments. She needed to get her car fixed and wanted the company to buy a new engine for it and to have one of our employees (a mechanic) to install it. Win/win.
When no one saw the benefit for the company in doing that, she just took it to a mechanic's shop where we have a corporate account, got them to fix it and charged it to the company. No, she did not ask for permission to do that. Oooo, win/win again. We also have a corporate account at Sam's Club, where we get office supplies like paper towels, toilet tissue, etc. Again, without asking, she charged a lot of food (and I'm talking wine and t-bone steaks) and some clothing to the account. No, she didn't get fired. As a matter of fact, no one even talked to her about it. She was sent a memo from the Information Superhighway, telling her that her charging priveleges had been revoked. That's telling her.
Then there's Loathsome, who is working at our office out of state...much against his will. He's a blue-collar guy who compensates by being unbearably pompous, vain and pretentious. He wears the best clothes money can buy. He was at a company party one year and, when someone commented about his decision to wear a tee-shirt with dress slacks, he responded with "This shirt cost $200. this is class." Too bad the same could not be said of the person wearing it.
There are three more people who work here, but I don't have time to tell you about them. I guess I'll just have to get to them tomorrow.
here's the quote of the day:
"Hard work never killed anybody but why take the chance?"
~ Edgar Bergen (1903-1978)
the past falls away
"Prosperity comes from the Latin root which literally translates: 'according to hope' or 'to go forward hopefully.' Thus it is not so much a condition in life as it is an attitude toward life. The truly prosperous person is what psychologist Rollo May calls 'the fully functioning person.'"~ Eric Butterworth, 20th Century Spiritual Teacher
I started out thinking I'd write to you about the issue of enlightenment, but something more pressing has interjected itself into my consciousness. Actually, I've been thinking of this topic all day, but I'm not sure it's going to take me anywhere. I'm sure the thought has lodged itself in my brain for a good reason, so here goes.
Since Becky died, I've felt the past fall away from me. It's as if the events and people in my past had wrapped themselves around me and held on tightly. From this vantage point, it feels like the swaddling has been too tight and I've been unable to move because of it. Of course, so much of my past will probably never let me go. The terrible experiences of my early life aren't holding on from the outside. They're burrowed deep into my existence and still color everything I do, everything I perceive. Trauma doesn't let go. Though I may seem very well adjusted to everyone (even those who know me best), it's only because those waking nightmares I experience are only visible to me. Even in the midst of internal turmoil, I maintain my calm exterior. Sometimes I can only manage to maintain my composure by dissociating. Though I'm not sure I told her everything (I'm almost certain that I haven't), She always understood how deeply I've suffered and what a great victory it's been for me to hide that suffering from others. The past that wraps itself around me is related to the people I knew and loved in my youth. In the months leading up to Becky's death, I felt this incredible need to reconnect with people I haven't seen in over 30 years. I even attempted to contact Michael...just to make sure that he found his way in the world and found people who could appreciate his intelligence. I managed to speak with his mom, who gave me a little update. He's been married for 17 years and he has a daughter who graduated from high school last May. He has a Ph.D. in finance (what a waste of a perfectly good mind) and works as the director of research for a finance company. Apparently he has moved about quite a bit in his career. I wonder if that's because he never fully developed adequate social skills. Unfortunately, too much brain power can be very isolating, especially if it seems that you place too high a value on it.
After I spoke with his mom, I was suicidal for the first time since my father killed himself. He has clearly accomplished his achievement goals, while I languish here being almost useless. I spent a fair amount of time in my youth working to make the world a better place. Somewhere along the way, I decided that there really wasn't much I could do to make any appreciable impact in the world. Then I dedicated myself to making money, but I never really made enough money to actually count myself as being successful. Now, of course, I spend my days as an employee emeritus, not making much of a contribution at all unless you count the emotional impact I seem to still have here. In short, I felt like a failure. Maybe I still do...I'm not certain.
My therapist hastened to point out to me that, having started out my life with so much trauma and so little nurturing that I am, in fact, quite successful. I don't know. I always wanted to transcend my upbringing to such an extent that I could achieve as much as anyone else. She keeps reminding me about the futility of those hopes. That, I suppose, is a part of the suicidal impulse I felt. I recognize intellectually that she's correct. Lately I also think that to fail to recognize my achievements (personal and professional) really reveals a lack of reverence for the abilities I was given, in spite of everything.
No doubt about it, I'm deeply flawed and those flaws have sometimes resulted in people being hurt. I'm so very sorry about that. On the other hand, I was born with the ability to recognize the madness surrounding me and with the determination to free myself from it. People who know something about me always seem to believe that I had something to do with this outcome. It's my contention that I basically hit the genetic jackpot. I arrived in the world with abilities that so many other people (who have not fared as well as I) don't have. That is the reason I am able to reach out to others with compassion, the reason I hold myself to the highest standards, the reason I'm able to find positive aspects of terrible circumstances.
I like to think that I'm finding a new definition of success. That definition embraces the great struggles of my life. The people I once knew are, without a doubt, more professionally successful that I, and maybe they're more successful in their personal lives, too. That's impossible to discern. For me, in spite of everything, I have managed to love people. In spite of everything, I can still laugh...even at myself. In spite of everything, I am able to comfort others who are suffering. That's the beginning of a new vision.
sexual abuse, again
and I have been circling for a thousand years,
and I still don't know if I am a falcon, or a storm,
or a great song."
-Rainer Maria Rilke, translated by Robert Bly
Well it's a very scattered day today. I'm helping to answer the phone here because Karen left this morning. Hmmm....seems to be a recurring pattern here, but no one wants to actually confront the issue. I could, of course, but I won't. When Karen started using the corporate credit card to buy food, gifts, get her car fixed. etc., no one ever said anything to her about it.
She was sent an email revoking her credit card privileges, but that was it. Can you believe that? She would have been in my office the moment I found out about it and we would have had a very serious discussion. This company is like a riderless horse.
I saw my psychiatrist today...just the usual check the meds kind of visit. I've been feeling like a slacker lately since I cut back on my (previously) rigorous workout schedule. It's a little ironic that the reason I finally started limiting my workouts was because she told me a couple of visits ago that I could wind up with congestive heart failure. Then Becky died about six months later of heart failure. Her death has kept me vigilant about giving in to my need for overwork. I told her that I hadn't gone back to my old schedule of an hour a day, five days a week, but I decided to eliminate some more food items from my diet.
She suggested that I might be obsessing about body issues in order to distract myself from some more difficult issue. Wonder what that might be. I'm willing to accept that explanation, but there are so many ways in which I don't meet my own expectations that I don't really even know where to begin. Maybe it's related to the sexual abuse I started to talk about, but then didn't because of Becky's death. Who the hell knows.
I'm certainly willing to acknowledge that I'm still angry about it and I haven't forgiven the perpetrator. (Well, there was a lot of sexual abuse in my life and certainly more than one perpetrator.) My therapist says that my emotions around those events are frozen in time, so when I start to think about it, I react the same way I did when I was five. I either dissociate or I'm overcome with anxiety. I think rage is one of those emotions I'm not all that comfortable feeling. This issue is certainly rage-inducing. I've been watching a trial on Court tv about a little girl who was sexually abused when she was three. I don't actually know when my own abuse started, but I know I was under the age of five because the time I remember when I attempted to escape from him occurred when I was five. I tried to persuade my father to not leave me with him, but got nowhere. Then, when everyone was gone, I tried to hide in the bathroom so he couldn't find me. Clearly, abuse had already happened prior to that time.
I do know that eating disorders are frequently caused (in part) by sexual abuse. I don't have an eating disorder, just strong tendencies. So maybe that's the issue. Fuck. I don't know. I won't see my therapist until Friday, so I guess I have till then to figure it out. Of course, now I've upset myself. I guess I'll just go back to work now and try to calm myself down.
childhood sexual abuse
it's been a while since i've focused any attention on my spiritual studies. most recently, i've been reading a lengthy article about Ah-nold Schwarzenegger. now there's a pretty scary guy. he apparently runs california almost exclusively by fiat. i also started a novel by Steven Wright called "Going Native." very Pynchon-esque, but not quite as dense.
last weekend i saw the documentary, "Capturing the Friedmans". i had tried to mentally prepare myself before watching it because i was afraid it would trigger sexual abuse flashbacks. i haven't had any problems, but i was surprised to find that many people who saw it didn't believe there had been any abuse committed...or that, if there was abuse going on, it was perpetrated only by the father. i'm almost certain that children were abused and that both father and son participated in it. i think the thing that makes it easy to believe the charges were false was the fact that some of the children had some pretty wild stories to tell. perhaps all of the activities they related didn't in fact occur, but that doesn't mean that there was no abuse. the father was a pedophile--there's absolutely no doubt about that. people who aren't pedophiles do not own kiddie porn. it's extremely unlikely that a pedophile would create many opportunities to be with little boys (in this case) and have the self-control to not abuse.
as for the son, i do believe he was abused by his father. as a matter of fact, i'd be surprised if all the sons weren't abused. again, that's a very unlikely scenario. there was an extraordinarily high level of denial going on with all of the family members. it could be that the other sons could only cope with it by blocking out the memory. that's certainly what seems to have happened with the perpetrator's brother, who was sexually asssaulted when he was a little boy. we know this is true because Friedman the elder confessed to it. i also think the fact that david, the eldest, made a career of being a clown for children's birthday parties speaks to the likelihood that he was abused, too. as for the third son, there was not enough information to guess one way or the other.
watching jesse (the son who participated in the abuse) talk about the entire situation convinced me of his guilt. as you know, i see child abusers around every corner and i recognize my propensity to think the worst of people when sexual abuse allegations are levelled. nonetheless, that doesn't mean that my judgment in these cases is incorrect.
as for my own sexual abuse issues, i haven't spoken with my therapist about it since you died. the week before you died we had begun to discuss the issue because i was having flashbacks then. i can't always tell what triggers them and i don't recall right now whether i knew then. i've spoken of the abuse to so many people, both therapists and "counselors," that i pretty much believed there was nothing left to say. gabrielle opinted out to me that much of that talking was useless at best and very harmful at worst.
the first person i ever really talked to about it was my high school guidance counsellor. just thinking about that makes me angry to this day. as i would talk about it (and the other more bizarre elements of my childhood) to her, i could see this voyeuristic pleasure she got out of hearing it. to make matters worse, her only advice to me was to lay my problems at jesus' feet. you can not imagine how contemptuous of her i was. it still makes me angry.
the second time i talked about it at length was with a psychologist when i was in college. i ended up seeing a male psychologist, which was definitely not in my best interests. As a matter of fact, i have refused to see any male mental health providers ever since. the guy in college wanted me to give him the particulars and i believe i did so to whatever extent i was capable. so much of it is unavailable to me because when it happened, i dissociated so effectively that i really wasn't present for much of it. at the end of every session, he wanted to hug me. i didn't really feel that i had much of a choice, even though in retrospect it's clear that was, in itself, abusive.
i think i've reached the limit of my tolerance for thinking about it.
The Saga of J.B. Part 2
i told him k. called me to let me know you died and how much i appreciated the fact that calling me with that news was very brave and very kind. j.b. asked if k. knew b.e. wasn't his father. i told him i knew b.e. knew, but i'd never asked about k. i just naturally assumed he knew because i can't imagine you withholding that information. the fact that j.b. was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis must have reminded you of the necessity for telling k. anyway, i said i decided a long time ago that if you wished for me to know, you'd tell me.
j.b. said he has no interest in taking a role in k.'s life. he acknowledged that b. raised him and, therefore, j.b. really has no right to intrude into that relationship. he also asked me to contact him should k. ever ask me about his birth father. i agreed to his request, knowing that scenario is highly unlikely.
at that point, lunch was over and, since j.b. didn't express any interest in how things are going for me, it was definitely time to leave. i told him i'd get in touch with him if i was able to find a job that seemed right for him. (i'm still interested in doing that, but i'll be damned if i can figure out what he's qualified for.) in a rather glum manner, he requested that i call him sometime. another disconnect. what the hell is that about? furthermore, i can't imagine why i'd wish to spend another couple of hours listening to him complain.
on a more positive note, i looked fabulous. i know this is very shallow, but i work very hard to maintain myself. in fact, i sometimes wish i could just send some photos of my butt around to all of my former boyfriends. it looks much better than it did when i was 20. i hope he passed that info on to e.u. j.b. is about as close to him as i care to get. i don't think i'm really ready to get together with any of the men i slept with 30 years ago. don't you think that would be just too weird?
enough already. please know that i tried to do what i thought you'd want me to do. j.b. wondered how i might find out whether you had a chance to tell k. about him. i have absolutely no intention of pursuing that information. i can't imagine anything more destructive.
Quote of the day:
“One can have no smaller or greater mastery than mastery of oneself.” Leonardo daVinci
Work is too intense
The Saga of J.B., Part 1
Dear Beckky,
A couple of weeks after you died, i contacted Jamie since you told me he called you some months back, i wanted to try to forestall any additional contact, knowing that your husband would probably be enraged. I tried to track Jamie down via the web, but his name was too common and i thought he was probably still living in California. That gave me the idea (and the opportunity) to contact Former Boyfriend 3. I found his email address on the web...I knew he was living here, because I periodically do searches for a couple of my old lovers to see what they're up to these days. I digress...more on that later. anyway, I finally got in touch with Jamie and we agreed to get together for lunch one Saturday not long ago.
He greeted me with the statement that he hadn't seen you in 15 years. I thought that was odd and was trying to determine whether he was indicating he didn't really care that you were gone. I wanted to do some general catching up before we started the serious conversation about you and First Son. I asked what he's been up to for the past 30 years or so. He told me that he got his master's degee after a lot of screwing around, had a job in California that last nine years, quit that job and he hasn't found a comparable job since then. It turns out he's been here for the past five years, working as a handyman. He pointed out to me that he hasn't "accomplished" anything. I have to admit, the handyman thing really threw me for a loop. You know i don't care if he's accomplished anything or that he's a handyman. I guess I just expected someone with his talent and intelligence would find a less difficult and more financially rewarding way to spend his time.
He said that he was married once, for a year. Jamie said that his wife was younger (i don't doubt that--i'm sure it's hard to find women his age who are interested in getting into a long term relationship with a man with such low expectations in life) and was in her senior year in college. He said she told him she wanted to continue to live on campus for that year so she could be active in campus activities. Well, okay, that's pretty weird. wWat kind of lame ass person wants to voluntarily live on campus when she's a senior? He said that at the end of her senior year, she just came over one day and told him she wanted a divorce. Out of the blue. I'm sorry, but that makes me laugh every time i think about it. Generally speaking, I think it's a good idea to be a little bit concerned when your spouse would rather live in a dorm than live with you, if only because sex is so much more inconvenient that way. He said she was a film major and she made him go to see movies constantly. He complained that she made him sit through all of the credits at the end of the movie. Doesn't sound like much of a love connection there, does it? I wish I'd asked more, because now that I think back, there are a number of questions I'd like to ask.
So then he worked for some company doing what sounded like technical writing. I thought maybe I could help him get a contractor job, but he was so vague about what he wanted to do that i still haven't quite figured out what he's looking for. I called him about one job, but he told me he didn't think he had the technical skills for it. My therapist (and my mom) thought it was exceedingly rude that he didn't say thank you for the call. It actually hadn't occured to me until then. Then I got really concerned that Jamie really just likes being a handyman and just doesn't wish to tell me. I didn't want to call him up if it made him feel bad.
When I told my husband about lunching with Jamie, i commented that we always had some difficulty communicating. he thought i meant that i didn't like him. frankly, i couldn't exactly remember what the problem was. after our lunch date, though, the problem became abundantly clear. j.b. just likes to complain. he complained about his ex-wife (well, okay, i guess everyone does that), the job he used to have, the jobs he had in between this job, his current job, the fact that old friends are making more money than he does. i'm sure i spent a lot of the conversation looking at him in complete bewilderment. as you know, I'm a big proponent of getting your shit together and doing something productive to solve your unhappiness. I think when we were younger, I believed my inability to understand his general unhappiness was due to some lack of insight or attention on my part. It wasn't me, after all. I wonder if he complained to you all the time. Surely not. I wish i could ask you.
There's so much more to tell, but my attention is drifting a bit, so i'll have to finish the tale tomorrow. But before I go, quote of the day:
"You desire to know the art of living, my friend? It is contained in one phrase: make use of suffering." Henri-Frederic Amiel
Henri-Frédé ric Amiel
IQ Tests. What the Hell.
I've been laying low in my office these days. My stress level rises exponentially whenever i have to interact with j. You know, I've given him too much credit. I always thought that he must surely have insight into his own behavior. Other people, including my therapist, have convinced me that I'm incorrect. The unfortunate facts are that he is self-righteous, bigoted, narcissitic and a hypocrite. Of course, while I'm typing this, I'm thinking "He's just a very wounded person who's deserving of my compassion." I think there are always at least two ways to interpret people's behavior and I always select the nobler interpretation. Though it may be correct that most people don't act out of their highest self, I have a great resistance to changing my approach. It doesn't hurt me in any way to believe that people are kinder, smarter, etc. I don't let them get close no matter what their motivations or inclinations.
The problem is that people (including me) tend to behave in hurtful ways out of their own blindness or weakness or pain. Mainly pain, I think. So you just naturally want to keep them at arm's length until one can discern each person's level of self-awareness. My therapist thinks that my standards may be a little stringent. She keeps telling me that if I would venture out of my safety zone, I might find people who could appreciate me. I'm not going to be finding that appreciation at work, that's for sure. It's a little late in the day to start talking about why that's so, but believe me, it's very true.
I'm supposed to be proofreading someone else's work and, of course, I've been avoiding it by writing this post. They request so little of me. I guess I'm going to try to complete that task before I go. Still missing you, Becky.
