There's plenty more to write whether it's
interesting or not the days sometimes
get stronger and the nights sometimes collapse
or it's entirely reversed and upside
down while backward while trapped in a chair with
wheels with no straps holding Us down then
there's the person who's the person who We
use to miss the most but now only miss
when We think about all that We have missed
in the North where the summer's not too hot
or the South with all the people moving
and moving and not allowing time for
a break because sharks are always going
forward or they die (bullshit!) on the camera
for the internets where the thoughts come to
life and are shared and are admired and
We're scared so scared of all that happening
to Us and those moments of fear happy
anger sad that rise to the base of the
throat but go no further would they overwhelm
and spill out of the box like the things ordered
last night most of which will come scattered
throughout the summer and waiting is all
there is all there is to do when the knowledge
isn't there or just tumbles around and
out and in and doesn't help anyone
Thursday, June 26, 2014
Saturday, May 10, 2014
It's more than the thumbs.
In an effort to become more human, I have applied to the local junior college. Registration for fall is in nine days. I hope this works.
Friday, May 09, 2014
Understanding Love, 2
Late one night, or early one morning, I told you I loved you.
This was the first time that I remember saying those words of my own choice and not just parroting them back after someone said that they loved me.
You had invited me to spend the night, which was rare for me. Not the spending the night where you lived, but that was usually a group thing; everyone was invited and everyone stayed over. Often I was only invited after people were already there -- an afterthought. This night, though, you had specifically invited me and that was different. That was special.
You had recently moved out of your old room and into a new room to get farther away from your problems. The new room not only had your bed, but a decent couch for someone to sleep on. Even though other people, other friends, were over we barricaded ourselves in your room after eating. I remember being surprised, the next morning, that no one came upstairs, no one disturbed us.
Talking is what we did that night. We talked about books we had both read and went over the things we liked and disliked. We talked about books the other hadn't read and made enthusiastic, but hollow, promises to read them for ourselves. We talked about spirituality and at that time you still sort of believed in a spiritual world; not necessarily God, but something unexplainable. We ranked our teachers and rated most of them as placeholders who just didn't care. We discussed various Dungeons and Dragons campaigns we'd played and decided that what we really needed was to play more D&D. We mocked our friends and verbally ripped apart people whom we didn't care for.
Eventually, as we both knew would happen, we worked our way to your recent split with your girlfriend of almost, I think, two years. I was curious about what had happened from your point of view because I'd heard the other side and didn't completely believe it. You seemed almost relieved to be able to talk about it with someone who thought the whole thing was fucked up and genuinely hadn't picked a side in the matter, but was leaning your direction. At that time it didn't occur to me that you may not have been allowed to talk out the things you needed to talk about because the whole mess with your girlfriend also involved your best friend and sort of, in a sideways way, involved another of your closest friends. You really had no one to talk to at that time, did you?
I'm forever thankful that you weren't looking for answers because I wouldn't have had any. (I probably wouldn't have any answers now.) You just needed to talk, to know that someone understood your side. Any question I asked, you answered. And I tried to be thoughtful; to not just go for the juicy stuff that would have made for horrible, but addictive, television. I also tried to make you laugh because laughter always seems to make horrible things easier.
When you finished, you seemed more relaxed than you had in a while. It must have been a great weight off of your shoulders. You also asked me not to tell anyone the things you said and in nearly 20 years, this is the closest that I've come to saying anything. I still remember some of the stories you told.
Then you asked me about my potential love life. I talked about some of the girls who I had crushed on for a while because they were intelligent and cute but ultimately talked too much and I learned that they were kind of horrible people when I got to know them. From there we talked about the girls at our school and who were, or at least seemed to be, decent people. You asked about my best friend and what was up with that and I told you the truth, that nothing was up with that, but I'm not sure you really believed me. Finally you straight out asked me if I ever loved anybody, that's when I said that I loved you.
And I did love you. I loved you like I loved all my friends. I loved you like I loved my brothers. You were one of the best people I had ever met up to that point in my life, how could I not love you? You thanked me, even though it wasn't exactly what you meant when you asked the question. You said that you loved your friends, too, and it was hard when that love was betrayed. I agreed, but told you that there were still people who cared for you.
Fortunately, we were both non-weepy guys because, looking back, this would have been the point for tears. Instead I moved on the couch and in the process let one rip. Windows were open, only partially as a joke, and the subject was changed. I don't know if you remember any of this and if you do how much, but it was a good and important night for me.
This was the first time that I remember saying those words of my own choice and not just parroting them back after someone said that they loved me.
You had invited me to spend the night, which was rare for me. Not the spending the night where you lived, but that was usually a group thing; everyone was invited and everyone stayed over. Often I was only invited after people were already there -- an afterthought. This night, though, you had specifically invited me and that was different. That was special.
You had recently moved out of your old room and into a new room to get farther away from your problems. The new room not only had your bed, but a decent couch for someone to sleep on. Even though other people, other friends, were over we barricaded ourselves in your room after eating. I remember being surprised, the next morning, that no one came upstairs, no one disturbed us.
Talking is what we did that night. We talked about books we had both read and went over the things we liked and disliked. We talked about books the other hadn't read and made enthusiastic, but hollow, promises to read them for ourselves. We talked about spirituality and at that time you still sort of believed in a spiritual world; not necessarily God, but something unexplainable. We ranked our teachers and rated most of them as placeholders who just didn't care. We discussed various Dungeons and Dragons campaigns we'd played and decided that what we really needed was to play more D&D. We mocked our friends and verbally ripped apart people whom we didn't care for.
Eventually, as we both knew would happen, we worked our way to your recent split with your girlfriend of almost, I think, two years. I was curious about what had happened from your point of view because I'd heard the other side and didn't completely believe it. You seemed almost relieved to be able to talk about it with someone who thought the whole thing was fucked up and genuinely hadn't picked a side in the matter, but was leaning your direction. At that time it didn't occur to me that you may not have been allowed to talk out the things you needed to talk about because the whole mess with your girlfriend also involved your best friend and sort of, in a sideways way, involved another of your closest friends. You really had no one to talk to at that time, did you?
I'm forever thankful that you weren't looking for answers because I wouldn't have had any. (I probably wouldn't have any answers now.) You just needed to talk, to know that someone understood your side. Any question I asked, you answered. And I tried to be thoughtful; to not just go for the juicy stuff that would have made for horrible, but addictive, television. I also tried to make you laugh because laughter always seems to make horrible things easier.
When you finished, you seemed more relaxed than you had in a while. It must have been a great weight off of your shoulders. You also asked me not to tell anyone the things you said and in nearly 20 years, this is the closest that I've come to saying anything. I still remember some of the stories you told.
Then you asked me about my potential love life. I talked about some of the girls who I had crushed on for a while because they were intelligent and cute but ultimately talked too much and I learned that they were kind of horrible people when I got to know them. From there we talked about the girls at our school and who were, or at least seemed to be, decent people. You asked about my best friend and what was up with that and I told you the truth, that nothing was up with that, but I'm not sure you really believed me. Finally you straight out asked me if I ever loved anybody, that's when I said that I loved you.
And I did love you. I loved you like I loved all my friends. I loved you like I loved my brothers. You were one of the best people I had ever met up to that point in my life, how could I not love you? You thanked me, even though it wasn't exactly what you meant when you asked the question. You said that you loved your friends, too, and it was hard when that love was betrayed. I agreed, but told you that there were still people who cared for you.
Fortunately, we were both non-weepy guys because, looking back, this would have been the point for tears. Instead I moved on the couch and in the process let one rip. Windows were open, only partially as a joke, and the subject was changed. I don't know if you remember any of this and if you do how much, but it was a good and important night for me.
Wednesday, May 07, 2014
Understanding Love, 1
I've heard it -- or read it -- said that if you think you've been in love, you haven't been in love.
Still, I think that at one time I loved you. I think I loved you hard.
I remember thinking about you when you weren't there and feeling happy and sad and a little sick to my stomach. I remember being with you, sitting, and feeling happy and a little sick to my stomach. I remember the rumors about you and your former boyfriend. I remember the day you transformed yourself into a very sad, very insane woman and handed out flowers. I remember how easy it was for you to slide from your social group to mine and then back to yours and how I'd already been rejected by your social group; I could have lived on the outskirts just to be close to you, but that would have been pathetic and I already had so many things working against me. I remember the day you saw the toys I carried around in my backpack and you found it amusing, not in a cynical or cruel way, but more in an I-understand-why-you-carry-these-things way; you understood that I liked what I liked and I used them to get reactions from people. I remember your kindness.
High school was not a kind place for me. It wasn't cruel, either. It was more indifferent. I was fat enough and nerdy enough that I put people off. I was smart enough, nice enough, and "normal" enough that no one attacked me, physically or mentally, for being different than they were. I was a place holder, a space taker, to most of the students, probably most of the teachers, too. I was an object to be walked around and a group member to be ignored.
To you, though, I wasn't just an object. You always greeted me, even when I was forced to sit alone in a group of four desks and I spitefully made sure I sat in the desk closest to the door. When, one day, you were rejected by your group and had to sit with me, you liked it enough that the next day you came back, even though there were empty seats elsewhere in the classroom. And you came back the next day and the day after that and each day until the school year ended.
There was a day, when we had a substitute teacher, when we sat at our desks, across from each other, and we talked about The Rocky Horror Picture Show. You had discovered it more recently than I had and were in the process of indoctrinating your friends. Just as the substitute teach came up to our desks you said that the weekend before you had "devirginized" your boyfriend, at the time. The sub said that he and a lot of young men were devirginized during their time in the Army, you turned red, and I bit back laughter. You stumbled and stuttered, trying to explain the movie and the tradition of the lipstick "V"s on a new watcher's cheeks. The sub said that if your boyfriend needed more help with the devirginizing he should join the Army; they have a lot to teach, he said. You looked down and said that he was actually joining the Marines. I snorted. Even better, the sub said. I burst out laughing and a half-second later, you started to laugh, too, still redder than a strawberry.
It was you kindness and your ability to laugh at your mistakes and your forgiveness to me for laughing at you before it was with you. It didn't hurt, too, that you were easily the most beautiful female in our class, if not the whole school. I remember how you kept your hair carefully tucked behind your ear, but when you were concentrating hard it would fall from its place as you leaned forward and the very tip of your ear would poke out of your hair. I remember your eyes flashing in anger at the idiots in the classroom and in joy when I could make you laugh. I remember your smile: your huge smile when you were excited; your sly smile when you had gotten away with something; and your small smile when you were simply content.
I knew that if you loved me at all it would never be the same way I loved you. There was someone, a friend, who was smarter than me, nicer than me, and much better looking than me who you said you couldn't like as anything other than a friend. What chance did a schlub like me have? It was okay, though, because I got to spend 50 minutes alone with you every day we were at school and I wouldn't want to give that time up for anything.
We went to the same school out first year of college. I didn't go hunting for you. I have this thing about social strata and not trying to shake it up and while I knew where I'd end up -- outside and alone -- I didn't know where you would choose to be. I knew you'd choose, though, because you were smart enough and acceptable enough to end up anywhere. I did call you a couple of times, though. Once to tell you a teacher had died, one who I really liked, and you helped me feel better. The other time was to see if you were headed home one weekend because I needed a ride back to school. You were and you did. We also ran into each other a few times and just chatted. Your roommate, who we went to school with, was not nearly so kind.
I held on to the feeling I had for you for a few years until it reached the point that I had to give it up. I was going to a different school and wasn't ever going to see you again. It was hard letting go, but I had to even though it made me feel good and safe.
You were the only person I wasn't in semi-regular contact with who I wanted to see at our ten year reunion. You didn't come. I'm not going to the 20 because once in a room with those people again and just being an object was enough. I've kept an eye out for you on Facebook, but cannot find you. Either you’re not there, or you've changed enough that I no longer recognize you when I see you. I don't know and I'm not going to be concerned about it because it probably wouldn't change anything anyway.
I hope your life is nice. I hope that even if you didn't become what you thought you were going to become you're something that you like. I hope your husband appreciates what he has and shows it to you every day even if it's just by taking your hand for no particular reason and giving it a small squeeze. I hope that any kids you might have got your smarts more than you looks, but I hope they have that same sly smile when they're up to mischief. And I hope that when you think back to high school and that fat guy you sat across from in English it's with fondness.
Still, I think that at one time I loved you. I think I loved you hard.
I remember thinking about you when you weren't there and feeling happy and sad and a little sick to my stomach. I remember being with you, sitting, and feeling happy and a little sick to my stomach. I remember the rumors about you and your former boyfriend. I remember the day you transformed yourself into a very sad, very insane woman and handed out flowers. I remember how easy it was for you to slide from your social group to mine and then back to yours and how I'd already been rejected by your social group; I could have lived on the outskirts just to be close to you, but that would have been pathetic and I already had so many things working against me. I remember the day you saw the toys I carried around in my backpack and you found it amusing, not in a cynical or cruel way, but more in an I-understand-why-you-carry-these-things way; you understood that I liked what I liked and I used them to get reactions from people. I remember your kindness.
High school was not a kind place for me. It wasn't cruel, either. It was more indifferent. I was fat enough and nerdy enough that I put people off. I was smart enough, nice enough, and "normal" enough that no one attacked me, physically or mentally, for being different than they were. I was a place holder, a space taker, to most of the students, probably most of the teachers, too. I was an object to be walked around and a group member to be ignored.
To you, though, I wasn't just an object. You always greeted me, even when I was forced to sit alone in a group of four desks and I spitefully made sure I sat in the desk closest to the door. When, one day, you were rejected by your group and had to sit with me, you liked it enough that the next day you came back, even though there were empty seats elsewhere in the classroom. And you came back the next day and the day after that and each day until the school year ended.
There was a day, when we had a substitute teacher, when we sat at our desks, across from each other, and we talked about The Rocky Horror Picture Show. You had discovered it more recently than I had and were in the process of indoctrinating your friends. Just as the substitute teach came up to our desks you said that the weekend before you had "devirginized" your boyfriend, at the time. The sub said that he and a lot of young men were devirginized during their time in the Army, you turned red, and I bit back laughter. You stumbled and stuttered, trying to explain the movie and the tradition of the lipstick "V"s on a new watcher's cheeks. The sub said that if your boyfriend needed more help with the devirginizing he should join the Army; they have a lot to teach, he said. You looked down and said that he was actually joining the Marines. I snorted. Even better, the sub said. I burst out laughing and a half-second later, you started to laugh, too, still redder than a strawberry.
It was you kindness and your ability to laugh at your mistakes and your forgiveness to me for laughing at you before it was with you. It didn't hurt, too, that you were easily the most beautiful female in our class, if not the whole school. I remember how you kept your hair carefully tucked behind your ear, but when you were concentrating hard it would fall from its place as you leaned forward and the very tip of your ear would poke out of your hair. I remember your eyes flashing in anger at the idiots in the classroom and in joy when I could make you laugh. I remember your smile: your huge smile when you were excited; your sly smile when you had gotten away with something; and your small smile when you were simply content.
I knew that if you loved me at all it would never be the same way I loved you. There was someone, a friend, who was smarter than me, nicer than me, and much better looking than me who you said you couldn't like as anything other than a friend. What chance did a schlub like me have? It was okay, though, because I got to spend 50 minutes alone with you every day we were at school and I wouldn't want to give that time up for anything.
We went to the same school out first year of college. I didn't go hunting for you. I have this thing about social strata and not trying to shake it up and while I knew where I'd end up -- outside and alone -- I didn't know where you would choose to be. I knew you'd choose, though, because you were smart enough and acceptable enough to end up anywhere. I did call you a couple of times, though. Once to tell you a teacher had died, one who I really liked, and you helped me feel better. The other time was to see if you were headed home one weekend because I needed a ride back to school. You were and you did. We also ran into each other a few times and just chatted. Your roommate, who we went to school with, was not nearly so kind.
I held on to the feeling I had for you for a few years until it reached the point that I had to give it up. I was going to a different school and wasn't ever going to see you again. It was hard letting go, but I had to even though it made me feel good and safe.
You were the only person I wasn't in semi-regular contact with who I wanted to see at our ten year reunion. You didn't come. I'm not going to the 20 because once in a room with those people again and just being an object was enough. I've kept an eye out for you on Facebook, but cannot find you. Either you’re not there, or you've changed enough that I no longer recognize you when I see you. I don't know and I'm not going to be concerned about it because it probably wouldn't change anything anyway.
I hope your life is nice. I hope that even if you didn't become what you thought you were going to become you're something that you like. I hope your husband appreciates what he has and shows it to you every day even if it's just by taking your hand for no particular reason and giving it a small squeeze. I hope that any kids you might have got your smarts more than you looks, but I hope they have that same sly smile when they're up to mischief. And I hope that when you think back to high school and that fat guy you sat across from in English it's with fondness.
Friday, May 02, 2014
A Play Question
The part of the play that comes after the intermission is almost always shorter than the part before. Is this because everything used to be written in a three act structure and we keep trying to force that structure into two acts?
Thursday, May 01, 2014
What's this advertising?
What is it trying to get me to buy?
Tuesday, April 29, 2014
I've found myself in an odd situation at work recently. I don't have a lot to do.
It feels wrong. Pretty much since the day I started in November there was always lots of work. Lots of applications coming in. Papers to file. Letters to send. Hiring packages to prepare for interviews. Hiring packages to clean up after interviews. Always something coming in for me to store or prepare to send out.
The mail coming to me has practically dried up. Mostly I've been getting returned mail; letters I send out, printed from the statewide system, that candidate haven't updated their addresses. Most come back with a sticker saying the person cannot be found. It's a shame how much money we spend on postage on mail that gets returned. Returned mail I just mark in the system and shove in the file.
This lack of mail bothers me. I have over a half dozen open positions newly posted online. Each position had about 50 letters sent out and I'm not getting any responses. One of the positions is, traditionally, a very popular position that normally receives 10 or more applications in the first three days after posting the position.
I don't know what's going on. My fear is that our mailroom is behind, way behind, and I'll end up with a huge stack of mail on my desk, postmarked two or three weeks ago.
It's not a completely far-fetched idea. Last week I received a piece of mail that was post marked 11 days before the day it crossed my desk. Who's to say that won't happen again and with far more mail?
The biggest problem with not having enough work is the thinking. Thinking leads to posts like yesterdays after hours of building up inside because I spend most of my time thinking about things that apparently "normal" people don't think about.
Being busy, but not that horrible kind that's also boring, is a reason this job is attractive to me. It keeps me from thinking. I'm sure I'll get back there eventually, but it can't be soon enough for me.
It feels wrong. Pretty much since the day I started in November there was always lots of work. Lots of applications coming in. Papers to file. Letters to send. Hiring packages to prepare for interviews. Hiring packages to clean up after interviews. Always something coming in for me to store or prepare to send out.
The mail coming to me has practically dried up. Mostly I've been getting returned mail; letters I send out, printed from the statewide system, that candidate haven't updated their addresses. Most come back with a sticker saying the person cannot be found. It's a shame how much money we spend on postage on mail that gets returned. Returned mail I just mark in the system and shove in the file.
This lack of mail bothers me. I have over a half dozen open positions newly posted online. Each position had about 50 letters sent out and I'm not getting any responses. One of the positions is, traditionally, a very popular position that normally receives 10 or more applications in the first three days after posting the position.
I don't know what's going on. My fear is that our mailroom is behind, way behind, and I'll end up with a huge stack of mail on my desk, postmarked two or three weeks ago.
It's not a completely far-fetched idea. Last week I received a piece of mail that was post marked 11 days before the day it crossed my desk. Who's to say that won't happen again and with far more mail?
The biggest problem with not having enough work is the thinking. Thinking leads to posts like yesterdays after hours of building up inside because I spend most of my time thinking about things that apparently "normal" people don't think about.
Being busy, but not that horrible kind that's also boring, is a reason this job is attractive to me. It keeps me from thinking. I'm sure I'll get back there eventually, but it can't be soon enough for me.
Monday, April 28, 2014
Searchin'... Gonna Find Her
Because I am not feeling so mentally stable and the brain doctor is over an hour away, I started looking into finding someone closer who could manage meds, but still specializes in the brain.
First, of course, I checked the brain doctors who are part of my insurance plan. There are none local. I expanded my search then expanded it again and again. Finally, brain doctors were found, but they were all, by then, over an hour away. I checked without my plan and found a few, but when I called a couple of them to find out prices the lines were disconnected. I don't know if they moved or if they've retired, but the internet's information is out of date. Also, I don't really want the one's whose name is linked up with some pretty heavy Christian websites. My brain isn't wired that way.
Next, I thought that maybe I could do what someone I know is doing and see the brain doctor to manage meds, but see a brain whisperer locally because maybe, even though I don't really trust people, it could help me to talk about stuff that I don't want to talk about but would feel like I have to talk about because I'm paying for the listening time. Again I checked with insurance. No one local, but there are a couple over the hill and through the woods and over the river and through some more woods, about 45-45 minutes away from work, when there's no snow. I don't want to put in that kind of time for something that I don't really want to do. There are several brain whisperers who are local, but the one with a website was extremely New Age-y; lots of meditation and spiritual quotes and hummingbirds. I assume the average price would be $100 per visit. I'm not sure about the other brain whisperers and haven't collected phone numbers. How do you start when your choices are not limited by insurance?
One thing for sure, I'm not going to be shoved into some bullshit group therapy again, I can tell you that. Real life group sessions aren't like you see in most TV shows where the hero goes a few times and gets better and moves out. It's more like that old sit com, Dear John, about a divorce group where no one really gets better or leaves and even if they leave, it's only for a little while they're soon back with the exact same problems. Plus, I already don't trust a single potential member of a group session, including the person leading it, who may or may not be a trained mental health professional.
(A little off topic, but I watched the first three episodes of [grav∙i∙ty] last night. I liked the way they showed Lily's loneliness in the first episode. In the next two, though, it seems like these people are "healing" too easily. Maybe it's a post attempt rush of energy and eagerness. I'll have to keep watching to see if it holds. It's also interesting to learn why these people attempted. It's never simple and often seems stupid.)
I can feel my heart beating rapidly and my stomach is churning thinking about everything all at once. Getting better is hard when you don't want to.
First, of course, I checked the brain doctors who are part of my insurance plan. There are none local. I expanded my search then expanded it again and again. Finally, brain doctors were found, but they were all, by then, over an hour away. I checked without my plan and found a few, but when I called a couple of them to find out prices the lines were disconnected. I don't know if they moved or if they've retired, but the internet's information is out of date. Also, I don't really want the one's whose name is linked up with some pretty heavy Christian websites. My brain isn't wired that way.
Next, I thought that maybe I could do what someone I know is doing and see the brain doctor to manage meds, but see a brain whisperer locally because maybe, even though I don't really trust people, it could help me to talk about stuff that I don't want to talk about but would feel like I have to talk about because I'm paying for the listening time. Again I checked with insurance. No one local, but there are a couple over the hill and through the woods and over the river and through some more woods, about 45-45 minutes away from work, when there's no snow. I don't want to put in that kind of time for something that I don't really want to do. There are several brain whisperers who are local, but the one with a website was extremely New Age-y; lots of meditation and spiritual quotes and hummingbirds. I assume the average price would be $100 per visit. I'm not sure about the other brain whisperers and haven't collected phone numbers. How do you start when your choices are not limited by insurance?
One thing for sure, I'm not going to be shoved into some bullshit group therapy again, I can tell you that. Real life group sessions aren't like you see in most TV shows where the hero goes a few times and gets better and moves out. It's more like that old sit com, Dear John, about a divorce group where no one really gets better or leaves and even if they leave, it's only for a little while they're soon back with the exact same problems. Plus, I already don't trust a single potential member of a group session, including the person leading it, who may or may not be a trained mental health professional.
(A little off topic, but I watched the first three episodes of [grav∙i∙ty] last night. I liked the way they showed Lily's loneliness in the first episode. In the next two, though, it seems like these people are "healing" too easily. Maybe it's a post attempt rush of energy and eagerness. I'll have to keep watching to see if it holds. It's also interesting to learn why these people attempted. It's never simple and often seems stupid.)
I can feel my heart beating rapidly and my stomach is churning thinking about everything all at once. Getting better is hard when you don't want to.
Wednesday, April 23, 2014
Self
Do you recommend movies or books or TV shows or music that you think are horrible to the people you like?
I don't.
I don't.
Monday, April 21, 2014
Friday, April 18, 2014
What to Say
When you're afraid of scaring people and being misunderstood you can't really say, or write, all the things that you would like to.
Never Promised
When I was younger, like nearly 1/4th my current age, I was told that I should learn how to type because it was a useful skill. As time went on I kept being told by teachers and other authoritative adults that I should learn how to time. I didn't really care until someone said that when I started working I would only be typing and I'd never have to hand write something ever again.
Being the niave and trusting person I was, especially toward authoritative figures, I took learning how to type to heart and as a promise.
I don't really hate my handwriting, but I don't like it much either. It's chunky and inconssistant. Lines waver even when there are lines to write on. It just doesn't look good.
The problem is, the authoritative adult didn't make a promise and my chunky, inconsistant handwriting shows up all over the place at work.
Another reason life is unfair.
Being the niave and trusting person I was, especially toward authoritative figures, I took learning how to type to heart and as a promise.
I don't really hate my handwriting, but I don't like it much either. It's chunky and inconssistant. Lines waver even when there are lines to write on. It just doesn't look good.
The problem is, the authoritative adult didn't make a promise and my chunky, inconsistant handwriting shows up all over the place at work.
Another reason life is unfair.
Wednesday, April 16, 2014
Spring Is Tough
For the last several day I pretty much get to the house and climb into bed. On Saturday I called my dad sometime after five and then headed for the covers. On Sunday Dad dropped me off close to six and I locked up then went to my bed. Monday I got back from work, 4:30ish, jumped into bed, and brushed my teeth around 8:30 when I woke up to pee. Yesterday I forced myself to stay awake until after six-ish because I wanted to make sure the dishwasher got opened so the dishes could actually dry; I texted my mom near eight because, again, time to pee, but I had my teeth brushed well before.
Today looks to be much the same.
I've been feeling this way for a few weeks, but didn't give in to it until recently. Don't know why. (Not that I feel better sleeping 10-12 hours, either.)
It's a spring thing, I guess. I've always felt much worse near the beginning of spring. Maybe it's the allergies, although this year it's been all in my eyes and out of my nose. Maybe not. Last year spring was easier becuase I had a new job to distract myself with. Nothing like that this year though.
Today looks to be much the same.
I've been feeling this way for a few weeks, but didn't give in to it until recently. Don't know why. (Not that I feel better sleeping 10-12 hours, either.)
It's a spring thing, I guess. I've always felt much worse near the beginning of spring. Maybe it's the allergies, although this year it's been all in my eyes and out of my nose. Maybe not. Last year spring was easier becuase I had a new job to distract myself with. Nothing like that this year though.
Wednesday, April 02, 2014
My Father's Father
He kept a rubber band around his wallet for as long as I can remember. He said the rubber band made it hard for criminals to steal the wallet and helped keep everything in the wallet. I figured he used the rubber band to keep the wallet together, since he never seemed to buy a new one.
When he learned that you liked to eat something that he really liked to eat he would always have it for you. When you told him that you didn't like a food that he really liked he got very upset.
He never lounged in his pajamas and always came to breakfast dressed for the day.
Once he threatened to hit me, and I feared he would, because my cousins (girls) and I were being too loud late at night.
He spent part of World War II in a labor camp for being a conscientious objector. He had no trouble fighting or using weapons, but he was opposed to war. Most of the other men there with him were simply afraid to fight and one day he simply walked away from the camp. He sent a letter to the FBI letting them know where he would be, but nothing was ever done about it.
While working as a college professor he was the faculty person in charge of the fraternity that had the people who would never be accepted by the other fraternities. Mostly it was made up of black men and Jewish men. When he took the students to get a haircut at a local barber, the barber refused. He told the barber that if the students weren't served at this barber he would charter a bus to the next city to get the haircuts and he would make sure to bring a couple of reporters along with him. Everyone who wanted a haircut that day got a haircut.
He believed in the teachings of BF Skinner, that behavior can be trained into people given reinforcement or punishment. This led to him doing some awful things to some of his children, including using electric shocks because how can you reinforce good behavior if the behavior happens while unconscious.
There were televisions in almost every room of his house and two in the main room. He would have these two on all day long, one for news and one for sports unless there were two sporting events he wanted to watch. Sometimes he would even have the radio on for a third game.
He loved his wife with all his heart, but he took her for granted and didn't really show his appreciation for her.
When he cooked a roast or turkey, before slicing for serving, he would take half the meat and put it in the freezer to make sure he had all the leftovers he wanted. And even dinner ran short the extra wouldn't be pulled out.
He taught us how to make a blue cheese spread that is fantastic and, at the very least, gets made every Christmas for gifts for family and dipping before, during, and after the meal.
On Friday, March 28th, he died leaving behind memories for those who knew him.
When he learned that you liked to eat something that he really liked to eat he would always have it for you. When you told him that you didn't like a food that he really liked he got very upset.
He never lounged in his pajamas and always came to breakfast dressed for the day.
Once he threatened to hit me, and I feared he would, because my cousins (girls) and I were being too loud late at night.
He spent part of World War II in a labor camp for being a conscientious objector. He had no trouble fighting or using weapons, but he was opposed to war. Most of the other men there with him were simply afraid to fight and one day he simply walked away from the camp. He sent a letter to the FBI letting them know where he would be, but nothing was ever done about it.
While working as a college professor he was the faculty person in charge of the fraternity that had the people who would never be accepted by the other fraternities. Mostly it was made up of black men and Jewish men. When he took the students to get a haircut at a local barber, the barber refused. He told the barber that if the students weren't served at this barber he would charter a bus to the next city to get the haircuts and he would make sure to bring a couple of reporters along with him. Everyone who wanted a haircut that day got a haircut.
He believed in the teachings of BF Skinner, that behavior can be trained into people given reinforcement or punishment. This led to him doing some awful things to some of his children, including using electric shocks because how can you reinforce good behavior if the behavior happens while unconscious.
There were televisions in almost every room of his house and two in the main room. He would have these two on all day long, one for news and one for sports unless there were two sporting events he wanted to watch. Sometimes he would even have the radio on for a third game.
He loved his wife with all his heart, but he took her for granted and didn't really show his appreciation for her.
When he cooked a roast or turkey, before slicing for serving, he would take half the meat and put it in the freezer to make sure he had all the leftovers he wanted. And even dinner ran short the extra wouldn't be pulled out.
He taught us how to make a blue cheese spread that is fantastic and, at the very least, gets made every Christmas for gifts for family and dipping before, during, and after the meal.
On Friday, March 28th, he died leaving behind memories for those who knew him.
Thursday, March 27, 2014
Sexy Dream
Last night I had the sexiest dream I've had in a long, long time and it was me and an Internet "celebrity" discussing possibilities for making a movie. Doesn't sound sexy, but the me in the dream sure imagined that the sexual tension in the room was almost too thick to see her.
Wednesday, March 26, 2014
Wednesday, March 19, 2014
"S" Word
The name brand medication is working. Well, it's working better than the generic did, at least. The brain doctor said that it could take up to two weeks for the full effect to come back and it's only been nine days. Give it time. Give it time.
The thing is that the "S" word has been pretty forfront in my thoughts for the past month or so and that hasn't gone away. If the meds work like they did the last time they won't go away totally, but they won't always be on the surface.
It's the "S" word that really freaked the brain doctor out last week. I went in wanting to start the appointmet off with the med thing, but he interupted me and we got into topics that had more to do with me living my life. That's how he gave me an out for thirty or so minutes so I didn't have to talk about the thing that was important to me. Eventually we got there though and I gave him the story about why I was on generics and we blah-blahed about that before he asked me about the changes in me. That's when I got to the "S" word and he practically hopped out of his chair. It made me wonder if I somehow convinced him that I had stopped thinking that even though I'm pretty sure I told him it was always there, just burried enough that I didn't see it all the time. Or maybe it's because that was the first time I ever said the actual "S" word to him. I was very careful not to say the "S" word to him for so long and this last time it just came out.
Now that I'm thinking about it, I hardly ever even think the "S" word. I wonder why that is?
I mean, just sitting and thinking right now there are several words that I know that I hardly ever use or think, but that's because I rarly think about the topics those words are related to. But I've been thinking about this for a very long time (years and years) and I don't use that word to myself. Odd.
The thing is that the "S" word has been pretty forfront in my thoughts for the past month or so and that hasn't gone away. If the meds work like they did the last time they won't go away totally, but they won't always be on the surface.
It's the "S" word that really freaked the brain doctor out last week. I went in wanting to start the appointmet off with the med thing, but he interupted me and we got into topics that had more to do with me living my life. That's how he gave me an out for thirty or so minutes so I didn't have to talk about the thing that was important to me. Eventually we got there though and I gave him the story about why I was on generics and we blah-blahed about that before he asked me about the changes in me. That's when I got to the "S" word and he practically hopped out of his chair. It made me wonder if I somehow convinced him that I had stopped thinking that even though I'm pretty sure I told him it was always there, just burried enough that I didn't see it all the time. Or maybe it's because that was the first time I ever said the actual "S" word to him. I was very careful not to say the "S" word to him for so long and this last time it just came out.
Now that I'm thinking about it, I hardly ever even think the "S" word. I wonder why that is?
I mean, just sitting and thinking right now there are several words that I know that I hardly ever use or think, but that's because I rarly think about the topics those words are related to. But I've been thinking about this for a very long time (years and years) and I don't use that word to myself. Odd.
Thursday, March 13, 2014
The Loneliest Number
I am sitting in a movie theater crowded with people who like at least one of the TV shows that I do. I've been here for an hour and I've watched a lot of people come in. Most in pairs, occasionally in a triple, and once in a while they come in larger groups.
It's time like these that I feel lonely. The times when I'm surrounded by people who have people when I don't have a people. Most are chatting together, not about the movie we are going to see, but just stuff, life. Some may be having (or think they are having) deep conversations, but whether they are or aren't doesn't matter. What matters is that they have someone to share whatever it is.
These are the moments when I'm really aware of my social retardation. I have an in with nearly everyone sitting around me. What's your favorite Veronica Mars moment? I could ask. Except the few time's I've tried sounds won't come out of my mouth. Not even the weird cacking sounds cats make while watching bird through the window. I look forward to this being finished so I won't be as aware of this problem, but I will always know it's there.
Monday, March 10, 2014
Sitdep
I see the brain doctor in a little less than two hours.
If the world is less against me, non-generic medication should be waiting for me when I get back this evening.
A few months ago, six at the most, I probably would have felt that how I feel now, how I've felt for a month, is an improvement. I guess it shows how much mind altering chemicals can change a person.
After I got back from Oregon in November, I saw the brain doctor and he was impressed with how changed I was. He started talking about how he thought that a, not small, portion of the deep depression I felt was, maybe, situational because not only did I just have a successful vacation, but during that vacation I found out that I would be changing jobs to the one I currently have by the end of November. And yes, knowing I wouldn't have to put up with my old boss made me feel a bit better, but by that point I had also been on the maximum dose of my medication for six-ish weeks. I'm sure that had a large effect on me, too.
Now that I've been on the generics for a while and have watched the dawning grey turn back into a starless night, I don't think that the situation has as much to do with this as he hoped.
I am not looking forward to today's appointment.
Here's something to know about me and doctors: When I see a doctor I try to learn how I can manipulate them so that the focus is not on me. Insane, right? Still it's who I am and what I do, but not exactly on purpose. This brain doctor was a tough one, though. He was very good at ignoring my attempts as evasion and distraction, which is something I needed from him, probably still do. (The brain doctor I saw several years ago did nothing for me because he was easy to nudge off on tangents into things he was interested in; it only sometimes had to do with psychiatry.) The unfortunate thing is that during our last visit I think I needled my way through and found his distraction and that's not good because I don't help me if I push him off course. Of course, that begs the question of do I want to help me? Because even when I was on the name brand stuff, and started to really feel, I didn't want to get better and now that feel even worse the desire to just be and become so that I no longer am has grown.
If the world is less against me, non-generic medication should be waiting for me when I get back this evening.
A few months ago, six at the most, I probably would have felt that how I feel now, how I've felt for a month, is an improvement. I guess it shows how much mind altering chemicals can change a person.
After I got back from Oregon in November, I saw the brain doctor and he was impressed with how changed I was. He started talking about how he thought that a, not small, portion of the deep depression I felt was, maybe, situational because not only did I just have a successful vacation, but during that vacation I found out that I would be changing jobs to the one I currently have by the end of November. And yes, knowing I wouldn't have to put up with my old boss made me feel a bit better, but by that point I had also been on the maximum dose of my medication for six-ish weeks. I'm sure that had a large effect on me, too.
Now that I've been on the generics for a while and have watched the dawning grey turn back into a starless night, I don't think that the situation has as much to do with this as he hoped.
I am not looking forward to today's appointment.
Here's something to know about me and doctors: When I see a doctor I try to learn how I can manipulate them so that the focus is not on me. Insane, right? Still it's who I am and what I do, but not exactly on purpose. This brain doctor was a tough one, though. He was very good at ignoring my attempts as evasion and distraction, which is something I needed from him, probably still do. (The brain doctor I saw several years ago did nothing for me because he was easy to nudge off on tangents into things he was interested in; it only sometimes had to do with psychiatry.) The unfortunate thing is that during our last visit I think I needled my way through and found his distraction and that's not good because I don't help me if I push him off course. Of course, that begs the question of do I want to help me? Because even when I was on the name brand stuff, and started to really feel, I didn't want to get better and now that feel even worse the desire to just be and become so that I no longer am has grown.
Wednesday, March 05, 2014
Dear Liza, dear Liza
There's a hole in me. I think it's in my diaphragm. It feels like it's trying to suck my shoulders and hips toward it so I'll just collapse in on myself. It hasn't worked, so far, but if feels harder and harder to sit straight up.
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