Category Archives: other peoples writing

Yelling at people isn’t so bad.

Apparently things with Noah’s family are very different than my previous perceptions. Yes, I got a preview of this last week at dinner. This week my sister in law came over for many hours and told story after story. Noah is absorbing the stories and thinking about implications.

Apparently my words are being used to slap my mother in law around. (There isn’t much, if any physical abuse in the house–it’s a verbal abuse sorta space.) I told my father in law that I wasn’t interested in trading one abusive mother for another. I’m sorry that has been used by a gaslighter to punish someone.

But on the upside apparently me being a bitch in that way spurred my mother in law into therapy and there have been dramatic strides in her behavior. Kinda like when I yelled at Rebecca’s dad all those years ago.

I find it kind of… funny… that when I yell at people it sometimes spurs life changes. That’s like negative reinforcement all over the place. See, I should yell at people. It’s good for them.

No, no it isn’t. Only my kids show lots of signs of resiliency and part of it is that they are non-jumpy because of how desensitized to noise they are. Sudden yelling isn’t scary. They know that nothing bad will happen but they need to change their behavior.

I’m kidding about yelling being good for them. I think that it actually is more of a big deal that I don’t yell that much. They don’t get tirades about their behavior. I cut that shit off after a couple of sentences. It’s not ok to berate kids. I can express that I don’t like something and then I need to move on.

I told my sister-in-law to brace herself for kind of a dump on the way to the house. I’ve seen the house she has grown up in. I saw the house she was visiting in Los Gatos. My house is kind of a dump in comparison. Small, dark, and messy. Not to mention the chips in the paint all over the walls from my obsessive furniture moving.

Her response was, “I like this. It’s cozy and homey. I want a house like this.”

Oh, I forgot. She has had to grow up with cleaning a huge, empty, unloved house. Oh. Of course she doesn’t value them much.

Noah and I had a talk this morning about how it is working out that he still doesn’t have much of a relationship with his family… but I do.

I talk to his aunts and grandmother and parents more than he does. I haven’t reached out as dramatically to his siblings, but that is partially because they have reached out less to me. All the older generation women have put effort into me. They just… did. They send presents and letters and they volunteer their interest.

It is a lot more than I have ever gotten from a family member. So I respond. Noah kind of tunes it out because he has never experienced anything else so he doesn’t value it.

Contrast is useful.

Oh. Wow. A journalist in the UK (not from a very well developed site–it looks like they are just getting off the ground) found my blog and asked to interview me. Sure. I can do that. Incest, PTSD, and how it effects my life. I’m grateful I didn’t have to track a reporter down and say, “Please interview me” so I’m glad to have the practice. I don’t have to start with the NY Times.

Life plugs along. It isn’t a good thing I yell at people. It is a good thing I am in the world. I say things that make people think. I am a useful data point. It is good to have extremes. Without them the middle gets very boring.

It is ok to have us progressives in the world. It gives the conservatives something to contrast with.

Distraction

If you do much research on mental illness, or really any undesirable behavior you want to eliminate, distraction is key.

This week in therapy my shrink spent a lot of time harping on the idea that I need to start being a lot more choosy about who I allow into my life. I always wonder how much my shrinks judge me. No, actually I don’t wonder very often or I would be very paranoid. Occasionally I wonder. When therapists very rarely encourage me towards squeezing people out of my life (it is rare but it happens) I always wonder how long they have sat on that impulse.

When did my description of my friend start bothering you? They never tell me, of course.

Therapy is such a weird beast. It is a relationship but not a a real one. It is unidirectional and unbalanced. There is honesty but not full honesty. Truth but not the whole truth. The whole truth involves someones opinions which I shouldn’t be taking into consideration.

I shouldn’t change to make my therapist happy. She otherwise isn’t part of my life. I should not alter the support I get to make her happy.

But sometimes you do have to follow their advice because they are right. She doesn’t say “so and so is icki” she says “what do you get from this relationship and what do you give to it? If the balance doesn’t work for you then you need to move on”. She says to me, “I know that for most of your life you have had to accept relationships with anyone who wanted to have a relationship with you. That is no longer true. You need to keep your children safe.”

I was raped over and over because I made a lot of stupid choices. Because I accept any relationship that is offered. Because I don’t say “no” when I should.

Yeah yeah yeah people think of me as being overly firm with my “no” delivery. You only know what my life is like after more than half a dozen rapes or more. The people who have known me the longest met me when I had been raped at least half a dozen times.

The things that happen to you change you. I did not know how to say “no”. I have learned to say it loudly and firmly. Loudly and firmly enough that I often bother people who wish I was “softer” about the process. Oh fucking well.

“Most people have no more than five people in their true inner circle.” (Quoting my shrink again.)

Jenny. Noah. K. My kids. Pam. That’s six. I have absolute trust in their love for me. Do I feel that way about anyone else? Not really. Jenny bought her way in by being the only person who comforted me during a horrible childhood. K has been the single most helpful person by a humongous margin during the parenting journey. I talk to her more often than anyone I don’t live with. I think she is the most motherly friend I have ever had. She has actually shown up when the rubber meets the road for the past few years. Pam has been with me for more than half of my life. To the best of my recollection I have gotten really pissed off at her, but never for actual boundary violations. I can’t remember one.

Other people were in the inner circle at other points. When they were able to show up. Life changes. I don’t stop loving them. Not a jot. But I don’t have trust any more. If I search my body this moment I’m not angry about the fact that I have seen the waxing and waning of so many friendships. They were with me when it made sense. It doesn’t make as much sense any more.

I can’t explain what it was like in my childhood. I was not allowed to cry. My crying irritated people and it was beaten out of me. That’s a lot of why I cry so much now. I was horribly brutalized and then punished if I grieved.

want to write in excruciating detail about my current emotional outpouring towards people. But I don’t want it as part of the record. There are names I don’t write about. Lots of them. There are lots of specific details I don’t want to announce in public. Mostly because I’m aware that my perceptions are highly biased and I’m a much bigger judgmental asshole than people understand and I need to keep it that way.

I don’t want the fall out. I’m that lame. So I’m having trouble working through the emotions. Writing things out is a lot of how I get rid of things. It has become very useful for me over the years. (Yes, people who like people journals get these things out without the public fall out. Clearly I don’t write that way. You don’t get to pick the writing talent you get. You just get it.)

So I’ve been looking for distraction. Painting went so breathtakingly well. The only time I raised my voice was when Shanna was backing into an open paint can. (It was a good save. She wasn’t cranky.) *phew* I did it.

I’m reorganizing toys again. Because I like playing house. Because it makes me happy. I refine how I organize as I watch them use things. I try to figure out where how to have things “live” where they are played with. I want to make their set up convenient for them so it is easy for them to clean up.

It is hard to find a system when you are a kid. You literally don’t have the schema to do it. Kids need to be shown how to find systems. Some people are naturally very gifted, but usually there is the overall framework of systemization within their life and that is why they are so accustomed.

I’m not very good at providing constant systemic living. I will never run a prison. I believe that needs and wants change dramatically over time and it is good to be constantly tweaking your system to be more appropriate for where you are today.

Sustainability is hard to find. What can you keep up? Deciding to be rigid in your system means you exclude millions of awesome options. I like trying lots of things. I need more flexibility.

It is hard reading my shrinks’ evaluation of me. I don’t think it is accurate that I can’t work because of relational issues. Although I had a lot of job volatility throughout my work life. Ha.

Today will be fun. I have babysitting time this morning. I am going to sit here and do all the work for the home school yearbook. (I’m a slacker. I should have done this a month ago.) I need to go to REI. That will be festive. I’m glad I can do it without the kids. I would like to work on the reading list for the book, but I only get three hours. I will need to get it done soon. Blah.

I need to do scheduling today. I need to plan out my running and exercise. I’m doing a half marathon with a friend in October and I’m really not doing appropriate exercise to support that. I have to start. It takes planning or I just don’t get it done. Deep sigh.

I don’t understand how other people naturally just do exercise. I have to plan how I will force myself. I have to have a reason to exercise–an upcoming obligation that will require my body to have something it doesn’t have right now. Long-term planning is too hard.

Distraction. What is distraction? What is focus? What am I doing with my life? Are the people who come and go the focus or a distraction? Is the painting a distraction or a focus? Is reorganizing the toys so they are easier for the kids to clean up a distraction or a focus?

Isn’t it all about your priorities? Isn’t it different for every person you ask?

Is writing a distraction from my life or one of the focuses in my life? Gardening? House maintenance (both of the repair and of the cleaning variety)?

What is life?

What does it mean to have a focus in your life? I read a lot about what other people do with their time. You can tell what people care about by looking at how they spend their time.

It’s ok that we are all different. If we were all the same that would be boring. We need symbiotic relationships.

The inner circle doesn’t mean that you only have relationships with people you trust that much. There are lots of other kinds of relationships. It is ok to share smaller pieces of yourself with people.

And it’s ok to walk away when it no longer works for you.

It doesn’t make me a bad person. People come into your life for a reason, a season, or a lifetime. Not everyone will be there forever.

There are some perverts who probably shouldn’t be around my kids. I recognize that in a larger sense–my kids are not exposed to the broader bdsm community.

Things that are ok for me aren’t necessarily ok for my kids. My kids are impressionable.

Boundaries are complicated.

What makes someone an asshole? Caring about their own needs to the point where they are ok with other people getting hurt sometimes as they take care of themselves.

What makes someone a bitch? Saying or doing things to hurt other people on purpose to be spiteful.

Notice how the gendered one is a lot nastier? I notice that in my language.

I’m an asshole. I try hard to not be a bitch.

I don’t have time to explain why this dude is wrong. There are so many ways he is wrong that I would permanently damage my arms. Ain’t worth it.

I get to walk away. Yeah, it might hurt you but I am not obligated to sit around and tend your feelings. Notice how you have never tended mine? Fuck right off.

But spite isn’t necessary. What’s the difference? When you are writing, what’s the damn difference?

Well, I say fuck you to the universe but I don’t say it to people. I don’t publicly (or privately) slam people when I end a relationship. In general I maintain a policy of being very positive when I talk about former friends/partners/acquaintances. I’m well-fucking-aware that you are judged by how you judge other people

So I’m an asshole, but I try to limit the scope.

always have the right to walk away. It is the most American attitude one can have. Well, or the other American attitude “I have the right to own a gun so I can shoot people who seem scary“.

I seem scary to a lot of people. To the point where strangers will comment on it in public. I worry a lot about guns.

I kind of hope that the next revolution in this country is a call to disarmament. Citizens give up their guns so that police can de-militarize.

Wouldn’t it be nice?

Wouldn’t it be nice to stop hearing about mass shootings at schools?

And wouldn’t it be nice if white people were called terrorists when they instill terror just like people of other races? Parity in discussion would help us figure out the common solutions.

I need to answer a whole bunch of emails. I haven’t forgotten you. I just… haven’t scheduled yet. Scheduling goes in batches. I can’t handle adding things in between scheduling-fests. Then I get “over scheduled” and I’m shaking by the end of the month. It sucks.

Tonight I get to have dinner with an old friend before we go to the Diana Gabaldon reading. I’m excited. There’s a new book in a series I love.

This will be the very first time I’ve ever been to a reading for an author I know. I have heard random people at college but I had no previous knowledge of them. A step towards fandom I guess?

What is the focus of your life? How do your actions support that? How does your time spent support that? How does your energy spent support that?

When you are old, what will you appreciate more? That you spent time working in your garden or that you spent time with people you will definitely not know by then? Depends on the person. Depends on how the time with them is spent.

Sometimes you need to pick the garden.

Boundaries are hard. Being an asshole is hard.

Discrimination sucks.

This isn’t about me. As I get older I experience less and less discrimination. But every day I read on the internet someone or other saying that _______ is the last acceptable form of prejudice. “It’s ok to hate fat people.” “It’s ok to discriminate against the mentally ill.” “THE LAST FORM OF TOLERATED BIGOTRY IS AGAINST TRANS* PEOPLE!!!”

Err. The fact that I have read three posts like that in the last hour means there probably isn’t “one remaining form of prejudice.”

The older I get the more privilege I have. I don’t think it works this way for everyone but it does for me.

When I read about how every year a person should expect to not have more money than last year because of the terrible financial position the country is in I think… but my finances have steadily improved every year since I was eighteen. Not always because of my own hard work–let’s be clear.

I no longer think of myself as a boot strapper in the slightest. I’m not and for me to claim such status is disrespectful.

I had a settlement. That provided all of my early financial security (my income went up every year after eighteen because I did part-time work in college and then went into teaching which was much more money than my mother had ever made–I felt filthy rich). Now I have Noah. His ability to earn money blows my mind. He’s just doing it.

I’m trying to figure out how to write to twelve year olds about the fact that every twelve year old has it shitty without sounding like I am propping up the system. Some twelve year olds have it worse than others but almost no twelve year old is capable of understanding that or evaluating what it means or how it works.

All discrimination sucks. There is not “one last” form of discrimination. There are as many kinds of discrimination as there are people with a stick up their ass. You couldn’t possibly list all of the things people are discriminated over.

But I feel kind of cranky about fat white women being very sure that they have it worse than anyone because prejudice against fat is the LAST REMAINING THING IT IS OK TO PICK ON PEOPLE FOR.

Err, haven’t you noticed that there are more black men in prison now than were ever slaves in this country? Maybe you aren’t at the bottom of the barrel when it comes to discrimination. Maybe.

I get that it sucks to be picked on. I really do. I don’t understand why people need to justify that their experience is shitty by saying that it is the shittiest thing ever.

I don’t think my life was the shittiest thing ever. I really don’t. I meet people all the time who are much worse off after their respective lives. I had a lot of bad things happen to me. I also had a lot of good.

I have a lot of privilege. I always have. The older I get, the more cemented it gets the more I can see the tendrils of it stretching back into the beginnings of my life.

I was *always* tolerated for interrupting class when I was a child. I was massively disruptive in almost every single one of the twenty-five schools I went to. It was tolerated. I wasn’t sent to special ed for bad kids the way the black or hispanic boys were. They were *not* more disruptive than me. The biggest difference between me and a lot of the boys I knew over time was that I knew the right answer in class.

I’m brilliant. Now that I’m an adult and I’m not worried about people beating me up if I say it out loud I can accept it. I’m brilliant. I just understand things faster and more easily than other people. It’s a gift. I’m not a better person, but school was a fuck-ton easier for me than it is for people who need slow and careful explanations. I got punished less because I was smart.

I don’t believe there is any “one last” discrimination left. As long as there are billions of people alive there will be way more things to discriminate about than that.

I feel really sad when I see people who are like me (I have been a fat white woman for most of my adult life–I’m not fat at this point but I expect I will eventually be so again) thinking that they have it the worst of the worst. First that makes me sad because the individual person feels that bad about themselves and their life. Second it makes me sad because that person has such a limited view of the world.

Have you read anything about children in Afghanistan lately? No one in America gets to talk about the “last acceptable discrimination”. We just don’t. We can talk about being unhappy about how we are treated–totally reasonable.  That’s ALWAYS OK.

But the hyperbole bothers me. It erases so many people.

The older I get, the longer I stay alive the more I recognize how very lucky and blessed I am. Sure, I’ve had bad things happen to me but most people do. Life is just like that. Bad things happen. It isn’t about deserving. It just happens.

But every morning I wake up in a house that is warm or cool as I see fit to make it. I have a husband who wakes up and makes me breakfast just because he loves me. I have little girls who wake up and the first thing out of their mouth is, “I’m so glad to see you again!” because that is the first thing they have heard every day of their lives (Godmama weekends excepted).

I am lucky. I am safe. I was reading about food insecurity yesterday. I really need to figure out what the hell I want to do with my life. I’m bothered by how many people in my neighborhood are statistically hungry right this minute. I think ignoring those problems is not ok. It makes me feel bad about myself as a person.

I know what it means to not have food. I know what severe malnutrition feels like. I live with a lot of the long term effects and they suck. But I have medical insurance so I can go to the doctor when I have problems now because of what happened to me a long time ago.

I am so very lucky.

(I don’t leave comments on other peoples blogs because they don’t need to know that I am irritated with them. My sandbox, my rules.)

Too many characters, how shocking.

I wrote this on the comment field for this post on Band Back Together but it was too long. Links are blessedly short.

I had to write a whole book telling the whole of my trauma before I could understand how bad my life was; I get it. It’s hard to understand how little we have compassion for ourselves.

I understand that people are traumatized by events that seem “minor” compared to some of the things that happened to me. I get that. I see how it has changed the whole course of their life. I don’t give myself the same slack. I feel like I am a failure at life because I have ongoing effects from the abuse. I’m ok with being nice to other people as they cope… but not myself. I should be Over It. Damnit.

I’m not over it. PTSD is no joke. What happened to you was very serious. Some of the most serious I’ve heard about in a first world country. You are out at the far end of the bell curve. We are different. We have actually survived. People who haven’t done that have a different perspective on the world. It’s ok that we are different.

I often feel like I don’t know how to have normal conversations. I feel like everything I know, everything I am was colored by my life when I was a child. I hear over and over in my mind when people are talking to me, “They wouldn’t like you if they knew you were a dirty whore who sucked your father’s dick.” I feel like I want to blurt it out instantly when I meet people so that I can get it over with. I want the people who are going to reject me to hurry the fuck up and do it already. Do it because I am “inappropriate”. That way I can feel like I have control.

Dealing with trauma is serious work. I feel like I have to work all.the.time. on my behavior and thinking. I have a lot of hypervigilance. I can’t relax and just be with my life. I have to think about how I would be acting if I was a good person and then try to pretend to be that. I’m a nasty angry bitter person in my head and I don’t want that to be what my children remember.

I thought about you a lot. I left this comment box open over night and came back to it. It is so easy for me to read things like this and think, “Well duh! Of course she was abused. Who wouldn’t recognize that? That is *totally* trauma.” I had very similar life events and I gloss them over in my mind. Yeah ok some “bad shit” happened. I can say I sucked my father’s dick. I have a hard time saying I was raped.

My dad held a gun to my head and asked me if I deserved to live. I don’t think we will ever really forget. I have a hard time figuring out what moving forward looks like. It’s hard.

I’m not you. I don’t think your struggles look exactly like mine. Nevertheless I can project all I want from this side of a computer. I imagine you have some days that are as bad as my bad days. That’s hard. I’m really sorry. On your very worst days remember that your story has the power to make other people feel less alone and scared.

Other women have survived. I can too. Even though I really don’t even feel like I want to keep trying some days. Other women have survived. I can too.

Thank you for being with the band.

I love getting mail. Sometimes.

Yesterday I got a letter. Normally I am thrilled by such instances. In this case I believe the person sent a letter because if he sends a letter I can only respond on his terms. If he sent an email he knows I would just argue with him and refuse to let him set the terms of the conversation. As is, I don’t feel like this letter deserves a letter back of its own so I’m just going to ignore it. Well, maybe “ignore” is a bit strong. I’ll stew about it but I’m not going to respond to him. I hear he has me blocked all over the internet. Hallelujah.

I would like to say in public that I am under the care of a licensed psychologist, psychiatrist, and I do actually have a general doctor as well. The folks who “take care” of me are professionals in good standing in their various professions. They all agree that I should be on some kind of psych med at this stage and if pot is working, why bother replacing it with something that has more side effects. Does that make it an addiction? Is someone who takes thyroid medication an addict? It’s an interesting question.

I certainly need pot. I feel a grotesque amount of shame about that. I’m aware the 12 step folks want me to get off it entirely. Obviously that would make my whole life better. Given the magnitude of my mental health issues I would need to turn to western medicine and pills. Seriously, they make everything worse. But obviously I am a disgusting low life addicts. Obviously.

And because I am obviously I am an addict, that means I am bad and abuse, right? I have anger issues. I’ve had anger issues for a long time. I must be addicted to anger, right? It totally makes sense. I’m comfortable in that emotion so I default to it and if nothing happens for a while to make me angry I’ll go find some moron on the internet to argue with. Since I was eighteen I have kicked holes in drywall twice and punched a hole once. I kicked the cabinet doors off. That is the entire extent of property damage done in my life. That is manifestly an anger problem. I don’t hit people at all any more under any circumstances. I don’t do that “girl” thing of whacking people when they are irritating. I married someone who finds it offensive so I stopped. I’m not going to be doing bdsm play with anyone else again so I don’t think I will ever hit a person again in my life. It’s kind of weird to think about.

But obviously my anger is running my life. I’m angry all day every day, right? No? Wait. What?!  You mean the gross assumptions about me might be incorrect? I spend all day every day in a mellow and cheerful mood. I am edgy and anxious when new people come around and I feel uncomfortable. I have this constant fear that people are judging me (but I get a letter ever year or so from someone telling me that I am disgusting and abusive so I think that isn’t a paranoia on my part) and it makes me more prone to fight with people I think don’t like me anyway. The best defense is a good offense. If you strike me as someone who is likely to shame me and put me down I am going to attack you and be on offense from the beginning. It isn’t always perfect. But then I get letters like yesterday and I’m glad I have that approach.

I’m not going to do what people tell me and then they get butt hurt and *I’m* the one with the anger problem. Right. Obviously if I don’t want to do what he says when he says it I am in denial.

I am not at a place in my life where I can start going to a bunch of meetings in San Francisco. Not even to make other people feel better about my “sobriety”. I can’t bring my kids and telling me that I could get childcare from someone who thinks I am disgusting is hilarious. I would rather drop my kids off to play in the park alone. They would be safer.

A lot of the reason I have no contact with my family isn’t because I am paranoid about them sexually assaulting my kids during an Easter Egg Hunt. I don’t allow my children around my family because my children don’t need to sit and listen to people talk shit about me. I’m far from perfect and I deal with that. My 19 month old and my nearly four year old don’t need to be in the house of someone who feels quite free to put me down and talk badly about me. Hell fucking no. That is a hostile environment for me and mine. Calling it “support” is pure hypocrisy and it sickens me. No you don’t want to support me. You want to shame me and insult me. I’ll pass.

Anger is absolutely the monkey on my back. I deal with it by trying to figure out why I am angry and changing the part that feels like an attack so I can stop feeling defensive. There isn’t a chance in hell I am going to go visit the house of someone who has shamed me up one side and down the other and not feel angry. Then he will take that as more confirmation that he is right. No thanks. That is a lose/lose situation for me. Shaming isn’t love or concern.

That’s the part that matters. When people come to me in love and concern to “talk about my behavior” (it happens) I try to meet them where they are and listen. I don’t think I am perfect. I listen to advice when it is given appropriately by people I respect. Someone who sends me a nastygram letter unsolicited where he recommends that I go stay in a residential rehab facility because I smoke pot?  Yeah. Kiss my ass.  I’m fairly unlikely to smoke for the rest of my life. But it is a drug I need right now. I guess I’m bad for that. I guess I should abandon my children to the mercy of people who think I am bad and head off to a place that will cause me massive panic attacks as soon as I walk in.

And after I walk in I won’t be able to go to the bathroom when I want. And if I don’t draw pictures when they tell me to draw pictures all hell can break loose. Oh wait. I’m just being paranoid. That doesn’t happen to people. Oh wait. It happened to me. Uhm, no. No thank you. I don’t think there is a chance in hell that residential treatment would improve my life. I think that would be the thing that sent me over the bend and I would never be released because they would be pumping me full of frightening chemicals just to get me to stop screaming. I will never go back to a treatment facility. I would rather kill myself. My therapists know this. They don’t think I need to go to rehab. My therapist thinks that rehab would be an entirely inappropriate place for me because I am not hurting my life. I am appropriately using a medication that my body apparently needs right now so that I can go on to be a (mostly) happy, highly functioning adult. What is the problem?

The problem is that someone is mad at me. He has shit going on in his own life that he is upset about and he wants to vent his spleen on someone. I’m a convenient target. This is what being the scapegoat means. This is how such patterns continue on and on in life. He acted like the bringer of truth.  “You’ve surrounded yourself with friends who don’t see you(sic) addictive behavior as anything unusual, and with a husband who is a hard core enabler.” Yes. I have chosen to surround myself with people who are nice to me and who do not send me nasty letters. You illustrate nicely why I do that. You are not right. You have an opinion.

I’m addicted to anger, cutting, sex, and drugs. Apparently. Sure. Why not. All of these “addictions” spring from the same basic place of feeling unsafe and like I deserve to hurt. I’ve been looking into the treatment for these issues for some time.  Guess what the first step is?

Safety. Safety, for me, includes not talking to people who are going to send me long letters about how bad I am. Whether I have issues or not it is not the job of anyone to send me nasty letters about my issues. This isn’t how you help someone. But it is how you contribute to the surrounding feeling of unsafe. I guess I shouldn’t let go of that paranoia of people sitting at home thinking nasty thoughts about me. I have yet more evidence.  Shit dude. He felt motivated enough by his hostile judgment to print out a letter, find an envelope and put three stamps on it! That’s commitment! It wasn’t even an off-hand email in a bitchy moment. He put effort into it. He didn’t open a dialogue about, “I’m feeling worried about you. Are you open to talking about some of the stuff that is going on for you?” He has no interest in my consent. He’s just interested in telling me how bad I am.

“A while back you wrote about how outraged you were when you discovered that there were adults who knew that you were being abused as a child and didn’t do anything about it. Another time you wrote something to the effect that at least your kids were not being brought up by totally fucked up addicts, they were being brought up my(sic) a high functioning addict. I like Shanna a lot, and if we ever meet when she is grown up, I don’t want her to be able to say to me, “If everyone knew my mom was an addict, how come nobody did anything about it?”

This is for Shanna.”

Bam! That’s class A perfect color shame. He’s not telling me these things because he is a judgmental asshole!  No!  He’s doing it for Shanna. He thinks it would be far preferable to be on western meds so that I can sit on the couch and stare at a tv and not do anything self-destructive and recover from my “addictions”.

I feel the love in every line. Don’t you? I was raped over and over. I was moved more than 50 times. I was not allowed to develop any normal attachments in life and I’m bitter about it. Obviously he needs to step in because I am a stoner. It’s the same thing as rescuing me when I was a kid. I’m just as bad.

I’m sure I am not reading this is the best possible light. I hear that 80% of all things read in text are read with the wrong tone. I guess it is too bad that this person didn’t have the respect for me to ask to talk to me in person, you know, if he was serious about wanting to help me. Instead he sent an aggressive and hostile letter (you can’t miss that even if you tone down my paranoia) and I’m supposed to just… what? Smack myself in the forehead and say, “You must be right! How have I lived without such sage advice commanding me how to get my life together!”

Why do I write about these things? Because if I didn’t write about it I would mutter under my breath all day. I would slam cabinets. I would be pissed off as fuck because this fucking asshole just god damn ruined my day. But if I come and write about it I can let it go. I went through all the thoughts. Now I can stop talking about when the kids are around.

There are always going to be people who dislike me and disapprove of me. If I let that ruin my day I can just go kill myself and get it over with. There are enough of those people for every day, forever.

In the best light I can see this letter as him trying to say that he misses having me as a friend and he won’t hang out with me until I get treatment so please hurry because he misses me. There is definitely a way to see it that way if I’m generous.

But this is a whole lot of shaming. I don’t need people in my life who shame me. I don’t need to be made to feel bad. That’s not ok. That’s not an acceptable thing to do to a friend. If he wanted to talk to me about these things he could have. He didn’t. He wanted to sit on high and give me judgments and orders. Well who died and made you the king of anything?

Don’t worry. I’ll tell Shanna you sent me a nasty letter trying to protect her. I’m sure it will make her feel much better.

If someone actually wants to talk to me and offer polite conversation about their concern, I promise I won’t write a hostile blog post about it. If you treat me like a reasonable person I’ll treat you like one. If you send me shaming text, I might print the whole thing verbatim and I might keep it private. You are taking a roll of the dice. I don’t keep secrets very well.

Building energy

This article is interesting.  The past six months have been very difficult on a lot of levels.  I’m starting to move into a deeper phase of dealing with my incest stuff.  I’ve been thinking about this chapter from A Wind in the Door Madeleine L’Engle:

Chapter 11: Sporos
A burst of harmony so brilliant that it almost overwhelmed them surrounded Meg, the cherubim, Calvin, and Mr. Jenkins.  But after a moment of breathlessness, Meg was able to open herself to the song of the farae, these strange creatures who were Deepened, rooted, yet never separated from each other, no matter how great the distance.
We are the song of the universe.  We sing with the angelic host.  We are the musicians.  The farae and the stars are the singers.  Our song orders the rhythm of creation.
Calvin asked, “How can you sing with the stars?
There was surprise at the question: it is the song.  We sing it together.  That is our joy.  And our Being.
“But how do you know about the stars–in here–inside–“
How could farae not know about stars when farae and stars sing together?
“You can’t see the stars.  How can you possibly know about them?”
Total incomprehension from the farae.  If Meg and Calvin kythed in visual images, this was their limitation.  The farae had moved beyond physical sight.
“Okay,” Calvin said.  “I know how little of ourselves, and of our brains, we’ve learned to use.  We have billions of brain cells, and we use only the tiniest portion of them.”
Mr. Jenkins added with his dry, ropy kythe, “I have heard that the number of cells in the brain and the number of stars in the universe is said to be exactly equal.”
“Progo!” Meg asked.  “You memorized the names of all the stars–how many are there?”
“How many?  Great heavens, earthling, I haven’t the faintest idea.”
“But you said your last assignment was to memorize the names of all of them.”
“I did.  All the stars in all the galaxies.  And that’s a great many.”
“But how many?”
“What difference does it make?  I know their names.  I don’t know how many there are.  It’s their names that matter.”
The strong kything of the farae joined Proginoskes.  “And the song.  If it were not for the support of the singing of the galaxies, we farae on Yadah would have lost the melody, so few of the farandolae are Deepening.  The Namers are at work.”
Meg felt a sudden chill, a pulling back, a fading of the Deepened farae; there was a dissonance in the harmony; the rhythm faltered.
In her mind’s eye an image was fhalshed of a troop of farandolae dancing wildly about one fara tree, going faster and faster, until she felt dizzy.
“Sporos is with them,” Proginoskes told her.
“What are they doing?  Why are they spinning faster and faster?”  The circle of farandolae revolved so rapidly that it became a swirling blur.  The fronds of the great fara around whom they swirled began to droop.  
“They are absorbing the nourishment which the fara needs.  The fara is Senex, from whom Sporos came.”  There was chill in Proginoskes’s words.
The speed of the dancing farandolae became like a scream in Meg’s ears.  “Stop!” she cried.  “Stop it at once!”  There was nothing merry or joyful in the dance.  It was savage, wild, furious.
Then, through the raging of the dance came a strong, pure strain of melody, quiet, certain, noble.  The dancing farandolae broke their circle and scampered about aimlessly; then, led by Sporos, they raced to another fara and began circling it.
The fronds of Senex greened, lifted.
Proginoskes said, “He is strong enough to hold out longer than any of the other farae.  But even Senex cannot hold out forever.”  He stopped abruptly.  “Feel.”
“Feel?”
“The rhythm of the mitochondrion.  Is it my fearfulness, or is Yadah faltering?”
“It is not you,” Meg answered the cherubim.  They were all very still, listening, feeling.  Again there came a slight irregularity in the steady pulsing.  A faltering.  A missed beat.  Then it steadied, continued.
Like a gash through the non-light of Yadah Meg had a brief vision of Charles Wallace lying in his small room, gasping for air.  She thought she saw Dr. Louise, but the strange thing was that she could not tell whether it was Dr. Louse Colubra, or Louise the actual colubra.  “Don’t give up.  Breathe, Charles.  Breathe.”  And a steady voice, “It’s time to try oxygyn.”
Then she was drawn back within the mitochondrion to Senex, the parent tree of Sporos.  She tried to convey to him what she had just seen, but she received nothing from him in return.  His incomprehension was even greater than Mr. Jenkins’s had been.  She asked Proginoskes, “Does Senex know that Charles Wallace even exists?”
“As you know that your galaxy, the Milky Way, exists.”
“Does he know that Charles Wallace is ill?”
“As you know that your Earth is ill, by fish dying in the rivers, birds dying in the forests, people dying in the choked cities.  You know by war and hate and chaos.  Senex knows mitochondrion is ill because the farandolae will not Deepen and many farae are dying.  Listen.  Kythe.”
A group of farandolae whirled about a fara; fronds drooped; color drained.  The dance was a scream of laughter, ugly laughter.  Meg smelled the stench which was like the stench in the twins’ garden when she  had first encountered an Echthros.  
She heard a voice.  It was like a bad tape recording of Mr. Jenkins.  “You need not Deepen and lose your power to move, to dance.  No one can force you to.  Do not listen to the farae.  Listen to me.”
The great central trunk of the surrounded fara began to weaken.
Meg tried to project herself into the dance, to break the vortex.  “Sporos, come out!  Don’t listen.  You were sent to the Teacher.  You belong with us.  Come out, Sporos, you were meant to Deepen!”
Then it was as though she were the end skater in a violent game of crack-the-whip and suddenly was flung so wildly across the ice that she crashed into the end of the rink.  The force with which she had been thrown was so fierce that her kything was completely blacked out.
“Breathe, Meg, breathe.”  It was Proginoskes, using the same words which Louise was using with Charles Wallace.  “Breathe, Meg.  You’re all right.”
She reeled, staggered, regained her balance.
Again she heard the ugly laugh, and the false Mr. Jenkins voice urging, “Kill the fara!”
Then came Mr. Jenkins’s own voice.  “I see.  I understand.”  She felt emanating from him a dry, dusty acknowledgment of unpleasant fact. 
She returned sharply, still slightly breathless, “I don’t understand.”
Mr. Jenkins asked her, “Why did Hitler want to control the world?  Or Napoleon?  Or Tiberius?”
“I don’t know.  I don’t know why anyone would.  I think it would be awful.”
“But you admit that they did, Margaret?”
“They wanted to,” she conceded. “But they didn’t succeed.”
“They did a remarkably good job of succeeding for a period of time, and they will not lightly be forgotten.  A great many people perished during the years of their rules.”  
“But farandolae–why would little farandolae like Sporos–“
“They appear to be not that unlike human beings.”
She felt cold and quiet.  Once Mr. Jenkins had accepted the situation, he understood it better than she did.  She asked, “Okay, then, what have the Echthroi got to do with it?  They’re behind it, aren’t they?”
Proginoskes answered, “The Echthroi are always behind war.”
Meg turned in anguish towards Senex, calm and strong as an oak tree, but, unlike the oak, pliable, able to bend with wind and weather.  “Senex, we’ve been sent to help, but I’m not strong enough to fight the Echthroi.  I can’t stop Sporos and the other farandolae from killing the fara.  Oh, Senex, if they succeed, won’t they kill themselves, too?”
Senex responded coldly, quietly.  “Yes.”
“This is insane,” Mr. Jenkins said.
Proginoskes answered, “All war is insane.”
“But, as I understand it,” Mr. Jenkins continued, “we are a minutely immeasurable part of Charles Wallace?”  
“We are.”
“Therefore if, while we are on–or, rather, in–this mitochondrion, if Charles Wallace were to die, then–er–um–we–“
“Die too.”
“Then I fight not only for Charles Wallace’s life but for Meg’s and Calvin’s and–“
“Your own.”
Meg felt Mr. Jenkins’s total indifference to his own life.  She was not yet willing to accept the burden of his concern for her.  “We musn’t think about that!  We musn’t think about anything but Charles!”
Proginoskes wound around and through her thoughts: “You cannot show your concern for Charles Wallace now except in concern for Sporos.  Don’t you understand that we’re all part of one another, and the Echthroi are trying to splinter us, in just the same way that they’re trying to destroy all Creation?”
The dancing farandolae whirled and screamed, and Meg thought she could hear Sporos’s voice: “We’re not part of anybody!  We’re farandolae, and we’re going to take over Yadah.  After that–“
A hideous screech of laughter assailed Meg’s ears.  Again she flung herself at the dance, trying to pull Sporos out of it.
Senex drew her back with the power of his kythe.  “Not that way, not by force.”
“But Sporos has to Deepen!  He has to!”
Then, around the edges of her awareness, Meg heard a twingling, and Calvin was with Sporos, trying to reach out to him, to kythe with him.
Sporos’s response was jangly, but he came out of the wild circle and hovered on its periphery.  “Why did Blajeny send you alien life forms to Yadah with me?  How can you possibly help with my schooling?  We make music by ourselves.  We don’t need you.”
Meg felt Proginoskes’s volcanic upheaving, felt a violent wind, searing tongues of flame.  “Idiot, idiot,” Proginoskes was sending, “We all need each other.  Every atom in the universe is dependent on every other.”
“I don’t need you.”
Suddenly Proginoskes kythed quietly and simply, “I need you, Sporos.  We all of us need you.  Charles Wallace needs you.”
“I don’t need Charles Wallace.”
Calvin kythed urgently, “Don’t you?  What happens to you if something happens to Charles Wallace?  Who have you been listening to?”
Sporos withdrew.  Meg could not feel him at all.
Calvin emanated frustration.  “I can’t reach him  He slips away from me every time I think I’m getting close.”
Sporos was pulled back into the whirling circle.  The surrounded fara was limp, all life draining rapidly.  Senex mouthed, “His song is going out.”
Proginoskes kythed, “Xed.  Snuffed out like a candle.”
Senex’s fronds drooped in grief.  “Sporos and his generation listen to those who would silence the singing.  They listen to those who would put out the light of the song.”
Mr. Jenkins raised shadowy arms prophetically.  “To kill the song is the only salvation!”
“No!” Mr. Jenkins cried to Mr. Jenkins.  “You are only a mirror vision of me.  You are nothing!”
Nothing  nothing  nothing
The words echoed, hollow, empty, repeating endlessly.  Everywhere Meg kythed she seemed to meet a projection of an Echthros–Mr. Jenkins.
“Don’t you understand that the Echthroi are your saviors?  When everything is nothing there will be no more war, no illness, no death.  There will be no more poverty, no more pain, no more slums, no more starvation–“
Senex kythed through the Echthros.  “No more singing!”
Proginoskes joined Senex.  “No more stars, or cherubim, or the light of the moon on the sea.”
And Calvin: “There will never be another meal around table.  No one will ever break bread or drink wine with his companions.”
Meg kythed violently against the nearest Echthros-Mr. Jenkins, “You are nothing!  You’re only borrowing Mr. Jenkins in order to be something.  Go away!  You are nothing!”
Then she was aware that the real Mr. Jenkins was trying to reach her.  “Nature abhors a vacuum.”
Calvin replied, “Then we must fill the vacuum.  That is the only thing to do.”
“How?”
“If the Echthroi are nothingness, emptiness, then that emptiness can be filled.”
“Yes, but how do we fill it?”
Senex kythed calmly, “Perhaps you don’t want to fill it strongly enough.  Perhaps you do not yet understand what is at stake.”
“I do!  A little boy, my brother–what do you know about my little brother?”
Senex conveyed considerable confusion.  He had a feeling for the word ‘brother’ because all farae are–or had been–brothers.  But ‘little boy’ meant nothing to him whatsoever.  
“I know that my galactic host is ill, perhaps dying–“
“That’s Charles Wallace!  That’s my little brother!  He may be a galactic host to you, but to me he’s just a little boy like–like Sporos.”  She turned her kythe from Senex and towards the wildly dancing farandolae who had surrounded another fara.  This time she kythed herself towards them cautiously.  How could she be sure which one was Sporos?
An Echthros-Mr. jenkins whinnied with laughter.  “It doesn’t matter.  Nothing matters.”  A harsh twang wounded the melody of the farae who were still singing.
Once again Meg felt faltering in the mitochondrion.  Yadah was in pain.  Suddenly she remembered the farandolae who had saved her from the Echthros when Proginoskes brought her into Yadah.  Not all the farandolae had thrown in their lot with the Echthroi.  Or were those who had Xed themselves that she might live the only ones who would defy the Echthroi?  
She bagan calling urgently, “Sporos!  Farandolae!  Come away from  the Echthroi.  You will dance yourselves to death.  Come to Senex and Deepen.  This is what you were born to do.  Come!”
Some of the farandolae faltered.  Others whirled the faster, crying, “We don’t need to Deepen.  That’s only an old superstition.  It’s a stupid song they sing, all this Glory, glory, glory.  We are the ones who are glorious.”
“The stars–” Meg called desperately.
“Another superstition.  There are no stars.  We are the greatest beings in the universe.”
Ugliness seeped past Meg and to Sporos.  “Why do you want to Deepen?”
Sporos’s twingling was slightly dissonant.  “Farandolae are born to Deepen.”
“Fool.  Once you Deepen and put down roots you won’t be able to romp around as you do now.”
“But–“
“You’ll be stuck in one place forever with those fuddy-duddy farae, and you won’t be able to run or move, ever again.”
“But–“
The strength and calm of Senex cut through the ugliness.  “It is only when we are fully rooted that we are really able to move.”
Indecision quivered throughout Sporos.
Senex continued, “It is true, small offspring.  Now that I am rooted I am no longer limited by motion.  Now I may move anywhere in the universe.  I sing with the stars.  I dance with the galaxies.  I share in the joy–and in the grief.  We farae must have our part in the rhythm of the mitochondria, or we cannot be.  If we cannot be, then we are not.”
“You mean, you die?” Meg asked.
“Is that what you call it?  Perhaps.  I am not sure.  But the song of Yadah is no longer full and rich.  It is flaccid, its harmonies meager.  By our arrogance we make Yadah suffer.”
Meg felt Calvin beside Senex, urging, “Sporos, you are my partner.  We are to work together.”
“Why?  You’re no use to me.”
“Sporos, we are partners, whether we like it or not.”
Meg joined in.  “Sporos!  We need you to help save Charles Wallace.”
“Why do we have to bother about this Charles Wallace?  He’s nothing but a stupid human child.”
“He’s your galaxy.  That ought to make him special enough, even for you.”
A cruel slashing cut between their kything, as though a great beak had cut a jagged wound. “Sporos!  It is I, Mr. Jenkins.  I am the teacher who is greater than all Teachers because I know the Echthroi.”  Meg felt Proginoskes’s kything clamp like steel.
The Echthros-Mr. Jenkins was holding Sporos, and speaking with honey-sweet words.  “Do not listen to the earthlings; do no listen to the farae.  They are are stupid and weak.  Listen to me and you will be powerful like the Echthroi.  You will rule the universe.”
“Sporos!” The real Mr. Jenkins’s kything was not strong enough to break through the stream  “He is not Mr. Jenkins.  Do not listen!”
Calvin’s kythe came more strongly than Mr. Jenkins’s.  “There are two Mr. Jenkinses by you, Sporos, two Mr. Jenkinses kything you.  You know that one is not real.  Deepen Sporos, that is where your reality lies.  That is how you will find your place, and how you will find your true center.”
meg’s mind’s-ears were assailed by a howling which was Echthroid, though it appeared to come from the pseudo-Mr. Jenkins.  “Reality is meaningless.  Nothing is the center.  Come.  Join the others in the race.  Only a few more farae to surround and you will have Yadah for your own.” 
“Yadah will die,” Meg cried.  “We will all die.  You will die!”
“If you come with us, you will be nothing,” the Echthros-Mr. Jenkins spoke in cloying kythe, “and nothing can happen to nothing.”
Sporos’s long whiskers trembled painfully.  “I am very young.  I should not be asked to make major decisions for several centuries.”
“Your’re old enough to listen to Senex,” Meg told him.  “You’re old enough to listen to me.  After all, I’m a galaxy to you.  It’s time for you to Deepen.”
Sporos wriggled in the clasp of the Echthros-Mr. Jenkins. “Come, Sporos, fly with the Echthroi.  Then you will crackle across the universe.  There are too many mitochondria in creation.  There are too many stars in the heavens.  Come with us to naught, to nought.”
“Deepen, Sporos, my child, Deepen.”
“Sporos!” The Echthroid howl beat against the rhythm of Yadah.  “We will make you a prince among Echthroi.”
Meg felt a gust of wind, the familiar flicker of flame: Proginoskes.  The cherubim flung his kything across the void of the Echthros-Mr. Jenkins, like a rope flung from cliff’s edge to cliff’s edge.  “Sporos, all farandolae are royal.  All singers of the song are princes.”
“Nonsense.  In Name only.”
“The Name matters.”
“Only to matter.”
Proginoskes’s kything was so gentle that it undercut the storm of Echthroi.  “You are created matter, Sporos.  You are part of the great plan, an indispensable part.  You are needed, Sporos; you hae your own unique share in the freedom of creation.”
“Do not listen to that hideous cherubim.  He’s nothing but a deformed emanation of energy.  We will give you no name and you will have power.”
Calvin pushed in again.  “Sporos, you are my partner.  Whatever we do, we must do it together.  If you join the wild farandolae again I am coming into the dance with you.”
Sporos quivered, “To help kill the farae?”
“No.  To be with you.”
Meg cried, “Progo, let’s go, too!  We can help Calvin.”  In her impetuous relief at having something to do, she did not feel the cherubim pulling her back, but plunged into the irrational tarantella and was immediately swept out of control.  Calvin was whirling beside Sporos, unable to pull him away from the circle closing in on the dying fara.
Meg was totally in the power of the revolving, twangling farandolae.  The orbital velocity sucked her in, through the circle and against the limp trunk of the fara.
Within the deahtly center of the dance it was dark;; she could not image the whirling farandolae; she could not kythe Calvin or Sporos.  She heard only a silence which was not silence because within this vortex there was an emptiness which precluded the possibility of sound.
Caught in this anguished vacuum she was utterly powerless.  She was sucked against the trunk of the fara, but the fara was now too weak to hold her up; it was she who had to hold the dying Deepened One, to give it her own life’s blood.  She felt it being drained from her.  The fara’s trunk strengthened.  It was Meg who wad dying.
Then arms were around her, holding her, pouring life back into her, Mr. Jenkins’s arms, the real Mr. Jenkins.  His strength and love filled her.
As she returned to life, the firm, rhythmic tendrils of the reviving fara caressed her.  Mr. Jenkins held them both, and his power did not weaken.  The murderous circle was broken.  Calvin held Sporos in his arms and a tear slid down his cheek.  Meg turned towards him, to comfort him.
The moment she kythed away from Mr. Jenkins and to Calvin, a new circle formed, not of farandolae, but of Mr. Jenkinses, Mr. Jenkinses swirling their deathly ring around the real Mr. Jenkins.
Meg whirled back towards him, but it was too late.  Mr. Jenkins was surrounded.  Meg cried, “Deepen, Sporos, it’s the only hope!”
The scattered farandolae darted hither and thither in confusion.  Proginoskes reached out wing after invisible wing to pull them in.  There was a frightened twingle.
“Look at the Echthroi!”  Proginoskes commanded.  “They are killing Mr. Jenkins as they made you kill your own farae.  Look.  This is what it is like.”
“Mr. Jenkins!”  Meg called.  “We have to save Mr. Jenkens.  Oh, Sporos, Deepen, it’s the second ordeal, you must Deepen.”
“For Mr. Jenkins?”
“For yourself, for all of us.”
“But why did Mr. Jenkins–didn’t he know what would happen to him?”
“Of course he knew.  He did it to save us.”
“To save us all,” Calvin added.  “The Echthroi have him, Sporos.  They are going to kill him.  What are you going to do?”
Sporos turned towards Senex, the fara from whom he had been born.  He reached out small green tendrils towards all the farandolae.  “It is Deepening time,” he said.
They heard a faint echo of the music which had been such joy when Blajeny took them to witness the birth of a star.  The farae were singing, singing, strengthening.  Sporos was joining in the song.  All about them farandolae were Deepening, and adding their music to the flowing of the song.
Meg’s exhaustion and relief were so great that she forgot Mr. Jenkins.  She assumed blindly that now that Sporos and the other farandolae were Deepening, now that the second ordeal had been successfully accomplished, all was well; the Echthroi were vanquished; Charles Wallace would recover; she could relax.
Then she felt Proginoskes pushing through her thoughtlessness.  “Meg!  You forget!  There are three tests!”
She turned from rejoicing. The circle of pseudo-Mr. Jenkinses was whirling wildly about the principal, closing in on him.
Proginoskes kythed so strongly that she was pulled back into painful awareness.  “We cannot let the Echthroi get Mr. Jenkins.  This is the third test, to rescue Mr. Jenkins.  Senex, Sporos, everybody, help us!”
Meg heard a shrill, high scream, a scream that turned into a horrible laugh of triumph.  It came from Mr. Jenkins.  One Mr. Jenkins.  There was no longer a spiral of Echthroid Jenkinses surrounding the principal.  They had closed in, and entered their prey.
Proginoskes’s kything cut like a knife.  “The Echthroi have him.  We must get him away.”