After the last few heavy posts, I need to lighten the mood. So I'll share with you a random ... phobia? .... of mine. Not exactly a true phobia, per se, but just an odd quirk about myself.
Every time I have to pee -- and I'm talking about EVERY TIME here people -- I worry that I'm somehow deluding myself on the fact I'm sitting on the toilet.
I am a big daydreamer, and I worry that I'm actually doing something else, like typing a blog post for example. And that I'm so caught up in the urge to pee that I've convinced myself I'm actually in the bathroom using the toilet. Except, I've really just pissed myself at the computer desk.
OR -- OR --
Perhaps what if I'm really in my 70s, and I have Alzheimers. What if I'm really sitting in my living room, and pissing my Depends, while I just THINK I'm 30-odd years old and using the bathroom at the house I used to live in?
Or what if I'm asleep and really need to pee, and am dreaming that I'm using the potty? I think that's where it all stems from really -- when I was in my early teens, I was asleep, and really had to go. I dreamt that I walked down the hall from my room to the bathroom, and used the toilet. This dream was so lucid that I could feel the carpet under my feet and the seat under my rear.
And the capper to this post? My daughter just came in my room, threw up on my bed, the carpet and the bathroom floor. Goodnight, all.
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Saturday, October 24, 2009
Suiting up
I've been mentally reviewing yesterday, and can't come to any decent conclusion about it.
I do need to revisit my raw emotional side sometimes. I can see that this experience is turning me into my mother. I'm quickly seeing why she is the way she is. After my father died and she was left with three young children, she had to be this way.
I spent most of yesterday in a very low funk. It's an honest emotion that comes when I face my realities. I miss my husband. We are living on such a low income I'm consistently surprised with my own resourcefulness at holding us all together. We live on the brink of foreclosure. I work part-time on the weekends, and have absolutely NO free time. Even if I did have free time, I'd have no social life because I can't afford it. I can barely scrape $5 together for gas. I overtax my babysitters as it is, who watch my kids for free while I work.
I even have to face the fact, each and every time my husband leaves for work after his brief home visits, that it may be the last time I see him. Accidents aren't uncommon in his new occupation, and when it does happen, that employee usually ends up going home in a box.
So pretty much, I looked at my realities, and I cried all day. And when my children fought, I would end up rushing out of my room with a tear-streaked face and hauling the offender roughly to their room. Not even sure if they WERE the offending party, but they were disturbing the quiet, and therefore, disturbing ME.
When I attempted to share my feelings with my hubby, he told me it made him worried. When I shared with another friend of mine about how I really feel, I was met with a barrage of jokes, and amusing antics -- the only tactic they know for dealing with unpleasant emotions. To jolly me out of my funk. I appreciated the gesture, but it just left me feeling even more pissy.
There are things that WOULD make me feel better. Surprise visits, someone bringing over a video game and playing it with me, phone calls, offers to babysit, a surprise gift of $20 "just because -- go take yourself out". Just little things, would do a wealth of good to my over-isolated self. But people won't or can't, and I can't deny there are very good reasons why.
So yeah. I eventually had to pull my armor back on, and say, "Butch up, bitch. Your kids need a better mommy than this." I had to pull my armor back on and that's the painful part. Denying my feelings because my children are better off when I'm feeling stable. Denying my feelings because I don't want strangers and acquaintances seeing those cracks in my armor, my red face and teary eyes and asking, "Are you ok?"
I know that wallowing in my emotions does nothing to change my realities. The only thing that can change your realities is taking action. Making a plan and following through on it. I've been setting some plans into motion and I'm hoping that events will end up fortuitous.
I can see why, if I were to share things with my mother, she'd just say, "That's life." Because it IS. Whining about my life won't change things, no matter how much others care about me.
Whining and crying IS cathartic though (and it feels damn good too -- even if it makes you miserable. heh). It helps me to remember that there ARE still emotions under that armor. It reminds me that I'm wearing armor. And it helps me to remember that I'll be able to take it off someday.
I do need to revisit my raw emotional side sometimes. I can see that this experience is turning me into my mother. I'm quickly seeing why she is the way she is. After my father died and she was left with three young children, she had to be this way.
I spent most of yesterday in a very low funk. It's an honest emotion that comes when I face my realities. I miss my husband. We are living on such a low income I'm consistently surprised with my own resourcefulness at holding us all together. We live on the brink of foreclosure. I work part-time on the weekends, and have absolutely NO free time. Even if I did have free time, I'd have no social life because I can't afford it. I can barely scrape $5 together for gas. I overtax my babysitters as it is, who watch my kids for free while I work.
I even have to face the fact, each and every time my husband leaves for work after his brief home visits, that it may be the last time I see him. Accidents aren't uncommon in his new occupation, and when it does happen, that employee usually ends up going home in a box.
So pretty much, I looked at my realities, and I cried all day. And when my children fought, I would end up rushing out of my room with a tear-streaked face and hauling the offender roughly to their room. Not even sure if they WERE the offending party, but they were disturbing the quiet, and therefore, disturbing ME.
When I attempted to share my feelings with my hubby, he told me it made him worried. When I shared with another friend of mine about how I really feel, I was met with a barrage of jokes, and amusing antics -- the only tactic they know for dealing with unpleasant emotions. To jolly me out of my funk. I appreciated the gesture, but it just left me feeling even more pissy.
There are things that WOULD make me feel better. Surprise visits, someone bringing over a video game and playing it with me, phone calls, offers to babysit, a surprise gift of $20 "just because -- go take yourself out". Just little things, would do a wealth of good to my over-isolated self. But people won't or can't, and I can't deny there are very good reasons why.
So yeah. I eventually had to pull my armor back on, and say, "Butch up, bitch. Your kids need a better mommy than this." I had to pull my armor back on and that's the painful part. Denying my feelings because my children are better off when I'm feeling stable. Denying my feelings because I don't want strangers and acquaintances seeing those cracks in my armor, my red face and teary eyes and asking, "Are you ok?"
I know that wallowing in my emotions does nothing to change my realities. The only thing that can change your realities is taking action. Making a plan and following through on it. I've been setting some plans into motion and I'm hoping that events will end up fortuitous.
I can see why, if I were to share things with my mother, she'd just say, "That's life." Because it IS. Whining about my life won't change things, no matter how much others care about me.
Whining and crying IS cathartic though (and it feels damn good too -- even if it makes you miserable. heh). It helps me to remember that there ARE still emotions under that armor. It reminds me that I'm wearing armor. And it helps me to remember that I'll be able to take it off someday.
Friday, October 23, 2009
Ogres Are Like Onions
Recently, I've been talking a lot with a good friend of mine, who's favorite hobby is making me crack. I've still yet to figure if that's a good thing, or a bad thing.
I liken it to this old wooden cupboard that was passed down through several children in my family. It once belonged to my mother when she was little, was passed through some cousins, and eventually worked it's way down to myself, when I was a child.
Each family had repainted it, and by the time it got to me, it was white, and some places were flaking here and there. It wasn't long before I found myself peeling the chipping, flaking paint off, discovering the older layers of paint underneath. It was fascinating and satisfying to pull off strips of paint. To see the original color.
I have been stoic. Steel. Unfliching. Uncommunicative. It's been deeply satisfying to feel her pick at the blemishes of my armor, like strips of sunburned skin. To feel them pulled off and seeing the raw. To get down to the original.
But what do you see when you get there? Misery. In 1970s avocado green.
There's not much that can be done to improve my condition, for the nonce. (That means, "for now". LOL). So I'm not sure if there's a lot of point to share my feelings with anyone. I can feel miserable, but wrapped up in so many layers of armor and distraction I barely notice it, or I can peel open the layers and poke and prod at it and feel how exquisitely miserable I am.
Which is the better option? I don't really know. All I know is I just can't wait till my hubby completes his year long contract, finds a job closer to home, and I get a break. I do apologize for all my blogs being whiny and complaining, but this is the only place I let myself do it. Thanks for sticking around -- I promise you it will pick up!
This post has reminded me of a poem I once wrote though. I think this is the first time I've actually shared it with anyone because I've never considered it publish-worthy. But I digress. Here you go:
Sunburn
Sunburn
is an exquisite pain
causing a sharp throb
with every movement.
So unlike the cold,
who numbs you to sleep.
1998
I liken it to this old wooden cupboard that was passed down through several children in my family. It once belonged to my mother when she was little, was passed through some cousins, and eventually worked it's way down to myself, when I was a child.
Each family had repainted it, and by the time it got to me, it was white, and some places were flaking here and there. It wasn't long before I found myself peeling the chipping, flaking paint off, discovering the older layers of paint underneath. It was fascinating and satisfying to pull off strips of paint. To see the original color.
I have been stoic. Steel. Unfliching. Uncommunicative. It's been deeply satisfying to feel her pick at the blemishes of my armor, like strips of sunburned skin. To feel them pulled off and seeing the raw. To get down to the original.
But what do you see when you get there? Misery. In 1970s avocado green.
There's not much that can be done to improve my condition, for the nonce. (That means, "for now". LOL). So I'm not sure if there's a lot of point to share my feelings with anyone. I can feel miserable, but wrapped up in so many layers of armor and distraction I barely notice it, or I can peel open the layers and poke and prod at it and feel how exquisitely miserable I am.
Which is the better option? I don't really know. All I know is I just can't wait till my hubby completes his year long contract, finds a job closer to home, and I get a break. I do apologize for all my blogs being whiny and complaining, but this is the only place I let myself do it. Thanks for sticking around -- I promise you it will pick up!
This post has reminded me of a poem I once wrote though. I think this is the first time I've actually shared it with anyone because I've never considered it publish-worthy. But I digress. Here you go:
Sunburn
Sunburn
is an exquisite pain
causing a sharp throb
with every movement.
So unlike the cold,
who numbs you to sleep.
1998
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
Just whining
I just needed a safe place to vent, outside of my normal blogging venues.
My big lesson this year, it seems, has been keeping my own counsel. I have to refrain from a lot of social activities, due to a tight budget. I have been having problems with some friends, and betrayals of trust with others, and I'm not able to ask for advice without causing troubles amongst other friends. I have had to keep some of my activities to myself, or risk the judgment of others whose opinions I value dearly.
Due to my husband working away, I have learned from experience I have to watch who I talk to and where I go, for appearances sake. I have to be careful about whom I invite over to visit for the same reason.
All of this is unnatural to me. I'm used to living freely and openly and not giving a damn about what others think or say about me.
I'm not used to living this way. I hate it. I am lonely and frustrated and have no one to turn to, other than the person in the mirror. And she looks unhappy and old and doesn't want to hear me whine anymore.
I've had the cushion of close friends for so long, it's made me comfortable and confident with the idea. Perhaps I should have learned my lesson many years ago and remained the Cat Who Walked Alone.
My big lesson this year, it seems, has been keeping my own counsel. I have to refrain from a lot of social activities, due to a tight budget. I have been having problems with some friends, and betrayals of trust with others, and I'm not able to ask for advice without causing troubles amongst other friends. I have had to keep some of my activities to myself, or risk the judgment of others whose opinions I value dearly.
Due to my husband working away, I have learned from experience I have to watch who I talk to and where I go, for appearances sake. I have to be careful about whom I invite over to visit for the same reason.
All of this is unnatural to me. I'm used to living freely and openly and not giving a damn about what others think or say about me.
I'm not used to living this way. I hate it. I am lonely and frustrated and have no one to turn to, other than the person in the mirror. And she looks unhappy and old and doesn't want to hear me whine anymore.
I've had the cushion of close friends for so long, it's made me comfortable and confident with the idea. Perhaps I should have learned my lesson many years ago and remained the Cat Who Walked Alone.
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