Everything changes, including breasts
09.29.05 (11:49 am) [edit]
"Change alone is unchanging." ~ Heraclitus
I'm feeling a little spaced out today. I missed taking one of my antidepressants for a couople of days and it makes me feel a little like I'm having an acid flashback. Not in a good way.
I'm still living in denial about what's going to happen next week. I spent a lot of time trying to get my mind right about losing a breast and I still haven't come to terms with it. I'll just have to deal with it when the time comes.
Have I talked about how ironic it is that this is happening to me? I was abused over a period of years when I was a very young child. I had a father who absolutely could not keep his dick in his pants. I have this rock solid idea floating just below the surface of consciousness that women are valuable to men to the extent that they're physically attractive. See, I don't even like to admit that to myself. My intellect rejects that idea. I am, after all, a feminist.
My breasts have been one of my best features since I was a teenager. Now if it were butt cancer, that might be different. I'm not crazy about my butt and I never have been. Mainly because I don't really have one. Well, I have one now because I work out like crazy and I have well developed gluteous muscles. I've never herd of gluteous cancer before, so I'm not sure that's even in the range of options.
No one ever thought I was very pretty until I was about 18. Lots of people thought I was beautiful after that age and up until at least my early 40's. Some people still do, but that's just because they love me, I think. It's been a hard thing to give up, even though I'm very aware of the many other aspects of myself that are interesting. Nonetheless, it's a hard thing to come to terms with.
I anticipate being a much different person at this time next year. I don't recall when I started to be uneasy with the concept of change, but I'm definitely a little anxious about it now. I suppose that's why I'm so fond of the Nina Simone song, "Everyting Changes." It's a heartbreakingly beautiful song. Everything does indeed change, all of the time.
I think there are definitely parts of one's personality that become solidified and resistent to change pretty early on. I'll always be an introvert. I'll always be intellectually curious. I'm sure there are other qualities that I came equipped with at birth that just are what they are. There is a fair amount of damage that was inflicted on me at a very early age that also seems to be immutable.
The ways that those qualities are manifested in my behavior have probably changed over time. Or not. Scientists can't tease out which is weightier--nature or nurture. I'm certainly not going to be able to figure it out. But I digress.
Right now, I think the challenge will be to open to whatever lessons are available to me throughout the coming year. I hope I'm able to recognize them when they become available to me and, having recognized them, embrace them. It's a tall order, I know. May I keep my heart and mind open. It's about the best I could wish for.
America held hostage day 1362
Bushism of the day:
# "First, let me make it very clear, poor people aren't necessarily killers. Just because you happen to be not rich doesn't mean you're willing to kill."
—Bush, speaking about terrorism and poverty
Source: Public Papers of the Presidents, "The President's News Conference With President Macapagal-Arroyo of the Philippines," May 26, 2003
Website of the day; Sacred Text Archive
http://www.sacred-texts.com/index.htm" title="http://www.sacred-texts.com/index.htm" target="_blank"http://www.sacred-texts.com/i...
I'm feeling a little spaced out today. I missed taking one of my antidepressants for a couople of days and it makes me feel a little like I'm having an acid flashback. Not in a good way.
I'm still living in denial about what's going to happen next week. I spent a lot of time trying to get my mind right about losing a breast and I still haven't come to terms with it. I'll just have to deal with it when the time comes.
Have I talked about how ironic it is that this is happening to me? I was abused over a period of years when I was a very young child. I had a father who absolutely could not keep his dick in his pants. I have this rock solid idea floating just below the surface of consciousness that women are valuable to men to the extent that they're physically attractive. See, I don't even like to admit that to myself. My intellect rejects that idea. I am, after all, a feminist.
My breasts have been one of my best features since I was a teenager. Now if it were butt cancer, that might be different. I'm not crazy about my butt and I never have been. Mainly because I don't really have one. Well, I have one now because I work out like crazy and I have well developed gluteous muscles. I've never herd of gluteous cancer before, so I'm not sure that's even in the range of options.
No one ever thought I was very pretty until I was about 18. Lots of people thought I was beautiful after that age and up until at least my early 40's. Some people still do, but that's just because they love me, I think. It's been a hard thing to give up, even though I'm very aware of the many other aspects of myself that are interesting. Nonetheless, it's a hard thing to come to terms with.
I anticipate being a much different person at this time next year. I don't recall when I started to be uneasy with the concept of change, but I'm definitely a little anxious about it now. I suppose that's why I'm so fond of the Nina Simone song, "Everyting Changes." It's a heartbreakingly beautiful song. Everything does indeed change, all of the time.
I think there are definitely parts of one's personality that become solidified and resistent to change pretty early on. I'll always be an introvert. I'll always be intellectually curious. I'm sure there are other qualities that I came equipped with at birth that just are what they are. There is a fair amount of damage that was inflicted on me at a very early age that also seems to be immutable.
The ways that those qualities are manifested in my behavior have probably changed over time. Or not. Scientists can't tease out which is weightier--nature or nurture. I'm certainly not going to be able to figure it out. But I digress.
Right now, I think the challenge will be to open to whatever lessons are available to me throughout the coming year. I hope I'm able to recognize them when they become available to me and, having recognized them, embrace them. It's a tall order, I know. May I keep my heart and mind open. It's about the best I could wish for.
America held hostage day 1362
Bushism of the day:
# "First, let me make it very clear, poor people aren't necessarily killers. Just because you happen to be not rich doesn't mean you're willing to kill."
—Bush, speaking about terrorism and poverty
Source: Public Papers of the Presidents, "The President's News Conference With President Macapagal-Arroyo of the Philippines," May 26, 2003
Website of the day; Sacred Text Archive
http://www.sacred-texts.com/index.htm" title="http://www.sacred-texts.com/index.htm" target="_blank"http://www.sacred-texts.com/i...
Surgery Redux
09.27.05 (12:14 pm) [edit]
Hurricane Rita postponed the surgery, but today they rescheduled me for October 5. I still have to get there a day early so they can do the CT scan and anesthesiology thing. I asked the physician's assistant, Lori, if we couldn't just postpone it a bit longer until the plastic surgery guy is available. She had mentioned he was booked through November when we first discussed this. Now I guess he's busy through January.
I'm incredibly bummed out. I finally just gave up the whole idea of getting my mind right about this. It isn't going to happen. I'll just have to come to terms with it after the surgery. Or maybe I'll never come to terms with it. I just have to get through it, one way or the other.
I'm incredibly bummed out. I finally just gave up the whole idea of getting my mind right about this. It isn't going to happen. I'll just have to come to terms with it after the surgery. Or maybe I'll never come to terms with it. I just have to get through it, one way or the other.
Evacuating the Homestead
09.22.05 (2:02 pm) [edit]
Everybody here at work has periodically drifted off to the downstairs kitchen to see what's going on with the hurricane. There was some general discussion about where we could all go if we were in the midst of one. It reminded me of evacuating from my parents' house on a regular basis. If there was any lightening at all, no matter the time of day or night, we all trooped down to the post office and hung around there until the coast was clear. Only my dad knew when the coast was clear. It usually took an hour or so.
My mom attributes this to the fact that my dad, his mother and father, and his siblings were actually struck by lightening twice. Both times they were out in the fields when the storm began. My idiot grandfather herded everybody under a tree. Guess what. Oh yeah, that's absolutely the wrong place to be. The best part, of course, is that once was not enough. On some other occasion, grandpa made the same mistake of seeking shelter under a tree. Jesus Christ. What a fucking idiot.
Anyway, that's how it came to be that my father would absolutely flip out every time there was a storm and, luckily for me I suppose, his version of the tree was our local post office. God, I hated being awakened in the middle of the night just to find myself sitting on the hard, cold marble stairs for an hour or longer. I actually was willing to die just to be able to continue to sleep. I promised not to hold it against them if they left me and the unthinkable happened. Even when I was a child, I figured the odds of being hit by lightening were pretty low.
Fun family memory number 587.
My mom attributes this to the fact that my dad, his mother and father, and his siblings were actually struck by lightening twice. Both times they were out in the fields when the storm began. My idiot grandfather herded everybody under a tree. Guess what. Oh yeah, that's absolutely the wrong place to be. The best part, of course, is that once was not enough. On some other occasion, grandpa made the same mistake of seeking shelter under a tree. Jesus Christ. What a fucking idiot.
Anyway, that's how it came to be that my father would absolutely flip out every time there was a storm and, luckily for me I suppose, his version of the tree was our local post office. God, I hated being awakened in the middle of the night just to find myself sitting on the hard, cold marble stairs for an hour or longer. I actually was willing to die just to be able to continue to sleep. I promised not to hold it against them if they left me and the unthinkable happened. Even when I was a child, I figured the odds of being hit by lightening were pretty low.
Fun family memory number 587.
The Blame Game
09.21.05 (12:44 pm) [edit]
"... whether they're just scared as hell, or whether they're just telling you to stop so that if you do go through with it, the blame'll be on you, not them. ..." ~ The Catcher in the Rye, J.D. Salinger
My mom and I just had a small disagreement about my childhood. It started innocently enough. I was complaining about the many parents I see who refuse to be parents. They attempt to plead, wheedle and bribe their children into doing/not doing things. I said that if one doesn't have control of them when they're five, parents are in major trouble when the kids get to puberty. My mom pointed out that she did not have control of me when I was five. Never fails to ruffle my feathers when she says that shit.
I said, "Of course you had control. That's not to say that I didn't try to get what I wanted, because I know I did. We seem to have very different memories of my childhood. I remember getting hit a lot."
Mom says, "Well, I thought that time your dad spanked you for walking home in the rain was wrong." Gee, thanks for that concession, Mom.
Here's the incident to which she was referring. I was in the third grade, which would make me around nine years old. My mom always came to pick me up after school every day. On this particular day, it was raining like crazy and the teachers decided to let us leave early that day. I stood there, waiting and waiting in the rain. I honestly have no idea how long I stood there because I was nine.
I finally decided that my mom wasn't going to come and get me. I'd had abandonment dreams for years and years in which I would arrive home from school only to find that my parents had moved away and not told me. I thought the dream had finally come true. The rain was pouring down and we lived a long way from my school, but I started trudging home.
I was almost there, maybe a couple of blocks away, when my parents pulled up alongside of me and I got in the car. My father was furious. When we got home, he whipped me for leaving the school. My mother said she tried to impress upon him the importance of picking me up on time. In retrospect, I think it was just another one of those times when my dad shifted the blame to me so that he wouldn't have to feel responsible for that poor little drowned rat of a girl, slogging several miles in ankle deep water. What a prince.
America held hostage day 1355
Bushism of the day:
"Wait for us to succeed peace. Wait for us to have two states, side by side—is for everybody coming together to deny the killers the opportunity to destroy."
—Bush, speaking to reporters
Source: The White House, "President Believes Peace in Middle East is Achievable: Remarks by the President to the Travel Pool," June 15, 2003
Website of the day: To Think or To Follow
http://www.2think.org/2think.shtml" title="http://www.2think.org/2think.shtml" target="_blank"http://www.2think.org/2think....
My mom and I just had a small disagreement about my childhood. It started innocently enough. I was complaining about the many parents I see who refuse to be parents. They attempt to plead, wheedle and bribe their children into doing/not doing things. I said that if one doesn't have control of them when they're five, parents are in major trouble when the kids get to puberty. My mom pointed out that she did not have control of me when I was five. Never fails to ruffle my feathers when she says that shit.
I said, "Of course you had control. That's not to say that I didn't try to get what I wanted, because I know I did. We seem to have very different memories of my childhood. I remember getting hit a lot."
Mom says, "Well, I thought that time your dad spanked you for walking home in the rain was wrong." Gee, thanks for that concession, Mom.
Here's the incident to which she was referring. I was in the third grade, which would make me around nine years old. My mom always came to pick me up after school every day. On this particular day, it was raining like crazy and the teachers decided to let us leave early that day. I stood there, waiting and waiting in the rain. I honestly have no idea how long I stood there because I was nine.
I finally decided that my mom wasn't going to come and get me. I'd had abandonment dreams for years and years in which I would arrive home from school only to find that my parents had moved away and not told me. I thought the dream had finally come true. The rain was pouring down and we lived a long way from my school, but I started trudging home.
I was almost there, maybe a couple of blocks away, when my parents pulled up alongside of me and I got in the car. My father was furious. When we got home, he whipped me for leaving the school. My mother said she tried to impress upon him the importance of picking me up on time. In retrospect, I think it was just another one of those times when my dad shifted the blame to me so that he wouldn't have to feel responsible for that poor little drowned rat of a girl, slogging several miles in ankle deep water. What a prince.
America held hostage day 1355
Bushism of the day:
"Wait for us to succeed peace. Wait for us to have two states, side by side—is for everybody coming together to deny the killers the opportunity to destroy."
—Bush, speaking to reporters
Source: The White House, "President Believes Peace in Middle East is Achievable: Remarks by the President to the Travel Pool," June 15, 2003
Website of the day: To Think or To Follow
http://www.2think.org/2think.shtml" title="http://www.2think.org/2think.shtml" target="_blank"http://www.2think.org/2think....
Repeat After Me: "Customer Service"
09.19.05 (1:40 pm) [edit]
"In truth, politeness is artificial good humor, it covers the natural want of it, and ends by rendering habitual a substitute nearly equivalent to the real virtue. ~ Thomas Jefferson
The children (my stepson and his wife) were in town this weekend to see Hubby's performance. I went out to dinner with them and we had a pretty good time, I think. I'm measuring that by the number of times I couldn't think of something to talk about. I managed to come up with several topics: Hubby's co-author losing his fucking mind, what's going on at my workplace (always good for some laughs) and I also managed to work in some comments about the breast cancer problem. Of course, there was some conversation about them. We had a brief foray into the reasons why I don't have children. I said one of the big reasons was because I already had two--my parents. Then there's that craziness issue. I didn't elaborate and no one asked for additional info. Too bad because that would have taken care of the entire evening's entertainment. I can definitely dredge up some funny anecdotes from my childhood in hell. It's all in how you phrase it. Really. Since no one asked, I also pointed out that I got to hang out with my stepson while he was growing up. I told them he was a very sweet little boy. No joking there. He was an absolutely lovely child.
When we got to the performance space, daughter in law and I got out to get the tickets while stepson parked the car. We went up to the "will call" window and I asked for tickets under my last name. The woman asked me if they were paid or comp tickets. I said, "Comp." She informed me, in a decidedly unfriendly voice, that I would have to stand over at the side of the window until after all the the paying guests arrived. The shit was most definitely about to hit the fan. I paused for a moment and gave her my scariest hateful look. Before I could begin the verbal assault, my DIL (daughter in law) pointed out that my hubby actually wrote the book upon which the performance was based and he also wrote the script for the actual performance. The bitch hands us two tickets. DIL said, "We need three."
We got inside and I noticed there was a table with VIP tickets. Maybe our tickets were actually there and I had gotten irritated for no reason. (And yes, I most certainly would have gone back to apologize.) We got our VIP tix and I proceeded to go to the bar to get some water. Yet another bitch told me that the VIP ticket was not going to get me into the theater. "You need tickets," she said. DIL, who had been put in charge of our tickets, came right over and handed them to the aforementioned bitch. (Also known as Bitch Number Two.) Finally, I was allowed to go over to the bar and just get a fucking glass of water.
Here's the thing. I used to organize enormous events and I understand exactly how stressful and overwhelming it can seem to a staff member. However, I never, ever, ever would have allowed any staff member to adopt such a surly attitude. If I saw it or heard about it, there would be a serious come to jesus meeting with the staff member. Smile. Speak in a friendly tone of voice even if the patron is annoying the hell out of you. Appologize for any misunderstanding. That's all that's required. I can't even blame this on the infamous younger generation--these were ladies from the over-60 set. This is one of my all time pet peeves.
Be friendly. Apologize. Say please and thank you. Surprise! Most of the time, people will actually return the good vibes. Well, unless it's Christmas. Then all bets are off. Even recounting this little adventure raises my blood pressure.
The performance may not have been sold out, but there weren't any empty seats that I could see. There was a balcony area up above where I was sitting, so I wasn't able to get a look at the number of people who were up there. Even though the performance went on for 3 hours, no one seemed to care. No one planned for it to be three hours; the director had just crammed too much entertainment in and was unwilling to cut it at all, even though everyone kept telling her that it was going to be too long.
I knew that one of my hubby's close friends was going to be there, so I worked extra hard to look fabulous. My husband was suitably impressed with my sultriness. I love it when that happens.
There was an after party, but I hate parties and I was lucky enough to have a diabetic dog to blame for leaving. He really did need to eat and have his insulin, but I wouldn't have gone anyway. It just makes me seem more gregarious than I am. Sometimes I wish, for Hubby's sake, that I weren't quite so introverted. I don't wish it for long, though.
On Sunday, I missed seeing the children because I was doing my usual grocery shopping for the week and I scheduled in some serious shopping at end of season sales for cute clothes. I got a ton. Now I have to cull even more clothing from my existing wardrobe. I hate that. It's so hard. At least I know they'll go to some soon to be well dressed evacuees.
All in all, it wasn't a bad weekend on the face of things. Underneath it all, though, I was working hard to come to terms with my mastectomy. The reconstruction won't occur until roughly a year after the operation. I have no idea why. There will be nothing there but a flat incision where my breast used to be. I'm trying to embrace the perfection of even this. It would make things much easier for me if I could. I've got plenty of time do change my mind, though.
America held hostage day 1354
Bushism of the day:
"Wait for us to succeed peace. Wait for us to have two states, side by side—is for everybody coming together to deny the killers the opportunity to destroy."
—Bush, speaking to reporters
Source: The White House, "President Believes Peace in Middle East is Achievable: Remarks by the President to the Travel Pool," June 15, 2003
Website of the day: Parabola Magazine: Myth, Tradition and the Search for Meaning
http://www.parabola.org/" title="http://www.parabola.org/" target="_blank"http://www.parabola.org/
The children (my stepson and his wife) were in town this weekend to see Hubby's performance. I went out to dinner with them and we had a pretty good time, I think. I'm measuring that by the number of times I couldn't think of something to talk about. I managed to come up with several topics: Hubby's co-author losing his fucking mind, what's going on at my workplace (always good for some laughs) and I also managed to work in some comments about the breast cancer problem. Of course, there was some conversation about them. We had a brief foray into the reasons why I don't have children. I said one of the big reasons was because I already had two--my parents. Then there's that craziness issue. I didn't elaborate and no one asked for additional info. Too bad because that would have taken care of the entire evening's entertainment. I can definitely dredge up some funny anecdotes from my childhood in hell. It's all in how you phrase it. Really. Since no one asked, I also pointed out that I got to hang out with my stepson while he was growing up. I told them he was a very sweet little boy. No joking there. He was an absolutely lovely child.
When we got to the performance space, daughter in law and I got out to get the tickets while stepson parked the car. We went up to the "will call" window and I asked for tickets under my last name. The woman asked me if they were paid or comp tickets. I said, "Comp." She informed me, in a decidedly unfriendly voice, that I would have to stand over at the side of the window until after all the the paying guests arrived. The shit was most definitely about to hit the fan. I paused for a moment and gave her my scariest hateful look. Before I could begin the verbal assault, my DIL (daughter in law) pointed out that my hubby actually wrote the book upon which the performance was based and he also wrote the script for the actual performance. The bitch hands us two tickets. DIL said, "We need three."
We got inside and I noticed there was a table with VIP tickets. Maybe our tickets were actually there and I had gotten irritated for no reason. (And yes, I most certainly would have gone back to apologize.) We got our VIP tix and I proceeded to go to the bar to get some water. Yet another bitch told me that the VIP ticket was not going to get me into the theater. "You need tickets," she said. DIL, who had been put in charge of our tickets, came right over and handed them to the aforementioned bitch. (Also known as Bitch Number Two.) Finally, I was allowed to go over to the bar and just get a fucking glass of water.
Here's the thing. I used to organize enormous events and I understand exactly how stressful and overwhelming it can seem to a staff member. However, I never, ever, ever would have allowed any staff member to adopt such a surly attitude. If I saw it or heard about it, there would be a serious come to jesus meeting with the staff member. Smile. Speak in a friendly tone of voice even if the patron is annoying the hell out of you. Appologize for any misunderstanding. That's all that's required. I can't even blame this on the infamous younger generation--these were ladies from the over-60 set. This is one of my all time pet peeves.
Be friendly. Apologize. Say please and thank you. Surprise! Most of the time, people will actually return the good vibes. Well, unless it's Christmas. Then all bets are off. Even recounting this little adventure raises my blood pressure.
The performance may not have been sold out, but there weren't any empty seats that I could see. There was a balcony area up above where I was sitting, so I wasn't able to get a look at the number of people who were up there. Even though the performance went on for 3 hours, no one seemed to care. No one planned for it to be three hours; the director had just crammed too much entertainment in and was unwilling to cut it at all, even though everyone kept telling her that it was going to be too long.
I knew that one of my hubby's close friends was going to be there, so I worked extra hard to look fabulous. My husband was suitably impressed with my sultriness. I love it when that happens.
There was an after party, but I hate parties and I was lucky enough to have a diabetic dog to blame for leaving. He really did need to eat and have his insulin, but I wouldn't have gone anyway. It just makes me seem more gregarious than I am. Sometimes I wish, for Hubby's sake, that I weren't quite so introverted. I don't wish it for long, though.
On Sunday, I missed seeing the children because I was doing my usual grocery shopping for the week and I scheduled in some serious shopping at end of season sales for cute clothes. I got a ton. Now I have to cull even more clothing from my existing wardrobe. I hate that. It's so hard. At least I know they'll go to some soon to be well dressed evacuees.
All in all, it wasn't a bad weekend on the face of things. Underneath it all, though, I was working hard to come to terms with my mastectomy. The reconstruction won't occur until roughly a year after the operation. I have no idea why. There will be nothing there but a flat incision where my breast used to be. I'm trying to embrace the perfection of even this. It would make things much easier for me if I could. I've got plenty of time do change my mind, though.
America held hostage day 1354
Bushism of the day:
"Wait for us to succeed peace. Wait for us to have two states, side by side—is for everybody coming together to deny the killers the opportunity to destroy."
—Bush, speaking to reporters
Source: The White House, "President Believes Peace in Middle East is Achievable: Remarks by the President to the Travel Pool," June 15, 2003
Website of the day: Parabola Magazine: Myth, Tradition and the Search for Meaning
http://www.parabola.org/" title="http://www.parabola.org/" target="_blank"http://www.parabola.org/
One of The Girls Will Be Absent at Party Time
09.16.05 (11:10 am) [edit]
Before we can become who we really are, we must become conscious of the fact that the person who we think we are, here and now, is at best an impostor and a stranger. - Thomas Merton
I'm just back from the city where I'm being treated for breast cancer. Shortly after I returned yesterday, my surgeon's physician's assistant called me to tell me she can't schedule the plastic surgeon until the end of November. In addition to the mastectomy, I'm also scheduled for a bone marrow test and they'll install the port through which I'll receive chemotherapy. None of us feels particularly comfortable with waiting that long. My other option is to have the mastectomy done on September 26 and leave things as they are until later. Much, much later. Lori informed me that I won't be having reconstructive surgery for a year. Once again, I was not prepared for that news.
Losing a breast strikes at a primal part of many women (I suppose). As a survivor of sexual abuse and the weirdest fucking childhood of anyone I know, the mastectomy triggers a lot fear.
My breasts and I have always had an unusual relationship. On the one hand, they were one of my very best features. Even as I've gotten older, they haven't begun to sag. On the other hand, I've had more men hold conversations with them than I can count. It can be annoying beyond compare to try to have a serious, intellectual discussion with someone whose eyes never get above my chest. On the other hand, breasts are the source of enormous power. That hasn't mattered as much after I met my husband. My hubby loves my breasts. On the face of it, you'd think that would be a good thing. It is a good thing until one of them is getting ready to disappear for a year.
I know Hubby loves me for much more than The Girls. He loves my intelligence and sense of humor, my gentleness and compassion, my creativity and humor. Nonetheless, I find that I'm terrified that he'll leave me when only one of The Girls shows up to party on date nights. It's so hard for me to confront those fears and I think that, no matter how much reassurance he gives me, I probably won't be able to rid myself of them.
That's because the problem is me, not him. When you've spent many years of your life reaping the benefits of being pretty, you just have to start to wonder if the world will be more difficult to navigate when that's no longer a factor. Do I have something to offer the world other than the way I look? Of course. Maybe I'm just uncertain as to whether other people can recognize those things.
I hate it that I feel this way. If, twenty years ago, someone had told me that there would come a time when I would be afraid of losing my attractiveness, I would have told them they were fucking idiots. And yet. Here I am. I can't help but think that this ha something to do with the values with which I was raised. Specifically, the idea that men really are shallow assholes who only respond to women's sexuality.
In my house, if the woman wasn't having sex the right way (i.e., the way my dad wanted it), then one could be replaced. Or one could be beaten until they got it right. Sex was the be all, end all. You cannot imagine how wrenching it is to write about this. It feels like something inside of me is being ripped apart. No matter how much I may identify myself as a feminista, the bottom line is that it seems I've adopted those values. It's just one of those nasty little secrets I've kept from myself.
I suppose the opportunitiy to be seized in this situation is a greater acceptance of myself, without regard to how I look. I suppose I should use this time to test the assumptions I've made about men and about me. Opportunities abound. I guess the question I'm left with is whether I'm strong enough to see them and, having seen them, can I find my way to embrace whoever will be still standing at the end of this year. I know she will not be the same woman who sits here, typing.
America held hostage day 1352
Bushism of the day:
# "And then we'll be going to Goree Island, where I'll be giving a speech about race, race in the world, race as it relates to Africa and America. And we're in the process of writing it. I can't give you any highlights of the speech yet because I, frankly, haven't seen it."
—Bush, discussing preparations for his trip to Africa
Source: White House, "President Bush Discusses Upcoming Africa Trip with Reporters Remarks by the President in Roundtable Interview with African Print Journalists," July 3, 2003
Website of the day: 2think.org
http://www.2think.org/" title="http://www.2think.org/" target="_blank"http://www.2think.org/
I'm just back from the city where I'm being treated for breast cancer. Shortly after I returned yesterday, my surgeon's physician's assistant called me to tell me she can't schedule the plastic surgeon until the end of November. In addition to the mastectomy, I'm also scheduled for a bone marrow test and they'll install the port through which I'll receive chemotherapy. None of us feels particularly comfortable with waiting that long. My other option is to have the mastectomy done on September 26 and leave things as they are until later. Much, much later. Lori informed me that I won't be having reconstructive surgery for a year. Once again, I was not prepared for that news.
Losing a breast strikes at a primal part of many women (I suppose). As a survivor of sexual abuse and the weirdest fucking childhood of anyone I know, the mastectomy triggers a lot fear.
My breasts and I have always had an unusual relationship. On the one hand, they were one of my very best features. Even as I've gotten older, they haven't begun to sag. On the other hand, I've had more men hold conversations with them than I can count. It can be annoying beyond compare to try to have a serious, intellectual discussion with someone whose eyes never get above my chest. On the other hand, breasts are the source of enormous power. That hasn't mattered as much after I met my husband. My hubby loves my breasts. On the face of it, you'd think that would be a good thing. It is a good thing until one of them is getting ready to disappear for a year.
I know Hubby loves me for much more than The Girls. He loves my intelligence and sense of humor, my gentleness and compassion, my creativity and humor. Nonetheless, I find that I'm terrified that he'll leave me when only one of The Girls shows up to party on date nights. It's so hard for me to confront those fears and I think that, no matter how much reassurance he gives me, I probably won't be able to rid myself of them.
That's because the problem is me, not him. When you've spent many years of your life reaping the benefits of being pretty, you just have to start to wonder if the world will be more difficult to navigate when that's no longer a factor. Do I have something to offer the world other than the way I look? Of course. Maybe I'm just uncertain as to whether other people can recognize those things.
I hate it that I feel this way. If, twenty years ago, someone had told me that there would come a time when I would be afraid of losing my attractiveness, I would have told them they were fucking idiots. And yet. Here I am. I can't help but think that this ha something to do with the values with which I was raised. Specifically, the idea that men really are shallow assholes who only respond to women's sexuality.
In my house, if the woman wasn't having sex the right way (i.e., the way my dad wanted it), then one could be replaced. Or one could be beaten until they got it right. Sex was the be all, end all. You cannot imagine how wrenching it is to write about this. It feels like something inside of me is being ripped apart. No matter how much I may identify myself as a feminista, the bottom line is that it seems I've adopted those values. It's just one of those nasty little secrets I've kept from myself.
I suppose the opportunitiy to be seized in this situation is a greater acceptance of myself, without regard to how I look. I suppose I should use this time to test the assumptions I've made about men and about me. Opportunities abound. I guess the question I'm left with is whether I'm strong enough to see them and, having seen them, can I find my way to embrace whoever will be still standing at the end of this year. I know she will not be the same woman who sits here, typing.
America held hostage day 1352
Bushism of the day:
# "And then we'll be going to Goree Island, where I'll be giving a speech about race, race in the world, race as it relates to Africa and America. And we're in the process of writing it. I can't give you any highlights of the speech yet because I, frankly, haven't seen it."
—Bush, discussing preparations for his trip to Africa
Source: White House, "President Bush Discusses Upcoming Africa Trip with Reporters Remarks by the President in Roundtable Interview with African Print Journalists," July 3, 2003
Website of the day: 2think.org
http://www.2think.org/" title="http://www.2think.org/" target="_blank"http://www.2think.org/
I Don't Want To Go
09.12.05 (12:28 pm) [edit]
This will be the last blog for a little while because I'm going out of town (back to the hospital) tomorrow morning and won't return until at least Thursday afternoon. I had made a reservation at my usual hotel, but I discovered this morning that I didn't make one for tomorrow night. Oh, no problem, I thought, all of the evacuees are probably living in quarters that are a little more convenient and a little less pricey, given the long-term nature of their hejira. Wrong. Wrong in a big way. I tried to add a day to my existing reservation, but they were booked up. I called my mother and gave her some numbers to call of hotels close to the hospital and I went online to see if I could track something down. I found another hotel, same chain as my usual, but it was downtown and extremely expensive. Then I found a hotel they chose to describe as "high rise." It was very close to the medical center, but it could definitely be iffy accomodations and the most important thing to me is to be as comfortable as humanly possible. My mom found one that's pretty close, we think. I ended up cancelling all reservations for tomorrow except for the one my mom made. I don't know how I managed to get myself so confused about the dates of my medical tests, although I think it likely has something to do with the fact that I don't want to go.
That's been the almost incessant litany this weekend. I do not want to go do this. That kind of inner chatter just annoys the hell out of me. I used to do it all the time about working out. I'd start at around 3 p.m., with my regular workout time scheduled for around 7 p.m.: "I don't want to work out." "You have to." "Yeah, but I'm tired and I just don't see why I shouldn't take a break." "You have to work out." Finally, of course, I would just do it. I finally managed to find a way to break out of that stupid incessant arguing with myself, but I haven't been able to transfer it to the breast cancer scenario. My current response to not wanting to go is, "It'll be okay. I'll get it over with and everything will be okay." Oh yeah. That's really helpful. About twenty minutes later, I get to start the argument all over again.
Hubby's performance is imploding because of his co-author's atrocious behavior. He's managed to get fired from the production, which is so impressive, really. How does the co-author get fired? Now he wants to renegotiate rights to archival materials, script, et., etc. The performance is this coming weekend. My husband seems to be dealing with all of this relatively well. I know he's already stressed out about my breast cancer tests, so I'm sure this magnifies it exponentially.
That's all there is today because that's all the time I have.
That's been the almost incessant litany this weekend. I do not want to go do this. That kind of inner chatter just annoys the hell out of me. I used to do it all the time about working out. I'd start at around 3 p.m., with my regular workout time scheduled for around 7 p.m.: "I don't want to work out." "You have to." "Yeah, but I'm tired and I just don't see why I shouldn't take a break." "You have to work out." Finally, of course, I would just do it. I finally managed to find a way to break out of that stupid incessant arguing with myself, but I haven't been able to transfer it to the breast cancer scenario. My current response to not wanting to go is, "It'll be okay. I'll get it over with and everything will be okay." Oh yeah. That's really helpful. About twenty minutes later, I get to start the argument all over again.
Hubby's performance is imploding because of his co-author's atrocious behavior. He's managed to get fired from the production, which is so impressive, really. How does the co-author get fired? Now he wants to renegotiate rights to archival materials, script, et., etc. The performance is this coming weekend. My husband seems to be dealing with all of this relatively well. I know he's already stressed out about my breast cancer tests, so I'm sure this magnifies it exponentially.
That's all there is today because that's all the time I have.
Two Questions and the Answer
09.08.05 (1:00 pm) [edit]
Whosoever wishes to know about the world must learn about it in its particular details.
Knowledge is not intelligence.
In searching for the truth be ready for the unexpected.
Change alone is unchanging.
The same road goes both up and down.
The beginning of a circle is also its end.
Not I, but the world says it: all is one.
And yet everything comes in season.
Heraklietos of Ephesos
Yesterday, I found myself pondering two questions.
Does god hate me?
Does the relentless afflictions in my life really reflect god's profound love for me, because god knows I'm up for it?
I really get tired sometimes of endlessly bucking up and surviving the nasty things that seem to follow me around in life, right from the beginning until today. I generally try not to see the broad panorama of my life because it's just a bit much to embrace. First there was my parents, then my uncle, then a rape, then a suicide and, finally, breast cancer. I would really appreciate it if the universe would just give me a break for a while.``
I'm already getting anxious about my upcoming visit to the hospital. It will be a fun-filled adventure featuring CT scans, a bone scan and more blood work. The blood work is just a small blip on the radar screen, but the thought of having to lie still on a table for two hours is unnerving. When I had surgery, they made several attempts to do an MRI so I was on and off that table several times. By the time I got to the surgery holding area (I know there's another word for that, but my word is more indicative of how it felt), my lower back was in so much pain. Too much pressure applied for too long in that area. After they put a pillow under my knees, I was much better. There will be no pillow this time. I've been waking up at 5:00 a.m. lately and, though I'd like to blame it all on the corticosteroids I'm taking for poison ivy, I know that anxiety plays a role, too.
It's okay. Telling myself over and over that I don't want to do these things is really stupid and counterproductive. Somewhere in here the universe is sending me a message. Ultimately, I believe it is a message of love and growth. Staying open to that understanding waxes and wanes. If I get too absorbed in the suffering aspects, it may just prolong my inability to see clearly the potential for positive changes.
Hubby is rehearsing the play (or production) every night. The first (and only?) scheduled performance will be on September 17. I hate it that I'm so sketchy on the details, but these days I'm only certain about when I have to have more tests. There's an enormous amount to conflict between the director and Hubby's co-author (B.). B. delivered a tirade on Tuesday night in the middle of script revisions that were necessary because the director overbooked talent. B. stood up and pointed his finger at her and called her an idiot, among other things. Today he sent an email to everyone offering a resignation. Well, that's just clearly unacceptable. The performance is nine days from today.
It's all been chaotic and emotional. I loathe chaotic and emotional and have very little patience with people who aren't able to separate from their emotions enough to voice their opinions in a professional and productive manner. Of course, that's just me. As I look around, it seems to be everywhere...grown up people with the emotional intelligence of a five year old. I guess the only good thing about it is that those people are fairly easy to manipulate, if that suits your purposes. (That would be one of those extremely useful life lessons I learned very early in life. See paragraph 4 above.)It does, indeed, sometimes suit my purposes and I have absolutely no qualms about it. In this situation, though, there realy isn't much incentive for that strategy...on anyone's part.
I've known B. for over a decade and I once worked with his sister, a very good friend of mine. The entire family seems to be at least a little bipolar. I have a lot of difficulty being around B. for long because his emotional range is either "hate it" or "love it." Very tiring. Hubby believes there's something serious going on in B.'s life that's causing him to be extra crazy lately. He's speculated a separation from his wife might be in the works. I know they haven't gotten along for a very long time now. About ten years ago, B. and his wife separated briefly, but the kids were very young then and B. didn't relish being a weekend dad. Becuase he works at home, he's the one who was always around for them when they were young children. I know that for a while B. was a battered spouse. He may still be, I don't know. Whatever is going on now or even if there is anything going on now is a mystery to me.
I think Hubby has rehearsal again tonight. I'd be stunned if someone managed to pull themselves together and behave like a adult. I know my husband is ready for this particular torment to end. Maybe another update tomorrow.
America held hostage day 1434
Bushism of the day:
"I had the opportunity to go out to Goree Island and talk about what slavery meant to America. It's very interesting when you think about it, the slaves who left here to go to America, because of their steadfast and their religion and their belief in freedom, helped change America. America is what it is today because of what went on in the past."
—Bush, commenting on the significance of slavery in America's past
Source: White House, "Remarks by the President to Embassy Personnel, Leopold Sedar Senghor International Airport, Dakar, Senegal," July 8, 2003
Website of the day: Free Antique Recipes From Old Newspapers
http://theoldentimes.com/recipes.html" title="http://theoldentimes.com/recipes.html" target="_blank"http://theoldentimes.com/reci...
Knowledge is not intelligence.
In searching for the truth be ready for the unexpected.
Change alone is unchanging.
The same road goes both up and down.
The beginning of a circle is also its end.
Not I, but the world says it: all is one.
And yet everything comes in season.
Heraklietos of Ephesos
Yesterday, I found myself pondering two questions.
Does god hate me?
Does the relentless afflictions in my life really reflect god's profound love for me, because god knows I'm up for it?
I really get tired sometimes of endlessly bucking up and surviving the nasty things that seem to follow me around in life, right from the beginning until today. I generally try not to see the broad panorama of my life because it's just a bit much to embrace. First there was my parents, then my uncle, then a rape, then a suicide and, finally, breast cancer. I would really appreciate it if the universe would just give me a break for a while.``
I'm already getting anxious about my upcoming visit to the hospital. It will be a fun-filled adventure featuring CT scans, a bone scan and more blood work. The blood work is just a small blip on the radar screen, but the thought of having to lie still on a table for two hours is unnerving. When I had surgery, they made several attempts to do an MRI so I was on and off that table several times. By the time I got to the surgery holding area (I know there's another word for that, but my word is more indicative of how it felt), my lower back was in so much pain. Too much pressure applied for too long in that area. After they put a pillow under my knees, I was much better. There will be no pillow this time. I've been waking up at 5:00 a.m. lately and, though I'd like to blame it all on the corticosteroids I'm taking for poison ivy, I know that anxiety plays a role, too.
It's okay. Telling myself over and over that I don't want to do these things is really stupid and counterproductive. Somewhere in here the universe is sending me a message. Ultimately, I believe it is a message of love and growth. Staying open to that understanding waxes and wanes. If I get too absorbed in the suffering aspects, it may just prolong my inability to see clearly the potential for positive changes.
Hubby is rehearsing the play (or production) every night. The first (and only?) scheduled performance will be on September 17. I hate it that I'm so sketchy on the details, but these days I'm only certain about when I have to have more tests. There's an enormous amount to conflict between the director and Hubby's co-author (B.). B. delivered a tirade on Tuesday night in the middle of script revisions that were necessary because the director overbooked talent. B. stood up and pointed his finger at her and called her an idiot, among other things. Today he sent an email to everyone offering a resignation. Well, that's just clearly unacceptable. The performance is nine days from today.
It's all been chaotic and emotional. I loathe chaotic and emotional and have very little patience with people who aren't able to separate from their emotions enough to voice their opinions in a professional and productive manner. Of course, that's just me. As I look around, it seems to be everywhere...grown up people with the emotional intelligence of a five year old. I guess the only good thing about it is that those people are fairly easy to manipulate, if that suits your purposes. (That would be one of those extremely useful life lessons I learned very early in life. See paragraph 4 above.)It does, indeed, sometimes suit my purposes and I have absolutely no qualms about it. In this situation, though, there realy isn't much incentive for that strategy...on anyone's part.
I've known B. for over a decade and I once worked with his sister, a very good friend of mine. The entire family seems to be at least a little bipolar. I have a lot of difficulty being around B. for long because his emotional range is either "hate it" or "love it." Very tiring. Hubby believes there's something serious going on in B.'s life that's causing him to be extra crazy lately. He's speculated a separation from his wife might be in the works. I know they haven't gotten along for a very long time now. About ten years ago, B. and his wife separated briefly, but the kids were very young then and B. didn't relish being a weekend dad. Becuase he works at home, he's the one who was always around for them when they were young children. I know that for a while B. was a battered spouse. He may still be, I don't know. Whatever is going on now or even if there is anything going on now is a mystery to me.
I think Hubby has rehearsal again tonight. I'd be stunned if someone managed to pull themselves together and behave like a adult. I know my husband is ready for this particular torment to end. Maybe another update tomorrow.
America held hostage day 1434
Bushism of the day:
"I had the opportunity to go out to Goree Island and talk about what slavery meant to America. It's very interesting when you think about it, the slaves who left here to go to America, because of their steadfast and their religion and their belief in freedom, helped change America. America is what it is today because of what went on in the past."
—Bush, commenting on the significance of slavery in America's past
Source: White House, "Remarks by the President to Embassy Personnel, Leopold Sedar Senghor International Airport, Dakar, Senegal," July 8, 2003
Website of the day: Free Antique Recipes From Old Newspapers
http://theoldentimes.com/recipes.html" title="http://theoldentimes.com/recipes.html" target="_blank"http://theoldentimes.com/reci...
Ignorance
09.06.05 (1:23 pm) [edit]
"Ignorance is like a delicate flower: touch it and the bloom is gone." ~ Oscar Wilde
As is so frequently the case, I was up to absolutely nothing over the Labor Day weekend. I'm still obsessed with this rash that arose the day after I had my last surgery. I don't think they're related. My g.p. thinks it's poison ivy to which, up until this moment, I was not allergic. She prescribed some hydrocortisone cream and prednisone. The cream was working for a while, it seemed, but then new outbreaks are occurring on my hand. I look like a fucking leper. I broke down and started taking the prednisone. I don't like it that my auto-immune system is now compromised for however long I take it. Worst of all, though, is that jittery feeling that comes over me. I'm having enough difficulty in managing my anxiety without feeding it a little more with this drug.
Hubby and I rented a Sundance movie, "Dirty Filthy Love," was the title, I think. It's about a man with ocd and Tourette's Sydrome. He had no idea what was wrong with him, nor did anyone else in his life. He lost his job, his wife, his self esteem. You get the picture. He started going to a support group, although what it was supporting was never made particularly clear. The big moment, at the end of the film, is when he recognizes that he's always been that way. I don't know. Parts of it seemed a little funny, but both of those particular afflictions take a huge toll on people. Laughing at it didn't feel very good.
When I was about 23, I was taking the Grayhound bus from the city where my parents lived back to where I was living. There was no direct airline service between these two cities, but you could fly the last leg of the journey in one of those little crop duster planes. I had my book and was settled into studiously avoiding anyone sitting anywhere near me. I was successful until there was something of a commotion in one of the seats behind me. At first, I wasn't sure what I was hearing, it seemed so unlikely. The woman behind me was barking. I knew nothing about Tourette Syndrome and I would bet money that no one else on that bus knew anything about it, either. In what I suspect was a pre-emptive defensive activity, the woman actually got out of her seat and was offering candy to everyone on the bus. I think it was the kind that comes in little individual wrappers. I don't know if anyone ever took her up on the offer. She looked like a person who probably needed a visit to a psychiatric institution. Her eyes had dark circles underneath and she looked a little dishevelled. Many years later, when I learned about Tourette Syndrome, I remembered her with great sadness. I wish I had known. Sometimes acknowledging a person's humanity can be as simple as accepting a piece of candy and saying thank you.
After deciding I could read just a tiny bit in my "Living Through Breast Cancer" book, I was demoralized once again. I have yet to find even one sentence in that book that hasn't upset me. I know that's what happens; it happens every single time I open the damn book. Nonetheless, I don't seem to be able to stop myself. I'll think, "Oh, this part will be okay. This is past all of the torture stuff." Finally, I've figured it out. I can not have the book in my house. My mother volunteered to take it and she even offered to read it. I don't really wish for her to read it because it's too upsetting. Obviously, I don't have any control over whether she reads it, so I've let that go. As she started to leave with the book on Sunday, I had this panic attack and I tried to get it back from her. She's not going to give me the book back. Damn.
I've moved on to a book written by Bernie Siegel, M.D. He's a surgeon who's handled a lot of cancer cases. I had to call a halt to reading that book because his premise is that those of us who get cancer do so because they've given up on life. What the hell is that supposed to mean? Isn't that just blaming the victim? I have most certainly not given up on life. Sometimes I take a brief hiatus, but I always regain my will to engage in life. The fact that I have this blog is ample evidence that I haven't give up anything. I have, in fact, reclaimed something that I'd stopped doing long ago. If I was going to give up on life, I would have done it in 1965, after my suicide attempt. I guess I'm going to finish the book--because I compulsively do that--but I don't agree with his central premise.
America held hostage day 1432
Bushism of the day:
$117 billion."
—Bush, promoting his Health and Fitness Initiative
Source: The White House, "President Bush Highlights Health and Fitness Initiative: Remarks by the President on Fitness," July 18, 2003
Website of the day: Tourette Syndrome Association
http://www.tsa-usa.org/" title="http://www.tsa-usa.org/" target="_blank"http://www.tsa-usa.org/
As is so frequently the case, I was up to absolutely nothing over the Labor Day weekend. I'm still obsessed with this rash that arose the day after I had my last surgery. I don't think they're related. My g.p. thinks it's poison ivy to which, up until this moment, I was not allergic. She prescribed some hydrocortisone cream and prednisone. The cream was working for a while, it seemed, but then new outbreaks are occurring on my hand. I look like a fucking leper. I broke down and started taking the prednisone. I don't like it that my auto-immune system is now compromised for however long I take it. Worst of all, though, is that jittery feeling that comes over me. I'm having enough difficulty in managing my anxiety without feeding it a little more with this drug.
Hubby and I rented a Sundance movie, "Dirty Filthy Love," was the title, I think. It's about a man with ocd and Tourette's Sydrome. He had no idea what was wrong with him, nor did anyone else in his life. He lost his job, his wife, his self esteem. You get the picture. He started going to a support group, although what it was supporting was never made particularly clear. The big moment, at the end of the film, is when he recognizes that he's always been that way. I don't know. Parts of it seemed a little funny, but both of those particular afflictions take a huge toll on people. Laughing at it didn't feel very good.
When I was about 23, I was taking the Grayhound bus from the city where my parents lived back to where I was living. There was no direct airline service between these two cities, but you could fly the last leg of the journey in one of those little crop duster planes. I had my book and was settled into studiously avoiding anyone sitting anywhere near me. I was successful until there was something of a commotion in one of the seats behind me. At first, I wasn't sure what I was hearing, it seemed so unlikely. The woman behind me was barking. I knew nothing about Tourette Syndrome and I would bet money that no one else on that bus knew anything about it, either. In what I suspect was a pre-emptive defensive activity, the woman actually got out of her seat and was offering candy to everyone on the bus. I think it was the kind that comes in little individual wrappers. I don't know if anyone ever took her up on the offer. She looked like a person who probably needed a visit to a psychiatric institution. Her eyes had dark circles underneath and she looked a little dishevelled. Many years later, when I learned about Tourette Syndrome, I remembered her with great sadness. I wish I had known. Sometimes acknowledging a person's humanity can be as simple as accepting a piece of candy and saying thank you.
After deciding I could read just a tiny bit in my "Living Through Breast Cancer" book, I was demoralized once again. I have yet to find even one sentence in that book that hasn't upset me. I know that's what happens; it happens every single time I open the damn book. Nonetheless, I don't seem to be able to stop myself. I'll think, "Oh, this part will be okay. This is past all of the torture stuff." Finally, I've figured it out. I can not have the book in my house. My mother volunteered to take it and she even offered to read it. I don't really wish for her to read it because it's too upsetting. Obviously, I don't have any control over whether she reads it, so I've let that go. As she started to leave with the book on Sunday, I had this panic attack and I tried to get it back from her. She's not going to give me the book back. Damn.
I've moved on to a book written by Bernie Siegel, M.D. He's a surgeon who's handled a lot of cancer cases. I had to call a halt to reading that book because his premise is that those of us who get cancer do so because they've given up on life. What the hell is that supposed to mean? Isn't that just blaming the victim? I have most certainly not given up on life. Sometimes I take a brief hiatus, but I always regain my will to engage in life. The fact that I have this blog is ample evidence that I haven't give up anything. I have, in fact, reclaimed something that I'd stopped doing long ago. If I was going to give up on life, I would have done it in 1965, after my suicide attempt. I guess I'm going to finish the book--because I compulsively do that--but I don't agree with his central premise.
America held hostage day 1432
Bushism of the day:
$117 billion."
—Bush, promoting his Health and Fitness Initiative
Source: The White House, "President Bush Highlights Health and Fitness Initiative: Remarks by the President on Fitness," July 18, 2003
Website of the day: Tourette Syndrome Association
http://www.tsa-usa.org/" title="http://www.tsa-usa.org/" target="_blank"http://www.tsa-usa.org/
Just for Laughs
09.01.05 (12:17 pm) [edit]
I grew up in a (relatively) small town in which it most of the populace embraced ideas that I found repugnant by the time I was 13. Racism, homophobia, mindless conformity was rampant. I did not conform. Well, I looked like I was conforming, but when challenged I wasn't afraid to say whatever was on my mind. Unfortunately for me, I had plenty of people who wanted to offer well-meaning but terribly misguided advice about the impression I created. Generally speaking, I did not endure their advice without dispensing a little advice of my own.
I never got over it. I knew that, no matter what it took, I was going to get my ass out of that town just as soon as I possibly could. By the time I was in high school, I had perfected the under the radar, stealth mode. I made excellent grades and found a few like minded friends. Then I left.
The high school I attended has, of course, had several reunions by now. I respectfully declined to attend. I note that "Classmates.com" has a big old list of people I went to high school with. Unfortunately, in order to see the list (because I might want to contact one or two of the people I knew then), you must provide information. They require name, years attended, etc.
To this day, I don't want people thinking I give a shit about any of that. I know exactly how really stupid that is, but I don't care. In order to see the information, the name I provided was "Jim Jones." It's created quite a stir. Someone else used Homer Simpson. Some things never change. I remain pointlessly subversive. And it still makes me smile
I never got over it. I knew that, no matter what it took, I was going to get my ass out of that town just as soon as I possibly could. By the time I was in high school, I had perfected the under the radar, stealth mode. I made excellent grades and found a few like minded friends. Then I left.
The high school I attended has, of course, had several reunions by now. I respectfully declined to attend. I note that "Classmates.com" has a big old list of people I went to high school with. Unfortunately, in order to see the list (because I might want to contact one or two of the people I knew then), you must provide information. They require name, years attended, etc.
To this day, I don't want people thinking I give a shit about any of that. I know exactly how really stupid that is, but I don't care. In order to see the information, the name I provided was "Jim Jones." It's created quite a stir. Someone else used Homer Simpson. Some things never change. I remain pointlessly subversive. And it still makes me smile
