So on the bus on the way home from downtown, I was thinking (or trying to--there was this trio of friends, two girls and a guy, and the girls had two of the WORST laughs I've ever heard in my life, and they were having one of those nights where EVERYTHING is funny)...Anyway, I was trying to figure out what, exactly, I think is wrong with me. I don't mean little details, like "I'm disorganized" or whatever; I mean the fundamental thing that makes me dislike myself so damn much.
You know what I came up with?
I dislike myself because I'm fat and ugly.
(Spins, stop snarling. I can hear you all the way in Chicago. I'll explain it.)
If I take a reasonably-realistic look at my inner self, I come out better than average. I'm intelligent, I'm creative, I'm funny, I care about other people, I'm not mean-spirited (much), I'm reasonably moral...Yeah, I have some flaws, but for the most part they're outweighed by the good qualities.
If I look in the mirror, though, everything goes directly to shit.
To begin with: There are large-sized women who still look good. They take the time and make an effort to look good, and many of them have a sense of style that enables them to do that. (Then there are the ones who wear super-tight t-shirts that don't all-the-way cover the belly...but I digress. Man, the things you see on the CTA--seriously. When you can see three inches of flesh between the bottom of the shirt and the waistband? You need to go a size up. Sorry....) Anyway. There are larger women who look good.
I am not one of these.
I have never, NEVER had a sense of style. When I was young, we had school uniforms, which choked out any sense of individuality (we weren't even allowed to wear striped socks.) Other than uniforms and jeans, though, my mom made many of my clothes, and bought the rest. And of course, she made, and bought, the clothes SHE wanted me to wear. They were sensible and serviceable; they were not attractive, by any means. As I got older, I would go shopping with my friends, but I always felt uncomfortable in wearing anything attention-getting. (We'll get to the "why" of that in just a moment.) On the rare occasions that I did want to buy something trendy, for the most part it was shot down by the clothing-buyer: Mom. I tried to balance what I liked with what was in style and with what my mom was willing to pay for; most of the time I came out looking like a damn train-wreck. And being an only child, with no older cousins or anyone else in my life to point me in a different direction, I had only my own likes and dislikes to follow--and again, I was always uncomfortable in clothes.
And why was that, you ask?
From the time I was three, I have fought against my weight.
Wait: no. There's more to that sentence.
From the time I was three, I have been urged by my mother to fight against my weight.
That's far more accurate. From my earliest days, I can remember being cautioned against taking second helpings, or eating anything I enjoyed. If I ignored her exhortations, I would be likely to hear the following: "Well, go ahead, but when you get older and you're fat, don't blame me!" (Would it be ridiculous to bring up the fact that SHE COOKED THE FOOD? She chose the menus; she chose how much to cook. But if I ate it, that was MY fault.)
But here's the thing, see--She talked about "when you get older" but it was very clear she thought I was too heavy from my very earliest days. And as I have said before--I have pictures of myself throughout my childhood. I had a little tummy, like many children do, but in no way could I have been considered "overweight", "obese", or even "chunky". I was at the high end of normal. I don't recall ever hearing a doctor say anything about losing weight, when I was a child.
And yet it was a constant theme. She bought me diet books when I was nine; took me to a dietician when I was 15. Hearing over and over and over that you have a weight problem--what do you think that's going to do to a child's mind?
I have a witness to all this, see. Debbi's family had the same issue, only worse; her little sister was the cutesy little skinny thing, and Debbi was the normal-sized child. And like me, all Debbi ever heard about was "fat fat fat". I have pictures of Debbi from this era as well; if I didn't care about my anonymity, in fact, I'd post one of them, a picture of the two of us standing together, taken when I was eleven and she was ten. We look like normal little girls.
Flash forward twenty-five years. Before her gastric bypass, Debbi weighed over 300 pounds. I currently weigh 260. That doesn't JUST HAPPEN. That's not just "the American diet". That, my friends, is the product of hearing the same drumbeat, pounded into your head, over and over and over. "You're fat," "you're fat," "you're fat," becomes, after the five-millionth repetition, a perfectly good justification for that second donut, or the fettucine Alfredo, or the pint of Heath Bar Crunch after a bad day. "What does it matter? I'm already fat." And eventually--eventually, yeah, you are. (Both Debbi and I have agreed that, especially beginning in about junior high, food became a rebellion for both of us. I remember sneaking off to the 7-Eleven and buying tons of candy, then going back to my room and snorking it all down while listening to the radio. Neither of us had a weight problem then, though; there are other pictures of us, at 16 and 17, and we still look perfectly normal.)
There's more to this--lots more--but I'm stopping here for now.
Showing posts with label maternal issues. Show all posts
Showing posts with label maternal issues. Show all posts
Friday, October 10, 2008
Untitled
I'm having a bad night.
My work schedule has been shifted for the next couple of weeks, and so I'm downtown every evening til late. The city at night is different than the city in the daytime. During the day you know people are on business, or for the most part you can at least convince yourself of that. But very few people, especially on a Friday night, come downtown for any businesslike purpose. They come to hold hands and walk down Michigan Avenue, or take their kids to see plays, or go to bars and restaurants and there is nothing in the world like walking unnoticed through all those connected, happy people to make me realize how completely, crushingly insignificant and alone I am. Even here at work, there are pictures on all the walls of people who have done something with their lives, people who have made something of themselves--won Nobel prizes or gotten books upon books published or founded entire philosophies, and here's fat little old me in a t-shirt and jeans, walking through the hallways pushing a cart filled with paper to stuff in the printers. On a Friday night, in Chicago, at 38 years old.
I found a friend online tonight. I've mentioned him here before; he's from a long time ago and he was significant in pretty much everything that went on. He's in California now; I think he's living under another name, and if his MySpace is any indication I can sorta understand why. Now, as then, he's fucking gorgeous; unlike when I knew him, though, he's got (it seems) a lot of friends. A lot, a LOT of friends. On my MySpace page, I have seven friends; he has 958. I wonder what JP would say about that.
And here's the thing: when we were in school together he and I were just alike. We were both these smart, nerdy writer kids. We both had friends, mostly the same friends: nerdy writer kids, theater kids, math kids. Of all the people I went to high school with, I would have never imagined that mine would have been the life that would turn out like this. I always thought my life would have some...you know, LIVING in it.
This is not what I wanted. This is not who I wanted to be, where I wanted to be, what I wanted to be doing.
I really don't know where to turn anymore. All the things I tell myself to make it better, they've all stopped working. It gets harder and harder to hold back the...the what? Fear, maybe--despair, somewhat--complete fucking bewilderment at the wreckage of what started out so promising? Yeah, that too. There are people in my life who would offer me an easy answer to "how did I get here?"--people like my mom, who (and this is just a tangent) has had more to do with it than anyone else, including those who she feels are responsible for screwing up my life--but although I've made mistakes, THOSE are the things I've done that have made me feel MOST like a normal human being. It's times like this, when I'm doing all the "right" things and all it does is make me numb and make me hate myself, that I start hoping there's a new mistake around the corner. At least if there's a little drama, I know I'm alive...
I wonder who I would be if I didn't have to answer to anyone but myself.
My work schedule has been shifted for the next couple of weeks, and so I'm downtown every evening til late. The city at night is different than the city in the daytime. During the day you know people are on business, or for the most part you can at least convince yourself of that. But very few people, especially on a Friday night, come downtown for any businesslike purpose. They come to hold hands and walk down Michigan Avenue, or take their kids to see plays, or go to bars and restaurants and there is nothing in the world like walking unnoticed through all those connected, happy people to make me realize how completely, crushingly insignificant and alone I am. Even here at work, there are pictures on all the walls of people who have done something with their lives, people who have made something of themselves--won Nobel prizes or gotten books upon books published or founded entire philosophies, and here's fat little old me in a t-shirt and jeans, walking through the hallways pushing a cart filled with paper to stuff in the printers. On a Friday night, in Chicago, at 38 years old.
I found a friend online tonight. I've mentioned him here before; he's from a long time ago and he was significant in pretty much everything that went on. He's in California now; I think he's living under another name, and if his MySpace is any indication I can sorta understand why. Now, as then, he's fucking gorgeous; unlike when I knew him, though, he's got (it seems) a lot of friends. A lot, a LOT of friends. On my MySpace page, I have seven friends; he has 958. I wonder what JP would say about that.
And here's the thing: when we were in school together he and I were just alike. We were both these smart, nerdy writer kids. We both had friends, mostly the same friends: nerdy writer kids, theater kids, math kids. Of all the people I went to high school with, I would have never imagined that mine would have been the life that would turn out like this. I always thought my life would have some...you know, LIVING in it.
This is not what I wanted. This is not who I wanted to be, where I wanted to be, what I wanted to be doing.
I really don't know where to turn anymore. All the things I tell myself to make it better, they've all stopped working. It gets harder and harder to hold back the...the what? Fear, maybe--despair, somewhat--complete fucking bewilderment at the wreckage of what started out so promising? Yeah, that too. There are people in my life who would offer me an easy answer to "how did I get here?"--people like my mom, who (and this is just a tangent) has had more to do with it than anyone else, including those who she feels are responsible for screwing up my life--but although I've made mistakes, THOSE are the things I've done that have made me feel MOST like a normal human being. It's times like this, when I'm doing all the "right" things and all it does is make me numb and make me hate myself, that I start hoping there's a new mistake around the corner. At least if there's a little drama, I know I'm alive...
I wonder who I would be if I didn't have to answer to anyone but myself.
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
I Am Going To Kick SO Many People's Ass,
Tonight's candidates for the Oh My God, You Totally Have To Be Fucking Kidding Me Awards:
1. Mom.
Normally, in the grand scheme, I call Mom at about 6:50. Gives me time to feed the cats, open the mail, and pee. Everything else can wait.
Tonight: 6:45. I open the door. Feed the cats. Pee. Call mom. "bzz-bzz-bzz" Okay. Mom is talking to...someone.
7:00. I sit down at the desk with my fresh cocktail. Dial Mom: "bzz-bzz-bzz" Damn, Mom; get off the phone, eh?
7:15. 7:20. 7:25. Mom: "bzz-bzz-bzz". Oh. Um, Mom? Get off the phone. Seriously.
7:30. Call across-the-street neighbor, friend of mom's. "Hey, Mr. E. This is Mom's daughter Gladys. Could you do me a favor?" Mr. E tells me to call back in 10 min.
7:41. "Hi, Mr. E?" Mr E tells me that he and Cop Across The Street have stood on chairs and peered into windows. He and CATS don't want to break in, though. "Well, there's a key in the...." I tell Mr. E where key is stored. "Would you want me to go in and check?" he asks? "I would MUCH appreciate it," I tell him. "Call back in 10", he says. "Wait," I say. "Is her car there?" "Yep," says Mr. E.
7:50:59. "Hi, Mr. E?" I have already begun to frame my explanation for why I won't be in to work for the rest of the week. "Well," he says. "You might wanna hide that key somewhere else," he says. Which, yeah, okay, but NOT SO VERY IMPORTANT RIGHT JUST AT THE MOMENT, HM? "Me and CATS went through the whole place," he said. "It's a good thing CATS is a cop, because he knew all where to look--in the shower, down the basement, etc. She's not there." "If you see her," I say, "before I talk to her? Would you please tell her that she is in SO MUCH TROUBLE????"
I am serious. I am going to kick my mother's ass. Because O---M---F---G! How do you LEAVE THE PHONE OFF THE HOOK, Dingbat? And NOT CALL and NOT TELL your kid that you're going out?? And you're 79 YEARS OLD????
I am soooOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOoooo pissed. She is going to get some SEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEErious shit from me.
(GAWD. These ELDERS today. You gotta watch out for them EVERY DAMN MINUTE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!)
I STILL do not know where she is. I STILL have no idea whether everything's okay. I assume, based on a lack of evidence to the contrary, that she's fine. But OHHHHHHHHHman, she is in SO. MUCH. TROUBLE.
Update--11:30--she's fine. Playing poker with her friendses, as a matter of fact. She lost--just what she deserved. I told her so. I also told her she is grounded for the REST of the WEEK and that's ALL THERE IS TO IT, YOUNG LADY. Also, do NOT raise your voice to me--or are you aiming for a NOTHER week in your room?
In further news: still, disgustingly and OHSOVERY dishearteningly. still MADLY in love with CR. (I am IDIOT, hear me ROAR.))
1. Mom.
Normally, in the grand scheme, I call Mom at about 6:50. Gives me time to feed the cats, open the mail, and pee. Everything else can wait.
Tonight: 6:45. I open the door. Feed the cats. Pee. Call mom. "bzz-bzz-bzz" Okay. Mom is talking to...someone.
7:00. I sit down at the desk with my fresh cocktail. Dial Mom: "bzz-bzz-bzz" Damn, Mom; get off the phone, eh?
7:15. 7:20. 7:25. Mom: "bzz-bzz-bzz". Oh. Um, Mom? Get off the phone. Seriously.
7:30. Call across-the-street neighbor, friend of mom's. "Hey, Mr. E. This is Mom's daughter Gladys. Could you do me a favor?" Mr. E tells me to call back in 10 min.
7:41. "Hi, Mr. E?" Mr E tells me that he and Cop Across The Street have stood on chairs and peered into windows. He and CATS don't want to break in, though. "Well, there's a key in the...." I tell Mr. E where key is stored. "Would you want me to go in and check?" he asks? "I would MUCH appreciate it," I tell him. "Call back in 10", he says. "Wait," I say. "Is her car there?" "Yep," says Mr. E.
7:50:59. "Hi, Mr. E?" I have already begun to frame my explanation for why I won't be in to work for the rest of the week. "Well," he says. "You might wanna hide that key somewhere else," he says. Which, yeah, okay, but NOT SO VERY IMPORTANT RIGHT JUST AT THE MOMENT, HM? "Me and CATS went through the whole place," he said. "It's a good thing CATS is a cop, because he knew all where to look--in the shower, down the basement, etc. She's not there." "If you see her," I say, "before I talk to her? Would you please tell her that she is in SO MUCH TROUBLE????"
I am serious. I am going to kick my mother's ass. Because O---M---F---G! How do you LEAVE THE PHONE OFF THE HOOK, Dingbat? And NOT CALL and NOT TELL your kid that you're going out?? And you're 79 YEARS OLD????
I am soooOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOoooo pissed. She is going to get some SEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEErious shit from me.
(GAWD. These ELDERS today. You gotta watch out for them EVERY DAMN MINUTE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!)
I STILL do not know where she is. I STILL have no idea whether everything's okay. I assume, based on a lack of evidence to the contrary, that she's fine. But OHHHHHHHHHman, she is in SO. MUCH. TROUBLE.
Update--11:30--she's fine. Playing poker with her friendses, as a matter of fact. She lost--just what she deserved. I told her so. I also told her she is grounded for the REST of the WEEK and that's ALL THERE IS TO IT, YOUNG LADY. Also, do NOT raise your voice to me--or are you aiming for a NOTHER week in your room?
In further news: still, disgustingly and OHSOVERY dishearteningly. still MADLY in love with CR. (I am IDIOT, hear me ROAR.))
Monday, August 25, 2008
Happy Things
Okay. Since I am personally now BORED by my own ranty-panty-pissy-pity-party, I shall move on to Many Happier Things. Because--believe it or not?--they're STILL THERE.
But first of all, in fairness, I owe Firefly an apology.
From that last post, one would think that all she does is bitch me out for my bad choices, which could not in a billion years be further from the truth. I mean that. We are the Head Bitches In Charge Of Picking Up Each Other's Pieces, and for me to characterize her the way that last post came off was...just not cool. I think I was going by how hard I would beat HER ass under the same circumstances, and it's always a mistake to ascribe your OWN deficiencies to someone ELSE. So, FF--I'm sorry, monster. That came out WAYYYY worse than I meant for it to do.
Moving right along to happyland:
Item One, Happy Report.
My computer?? Is ALIVE!!! Is HEALTHY!!!!! Totally FAILED to cost me the $300-odd dollars I had braced myself to pay!!!! Cost me only $60--including installation!--to repair my frizzle-frazzled power supply. I seriously almost did the Happy Wiggle-Dance in front of the Firedog guy at Circuit City. But I was afraid it would turn him on, so I forbore.
But for SERIOUS--$60 instead of $300? is CAUSE for the wiggle-dance. I could simply NOT be any more happy about the outcome of that whole debacle.
Item Two, Happy Report:
This neighborhood I've moved into?
Is THA SHIZZ. No kidding. I knew it was all artsy and progressive and stuff, but: there is the Place-Where-I-Live-Now Art Center. And yes, I'm late to the party, and yes, I could have been doing this for MONTHS now, but I wasn't even introduced to the Maroonland Art Center til the beginning of summer. Their summer session? Looked promising, but didn't grab me enough to make me plunk down cash and drag my butt out of work early to get to a class on time.
Their FALL session?
Practically sexual in nature.
So Indecisive-Little-Ol-Me is now faced with the choice of the following--and this is pared down only to the stuff that INTERESTS me at the moment:
Abstract Painting/Drawing--Acrylic Painting--Beginning Drawing--Beginning Painting--Ceramic Tiles--Intro to Printmaking--Knitting--Mosaics--Photography I--Quick Quilting--Silkscreen.
First: NOT COOL. Too many choices makes Gladys go Wocka-Wocka-Wocka.
Second: OMFG SOOOOOOO EFFING COOL! Because what I don't do in the fall? I can do in the spring. And what I don't do in the spring? I can do NEXT fall. Which is so very OMFG as to require smelling-salts.
To say the very very least, I am looking forward to the fall.
Item Three: Happy Report--
No word from CR.
Yes, I know, that's a Happy and a Sad all boiled up together. Don't care. He's...I don't really have words for what he is, just now. "A mommy-fixated infant" comes about as close to the meat of things as I care to go. I'd just so very much forgotten: a) how many things about him I actually LIKED, once; and b)how very, utterly toxic and hateful and soul-draining he could be. So, yeah, I still have feelings for him; but no, that's not something that will ever come to fruition. I've learned--even since just this last time, I've learned--but still I'm pissed at myself for letting it go even THAT far. I feel played, actually. I was lucky to escape as easily as I have, but I still feel ashamed of myself. (And on some level, I'm afraid he may instigate some more chaos, so to speak--waiting for the other shoe to drop, the way it always did in the past. We shall see what happens there.)
I am just TIRED unto the edges of the universe of feeling SORRY. For myself, for others, for mistakes I've made; for who I am and what I believe. I think sometimes--god help me--but if my mom wasn't around? That I'd be able to be ME with much more energy and valor than I've ever yet been able to do, with eleven months' exception. I want to wear long foofy dresses and get a tattoo and piercings and a girlfriend, and wear my hair LONG LONG LONG. And the only reason I DON'T is because of the constant stream of criticism that would ensue. And don't think for a red moment that that means I don't love my mother--I do, very much, and I will miss her when she's gone--but I wish she didn't need for me to be so much a carbon copy of her, or some validation of her choices, or whatever-it-is I am to her. I'm certainly not an individual, or a person, or a separate human being. (The other day she said something about "we never had such technology when -I- was growing up!" As if, at nearly-40, I'm still "growing up". There are some things that I just can't get around, you know? I'll be 39 next birthday and in some ways I still--because my mother does too--see myself as "a kid". How do you go about making a separate, sensible, functioning life for yourself when you still, subconsciously, see yourself as a twelve-year-old?? Debbi and I have talked about that at length, but with no conclusions.)
I am not sad. I am not -very- sad, anyway. My life is a great thing, if I look at it from MY OWN standpoint. If I stop judging by "what should have been" or "what I -should have- done" or "what was expected"--I have had an incredible, colorful, adventurous life. Punctuated by tragedy and the occasional hardship, sure--but what amazing life HASN'T been strewn with wreckage? I'd rather have MORE wreckage, than less--if only I didn't have to EXPLAIN it to anyone. If only I could just say "You know what? Yeah, I did that. It is what it is. It's MINE, is what it is, and unless you're me--which you are TOTALLY not--you're in no position to make value judgements."
If anything? My life would have MORE excitement, not less. I don't know what that says about me, other than: a) I'm alive; and b) at some sad, pathetic core level, I am every bit as subjected to one person's judgements, as CR is to another's. Maybe THAT's why we always got along so well--because in one way or another, each of us was forever being controlled by that shady, behind-the-scenes female puppeteer, each polling our strings and trying, for her own ends, to control us--even if it was done with love, even if it was done with the understanding of "what was best" for each of us. Maybe that's why he and I are, emotionally at least, tangled together, even though each of us recognizes how very, very STUPID that entanglement really is.
I don't know. What I know: I'm happy, really; and there is spaghetti on the stove with my name on it, and everything in my life, when you subtract the STOOPID shit, is really well-and-truly better than it has been in a long, long while.
So...um....yeah. That's it. :)
But first of all, in fairness, I owe Firefly an apology.
From that last post, one would think that all she does is bitch me out for my bad choices, which could not in a billion years be further from the truth. I mean that. We are the Head Bitches In Charge Of Picking Up Each Other's Pieces, and for me to characterize her the way that last post came off was...just not cool. I think I was going by how hard I would beat HER ass under the same circumstances, and it's always a mistake to ascribe your OWN deficiencies to someone ELSE. So, FF--I'm sorry, monster. That came out WAYYYY worse than I meant for it to do.
Moving right along to happyland:
Item One, Happy Report.
My computer?? Is ALIVE!!! Is HEALTHY!!!!! Totally FAILED to cost me the $300-odd dollars I had braced myself to pay!!!! Cost me only $60--including installation!--to repair my frizzle-frazzled power supply. I seriously almost did the Happy Wiggle-Dance in front of the Firedog guy at Circuit City. But I was afraid it would turn him on, so I forbore.
But for SERIOUS--$60 instead of $300? is CAUSE for the wiggle-dance. I could simply NOT be any more happy about the outcome of that whole debacle.
Item Two, Happy Report:
This neighborhood I've moved into?
Is THA SHIZZ. No kidding. I knew it was all artsy and progressive and stuff, but: there is the Place-Where-I-Live-Now Art Center. And yes, I'm late to the party, and yes, I could have been doing this for MONTHS now, but I wasn't even introduced to the Maroonland Art Center til the beginning of summer. Their summer session? Looked promising, but didn't grab me enough to make me plunk down cash and drag my butt out of work early to get to a class on time.
Their FALL session?
Practically sexual in nature.
So Indecisive-Little-Ol-Me is now faced with the choice of the following--and this is pared down only to the stuff that INTERESTS me at the moment:
Abstract Painting/Drawing--Acrylic Painting--Beginning Drawing--Beginning Painting--Ceramic Tiles--Intro to Printmaking--Knitting--Mosaics--Photography I--Quick Quilting--Silkscreen.
First: NOT COOL. Too many choices makes Gladys go Wocka-Wocka-Wocka.
Second: OMFG SOOOOOOO EFFING COOL! Because what I don't do in the fall? I can do in the spring. And what I don't do in the spring? I can do NEXT fall. Which is so very OMFG as to require smelling-salts.
To say the very very least, I am looking forward to the fall.
Item Three: Happy Report--
No word from CR.
Yes, I know, that's a Happy and a Sad all boiled up together. Don't care. He's...I don't really have words for what he is, just now. "A mommy-fixated infant" comes about as close to the meat of things as I care to go. I'd just so very much forgotten: a) how many things about him I actually LIKED, once; and b)how very, utterly toxic and hateful and soul-draining he could be. So, yeah, I still have feelings for him; but no, that's not something that will ever come to fruition. I've learned--even since just this last time, I've learned--but still I'm pissed at myself for letting it go even THAT far. I feel played, actually. I was lucky to escape as easily as I have, but I still feel ashamed of myself. (And on some level, I'm afraid he may instigate some more chaos, so to speak--waiting for the other shoe to drop, the way it always did in the past. We shall see what happens there.)
I am just TIRED unto the edges of the universe of feeling SORRY. For myself, for others, for mistakes I've made; for who I am and what I believe. I think sometimes--god help me--but if my mom wasn't around? That I'd be able to be ME with much more energy and valor than I've ever yet been able to do, with eleven months' exception. I want to wear long foofy dresses and get a tattoo and piercings and a girlfriend, and wear my hair LONG LONG LONG. And the only reason I DON'T is because of the constant stream of criticism that would ensue. And don't think for a red moment that that means I don't love my mother--I do, very much, and I will miss her when she's gone--but I wish she didn't need for me to be so much a carbon copy of her, or some validation of her choices, or whatever-it-is I am to her. I'm certainly not an individual, or a person, or a separate human being. (The other day she said something about "we never had such technology when -I- was growing up!" As if, at nearly-40, I'm still "growing up". There are some things that I just can't get around, you know? I'll be 39 next birthday and in some ways I still--because my mother does too--see myself as "a kid". How do you go about making a separate, sensible, functioning life for yourself when you still, subconsciously, see yourself as a twelve-year-old?? Debbi and I have talked about that at length, but with no conclusions.)
I am not sad. I am not -very- sad, anyway. My life is a great thing, if I look at it from MY OWN standpoint. If I stop judging by "what should have been" or "what I -should have- done" or "what was expected"--I have had an incredible, colorful, adventurous life. Punctuated by tragedy and the occasional hardship, sure--but what amazing life HASN'T been strewn with wreckage? I'd rather have MORE wreckage, than less--if only I didn't have to EXPLAIN it to anyone. If only I could just say "You know what? Yeah, I did that. It is what it is. It's MINE, is what it is, and unless you're me--which you are TOTALLY not--you're in no position to make value judgements."
If anything? My life would have MORE excitement, not less. I don't know what that says about me, other than: a) I'm alive; and b) at some sad, pathetic core level, I am every bit as subjected to one person's judgements, as CR is to another's. Maybe THAT's why we always got along so well--because in one way or another, each of us was forever being controlled by that shady, behind-the-scenes female puppeteer, each polling our strings and trying, for her own ends, to control us--even if it was done with love, even if it was done with the understanding of "what was best" for each of us. Maybe that's why he and I are, emotionally at least, tangled together, even though each of us recognizes how very, very STUPID that entanglement really is.
I don't know. What I know: I'm happy, really; and there is spaghetti on the stove with my name on it, and everything in my life, when you subtract the STOOPID shit, is really well-and-truly better than it has been in a long, long while.
So...um....yeah. That's it. :)
Saturday, February 16, 2008
Yeah, That's Kinda What I Thought
I hadn't been in my doc's office five minutes today when she suggested that I go back onto anti-depressants immediately. "I haven't seen you like this in a long time," she said. "And since nothing happened to precipitate it, it sounds like this is just the depression talking--something biochemical, which can be fixed."
I'm not thrilled about it, of course--the side-effects are Not My Favorite Things--but I'd take the weird dreams and the muscle twitches any day, over feeling like this. I was in the grocery store today, and the background music started playing a Gin Blossoms song with significance to me from long ago--normally I could have handled it, but I pretty much had to stand there for three-and-a-half minutes staring as hard as I could at the orange juice, just to keep it together. I'm usually waaay more resilient than that.
It was a beautiful day today--sunny and "warm" ("warm" by Chicago standards--a whole balmy 40 degrees!) so after I dropped off the I-Go car, I went for a walk around the neighborhood and stopped to get myself a sandwich. I'm trying to like this neighborhood--there's certainly nothing to object to about it, other than the appalling lack of grocery stores--but I don't feel the level of attachment to it that I felt about West Garfield Park, or even Rogers Park, for that matter. I actually feel less-safe here than I felt in the 'hood; I was safe there because I was different, because any attempt to mess with me would have brought the wrong kind of attention, but here...here, I'm just another probable University student, or wealthy Hyde Park homeowner. Just another white person, not to put too fine a point on things, and it's been my experience that where people of widely-disparate socioeconomic status live in close proximity, it's much more likely for the tensions to erupt. In the 'hood I was "the white lady", true enough, but it was obvious from the way I was living that I wasn't wealthy by any means...although "poor" for me was "well above average" for most of the neighborhood. I always felt bad about that, especially since it wasn't because of anything I'd DONE differently--it was because of how I was born, who I was born to, and what my parents were able to do for me. If I'd had anything to do with it, maybe I would have felt better about it.
But back to the neighborhood...It's a beautiful place. Come spring, when I can explore more, I'll probably learn to love it. But right now, with ice and slush and doggie-poopsicles everywhere, gray old snow and construction and bare trees...I think you have to love a place already, to find beauty in it during the last few weeks of winter.
I had a bit of an epiphany last night. (I realize that any epiphany experienced in the midst of an episode of depression is....suspect, to say the least, but this one makes sense anyway.) Part of my unhappiness, even when I was much younger, has been the constant awareness that in the end, there's not going to be much left from my life when I die. The things that mean everything to me will not mean much to anyone else; even my closest friends will only understand bits and pieces of it. Somehow I've insulated my life so completely that there is literally no one who knows everything about me; I get the sense that that isn't the case for most people. I feel like most people have one or two friends who could, in case of emergency, know who to call and what all the names in their little phone-book meant--or even just basic stuff like how they spend their time, what an average day is like, what shows they'll stay home to watch. I don't have people like that in my life. A lot of it is because of distance; Firefly, who knew me the best when we were younger (and probably still does) lives far away, and I realized the other day it's now been five years since I've seen her last! And Debbi, who lives close by and who I've known longer than anyone, has a lot of friends; besides that, there was a gap of about five years where we didn't talk at all, from the end of college til I was about 25, thanks to some misunderstandings and miscommunications.
Most of all, though, I think it comes from the way I've lived my life. The last new friend I've made is Tim; he and LJ are the only people I've kept in contact with of all the people I've met since college. That's not entirely been my fault; there have been some people I've tried to keep up with, like the Brit, or Stella; they just haven't wanted to keep in touch with me, for whatever reason. But mostly, it's just been a case of not making any new friends, and I think I understand why, a little better.
I have been living my life not with the intent of enjoying myself, or accomplishing something great, or creating something--I have been living my life with the intent of staying out of trouble. I'm sure the roots of this are back in my childhood, but I can pin down the adult manifestation of this to the point at which I moved back home, after JP died and my addiction was first exposed. From that point on, my relationship with my mom has been a subtle but constant rebuke--I don't know how much of it is her doing and how much of it is mine--to everything I believed while I was with JP. (I realize also that the things I believed with him were obviously there inside me to begin with, or else he wouldn't have recognized them--they wouldn't have been there to BE recognized. But since our relationship was the thing that enabled me to really express them for the first time, that's the point of reference I use.) Since I moved home, since she took me back after all my opposition and rejection of her values, somehow the message has been sent and received: See? This is what happens when you try to stand out. This is what happens when you try to be "different". (Ignored: the fact that I wasn't "trying to be different"; I was being me, and making some poor decisions at the same time.) Ever since then I've been trying to keep out of "trouble"--"trouble" in this context meaning "any situation that results in drama, conflict, opposition, tumult, or anything other than perfect calm". Well, last night I realized: the more "trouble" I stay out of, the less I actually DO. In trying to avoid getting hurt, in trying to avoid drawing any attention to myself, in trying to avoid conflict and drama and inconvenience, the way I'm "supposed" to...in trying to do all those things, I'm basically doing exactly NOTHING. I have no conflict or emotional upheaval, true--I also have no happiness, no activity, no accomplishment-- no point to living, basically.
I don't know how I'm going to handle that knowledge, what I'm going to do about it. Right at the moment, I think I'm going to wait and see what the meds do, and try to force myself to do the things I "want" to do, but have no motivation toward (the main manifestation of this depression right now--I have a million things that I want to do, and no impetus to move in that direction). And I'm going to try to keep this new understanding in the front of my mind--that I have to stop trying to make up for being myself--something that wasn't wrong for me to do in the first place. I've largely been able to accept my own mistakes--I'd say "forgive" but I'm not sure I've done that, entirely--but I have this pervasive sense that my mom, at least, has forgiven them, maybe, but still hasn't accepted them. I have to stop living as though that's MY problem.
I'm not thrilled about it, of course--the side-effects are Not My Favorite Things--but I'd take the weird dreams and the muscle twitches any day, over feeling like this. I was in the grocery store today, and the background music started playing a Gin Blossoms song with significance to me from long ago--normally I could have handled it, but I pretty much had to stand there for three-and-a-half minutes staring as hard as I could at the orange juice, just to keep it together. I'm usually waaay more resilient than that.
It was a beautiful day today--sunny and "warm" ("warm" by Chicago standards--a whole balmy 40 degrees!) so after I dropped off the I-Go car, I went for a walk around the neighborhood and stopped to get myself a sandwich. I'm trying to like this neighborhood--there's certainly nothing to object to about it, other than the appalling lack of grocery stores--but I don't feel the level of attachment to it that I felt about West Garfield Park, or even Rogers Park, for that matter. I actually feel less-safe here than I felt in the 'hood; I was safe there because I was different, because any attempt to mess with me would have brought the wrong kind of attention, but here...here, I'm just another probable University student, or wealthy Hyde Park homeowner. Just another white person, not to put too fine a point on things, and it's been my experience that where people of widely-disparate socioeconomic status live in close proximity, it's much more likely for the tensions to erupt. In the 'hood I was "the white lady", true enough, but it was obvious from the way I was living that I wasn't wealthy by any means...although "poor" for me was "well above average" for most of the neighborhood. I always felt bad about that, especially since it wasn't because of anything I'd DONE differently--it was because of how I was born, who I was born to, and what my parents were able to do for me. If I'd had anything to do with it, maybe I would have felt better about it.
But back to the neighborhood...It's a beautiful place. Come spring, when I can explore more, I'll probably learn to love it. But right now, with ice and slush and doggie-poopsicles everywhere, gray old snow and construction and bare trees...I think you have to love a place already, to find beauty in it during the last few weeks of winter.
I had a bit of an epiphany last night. (I realize that any epiphany experienced in the midst of an episode of depression is....suspect, to say the least, but this one makes sense anyway.) Part of my unhappiness, even when I was much younger, has been the constant awareness that in the end, there's not going to be much left from my life when I die. The things that mean everything to me will not mean much to anyone else; even my closest friends will only understand bits and pieces of it. Somehow I've insulated my life so completely that there is literally no one who knows everything about me; I get the sense that that isn't the case for most people. I feel like most people have one or two friends who could, in case of emergency, know who to call and what all the names in their little phone-book meant--or even just basic stuff like how they spend their time, what an average day is like, what shows they'll stay home to watch. I don't have people like that in my life. A lot of it is because of distance; Firefly, who knew me the best when we were younger (and probably still does) lives far away, and I realized the other day it's now been five years since I've seen her last! And Debbi, who lives close by and who I've known longer than anyone, has a lot of friends; besides that, there was a gap of about five years where we didn't talk at all, from the end of college til I was about 25, thanks to some misunderstandings and miscommunications.
Most of all, though, I think it comes from the way I've lived my life. The last new friend I've made is Tim; he and LJ are the only people I've kept in contact with of all the people I've met since college. That's not entirely been my fault; there have been some people I've tried to keep up with, like the Brit, or Stella; they just haven't wanted to keep in touch with me, for whatever reason. But mostly, it's just been a case of not making any new friends, and I think I understand why, a little better.
I have been living my life not with the intent of enjoying myself, or accomplishing something great, or creating something--I have been living my life with the intent of staying out of trouble. I'm sure the roots of this are back in my childhood, but I can pin down the adult manifestation of this to the point at which I moved back home, after JP died and my addiction was first exposed. From that point on, my relationship with my mom has been a subtle but constant rebuke--I don't know how much of it is her doing and how much of it is mine--to everything I believed while I was with JP. (I realize also that the things I believed with him were obviously there inside me to begin with, or else he wouldn't have recognized them--they wouldn't have been there to BE recognized. But since our relationship was the thing that enabled me to really express them for the first time, that's the point of reference I use.) Since I moved home, since she took me back after all my opposition and rejection of her values, somehow the message has been sent and received: See? This is what happens when you try to stand out. This is what happens when you try to be "different". (Ignored: the fact that I wasn't "trying to be different"; I was being me, and making some poor decisions at the same time.) Ever since then I've been trying to keep out of "trouble"--"trouble" in this context meaning "any situation that results in drama, conflict, opposition, tumult, or anything other than perfect calm". Well, last night I realized: the more "trouble" I stay out of, the less I actually DO. In trying to avoid getting hurt, in trying to avoid drawing any attention to myself, in trying to avoid conflict and drama and inconvenience, the way I'm "supposed" to...in trying to do all those things, I'm basically doing exactly NOTHING. I have no conflict or emotional upheaval, true--I also have no happiness, no activity, no accomplishment-- no point to living, basically.
I don't know how I'm going to handle that knowledge, what I'm going to do about it. Right at the moment, I think I'm going to wait and see what the meds do, and try to force myself to do the things I "want" to do, but have no motivation toward (the main manifestation of this depression right now--I have a million things that I want to do, and no impetus to move in that direction). And I'm going to try to keep this new understanding in the front of my mind--that I have to stop trying to make up for being myself--something that wasn't wrong for me to do in the first place. I've largely been able to accept my own mistakes--I'd say "forgive" but I'm not sure I've done that, entirely--but I have this pervasive sense that my mom, at least, has forgiven them, maybe, but still hasn't accepted them. I have to stop living as though that's MY problem.
Sunday, January 6, 2008
Inappropriate BWAHAHAHAHA
It's finally happened.
The Woman With Absolutely No Sense of Boundaries Whatsoever--better known as my mom-- finally got her karmic comeuppance for thirty-seven years of not respecting my personal space.
My mom has a history of demanding too much info--and of obtaining it through any possible means. When I was eighteen she read my diary; even to this day, she still asks inappropriate questions about my finances and other issues. And she absolutely cannot resist opening things she shouldn't--boxes, medicine cabinets...drawers...
Well, when I moved, I stored a bunch of stuff in her basement--boxes, tools, shelves, a bunch of stuff. Among the collection was an old dresser, which had spent the last few years of its life in LJ's room at Chez Gladys. I thought I'd emptied out all the contents of the drawers, but...well, maybe not so much.
Because apparently, a few days ago, Mom was in the basement, and she decided to open up the drawer of this dresser (which could have absolutely NOTHING in it pertaining to her) and rummage through this drawer (containing a tangle of mens' socks and size XXXXXXL t-shirts which were OBVIOUSLY not mine)...
...where she discovered a small collection of DVD's.
(You know where this is heading, don't you?)
DVD's with names like "Black A*N*A*L--Five Hours of HOT A$$-F***ing!!!"
Oh--and they had EXTREMELY relevant cover-art.
She showed this collection to me today, when we were downstairs putting away the Christmas tree. "They're not....YOURS, are they?" she asked, obviously very worried. "I was SO upset when I found them..."
I couldn't help it; I burst out laughing.
"Of course, I COULD ask why exactly you might be rummaging through the drawer of one of MY dressers," I said pointedly (after explaining that no, those were NOT my a$$-f***ing DVD's) but the best answer I could get was something like "Well, I was on the phone, and I just started looking through things..."
Uh-huh.
The offending items were securely encased in several layers of old newspaper and deposited in the alley trash-can, beneath the week's accumulation of yogurt containers and coffee-grounds. I offered to sneak down the alley and bury it in someone ELSE's trash, but she said that wouldn't be necessary; just so they weren't laying out right in the open where the garbage-men would be likely to see them. "I mean, what would they THINK?" she asked, and though I was tempted to treat it as a non-rhetorical question, I forbore.
I'd hope this would cure her of rummaging through other people's belongings, but alas, I know better. But all the same...Classic, man. Just classic.
The Woman With Absolutely No Sense of Boundaries Whatsoever--better known as my mom-- finally got her karmic comeuppance for thirty-seven years of not respecting my personal space.
My mom has a history of demanding too much info--and of obtaining it through any possible means. When I was eighteen she read my diary; even to this day, she still asks inappropriate questions about my finances and other issues. And she absolutely cannot resist opening things she shouldn't--boxes, medicine cabinets...drawers...
Well, when I moved, I stored a bunch of stuff in her basement--boxes, tools, shelves, a bunch of stuff. Among the collection was an old dresser, which had spent the last few years of its life in LJ's room at Chez Gladys. I thought I'd emptied out all the contents of the drawers, but...well, maybe not so much.
Because apparently, a few days ago, Mom was in the basement, and she decided to open up the drawer of this dresser (which could have absolutely NOTHING in it pertaining to her) and rummage through this drawer (containing a tangle of mens' socks and size XXXXXXL t-shirts which were OBVIOUSLY not mine)...
...where she discovered a small collection of DVD's.
(You know where this is heading, don't you?)
DVD's with names like "Black A*N*A*L--Five Hours of HOT A$$-F***ing!!!"
Oh--and they had EXTREMELY relevant cover-art.
She showed this collection to me today, when we were downstairs putting away the Christmas tree. "They're not....YOURS, are they?" she asked, obviously very worried. "I was SO upset when I found them..."
I couldn't help it; I burst out laughing.
"Of course, I COULD ask why exactly you might be rummaging through the drawer of one of MY dressers," I said pointedly (after explaining that no, those were NOT my a$$-f***ing DVD's) but the best answer I could get was something like "Well, I was on the phone, and I just started looking through things..."
Uh-huh.
The offending items were securely encased in several layers of old newspaper and deposited in the alley trash-can, beneath the week's accumulation of yogurt containers and coffee-grounds. I offered to sneak down the alley and bury it in someone ELSE's trash, but she said that wouldn't be necessary; just so they weren't laying out right in the open where the garbage-men would be likely to see them. "I mean, what would they THINK?" she asked, and though I was tempted to treat it as a non-rhetorical question, I forbore.
I'd hope this would cure her of rummaging through other people's belongings, but alas, I know better. But all the same...Classic, man. Just classic.
Sunday, August 12, 2007
Infinitely Long List, Item One
Reasons There Is No Possible Earthly Chance That I Will Move To My Mother's House, No Matter How Financially Beneficial It Might Be For Me To Do So:
1. Tonight, the following statement was made:
"...And I also pray that you'll lose weight. Not just for the medical reasons, but for the aesthetic..."
And so on.
If that doesn't sound offensive to you, please consider:
a) This statement was immediately preceded by the information that she is "praying" that I'll find a proper boyfriend/spouse/whatever, despite the fact that I have informed her that I am not looking, do not plan to look, and do not really wish to involve myself in a relationship, casual or otherwise, at this time.
b) This entire conversation was held over dinner--a meal which SHE prepared, and which featured chicken, noodles, sour-cream gravy, and buttered corn--all in substantial portions--with ice-cream for dessert. (This was a very popular meal in our home during my childhood and adolescence, as well.)
c) This statement, and the conversation containing it, both registered LOW on the evening's Offensive-O-Meter.
I am very, very, very very glad to be home.
There are developments, or at least potential developments, in the future-housing issue. (I just went back to remind myself what name I'd given the person who's about to become a major character in this part of the saga, only to discover that I had never posted the remainder of my long long post from LAST Saturday night's adventures at Tim's favorite bar. Since it's no longer germane, I'll summarize: Tim got drunk, spurred on largely by his rage at a "friend" who stole his phone a few days previous and then showed up at the bar to give it back, but who acted like an extreme asshole for the rest of the night til Tim threatened his life. During this evening, the main goal was accomplished despite the drunkenness and drama: I met Tim's friend, the bartender, who I've named Betty, and who Tim wanted me to meet with the aim of the three of us getting an apartment together. We got along fine, and the three of us planned to meet yesterday to go apartment-hunting. End summary.) Anyway, Betty has a friend, who owns a condo and is moving out of state for a promotion he just received at his job. The friend wants to keep the condo, but would obviously need to sublet it; since he knows Betty, there's a possibility that he might give her, and consequently us, a good deal. It's apparently a 2-bedroom, 2-bath place, newly renovated, gorgeous, and maintained immaculately by her friend, who Betty describes as "a great big queen". GBQ also apparently has a tendency, as an interior designer, to abandon furniture whenever he relocates--after all, why would he pay to move LAST season's furniture?? (I want to meet this guy--he sounds awesome!) So it's possible we'll inherit an enormous condo-ful of totally unwanted, practically-new furniture, as well. How cool is THAT?
Things have a habit of working out for me, I've discovered. Maybe not on my schedule, but they work out.
1. Tonight, the following statement was made:
"...And I also pray that you'll lose weight. Not just for the medical reasons, but for the aesthetic..."
And so on.
If that doesn't sound offensive to you, please consider:
a) This statement was immediately preceded by the information that she is "praying" that I'll find a proper boyfriend/spouse/whatever, despite the fact that I have informed her that I am not looking, do not plan to look, and do not really wish to involve myself in a relationship, casual or otherwise, at this time.
b) This entire conversation was held over dinner--a meal which SHE prepared, and which featured chicken, noodles, sour-cream gravy, and buttered corn--all in substantial portions--with ice-cream for dessert. (This was a very popular meal in our home during my childhood and adolescence, as well.)
c) This statement, and the conversation containing it, both registered LOW on the evening's Offensive-O-Meter.
I am very, very, very very glad to be home.
There are developments, or at least potential developments, in the future-housing issue. (I just went back to remind myself what name I'd given the person who's about to become a major character in this part of the saga, only to discover that I had never posted the remainder of my long long post from LAST Saturday night's adventures at Tim's favorite bar. Since it's no longer germane, I'll summarize: Tim got drunk, spurred on largely by his rage at a "friend" who stole his phone a few days previous and then showed up at the bar to give it back, but who acted like an extreme asshole for the rest of the night til Tim threatened his life. During this evening, the main goal was accomplished despite the drunkenness and drama: I met Tim's friend, the bartender, who I've named Betty, and who Tim wanted me to meet with the aim of the three of us getting an apartment together. We got along fine, and the three of us planned to meet yesterday to go apartment-hunting. End summary.) Anyway, Betty has a friend, who owns a condo and is moving out of state for a promotion he just received at his job. The friend wants to keep the condo, but would obviously need to sublet it; since he knows Betty, there's a possibility that he might give her, and consequently us, a good deal. It's apparently a 2-bedroom, 2-bath place, newly renovated, gorgeous, and maintained immaculately by her friend, who Betty describes as "a great big queen". GBQ also apparently has a tendency, as an interior designer, to abandon furniture whenever he relocates--after all, why would he pay to move LAST season's furniture?? (I want to meet this guy--he sounds awesome!) So it's possible we'll inherit an enormous condo-ful of totally unwanted, practically-new furniture, as well. How cool is THAT?
Things have a habit of working out for me, I've discovered. Maybe not on my schedule, but they work out.
Tuesday, August 7, 2007
And I Thought Saturday Night Was Weird.
I am linking to this comment because it is easily the most fuxxored-up thing I have ever, ever, ever seen. And it comes from California. (Ooh. Shocker.)
:::shaking head:::
These people live among us. And people wonder why I have no fear of death.
************************************************************
In other news, as of today, I am officially No Longer A Homeowner.
I don't know exactly what comes next--from everything I've read, they can't put me out in the street for at least a little while--and so I'm not fretting myself about it. Seething, yes, because this didn't have to happen and it could have been stopped and the person who could have stopped it chose instead to use money as a source of control, all the while claiming it was "for the best"--yeah, for HER best--but I'm not worrying.
It's only a house. My life doesn't go with it. I am losing walls, a roof, and a floor.
I've lost many, many harder things before.
But this loss didn't have to happen. That's what galls me. That may be petty and childish, but in my heart of hearts I know WHY my mother made the decision she made, and it had nothing to do with any of her stated concerns, and everything to do with the statement I've heard at least a thousand times in the three years and ten months I've owned this building: "I wish you didn't live in That Neighborhood." THAT's what it was about, plain and simple, and I know this all the way down to my bones.
THAT's why I'm angry.
:::shaking head:::
These people live among us. And people wonder why I have no fear of death.
************************************************************
In other news, as of today, I am officially No Longer A Homeowner.
I don't know exactly what comes next--from everything I've read, they can't put me out in the street for at least a little while--and so I'm not fretting myself about it. Seething, yes, because this didn't have to happen and it could have been stopped and the person who could have stopped it chose instead to use money as a source of control, all the while claiming it was "for the best"--yeah, for HER best--but I'm not worrying.
It's only a house. My life doesn't go with it. I am losing walls, a roof, and a floor.
I've lost many, many harder things before.
But this loss didn't have to happen. That's what galls me. That may be petty and childish, but in my heart of hearts I know WHY my mother made the decision she made, and it had nothing to do with any of her stated concerns, and everything to do with the statement I've heard at least a thousand times in the three years and ten months I've owned this building: "I wish you didn't live in That Neighborhood." THAT's what it was about, plain and simple, and I know this all the way down to my bones.
THAT's why I'm angry.
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