So Tim and Squeaky, still broken up (I guess) are still cohabiting--if "when one walks in the other hands them the baby and walks out, often for days at a time" can be referred to as "cohabitation". Tim called me last night (at 11:30, 12:45, and 4 AM...on a work-night....before my earliest morning of the week....) and, among other things, told me that Squeaky had not been home for four days, and that a week or two ago she turned to him and told him that she was "sick of LittleMan". The kid isn't even four months old yet, and already his mother is leaving him at home with his father and staying out for days. Tim, who is not at his peak for many reasons, threatened last night to drop the baby off at DCFS and tell them the mother abandoned her child--and then walk out on both of them.
I would normally want to strangle him for at least ten reasons in just those sentences alone, but I am cutting him the most infinitesimal bit of slack for a crucial reason: Cassidy, his 15-year-old cat who has been with Tim for as long as I've known him, is dying, and Tim can't even do anything about it. When Tim told me the details, at the end of one of the phone calls--I'll spare you all from them--but when I hung up the phone, I cried for literally an hour. Poor Cassidy; he was such a good boy, and it breaks my heart that he's hurting. (I told Tim to take him to the vet not TERRIBLY far from where he lives, and I'd call in and take care of the bill for having Cass put down; but of course, Tim can't leave til Squeaky returns, and there's some drama involving Squeaky's phone, and blah blah blah--because Squeaky wants to be an immature little brat, Cassidy gets to hurt for another day, and Tim gets to hurt as he watches his beloved cat waste away. I really want to punch Squeaky right now.
And then there's Deb; the thing we were most afraid of has pretty much happened, and she's in a bad case of postpartum depression. I'm so worried for her--she sounds so sad, even though she can explain from an intellectual standpoint exactly what she's feeling and why. And her husband is NOT helping; he's choosing to stay out later than he has to; when he WAS home, he had the flu and was acting like a whiny baby the whole time. I do not understand certain men.
I understand CR a little better, though; he's been amazing, incredible, wonderful--and the only thing he HASN'T done is make it into town. If the snow would maybe manage to stop happening every three days alternating between here and there, perhaps progress would be made in this area as well. But we talk via IM every night, and we've pretty much worked out everything in the past that went wrong.
But right now, honestly, I'm just pretty glad to be me. Compared to all the things my friends and loved ones are going through at the moment, a messy house and a pile of laundry the size of Mount McKinley are practically comforting. And if I needed anything to confirm my judgement, both Tim and Squeaky with their cabin fever, and Deb with her hormones kicking her ass and her stitches in a Really Bad Place, have reminded me how much I really do NOT want to go through the whole having-a-baby thing. I guess from a philosophical/dream world standpoint, I'll always wonder what might have been; but from a practical, about-to-turn-40-and-none-too-stable-my-damn-self perspective, I've made the best decision for me.
Showing posts with label CR. Show all posts
Showing posts with label CR. Show all posts
Saturday, February 20, 2010
Thursday, September 10, 2009
Mysteries of the Universe, Continued
Normally, faced with the statement that follows, I would immediately reply (at least inwardly) "What a frickin MORON." Because...well, here, let me give you the statement, and we'll go from there...
(I regret that I am unable to offer you the remainder of the quoted statement, or the replies of the rest of the group being addressed, as upon hearing the word "EVil", I was seized with a sudden violent urge to leave the room, an urge to which I succumbed instantly. Anyhow...)
I do not believe that I am stepping too far over the line in saying, "What a frickin MORON." Because in my opinion, that is a patently moronic statement, for several different values of moronicity. First of all--attempting to demonize a passing pop-culture fad is the hallmark of an uptight mind. In fact, attempting to claim that ANYTHING--any belief system, any lifestyle choice, any inborn quality, any random action--is based in EEEEEEEVil, should be the Godwin's Law of any discussion. "It comes from EEEEEEEEVIL," in my book, translates as "I don't like it, it scares/disturbs/disquiets me, and I cannot articulate the reason in a reasoned adult fashion because this is a reaction based purely in emotion, superstition, and a stunted sense of the workings of the universe. Therefore I pronounce it bad, and demonize it and all who are not as offended by it as I am."
Also, I'm sorry...reality, anyone? Vampires living in New York, catered to by advertisers? What a frickin MORON. Those are idiot Hot Topic kids who've read one too many Twilight books. The only EEEEEEEEvil they represent is the EEEEEEEvil of unthinking consumerism, faddishness, and the well-marketed urge to "do your own thing" by buying exactly the same trend-item that everyone else buys to show that they're "doing their own thing". And that's not EEEEEEEVil, that's just STOOOOOOOOpid.
On a related note, how an evangelical Christian thinks that exhibiting this level of spiritual paranoia--or rather, announcing it in reply to another co-worker's perfectly innocuous Seinfeldian question of "And what's with these kids and the whole zombie/vampire thing?"--how he believes that this response is going to assist in his stated goal of converting me, I fail to grasp.
But because it was offered as a statement based in the speaker's religious beliefs, rather than a random chunk of crackpottery from the fringey set, I had to keep my mouth shut. Which is sad, because no matter where it comes from, it's the same moronic statement; having to ignore it and silence myself, because of what someone believes about their God, only legitimizes it in their eyes, even as it puts me further off the notion of belief as a whole.
And frankly, that's a notion that's already stretched a little thin around here these days. CR is coming to town in a couple of weeks; we've talked online quite a bit, and today he decided to tell me exactly how sick he really is. I knew a bit already, but the whole picture was much more grim. His list of ailments is extensive; high blood pressure, diabetes, vascular disease, sleep apnea, lung problems, kidney problems. Since I know him well enough to know he'll resist any changes to his diet or exercise habits, I've pretty well been forced to conclude that any attempt to plan a long-term future with him would be an exercise in futility. I know that's probably true for anyone--after all, anything can happen to any of us at any time--but in his case it's pretty much a certainty that I'll outlive him.
So here we are: he's had all these insights and totally turned around his view of relationships, of me, of what our life together could be--all well and good mentally, but physically it sounds like he's not in any sort of condition to join me in any of the things I want to do with the rest of my life. (Put it this way: we were discussing changes we both needed to make, and I mentioned, in the context of little things we could try, "taking a walk in the morning". His reply, after a series of large-font "ha ha ha ha ha"'s, was "not w this breathing--i would definitely die". After a while, he agreed, with a few stipulations--but...wow.) If a short morning walk is beyond his ability at this point, I don't think I'm exaggerating matters when I wonder just how long he's gonna be around.
And, as I told him, I'm not prepared to deal with losing ANOTHER partner. I told him I'm gonna do everything in my power to keep him around, but as I said: I know this man. He's a lot like me; we're both stubborn as hell, and we both like the things we like--full stop. Losing the fried foods and the sweets would be a good idea for both of us; but each of us needs to make that committment. I have--though right now I'm in a bit of a holding pattern til the Happy Campers leave--but I can't demand that CR do the same... and as stubborn as he is, I don't believe he will do it on his own.
I'm finding it a little hard to keep from being cynical here. I mean, let's recap, shall we? Let's for a moment assume the existence of God or someone like him...1991, I meet JP and each of us feels an instant connection, but various issues--pride, anger, miscommunication--keep us apart for nearly three years. We steal seven months sneaking around, then live together for eleven blissful months...whereupon he dies. 1997, I meet CR, and again each of us feels an instant connection to the other. But he's got a lot of baggage from his family and from past relationships, baggage that has accumulated to make him a giant asshole. Regardless, we keep together in an on-and-off relationship til 1999, when we move in together--but at no time does his assholeishness subside. He lies to me, he cheats on me, he emotionally abuses me; finally, in 2002, two months after we married, he leaves me for another woman, in a burst of emotional cruelty that destroys what little self-esteem I'd managed to keep til then. Six years later he calls me to apologize; we start to talk again, and he tells me all he's been through; he talks about all the revelations he's had about his past, his behavior, and the way he treated me. He apologizes, many many times, and tells me that he never wants to be without me again, for the rest of his life. But circumstances--largely financial, but also connected to the Happy Campers I'm harboring in the interim--keep us apart for several more months....Meanwhile, during the seven years apart, he's neglected his health to the point that, by the time he makes it back to me, he's got several potentially-lethal disease processes working; has no health insurance; and--being frank here--probably won't live another ten years without some serious medical intervention he can't afford. Somehow I don't see health-care reform progressing far enough to make possible the kind of interventions he'd need.
So once again, barring a miracle, I will very likely preside at the death of another man I love more than I can even describe. Someone, someday, is going to need to explain to me how this is even remotely fair. I've had, in my life, four major relationships (relationships where, at any point, I could see myself spending the rest of my life with that person). I broke off two--my first boyfriend and my first marriage--and in neither of the breakups was I at all proud of my actions. For a long time I considered JP's death to be some sort of celestial retaliation for the way I'd handled those breakups, or for loving him too much, perhaps--but now, thinking about the future, I find no explanation at all. I would like to believe that my old age will not be spent alone; I would like the luxury of believing that the man I love will be there on the front porch, side-by-side in our rocking chairs. In a way--and yes, I realize this is the same kind of childish, magical thinking I was railing against only a few paragraphs ago--but in a way I feel like losing JP should somehow be enough; that the universe or God or whoever, before it takes away another love of mine, should take into account what I've already been through. I know it doesn't work that way, but knowing how this relationship will likely play out, and the kind of grief that comes after, has a very good chance of making me really bitter.
And I know, I'm letting my worries about the future cloud the present; I'm robbing myself of the happiness I could have, even if it is for only a short time...but dammit, I feel completely powerless to help here. I can nudge him in the right direction, mainly by going in that same direction myself--but his health issues have gone much further than I'd guessed, and I don't think little nudges will be enough. Maybe seven years ago--before he'd spent half a decade living with a family he described as "like the Klumps from the Nutty Professor movies", eating what they ate, in the quantities they ate it...yeah, I'm angry there too; if he'd been here, or with someone responsible, when his health problems started to manifest, something could have been done, maybe. I'm not being fair, I know--but as I said before, how is this situation fair at all to me? How is it when many 39-year-old women are married and have kids, and have at least the possibility of spending their later years with the man they love, how is it fair at all that I've already lost one, and am pretty likely to lose another? How is it fair that I've done my damndest to make up for my past mistakes; that I've fought against all the pressure for "training" one's partner to behave in a female-approved way, which so many of my female acquaintances have subscribed to--in short, that I've done everything in my power to be a good girlfriend and to let my partner be exactly who he is, without trying to change him--and for all my effort, my great reward is to spend the rest of my life alone?
I have to say: I'm furious about all this. For one thing, CR doesn't deserve it; not that anybody does, but there's a lot he wanted out of life that he's not going to get to do. And for another thing--I've said this about losing JP, and I'll say it again about this--it's just not fair. And yeah, I know, "nobody said life was fair", and I know I've been infinitely luckier than most people, so I have no grounds to complain--but it feels even more unfair somehow that on the few occasions that my life HASN'T been completely charmed, the bad things have been bad in precisely the way I have always feared the most, and in precisely the way from which I can least recover.
My co-worker, he of the Eeeeevil New York vampire contingent, can talk all he wants about God's great Plan, and all those other things...but the older I get, and the more I live, the more I believe that one of two things is the case: either there is no "great plan", or if there IS a plan, great or otherwise, it's somewhere been decided that I am destined to spend my life alone. It's easier to accept randomness than to justify paranoia, so I'm leaning toward the no-Plan option; but in a way, that's almost worse, since it puts me in conflict with the beliefs of practically everyone....which, in its way, is the same as being alone.
"I can tell you what (the current vampire craze in popular culture) is about...It's about EVIL! There are bands of vampires in New York City--LIVING in New York City!--and there are advertisers--no, I'm serious here!--who are just CATERING to them and...."
(I regret that I am unable to offer you the remainder of the quoted statement, or the replies of the rest of the group being addressed, as upon hearing the word "EVil", I was seized with a sudden violent urge to leave the room, an urge to which I succumbed instantly. Anyhow...)
I do not believe that I am stepping too far over the line in saying, "What a frickin MORON." Because in my opinion, that is a patently moronic statement, for several different values of moronicity. First of all--attempting to demonize a passing pop-culture fad is the hallmark of an uptight mind. In fact, attempting to claim that ANYTHING--any belief system, any lifestyle choice, any inborn quality, any random action--is based in EEEEEEEVil, should be the Godwin's Law of any discussion. "It comes from EEEEEEEEVIL," in my book, translates as "I don't like it, it scares/disturbs/disquiets me, and I cannot articulate the reason in a reasoned adult fashion because this is a reaction based purely in emotion, superstition, and a stunted sense of the workings of the universe. Therefore I pronounce it bad, and demonize it and all who are not as offended by it as I am."
Also, I'm sorry...reality, anyone? Vampires living in New York, catered to by advertisers? What a frickin MORON. Those are idiot Hot Topic kids who've read one too many Twilight books. The only EEEEEEEEvil they represent is the EEEEEEEvil of unthinking consumerism, faddishness, and the well-marketed urge to "do your own thing" by buying exactly the same trend-item that everyone else buys to show that they're "doing their own thing". And that's not EEEEEEEVil, that's just STOOOOOOOOpid.
On a related note, how an evangelical Christian thinks that exhibiting this level of spiritual paranoia--or rather, announcing it in reply to another co-worker's perfectly innocuous Seinfeldian question of "And what's with these kids and the whole zombie/vampire thing?"--how he believes that this response is going to assist in his stated goal of converting me, I fail to grasp.
But because it was offered as a statement based in the speaker's religious beliefs, rather than a random chunk of crackpottery from the fringey set, I had to keep my mouth shut. Which is sad, because no matter where it comes from, it's the same moronic statement; having to ignore it and silence myself, because of what someone believes about their God, only legitimizes it in their eyes, even as it puts me further off the notion of belief as a whole.
And frankly, that's a notion that's already stretched a little thin around here these days. CR is coming to town in a couple of weeks; we've talked online quite a bit, and today he decided to tell me exactly how sick he really is. I knew a bit already, but the whole picture was much more grim. His list of ailments is extensive; high blood pressure, diabetes, vascular disease, sleep apnea, lung problems, kidney problems. Since I know him well enough to know he'll resist any changes to his diet or exercise habits, I've pretty well been forced to conclude that any attempt to plan a long-term future with him would be an exercise in futility. I know that's probably true for anyone--after all, anything can happen to any of us at any time--but in his case it's pretty much a certainty that I'll outlive him.
So here we are: he's had all these insights and totally turned around his view of relationships, of me, of what our life together could be--all well and good mentally, but physically it sounds like he's not in any sort of condition to join me in any of the things I want to do with the rest of my life. (Put it this way: we were discussing changes we both needed to make, and I mentioned, in the context of little things we could try, "taking a walk in the morning". His reply, after a series of large-font "ha ha ha ha ha"'s, was "not w this breathing--i would definitely die". After a while, he agreed, with a few stipulations--but...wow.) If a short morning walk is beyond his ability at this point, I don't think I'm exaggerating matters when I wonder just how long he's gonna be around.
And, as I told him, I'm not prepared to deal with losing ANOTHER partner. I told him I'm gonna do everything in my power to keep him around, but as I said: I know this man. He's a lot like me; we're both stubborn as hell, and we both like the things we like--full stop. Losing the fried foods and the sweets would be a good idea for both of us; but each of us needs to make that committment. I have--though right now I'm in a bit of a holding pattern til the Happy Campers leave--but I can't demand that CR do the same... and as stubborn as he is, I don't believe he will do it on his own.
I'm finding it a little hard to keep from being cynical here. I mean, let's recap, shall we? Let's for a moment assume the existence of God or someone like him...1991, I meet JP and each of us feels an instant connection, but various issues--pride, anger, miscommunication--keep us apart for nearly three years. We steal seven months sneaking around, then live together for eleven blissful months...whereupon he dies. 1997, I meet CR, and again each of us feels an instant connection to the other. But he's got a lot of baggage from his family and from past relationships, baggage that has accumulated to make him a giant asshole. Regardless, we keep together in an on-and-off relationship til 1999, when we move in together--but at no time does his assholeishness subside. He lies to me, he cheats on me, he emotionally abuses me; finally, in 2002, two months after we married, he leaves me for another woman, in a burst of emotional cruelty that destroys what little self-esteem I'd managed to keep til then. Six years later he calls me to apologize; we start to talk again, and he tells me all he's been through; he talks about all the revelations he's had about his past, his behavior, and the way he treated me. He apologizes, many many times, and tells me that he never wants to be without me again, for the rest of his life. But circumstances--largely financial, but also connected to the Happy Campers I'm harboring in the interim--keep us apart for several more months....Meanwhile, during the seven years apart, he's neglected his health to the point that, by the time he makes it back to me, he's got several potentially-lethal disease processes working; has no health insurance; and--being frank here--probably won't live another ten years without some serious medical intervention he can't afford. Somehow I don't see health-care reform progressing far enough to make possible the kind of interventions he'd need.
So once again, barring a miracle, I will very likely preside at the death of another man I love more than I can even describe. Someone, someday, is going to need to explain to me how this is even remotely fair. I've had, in my life, four major relationships (relationships where, at any point, I could see myself spending the rest of my life with that person). I broke off two--my first boyfriend and my first marriage--and in neither of the breakups was I at all proud of my actions. For a long time I considered JP's death to be some sort of celestial retaliation for the way I'd handled those breakups, or for loving him too much, perhaps--but now, thinking about the future, I find no explanation at all. I would like to believe that my old age will not be spent alone; I would like the luxury of believing that the man I love will be there on the front porch, side-by-side in our rocking chairs. In a way--and yes, I realize this is the same kind of childish, magical thinking I was railing against only a few paragraphs ago--but in a way I feel like losing JP should somehow be enough; that the universe or God or whoever, before it takes away another love of mine, should take into account what I've already been through. I know it doesn't work that way, but knowing how this relationship will likely play out, and the kind of grief that comes after, has a very good chance of making me really bitter.
And I know, I'm letting my worries about the future cloud the present; I'm robbing myself of the happiness I could have, even if it is for only a short time...but dammit, I feel completely powerless to help here. I can nudge him in the right direction, mainly by going in that same direction myself--but his health issues have gone much further than I'd guessed, and I don't think little nudges will be enough. Maybe seven years ago--before he'd spent half a decade living with a family he described as "like the Klumps from the Nutty Professor movies", eating what they ate, in the quantities they ate it...yeah, I'm angry there too; if he'd been here, or with someone responsible, when his health problems started to manifest, something could have been done, maybe. I'm not being fair, I know--but as I said before, how is this situation fair at all to me? How is it when many 39-year-old women are married and have kids, and have at least the possibility of spending their later years with the man they love, how is it fair at all that I've already lost one, and am pretty likely to lose another? How is it fair that I've done my damndest to make up for my past mistakes; that I've fought against all the pressure for "training" one's partner to behave in a female-approved way, which so many of my female acquaintances have subscribed to--in short, that I've done everything in my power to be a good girlfriend and to let my partner be exactly who he is, without trying to change him--and for all my effort, my great reward is to spend the rest of my life alone?
I have to say: I'm furious about all this. For one thing, CR doesn't deserve it; not that anybody does, but there's a lot he wanted out of life that he's not going to get to do. And for another thing--I've said this about losing JP, and I'll say it again about this--it's just not fair. And yeah, I know, "nobody said life was fair", and I know I've been infinitely luckier than most people, so I have no grounds to complain--but it feels even more unfair somehow that on the few occasions that my life HASN'T been completely charmed, the bad things have been bad in precisely the way I have always feared the most, and in precisely the way from which I can least recover.
My co-worker, he of the Eeeeevil New York vampire contingent, can talk all he wants about God's great Plan, and all those other things...but the older I get, and the more I live, the more I believe that one of two things is the case: either there is no "great plan", or if there IS a plan, great or otherwise, it's somewhere been decided that I am destined to spend my life alone. It's easier to accept randomness than to justify paranoia, so I'm leaning toward the no-Plan option; but in a way, that's almost worse, since it puts me in conflict with the beliefs of practically everyone....which, in its way, is the same as being alone.
Saturday, April 18, 2009
You Are Here. You Probably Ought To Think About That.
So, um....yeah.
WackyWackyWerld, aka Gladystopia, has done some of its expected and usual things. Tim has been playing Floor-Hopper, rotating between my living room floor, his friend Chuck's living room floor, and whatever it is he sleeps in at Squeaky's place-with-the-roommate. But that pool of potential stopping-grounds decreased by one the other day; apparently between the two of them, they decided that the remaining thirteen days on Squeaky's lease with the hell-roomie were just not worth the effort. (Apparently this woman--the roomie, not Squeak--is a wee bit of a beeyatch. I don't know her, and I've experienced enough time with Squeaky to be aaalmost inclined to give her the benefit of the doubt because: annoyy-ying!--but seriously, there are some birds that just don't fly, as in "you agreed on $400/month for rent on a room the size of a small pantry, but in mid-lease you demand $500/month instead, 'for utilities'." I cannot imagine how many appliances one would have to run to rack up $100/mo in utilities, but I'd be willing to bet they wouldn't all fit in Squeaky's room. It's pretty clear to all three of us--Tim, the Squeakster, and myself--that Wee Beeyatch is trying to use Squeaky's living situation to pay her OWN past-due bills. Which wouldn't be a problem if it had been agreed in the beginning, but you just can't change terms like that. So in this case, painful as it may be, I'm gonna have to side with Squeaky.)
They have been trying to find a place to live. They have been failing rather spectacularly, thanks to their combined lack of/abysmal state of credit. And last night, when I was on Facebook, Squeak IMed me to ask if she could just stay here for a while.
Now, who the hell would I be to turn a pregnant kid out on the street? (Yeah, yeah, I know--someone perfectly within her rights to do so. But sometimes just because it would be acceptable to do something doesn't make it seem right--and this, to me, is one of those cases.)
And I actually kinda like having Tim around, if we're being honest. He's a neat freak; he does housework; and when I'm not hiding out in my room (which I do when nobody's around, as well, so that can't be blamed on the two of them either) we have a lot of fun. It may not be the most equally-balanced friendship in the world, but...Look. It's fairly clear to me that there's a good chance I will spend my "golden years" having to look out for myself, in the absence of any husband or children or extended family to count on. I'm not as okay with that as I wish I was; I have to admit, seeing all my grade-school classmates on Facebook, married and procreating, with sisters-in-law and brothers-in-law and a string of family stretching out the door, I feel like a failure at living. Mostly I can combat it; after all, in the absence of JP, this is my choice. And if it's not my favorite choice to make, I do recognize that it is the fairest choice for everyone concerned; looking back over the past few years, the things I liked about everyone I dated have been the things that reminded me most of JP. I never thought I was comparing, but yeah--I was. And I still am; it's unfortunate, but there it is. Everyone's better off this way.
But anyway: if I'm not going to generate a family, and since I don't have an original family to speak of--there's me, there's Mom, there's my dad's sister-in-law and her sister, and my mom's youngest sister who lives a billion miles away--and that's the lot of them, unless I want to count my mom's other two sibs who send her anti-Obama wingnut e-mails ten times a week, and I abso-freaking-lutely do NOT wish to count THOSE two, nor their spouses nor their spawn... anyway, since THEY're not there for me, I've got to create my own family. And I guess this is what I'm doing. Tim is like the irresponsible little brother with a good heart and not much in the way of sense; Squeaky's the little brother's bedraggled girlfriend who shows up pregnant one day. There ARE less-fucked-up or not-fucked-up-at-all people in my life; Debbie, for one, and Firefly; Debbie being a wee bit more fucked-up than Firefly (okay, actually a lot LOT LOT more, but since it's not her fault and hasn't completely compromised her ability to make a good life for herself, it's not so bad.) And honestly--let's just get to where the bear crapped in the woods now--seriously, who the hell am I to judge someone else for their fucked-up life? My record for keeping a job is not-quite-five-years; I'm stuck in an entirely different decade than most people currently inhabit; I've got an incredibly warped perception of time, and thanks to the illustrious Ms. China White, there are large blocks of my late 20's of which I have no recollection. I am in DIRE need of a really excellent grief counselor; I'm constantly harassed by the thought of the afterlife, and wondering if I'm living right--constantly moving between "there is a heaven, so I better get my shit together" and "there's nothing, so believing in some grand reunion is foolish denial of the truth". I have no house; I have no car; my credit is fucked to a high degree (although at least THIS time I'm in good company, and can blame no one but myself....oh, and the subprime mortgage industry); I am now officially Completely Miserable in my job, but I've also come to realize that I will probably be Completely Miserable in ANY job which requires working for someone else, or accepting arbitrary orders, or acting in ways which don't make sense to me--in other words, any job anywhere at all. I can't even start a relationship, let alone sustain one, and I've given up on the possibility of anyone ever finding me attractive again. So again, I ask: WHO the hell am I to judge anyone ELSE's life?? Mostly I want to run away and do exactly the things I want to do, nothing else; buy my little farm and put a "Baked Goods For Sale" sign out by the road, and spend my mornings baking and my afternoons in the barn doing all manner of art--pottery, and glasswork, and painting and quilting and writing and crochet (and maybe even learn to knit, even though I've never been able to get both hands working at once so far). And at night, just lay out in a hammock slung between two trees, and pull a sheet of mosquito net over me and go to sleep. It's not that I want a simpler time, exactly; I want a time that's MINE, where no one is controlling me but me, and where every action moves toward a goal; where rules make sense and exist for a REASON, and don't change randomly at someone else's whim. I want to live an orderly life--not a life without chaos, exactly, but a life where I UNDERSTAND the chaos. Honestly? Right now, Tim and Squeaky are the least of my worries.
And if from this you take the conclusion that my work is really screwing with me, please accept my applause for your excellent deductive skills. Last evening, upon walking into my apartment, I unleashed such a storm of profanity and invective regarding my boss--touching on issues including--but not limited to--her ancestry, her sexual practices, her hygiene, her mental state, and her predilection for inter-species mating--that even Tim, who has heard me at my peak, was surprised. It would have been one of my proudest moments of vulgar inventiveness, had I not been SO DAMN PISSED-OFF at the subhuman stinking pustulent piece of ....Oops....there I go again.
(Yeah, I know--what made me so mad, right? Let's just put it this way: When I am reprimanded for a violation of a policy --a violation which involved an interval of TWO MINUTES, against a policy which, although I was told in the beginning that it was perfectly acceptable to do what I did, has apparently changed, of which change neither I was EVER informed, nor were the two OTHER people who perform the same task...I do NOT remember EVER seeing, ANYFUCKINGWHERE in my job description, "reads minds/displays psychic ability". That was NOT in the qualifications, and so to be reprimanded for what is essentially my failure to read that crazy-ass whoreslut's degenerated parasite-raddled mind...
I am perfectly calm, now.)
Seriously, though, I am never going to accept a job working for another female boss. I told myself that when I left Other Place Where I Used To Work; my resolve was strengthened by Ill-Fated Short-Term Employment; but I needed a job so badly, and I thought there was going to be a buffer zone between myself and her (and there was, til they demoted Best Boss Ever--I should have started slamming out the resumes right there and then)...It's not a mistake I'm going to make again. I don't care HOW desperate I am...it's NEVER worth it.
Oh. And then, after all this--Squeaky asking for a place to stay, ElMo (which is what I have dubbed The Crazy--I have my reasons!) giving me nothing but shit because I couldn't read her mind, and a bunch of other crap into which I haven't even gone--after all that, last night the phone rang: After seven years, CR's been put out of the girlfriend's house. (Short form: She asked him if he loved her; he gave an honest answer. Next sentence: "Get out of my house!") He's trying to work out how to get a place of his own; even though apartments are SUPER-cheap there, so are wages, especially when he can only get 25 hours a week. I was really impressed, actually, with most of what he said; seems like all the things I said so long ago, about standing up and being a man and living on his own, may have sunk in after all. Seven years late, mind, but any progress is good progress.
And that, my friends--all those bits of wonder, and an exploding toilet too--is what my little life is made of, right about now. Strangely enough, I'm almost happy; there's something to be said for realizing that you are no longer willing to be crapped on for the privilege of drawing a paycheck. Obviously I've gotta hang on til the economy gets itself together, but that's okay; the important thing is KNOWING it's not forever, that I'm not going to let it be forever, and I'm not going to spend the rest of my life scared of some bitch's opinion of me. That's no way to live, and even if I have to do it temporarily, I do NOT have to do it permanently. I may not be able to see the light at the end, but at least now I recognize that it is, in fact, a tunnel I'm standing in.
WackyWackyWerld, aka Gladystopia, has done some of its expected and usual things. Tim has been playing Floor-Hopper, rotating between my living room floor, his friend Chuck's living room floor, and whatever it is he sleeps in at Squeaky's place-with-the-roommate. But that pool of potential stopping-grounds decreased by one the other day; apparently between the two of them, they decided that the remaining thirteen days on Squeaky's lease with the hell-roomie were just not worth the effort. (Apparently this woman--the roomie, not Squeak--is a wee bit of a beeyatch. I don't know her, and I've experienced enough time with Squeaky to be aaalmost inclined to give her the benefit of the doubt because: annoyy-ying!--but seriously, there are some birds that just don't fly, as in "you agreed on $400/month for rent on a room the size of a small pantry, but in mid-lease you demand $500/month instead, 'for utilities'." I cannot imagine how many appliances one would have to run to rack up $100/mo in utilities, but I'd be willing to bet they wouldn't all fit in Squeaky's room. It's pretty clear to all three of us--Tim, the Squeakster, and myself--that Wee Beeyatch is trying to use Squeaky's living situation to pay her OWN past-due bills. Which wouldn't be a problem if it had been agreed in the beginning, but you just can't change terms like that. So in this case, painful as it may be, I'm gonna have to side with Squeaky.)
They have been trying to find a place to live. They have been failing rather spectacularly, thanks to their combined lack of/abysmal state of credit. And last night, when I was on Facebook, Squeak IMed me to ask if she could just stay here for a while.
Now, who the hell would I be to turn a pregnant kid out on the street? (Yeah, yeah, I know--someone perfectly within her rights to do so. But sometimes just because it would be acceptable to do something doesn't make it seem right--and this, to me, is one of those cases.)
And I actually kinda like having Tim around, if we're being honest. He's a neat freak; he does housework; and when I'm not hiding out in my room (which I do when nobody's around, as well, so that can't be blamed on the two of them either) we have a lot of fun. It may not be the most equally-balanced friendship in the world, but...Look. It's fairly clear to me that there's a good chance I will spend my "golden years" having to look out for myself, in the absence of any husband or children or extended family to count on. I'm not as okay with that as I wish I was; I have to admit, seeing all my grade-school classmates on Facebook, married and procreating, with sisters-in-law and brothers-in-law and a string of family stretching out the door, I feel like a failure at living. Mostly I can combat it; after all, in the absence of JP, this is my choice. And if it's not my favorite choice to make, I do recognize that it is the fairest choice for everyone concerned; looking back over the past few years, the things I liked about everyone I dated have been the things that reminded me most of JP. I never thought I was comparing, but yeah--I was. And I still am; it's unfortunate, but there it is. Everyone's better off this way.
But anyway: if I'm not going to generate a family, and since I don't have an original family to speak of--there's me, there's Mom, there's my dad's sister-in-law and her sister, and my mom's youngest sister who lives a billion miles away--and that's the lot of them, unless I want to count my mom's other two sibs who send her anti-Obama wingnut e-mails ten times a week, and I abso-freaking-lutely do NOT wish to count THOSE two, nor their spouses nor their spawn... anyway, since THEY're not there for me, I've got to create my own family. And I guess this is what I'm doing. Tim is like the irresponsible little brother with a good heart and not much in the way of sense; Squeaky's the little brother's bedraggled girlfriend who shows up pregnant one day. There ARE less-fucked-up or not-fucked-up-at-all people in my life; Debbie, for one, and Firefly; Debbie being a wee bit more fucked-up than Firefly (okay, actually a lot LOT LOT more, but since it's not her fault and hasn't completely compromised her ability to make a good life for herself, it's not so bad.) And honestly--let's just get to where the bear crapped in the woods now--seriously, who the hell am I to judge someone else for their fucked-up life? My record for keeping a job is not-quite-five-years; I'm stuck in an entirely different decade than most people currently inhabit; I've got an incredibly warped perception of time, and thanks to the illustrious Ms. China White, there are large blocks of my late 20's of which I have no recollection. I am in DIRE need of a really excellent grief counselor; I'm constantly harassed by the thought of the afterlife, and wondering if I'm living right--constantly moving between "there is a heaven, so I better get my shit together" and "there's nothing, so believing in some grand reunion is foolish denial of the truth". I have no house; I have no car; my credit is fucked to a high degree (although at least THIS time I'm in good company, and can blame no one but myself....oh, and the subprime mortgage industry); I am now officially Completely Miserable in my job, but I've also come to realize that I will probably be Completely Miserable in ANY job which requires working for someone else, or accepting arbitrary orders, or acting in ways which don't make sense to me--in other words, any job anywhere at all. I can't even start a relationship, let alone sustain one, and I've given up on the possibility of anyone ever finding me attractive again. So again, I ask: WHO the hell am I to judge anyone ELSE's life?? Mostly I want to run away and do exactly the things I want to do, nothing else; buy my little farm and put a "Baked Goods For Sale" sign out by the road, and spend my mornings baking and my afternoons in the barn doing all manner of art--pottery, and glasswork, and painting and quilting and writing and crochet (and maybe even learn to knit, even though I've never been able to get both hands working at once so far). And at night, just lay out in a hammock slung between two trees, and pull a sheet of mosquito net over me and go to sleep. It's not that I want a simpler time, exactly; I want a time that's MINE, where no one is controlling me but me, and where every action moves toward a goal; where rules make sense and exist for a REASON, and don't change randomly at someone else's whim. I want to live an orderly life--not a life without chaos, exactly, but a life where I UNDERSTAND the chaos. Honestly? Right now, Tim and Squeaky are the least of my worries.
And if from this you take the conclusion that my work is really screwing with me, please accept my applause for your excellent deductive skills. Last evening, upon walking into my apartment, I unleashed such a storm of profanity and invective regarding my boss--touching on issues including--but not limited to--her ancestry, her sexual practices, her hygiene, her mental state, and her predilection for inter-species mating--that even Tim, who has heard me at my peak, was surprised. It would have been one of my proudest moments of vulgar inventiveness, had I not been SO DAMN PISSED-OFF at the subhuman stinking pustulent piece of ....Oops....there I go again.
(Yeah, I know--what made me so mad, right? Let's just put it this way: When I am reprimanded for a violation of a policy --a violation which involved an interval of TWO MINUTES, against a policy which, although I was told in the beginning that it was perfectly acceptable to do what I did, has apparently changed, of which change neither I was EVER informed, nor were the two OTHER people who perform the same task...I do NOT remember EVER seeing, ANYFUCKINGWHERE in my job description, "reads minds/displays psychic ability". That was NOT in the qualifications, and so to be reprimanded for what is essentially my failure to read that crazy-ass whoreslut's degenerated parasite-raddled mind...
I am perfectly calm, now.)
Seriously, though, I am never going to accept a job working for another female boss. I told myself that when I left Other Place Where I Used To Work; my resolve was strengthened by Ill-Fated Short-Term Employment; but I needed a job so badly, and I thought there was going to be a buffer zone between myself and her (and there was, til they demoted Best Boss Ever--I should have started slamming out the resumes right there and then)...It's not a mistake I'm going to make again. I don't care HOW desperate I am...it's NEVER worth it.
Oh. And then, after all this--Squeaky asking for a place to stay, ElMo (which is what I have dubbed The Crazy--I have my reasons!) giving me nothing but shit because I couldn't read her mind, and a bunch of other crap into which I haven't even gone--after all that, last night the phone rang: After seven years, CR's been put out of the girlfriend's house. (Short form: She asked him if he loved her; he gave an honest answer. Next sentence: "Get out of my house!") He's trying to work out how to get a place of his own; even though apartments are SUPER-cheap there, so are wages, especially when he can only get 25 hours a week. I was really impressed, actually, with most of what he said; seems like all the things I said so long ago, about standing up and being a man and living on his own, may have sunk in after all. Seven years late, mind, but any progress is good progress.
And that, my friends--all those bits of wonder, and an exploding toilet too--is what my little life is made of, right about now. Strangely enough, I'm almost happy; there's something to be said for realizing that you are no longer willing to be crapped on for the privilege of drawing a paycheck. Obviously I've gotta hang on til the economy gets itself together, but that's okay; the important thing is KNOWING it's not forever, that I'm not going to let it be forever, and I'm not going to spend the rest of my life scared of some bitch's opinion of me. That's no way to live, and even if I have to do it temporarily, I do NOT have to do it permanently. I may not be able to see the light at the end, but at least now I recognize that it is, in fact, a tunnel I'm standing in.
Friday, January 2, 2009
Cross Off THAT Resolution...
Tim is in the substance-abuse unit at a local mental-health center. I just talked to Squeaky for an hour (and my respect for THAT little girl is ramped up to a fairly-amazing height, considering our history) and things are not looking too spectacular for Tim at the moment. Apparently, after having "the charcoal thing" (Squeaky's description) done to his stomach ("He wasn't real happy about that,") he "kinda freaked out" and was subsequently put in full-body restraints, with the kind assistance of "about 30 or 35 people", and once restrained, was pumped full of tranquilizers. No--I mean FULL of tranquilizers. Per Squeaky's description, they gave him a shot...then another...then another...."They seriously had to go back out to get more medicine about eight times," she said. "There was a doctor there who asked me 'Why isn't he asleep already?' I said 'I TOLD you--he's got a really high immunity for medication!'" (True; I've seen Tim take in quantities of this and that which would have incapacitated, like, ANYONE else.)
Eventually, after they transferred him from the regular hospital to the mental-health center (dumping ground of those who, like Tim, have no insurance) he DID fall asleep; they'd taken his restraints off after the shots started working enough to ensure he wasn't going to kick anyone's ass. (Squeaky told me that last night, when she called me, he had already beaten her up as she tried to get the pills away from him. That's the first time in the history of our friendship that I know of him hitting a woman. I'm not real pleased about it, but then again, he had to have been pretty far gone to even be able to do that.)
And with all the stuff Squeaky's going through with Tim, bullshit is now apparently coming from an unlikely source: Betty. Apparently Betty has decided that the reason Tim is in the condition he's in is traceable directly to Squeaky. "Why did you buy him beer??" Squeaky said Betty asked, during one of several increasingly-hostile phone calls. (Which, to me, is quite hilarious; Squeaky claims she bought him a six-pack, which I believe; whereas, when he's out with Betty, the festivities usually include pitchers of beer (plural) and shots of hard liquor, sometimes with other substances involved as well. Betty's not got a leg to stand on for THAT accusation, unfortunately; "Ms. Pot? I've got a kettle on line 1...something about colors?") Betty is blaming Squeaky, loudly and repeatedly, for every bad thing that's happened to Tim. Now, in the long dark days before Tim knew either Squeaky OR Betty, I have experienced a similar Tim-plosion; he drank himself senseless and started threatening self-harm, and somehow the police were called (I think that time, Tim did it himself) and he was taken to the same hospital. This was back when we were living with CR, so it's a good nearly-ten years ago--and I don't think Squeaky, at 10 years old and not even known to either of us, could be said to hold any responsibility for THAT. The fact of the matter is, Tim needs help; has needed it for a long time, if even only on the substance-abuse level; and right now, no matter how much he hates it, Squeaky hates it, Betty hates it, or I hate it, Tim is exactly where he needs to be. He certainly does NOT need to be in the roommate environment he was in--though that's apparently a moot point, since Old Bastard has told Squeaky that if Tim returns, they will BOTH be kicked out--and he does not need to be motel-hopping/sofa-hopping/whatever with Betty, Squeaky, or both. More than anything, I think, Tim needs some stability; a solid place to stay, and a solid job that he's not going to be "downsized" from, or shut out of when the place closes because of the economy, or whatever. He needs a routine (says the woman who herself is in dire need of a routine, but still).
Squeaky's in a bad way, as who wouldn't be after seeing the person they love put into full-body restraints and shot full of tranquilizers. She's still a kid, really; I have to remind myself of that. I couldn't have handled that when I was 20; then again, at 20, I was still kind of a sheltered, moderately-spoiled, unthinking little product of my upbringing. It wasn't til I met JP, when I was 21, that I started seeing the world through different eyes; even when we were just friends and verbal sparring-partners, he always made me THINK.
I went to the doctor today, and as I suspected she raised my dosage of Effexor. I'm a teeny bit concerned, because my legs seem itchier since I started taking it three weeks ago; but that could be just dry skin and healing from the old condition. The doctor said if it starts to get really bad, stop taking the meds, take Benadryl, and call her. I'm not going to cold-turkey STOP, though; I've heard the withdrawals from Effexor are rather unpleasant, and I don't do well with unpleasant withdrawals. The increase is definitely needed, though; my regular psychologist was worried enough after our last appointment that she scheduled me for another one in two weeks, rather than our usual four. Some of that's the holidays, I'm sure; and some of it isn't. I don't like being in a rut.
Of course, I'd rather be in a rut than be Tim, or Squeaky, or Betty right now.
And then, when I'd hung up with Squeaky (after promising to call her tomorrow), CR called. He hadn't called much recently; in fact, I hadn't heard from him for three months or so, til this morning. "I thought you weren't talking to me anymore," he said. "I thought the same thing!" I told him.
As I suspected from those pictures, he's not in a good way. He told me that within the last three weeks, he found out he has diabetes and high blood pressure (I THINK he got the numbers wrong, or he should be approximately dead--108/180?? Is that possible??) The doctors want him to lose 75 pounds (40 of which he's gained since leaving Chicago) and he's scheduled for a sleep study. (The whole fricking WORLD has sleep apnea, seems like.) And tonight, his best friend at work--an older woman who helped him immensely when he was starting there--the one who, when we first started talking again, he got so emotional when telling me about her influence on him that he actually choked up and cried, which is pretty major for him--anyway, she got fired today. Not only that, but she got fired for being a whistleblower--something about the way the staff was being treated. CR didn't go into detail about that--but basically this woman went to bat for the employees and lost her job for it. Between that, and the health problems, he's feeling really, really low just now. "Thanks for listening," he said, as he promised to call me tomorrow night. "No problem," I said.
I am a sad person surrounded by even sadder people. In one way, it's probably not ideal; in another way, it makes me realize how fortunate I am. I have a solid job, a stable place to live, no current substance-abuse issues; moderate mental-health issues, but none completely incapacitating; several minor-to-moderate health problems, but nothing currently at a critical stage; food in my fridge, two gorgeous cats, and a host of things I could do to change my life, even in small ways, were I only to make the choice to do so. So, although I am a sad person surrounded by even sadder people, I am also among the most-fortunate people I know. I AM in a rut; there is an astonishing lack of magic in my life right now; but under the circumstances and with my friends for comparison, I'm doing pretty well for myself.
I do wish I was happier about it, though.
I've got a phone number for where Tim is; Squeaky says it's a pay phone in the ward and it's often busy, but I'm going to try to call him tomorrow evening. I suspect he's probably very angry with me for calling 911--he always has been in the past--but as I said last night, and as I told Squeaky tonight, I will tell him tomorrow: I'd rather have a pissed-off live friend than a dead friend. He can be as angry as he wants, but it won't shake in the slightest my belief that Squeaky did the right thing by calling me, and I did the right thing by calling 911.
This year isn't starting out very auspiciously, though, is it.
Eventually, after they transferred him from the regular hospital to the mental-health center (dumping ground of those who, like Tim, have no insurance) he DID fall asleep; they'd taken his restraints off after the shots started working enough to ensure he wasn't going to kick anyone's ass. (Squeaky told me that last night, when she called me, he had already beaten her up as she tried to get the pills away from him. That's the first time in the history of our friendship that I know of him hitting a woman. I'm not real pleased about it, but then again, he had to have been pretty far gone to even be able to do that.)
And with all the stuff Squeaky's going through with Tim, bullshit is now apparently coming from an unlikely source: Betty. Apparently Betty has decided that the reason Tim is in the condition he's in is traceable directly to Squeaky. "Why did you buy him beer??" Squeaky said Betty asked, during one of several increasingly-hostile phone calls. (Which, to me, is quite hilarious; Squeaky claims she bought him a six-pack, which I believe; whereas, when he's out with Betty, the festivities usually include pitchers of beer (plural) and shots of hard liquor, sometimes with other substances involved as well. Betty's not got a leg to stand on for THAT accusation, unfortunately; "Ms. Pot? I've got a kettle on line 1...something about colors?") Betty is blaming Squeaky, loudly and repeatedly, for every bad thing that's happened to Tim. Now, in the long dark days before Tim knew either Squeaky OR Betty, I have experienced a similar Tim-plosion; he drank himself senseless and started threatening self-harm, and somehow the police were called (I think that time, Tim did it himself) and he was taken to the same hospital. This was back when we were living with CR, so it's a good nearly-ten years ago--and I don't think Squeaky, at 10 years old and not even known to either of us, could be said to hold any responsibility for THAT. The fact of the matter is, Tim needs help; has needed it for a long time, if even only on the substance-abuse level; and right now, no matter how much he hates it, Squeaky hates it, Betty hates it, or I hate it, Tim is exactly where he needs to be. He certainly does NOT need to be in the roommate environment he was in--though that's apparently a moot point, since Old Bastard has told Squeaky that if Tim returns, they will BOTH be kicked out--and he does not need to be motel-hopping/sofa-hopping/whatever with Betty, Squeaky, or both. More than anything, I think, Tim needs some stability; a solid place to stay, and a solid job that he's not going to be "downsized" from, or shut out of when the place closes because of the economy, or whatever. He needs a routine (says the woman who herself is in dire need of a routine, but still).
Squeaky's in a bad way, as who wouldn't be after seeing the person they love put into full-body restraints and shot full of tranquilizers. She's still a kid, really; I have to remind myself of that. I couldn't have handled that when I was 20; then again, at 20, I was still kind of a sheltered, moderately-spoiled, unthinking little product of my upbringing. It wasn't til I met JP, when I was 21, that I started seeing the world through different eyes; even when we were just friends and verbal sparring-partners, he always made me THINK.
I went to the doctor today, and as I suspected she raised my dosage of Effexor. I'm a teeny bit concerned, because my legs seem itchier since I started taking it three weeks ago; but that could be just dry skin and healing from the old condition. The doctor said if it starts to get really bad, stop taking the meds, take Benadryl, and call her. I'm not going to cold-turkey STOP, though; I've heard the withdrawals from Effexor are rather unpleasant, and I don't do well with unpleasant withdrawals. The increase is definitely needed, though; my regular psychologist was worried enough after our last appointment that she scheduled me for another one in two weeks, rather than our usual four. Some of that's the holidays, I'm sure; and some of it isn't. I don't like being in a rut.
Of course, I'd rather be in a rut than be Tim, or Squeaky, or Betty right now.
And then, when I'd hung up with Squeaky (after promising to call her tomorrow), CR called. He hadn't called much recently; in fact, I hadn't heard from him for three months or so, til this morning. "I thought you weren't talking to me anymore," he said. "I thought the same thing!" I told him.
As I suspected from those pictures, he's not in a good way. He told me that within the last three weeks, he found out he has diabetes and high blood pressure (I THINK he got the numbers wrong, or he should be approximately dead--108/180?? Is that possible??) The doctors want him to lose 75 pounds (40 of which he's gained since leaving Chicago) and he's scheduled for a sleep study. (The whole fricking WORLD has sleep apnea, seems like.) And tonight, his best friend at work--an older woman who helped him immensely when he was starting there--the one who, when we first started talking again, he got so emotional when telling me about her influence on him that he actually choked up and cried, which is pretty major for him--anyway, she got fired today. Not only that, but she got fired for being a whistleblower--something about the way the staff was being treated. CR didn't go into detail about that--but basically this woman went to bat for the employees and lost her job for it. Between that, and the health problems, he's feeling really, really low just now. "Thanks for listening," he said, as he promised to call me tomorrow night. "No problem," I said.
I am a sad person surrounded by even sadder people. In one way, it's probably not ideal; in another way, it makes me realize how fortunate I am. I have a solid job, a stable place to live, no current substance-abuse issues; moderate mental-health issues, but none completely incapacitating; several minor-to-moderate health problems, but nothing currently at a critical stage; food in my fridge, two gorgeous cats, and a host of things I could do to change my life, even in small ways, were I only to make the choice to do so. So, although I am a sad person surrounded by even sadder people, I am also among the most-fortunate people I know. I AM in a rut; there is an astonishing lack of magic in my life right now; but under the circumstances and with my friends for comparison, I'm doing pretty well for myself.
I do wish I was happier about it, though.
I've got a phone number for where Tim is; Squeaky says it's a pay phone in the ward and it's often busy, but I'm going to try to call him tomorrow evening. I suspect he's probably very angry with me for calling 911--he always has been in the past--but as I said last night, and as I told Squeaky tonight, I will tell him tomorrow: I'd rather have a pissed-off live friend than a dead friend. He can be as angry as he wants, but it won't shake in the slightest my belief that Squeaky did the right thing by calling me, and I did the right thing by calling 911.
This year isn't starting out very auspiciously, though, is it.
Thursday, September 4, 2008
Okay, So.
Do you think people can change?
(Do -I- think people can change?)
If people can't change, then what does that say about the things I've done?
If people can change, what does that say for anyone who believes they can't?
If I believe they can't, what does that say for me?
Maybe -some- people can change, and others can't.
If that's true, which one am I?
And how do I know?
By my past actions?
But my past actions are...inconclusive.
Yes, I was a faithful girlfriend to one guy for years.
Then I got married, and a year later, suddenly I...wasn't.
And then, because I was with someone I truly cared about, then I was.
Or--example two:
Yes, I quit heroin for five years.
Then I un-quit for six weeks.
And yes, since then, I've quit for nearly-three years now..
But: once I quit for FIVE years...
...before I UN-quit.
Just how do I know I've changed?
And how would I, if I needed to, convince another?
But--fortunate child, I--never have I needed to convince another.
I have been lucky enough that when I've said,
"I've changed..."
I have been believed.
And I have been right.
But: again.
I was right.
For nearly five years...and then, for six weeks, all that "change" was a lie.
For six weeks, and then it was the truth again, for so-far three years, and hopefully longer--much, MUCH longer.
BUT: for six weeks, I had no longer "changed".
For six weeks, I was a hypocrite, judging others
because they did the same as me.
(Not the "same" same, but the same not-changing.)
Who, then, am I,
to say
that someone else may not have changed?
Even for a while--for a few years, maybe,
but SOMETHING?
(You know, of course, where this is going.)
I talked to him tonight.
He has three sides, mostly:
1. macho-bullshit blustering shithead (but oh, quite seductive, he is);
2. perfectly normal, more-intelligent-than-he-knows (the piece I miss most of all);
3. heartbroken emo-guy, inconsolable (but oh-so-lovable, so very needful)...
...tonight, I talked to Version #3.
just SAD, just angry, fed-up, lonely, broke...
asking nothing but an ear
to pour his exhaustion into.
He yawned as he spoke, pushing a grocery cart
through some Southern-Indiana store
asking for two packs of Kool 100's
("two?" I said. "You tryin' to smoke yourself to death, baby?")
the wind in the cell-phone receiver as he crossed the parking-lot
the radio as he started up the car,
sleepy still, counting on my voice to ride home beside him.
"I don't want anyone else to get hurt," he told me,
one night after some drunken e-mail
escaped my "draft" file
into the realm of "sent".
That, alone, spoke volumes:
when you offer something
and it is declined
out of concern for someone else,
their nobility
(real or imagined)
is all you have to cling to.
(That, and the fact that in the past, he blatantly SAID he didn't care if someone else got wounded, somewhere in the rifle-spray of his existence.
Or, as he used to phrase it:
"When you pick up a snake, you can't be surprised when you get bit.")
But tonight...
tonight, just a sad, exhausted boy, really,
tired of work,
of life,
of bills,
of worry.
"Hey, thanks for the letters," he said, as we said goodbye. "Keep writing to me...No, they don't annoy me, I LOVE the way you write."
I smiled. "Thanks," I said.
"Try to have a good day tomorrow, okay?"
"Yeah," he said. "I'll try."
It's not so much that I need someone to need me.
It's more that it's so much easier to be with someone who feels the same things I feel--
the tiredness, the worry, the outrage
at music, the media, the TV talking heads,
at politics and fakes and phonies,
at sellouts,
at growing older.
("Don't you hate it?" he said, one of the first times we spoke again. "Everything we liked? is OLD now. It's all past." How many times have I said or written those same words?)
And yes, I know:
there are others who feel this way.
There are others who feel this way
who have never hurt me
who have never lied
who have never left me
who have never said a cutting word
much less the words he said,
the ones that have followed me for nearly seven years now...
Yes, I know.
There are others.
And yes, I'm sure
that I should go and find them.
But I'm a bit too old to start again at kissing frogs,
at hoping for stray and random princes.
Old, and other things,
not least of which is "disinclined".
I'm everlastingly tired
of the taste of frog-skin.
So:
here I am again.
But this is the last,
the last, last, last, last, last, last time
(last time was just the last last last last last)
that I will even pretend
to think about considering the possibility to wonder if perhaps I might one day believe again.)
I know:
I'm stupid.
I know:
This will end in tears.
It's not like I was doing anything better in the first place.
We shall see
what happens.
Maybe it will even
spur me to make art. Who knows?
JP and I
had many, many mottoes
but one of them:
"there is no such thing
as a bad experience"...
...hard as it is,
I still believe.
I wouldn't trade
anything that's happened--
even the things I hate the most.
So many times I've wondered
who I'd be
if I'd had a softer life.
I imagine her
and I don't like her much.
She cries less
because she knows less
and I'd rather know more
and smile less
than the other way around.
Tears always dry.
So...yeah
off the edge I go
and I hope
for a soft landing.
(Do -I- think people can change?)
If people can't change, then what does that say about the things I've done?
If people can change, what does that say for anyone who believes they can't?
If I believe they can't, what does that say for me?
Maybe -some- people can change, and others can't.
If that's true, which one am I?
And how do I know?
By my past actions?
But my past actions are...inconclusive.
Yes, I was a faithful girlfriend to one guy for years.
Then I got married, and a year later, suddenly I...wasn't.
And then, because I was with someone I truly cared about, then I was.
Or--example two:
Yes, I quit heroin for five years.
Then I un-quit for six weeks.
And yes, since then, I've quit for nearly-three years now..
But: once I quit for FIVE years...
...before I UN-quit.
Just how do I know I've changed?
And how would I, if I needed to, convince another?
But--fortunate child, I--never have I needed to convince another.
I have been lucky enough that when I've said,
"I've changed..."
I have been believed.
And I have been right.
But: again.
I was right.
For nearly five years...and then, for six weeks, all that "change" was a lie.
For six weeks, and then it was the truth again, for so-far three years, and hopefully longer--much, MUCH longer.
BUT: for six weeks, I had no longer "changed".
For six weeks, I was a hypocrite, judging others
because they did the same as me.
(Not the "same" same, but the same not-changing.)
Who, then, am I,
to say
that someone else may not have changed?
Even for a while--for a few years, maybe,
but SOMETHING?
(You know, of course, where this is going.)
I talked to him tonight.
He has three sides, mostly:
1. macho-bullshit blustering shithead (but oh, quite seductive, he is);
2. perfectly normal, more-intelligent-than-he-knows (the piece I miss most of all);
3. heartbroken emo-guy, inconsolable (but oh-so-lovable, so very needful)...
...tonight, I talked to Version #3.
just SAD, just angry, fed-up, lonely, broke...
asking nothing but an ear
to pour his exhaustion into.
He yawned as he spoke, pushing a grocery cart
through some Southern-Indiana store
asking for two packs of Kool 100's
("two?" I said. "You tryin' to smoke yourself to death, baby?")
the wind in the cell-phone receiver as he crossed the parking-lot
the radio as he started up the car,
sleepy still, counting on my voice to ride home beside him.
"I don't want anyone else to get hurt," he told me,
one night after some drunken e-mail
escaped my "draft" file
into the realm of "sent".
That, alone, spoke volumes:
when you offer something
and it is declined
out of concern for someone else,
their nobility
(real or imagined)
is all you have to cling to.
(That, and the fact that in the past, he blatantly SAID he didn't care if someone else got wounded, somewhere in the rifle-spray of his existence.
Or, as he used to phrase it:
"When you pick up a snake, you can't be surprised when you get bit.")
But tonight...
tonight, just a sad, exhausted boy, really,
tired of work,
of life,
of bills,
of worry.
"Hey, thanks for the letters," he said, as we said goodbye. "Keep writing to me...No, they don't annoy me, I LOVE the way you write."
I smiled. "Thanks," I said.
"Try to have a good day tomorrow, okay?"
"Yeah," he said. "I'll try."
It's not so much that I need someone to need me.
It's more that it's so much easier to be with someone who feels the same things I feel--
the tiredness, the worry, the outrage
at music, the media, the TV talking heads,
at politics and fakes and phonies,
at sellouts,
at growing older.
("Don't you hate it?" he said, one of the first times we spoke again. "Everything we liked? is OLD now. It's all past." How many times have I said or written those same words?)
And yes, I know:
there are others who feel this way.
There are others who feel this way
who have never hurt me
who have never lied
who have never left me
who have never said a cutting word
much less the words he said,
the ones that have followed me for nearly seven years now...
Yes, I know.
There are others.
And yes, I'm sure
that I should go and find them.
But I'm a bit too old to start again at kissing frogs,
at hoping for stray and random princes.
Old, and other things,
not least of which is "disinclined".
I'm everlastingly tired
of the taste of frog-skin.
So:
here I am again.
But this is the last,
the last, last, last, last, last, last time
(last time was just the last last last last last)
that I will even pretend
to think about considering the possibility to wonder if perhaps I might one day believe again.)
I know:
I'm stupid.
I know:
This will end in tears.
It's not like I was doing anything better in the first place.
We shall see
what happens.
Maybe it will even
spur me to make art. Who knows?
JP and I
had many, many mottoes
but one of them:
"there is no such thing
as a bad experience"...
...hard as it is,
I still believe.
I wouldn't trade
anything that's happened--
even the things I hate the most.
So many times I've wondered
who I'd be
if I'd had a softer life.
I imagine her
and I don't like her much.
She cries less
because she knows less
and I'd rather know more
and smile less
than the other way around.
Tears always dry.
So...yeah
off the edge I go
and I hope
for a soft landing.
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
Updates On the Drama
So. Um. welll...
Yeah, I've talked to CR again. Several times, in fact, and a few e-mails too. I'm still conflicted--as Tim says, "the more you talk to him, the better the chances he can get you to believe his bullshit and suck you back in" and he's right...
...but honestly, I DO miss the arrogant little bastard.
I'd LIKE to say I don't miss the sex. That would be the safest way to feel, but unfortunately that's not a form of willpower I can muster up; there were times in that relationship when the sex was just fanTAStic. Usually it was when he was sneaking around WITH me, instead of sneaking around ON me. When we were in a relationship, that was when it fell apart, generally. I am aware of this, and can judge my own thoughts accordingly--or, as I told Firefly, "Just because I don't hate him anymore, that doesn't mean I have to fuck him." And he's safely several hundred miles away, at any rate, so the point is even more moot than usual.
So yeah, even though I miss that, I miss other things more. There was a point the other night, when we'd been talking for about two hours already, that we got into one of our typical grooves of conversation--I only half-remember what it even was we were talking about--but we were both yelling at the top of our voices, agreeing with each other, trying to top each others' proof of whatever fact or opinion we were discussing...It was like the best of our entire time together. I told him, "THIS is what I miss, dude. Not the bullshit, and not the stupid stuff you did, and not even the 'relationship' part of the relationship--I miss THESE conversations more than anything. I miss arguing with you about stuff. I miss watching the news with you at night." (That was one of our loudest times of the day, the 9 PM news; we were both firecracker-quick to become outraged, particularly at our state and city governments, and there was a great deal of shouting at the television that always went on between the headline and the weather forecast.)
We talked, too, about some of the lies he told. There was one in particular that he'd completely forgotten; when I reminded him of it, he got very quiet. "Oh, god. I did that, didn't I," he said. It wasn't a question; it was a realization of yet another moment in which he'd made some evil choices. "God," he said. It took him a while to get back to the normal way he defends himself from those memories--calling himself an asshole, telling me how sorry he was, how he never meant to hurt me--those are his defenses. I always knew, when he was silent, that my words had REALLY hit home. He'd totally forgotten this lie, and I think he was happier forgetting it. He says, though, that he wants to face it; well, then, face it all, asshole, is my way of looking at things.
Part of me is nervous, thinking that these conversations are leading to someplace I don't want them to go--places that I know it's in my best interests to stay away from. As Tim said last night, "G, you're on such a good track lately--your life is going so well, and even if it isn't exactly what you planned maybe it's more of a blessing that it ended up this way...But don't let him come back and crap on you some more. He could fuck that alllll up, if he came back and tried to do the same shit. And you know he will--you know he's not going to change." (Curiously, CR says the same of Tim. Since their falling-out a few years ago, back when we lived together, there's been a competition, open and full of contempt, as to which of them can most-effectively "protect" me from the other one. CR says Tim is a user; Tim says CR is a womanizing bastard. CR says Tim will never grow up and be a man; Tim says CR will never stop lying and cheating. To a certain extent, they're both right about each other; the only one they're mostly wrong about is me. I'm sure each of them thinks it's their noble hearts and gallantry that lead them to want to "save" me from the other; I am the only one who knows what the motivation really is. All their posturing and protecting, all their teeth-baring and snarling display of loyalty, is really only the same old competition between them that there's ever been--a competition that existed long before I came on the scene. I know a pissing contest when I see one.)
But about one thing Tim is right--if I let CR back in my life, I'd damn well better be prepared to reap the whirlwind. And frankly, right now my life IS in a very good place. I just found out that, owing to my electrical problems, my building manager has finagled me an eternal rent-freeze; that would be good enough, but before he freezes it he's actually CUTTING my rent for next year by almost $150/month, when all is said and done. The truck is paid off, my bills are slightly more-manageable, and I'm at the end of a contract for a cell-phone I don't really need, now that LJ is gone. In short, I'm on the very brink of getting my shit together; letting Chaos Personified back in the door would be a very, very stupid thing to do....
...even if I DO remember long nights of conversation, of laughing and smoking and sex, silly inside jokes that, for just a moment, put me in mind of how happy I was with JP. I wanted to tell CR that, actually; wanted to tell him Do you remember those first few weeks we were starting to get together, before I found out you were still living with Mona? Do you remember that night that you and I and Sofia drove through the city, and I showed you where JP and I had lived together, and all the holy places I remembered, and we listened to Pink Floyd in the car and then we all three went up to Sofia's parents' place and looked out over the skyline? There was a time there when I thought you were who you said you were; when I thought you were honest, that what you told me was the truth, and all the promises you made. And I felt like finally, finally, after two long years, that the world was coming back into place for me again, that I was resuming the life I'd made for myself with JP. Not that I expected you to replace him, but I thought that you were more like me than...well, than you were. I thought that you were telling me the truth, and we would be together, and there would be another wild round of creativity and fucking and madness and HAPPINESS. And then Mona kicked down that motel door, and told me what you'd said about me, and all those hopes and everything we could have been came down the motel stairs with me like a cloud of mist, and I got into the car and drove away and promised you I'd never come back. Except, of course, I DID...
That was my mistake. I know that now--that when I promised him I'd never return, I promised myself as well. And I've never been good at keeping promises I've made to myself. To others, yes; but not to me.
Which is why I worry when I promise myself: This is as far as I will let it go. The nicest thing about it, of course, is that implicit in THAT promise is another one, one that would be infinitely harder for me to break: I promised myself, and then told CR as well: There will be NO more lying to me nor to anyone else; no more manipulation of me nor of anyone else. And if that happens--if your need to feel in control leads you to "protect" me, or anyone else through a lie, and I find out about it (and believe me, I will find out)-- you WILL have no one to blame but yourself. In short: THIS IS YOUR FINAL, FINAL, FINAL FINAL CHANCE.
And this: ...if (being) the better person means I have to make sure you don't hurt me or anyone else, then I will go to any lengths. To protect ME, yes--but after that, to protect other people who maybe don't yet know how badly you can hurt them. Or those who DO know, but who for whatever reason, can't defend themselves.) Now, if you want to just be a normal person and come real with it--tell her the truth, tell me the truth, pick a side and stick with it instead of always looking for something better--then this won't be a problem.
I will not be hurt again. But neither will I be a part of hurting someone else. That was always a source of guilt for me; knowing that I had been "the other woman"--at first, yes, unknowingly--BUT: I stayed and kept trying EVEN AFTER I KNEW. Because I thought he was mine--he'd told me as much--but he'd told Mona as much too. I won't go down that road again. If that means I have to cut him out of my life again, then so be it; I just....I have enough bad karma already.
So yeah--it's been complicated. I miss him, yes. Do I still love him on some level? Probably a little bit, yeah. I'm not a light-switch, and as he and I always said: "indifference", not "hate", is the opposite of "love". I have never been purely indifferent to him, as much as I have tried.
But: am I going to let him get close enough to hurt me again?? Not if I can help it; I can only hope that knowledge is good enough. Because despite how all this might sound to those who know me only through this medium? I DO know better. I know MUCH better than to make the same mistake again. I honestly think that I can be his friend--from a distance--and not let it go any further.
(But it surely wouldn't hurt if some magnificently-hot guy were to turn up right about now; that would certainly simplify matters quite a lot.)
Anyway. Everything else in my life is...awesome, really. Once I get the REAL 'puter all up and running again, I'll scan in some of my latest drawings. I've found that vodka + boredom + conte crayons = some really cool artwork!
Yeah, I've talked to CR again. Several times, in fact, and a few e-mails too. I'm still conflicted--as Tim says, "the more you talk to him, the better the chances he can get you to believe his bullshit and suck you back in" and he's right...
...but honestly, I DO miss the arrogant little bastard.
I'd LIKE to say I don't miss the sex. That would be the safest way to feel, but unfortunately that's not a form of willpower I can muster up; there were times in that relationship when the sex was just fanTAStic. Usually it was when he was sneaking around WITH me, instead of sneaking around ON me. When we were in a relationship, that was when it fell apart, generally. I am aware of this, and can judge my own thoughts accordingly--or, as I told Firefly, "Just because I don't hate him anymore, that doesn't mean I have to fuck him." And he's safely several hundred miles away, at any rate, so the point is even more moot than usual.
So yeah, even though I miss that, I miss other things more. There was a point the other night, when we'd been talking for about two hours already, that we got into one of our typical grooves of conversation--I only half-remember what it even was we were talking about--but we were both yelling at the top of our voices, agreeing with each other, trying to top each others' proof of whatever fact or opinion we were discussing...It was like the best of our entire time together. I told him, "THIS is what I miss, dude. Not the bullshit, and not the stupid stuff you did, and not even the 'relationship' part of the relationship--I miss THESE conversations more than anything. I miss arguing with you about stuff. I miss watching the news with you at night." (That was one of our loudest times of the day, the 9 PM news; we were both firecracker-quick to become outraged, particularly at our state and city governments, and there was a great deal of shouting at the television that always went on between the headline and the weather forecast.)
We talked, too, about some of the lies he told. There was one in particular that he'd completely forgotten; when I reminded him of it, he got very quiet. "Oh, god. I did that, didn't I," he said. It wasn't a question; it was a realization of yet another moment in which he'd made some evil choices. "God," he said. It took him a while to get back to the normal way he defends himself from those memories--calling himself an asshole, telling me how sorry he was, how he never meant to hurt me--those are his defenses. I always knew, when he was silent, that my words had REALLY hit home. He'd totally forgotten this lie, and I think he was happier forgetting it. He says, though, that he wants to face it; well, then, face it all, asshole, is my way of looking at things.
Part of me is nervous, thinking that these conversations are leading to someplace I don't want them to go--places that I know it's in my best interests to stay away from. As Tim said last night, "G, you're on such a good track lately--your life is going so well, and even if it isn't exactly what you planned maybe it's more of a blessing that it ended up this way...But don't let him come back and crap on you some more. He could fuck that alllll up, if he came back and tried to do the same shit. And you know he will--you know he's not going to change." (Curiously, CR says the same of Tim. Since their falling-out a few years ago, back when we lived together, there's been a competition, open and full of contempt, as to which of them can most-effectively "protect" me from the other one. CR says Tim is a user; Tim says CR is a womanizing bastard. CR says Tim will never grow up and be a man; Tim says CR will never stop lying and cheating. To a certain extent, they're both right about each other; the only one they're mostly wrong about is me. I'm sure each of them thinks it's their noble hearts and gallantry that lead them to want to "save" me from the other; I am the only one who knows what the motivation really is. All their posturing and protecting, all their teeth-baring and snarling display of loyalty, is really only the same old competition between them that there's ever been--a competition that existed long before I came on the scene. I know a pissing contest when I see one.)
But about one thing Tim is right--if I let CR back in my life, I'd damn well better be prepared to reap the whirlwind. And frankly, right now my life IS in a very good place. I just found out that, owing to my electrical problems, my building manager has finagled me an eternal rent-freeze; that would be good enough, but before he freezes it he's actually CUTTING my rent for next year by almost $150/month, when all is said and done. The truck is paid off, my bills are slightly more-manageable, and I'm at the end of a contract for a cell-phone I don't really need, now that LJ is gone. In short, I'm on the very brink of getting my shit together; letting Chaos Personified back in the door would be a very, very stupid thing to do....
...even if I DO remember long nights of conversation, of laughing and smoking and sex, silly inside jokes that, for just a moment, put me in mind of how happy I was with JP. I wanted to tell CR that, actually; wanted to tell him Do you remember those first few weeks we were starting to get together, before I found out you were still living with Mona? Do you remember that night that you and I and Sofia drove through the city, and I showed you where JP and I had lived together, and all the holy places I remembered, and we listened to Pink Floyd in the car and then we all three went up to Sofia's parents' place and looked out over the skyline? There was a time there when I thought you were who you said you were; when I thought you were honest, that what you told me was the truth, and all the promises you made. And I felt like finally, finally, after two long years, that the world was coming back into place for me again, that I was resuming the life I'd made for myself with JP. Not that I expected you to replace him, but I thought that you were more like me than...well, than you were. I thought that you were telling me the truth, and we would be together, and there would be another wild round of creativity and fucking and madness and HAPPINESS. And then Mona kicked down that motel door, and told me what you'd said about me, and all those hopes and everything we could have been came down the motel stairs with me like a cloud of mist, and I got into the car and drove away and promised you I'd never come back. Except, of course, I DID...
That was my mistake. I know that now--that when I promised him I'd never return, I promised myself as well. And I've never been good at keeping promises I've made to myself. To others, yes; but not to me.
Which is why I worry when I promise myself: This is as far as I will let it go. The nicest thing about it, of course, is that implicit in THAT promise is another one, one that would be infinitely harder for me to break: I promised myself, and then told CR as well: There will be NO more lying to me nor to anyone else; no more manipulation of me nor of anyone else. And if that happens--if your need to feel in control leads you to "protect" me, or anyone else through a lie, and I find out about it (and believe me, I will find out)-- you WILL have no one to blame but yourself. In short: THIS IS YOUR FINAL, FINAL, FINAL FINAL CHANCE.
And this: ...if (being) the better person means I have to make sure you don't hurt me or anyone else, then I will go to any lengths. To protect ME, yes--but after that, to protect other people who maybe don't yet know how badly you can hurt them. Or those who DO know, but who for whatever reason, can't defend themselves.) Now, if you want to just be a normal person and come real with it--tell her the truth, tell me the truth, pick a side and stick with it instead of always looking for something better--then this won't be a problem.
I will not be hurt again. But neither will I be a part of hurting someone else. That was always a source of guilt for me; knowing that I had been "the other woman"--at first, yes, unknowingly--BUT: I stayed and kept trying EVEN AFTER I KNEW. Because I thought he was mine--he'd told me as much--but he'd told Mona as much too. I won't go down that road again. If that means I have to cut him out of my life again, then so be it; I just....I have enough bad karma already.
So yeah--it's been complicated. I miss him, yes. Do I still love him on some level? Probably a little bit, yeah. I'm not a light-switch, and as he and I always said: "indifference", not "hate", is the opposite of "love". I have never been purely indifferent to him, as much as I have tried.
But: am I going to let him get close enough to hurt me again?? Not if I can help it; I can only hope that knowledge is good enough. Because despite how all this might sound to those who know me only through this medium? I DO know better. I know MUCH better than to make the same mistake again. I honestly think that I can be his friend--from a distance--and not let it go any further.
(But it surely wouldn't hurt if some magnificently-hot guy were to turn up right about now; that would certainly simplify matters quite a lot.)
Anyway. Everything else in my life is...awesome, really. Once I get the REAL 'puter all up and running again, I'll scan in some of my latest drawings. I've found that vodka + boredom + conte crayons = some really cool artwork!
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