December 22, 2010 § Leave a comment
In 2005 (and this date, like all others, is subjective due to my memory being a steel sieve), I had everything plotted and planned out to end my life. My mate would be at work, my sister had come to get my son and take him down to their house and my grandmother, whom I was living with, was visiting family out of state. I didn’t have to work so no one would be calling to check in on me. I’d taken enough tylenol to choke a horse and drew a hot bath and as I lay there with my eyes closed floating and ignoring everything around me, some nagging little voice inside of my head nagged at me.
That bath ended up being just a bath that lasted well until the water was no longer warm and my mate came home from work. My sister brought my son home and after I woke up and crawled out of the tub, I told him what I’d planned on and, instead, called to make an appointment with the doctor to talk to him about medication or something.
In the weeks prior to that, I had spent so much time in my life just packing up boxes and boxes of possessions, things I couldn’t bear to get rid of and things that I wasn’t using and put a date on them. The plan was, if I hadn’t looked for it in over a year that I would go back to them, take one last look through and then get rid of it.
In 2010 when I am packing up to move, I am just now going through those boxes and clearing things out of my attic that really should have been gotten rid of years before. Somehow, though, the boxes of crap have carried their energy with them and every one I open, despite it going back out again, carries with it all the negativity and bitterness I carried with me at that point and time in my life and it just clings to me like nettles. Every time I try and wipe it off, it stings me.
Fire is the great purifier. Maybe that should be the answer to some of that nonsense from that time so I can move on.
December 22, 2010 § Leave a comment
When I was young, which is what most of my stories thus far have been made of, I was essentially ignored until I did something wrong. Sometimes they were things that I didn’t know were wrong and I was forced to sit and guess and grasp and straws and try and figure out what was wrong because asking never got me anywhere. As a matter of fact, when I tried to ask, all I was met with was a stone wall. They completely ignored me as though I weren’t even there, leaving me to turn didos on myself and try and figure desperately what I’d done so that they would at least respond to me when I spoke. Sometimes when communication was necessary, they would leave me notes taped to places where I would “see them” like in the middle of the television or on my door or on the mirror in the bathroom. And then there were the notes that were stuck literally everywhere like “close the cupboard door” and “shut the fridge” and “don’t drink the soda” or whatever they felt like yelling at me for when they weren’t speaking with me.
Sometimes I wonder where my paranoia comes from when I start thinking the other shoe is about to drop and I’m going to get fired for doing something I didn’t know I was doing or thinking my girlfriend is going to break up with me because I’m not her ideal of perfect (or really any ideal at all). Sometimes I write blog entries.
I learned to live my life alone in my room with only my things around me and homework that needed done. I had to walk on eggshells wherever my dad was concerned. I never knew when he walked through that door rather or not he was going to be happy to see us or if he was going to raise his knee up so as we ran to hug him when we came in the door that we would run into it and fall back on the floor. When we asked what we’d done wrong, he ignored us, walked past us like our hurt and tears didn’t matter and, apparently, they didn’t. We needed to get a thicker skin. Now when I speak to someone and they don’t respond or they’re angry at something that isn’t me, I feel just like I did when my dad brought his knee up and knocked me down when I was so happy to see him when he came home. It taught me very quickly that I was only worthy of being ignored or screamed and punished and then ignored harshly when I did something wrong. I learned that feeling happy and excited to see someone and to look forward to something, anything, was a foolish emotion that only led to being hurt.
Sometimes I wonder where my feelings of sadness and inferiority come from. Sometimes I write blog entries.
I think that’s why it’s so hard now that I’ve figured out how incredibly important touch is and being able to touch someone and have them touch you without that touch being sexual in nature and just simply feeling good being around someone. I have triggers and sometimes they’re hair triggers and a heavy breath out of place sends me into that same pool of helplessness and hopelessness that I’ve been in since I was eight years old. Knowing what depression is now, I can remember feeling it even then.
When I think back, I have never been actively praised for anything that I can remember other than when I graduated from massage school. My dad said he was proud of me. Thankfully I haven’t really been around him enough since then so he hasn’t had a chance to be an asshole to me again. I can actually think that once in awhile my dad isn’t a complete prick and maybe does care. Along those lines, I read a quote earlier today that said “just because someone doesn’t love you like you think they should, doesn’t mean they don’t love you with all they have”. I find that rather apt. Maybe my dad just sucks at love. He doesn’t understand it.
Sometimes I believe that everyone loves me as much as I love them. Sometimes I write blog entries.
October 11, 2010 § Leave a comment
Does she see us going the long haul? Could she see us settling down together forever or am I someone who is good for the moment but not permanent? Is she with me because marriage isn’t possible? Does she resent that? Would she ever consider marriage if it was legal? Once she was over her heartache and realizes she could have those things with me that she thinks Fate stole?
I didn’t say anything to her at the time because she was hurting, but it seemed like she was saying she would never have those things again and it made me question.
What’s he got that I ain’t got? I’ve got so much more than he ever had and somehow I think it’s not quite good enough.
I want to marry this girl someday. I wonder if she’ll ever feel the same.
January 10, 2010 § Leave a comment
When I was young somewhere between 8 and 12 where my life stops having any kind of order or sense, much like the rest of my life has been around it, my parents took me to visit their family friends. We did this on several visits and I am not sure where they were living at the time. It might have been Pennsylvania. They lived in an apartment building and while we were staying with them, it was said that we were absolutely forbidden from going back down through the trees and down to the little stream. Where did we naturally go?
There were other kids down at the stream and they had found some clams in the stream. Freshwater clams. I was intrigued. I had never seen clams in a stream before. I’d thought they only came out of the ocean. We spent a lot of time down at the stream playing with the other kids until they came out looking for us. The friend I had been with had told me to come back up around the house and go play in the big pine tree and just to say that I had been there the whole time. When I was asked, I responded that, in fact, I had been in the tree playing. At least for the last five minutes, not that I volunteered that up.
Apparently the son of the family friends had gotten caught doing things he wasn’t supposed to be doing before and ended up being punished for doing it and bringing me down there. He ended up making a big noise when he got his ass beat and I ended up not punished at all since I was little and impressionable. I didn’t understand what the big deal was. There were other kids there and we were just looking around down there and playing in the water. I still don’t know what the big deal was.
Apparently in Pennsylvania you aren’t allowed to play in open water or try and catch squirrels in big pine trees.
January 10, 2010 § Leave a comment
I used to be horribly, terribly afraid of drag queens, drag kings and transgendered people. They used to scare the high holy hell out of me. The very IDEA of someone wanting to be friends with me or date me who was transgendered was absolutely squickworthy and unreasonably so. I had no idea why they scared me like they did, but to have a completely irrational fear of them told me there was more to look into with the problem.
I was raised that the gender you are born into, the lot you are born into, is what you are to become. If you are sexed female, you will follow typical gender rules assigned to the female gender. Should you be born male, you had to be macho and otherwise you could get away with whatever you wanted. A lot of the rules with me changed, however, since I liked to go and get dirty in the shop working with dad and re-roof houses in the summer but I also liked to putz around in the kitchen and sew and cross stitch. Girls were girls and dated and married boys. Boys were boys and dated and married girls. I, unfortunately, seemed to be male with female tendencies, much to my mother’s dismay.
She always used to tell the tale of how bad she wanted a boy and how his name would have been Chad Walton Bartholomew. She was convinced she was having a boy all through her pregnancy and even bought blue clothes for me. Well… I guess she partially got her wish. I always used to tease her and tell her she needed to put me back in and bake me long enough. She never really found that funny.
Looking deeper into things led me to realize that I was not, in fact, related to these little female creatures I had been born into but somehow never got the memo or the key card to let me into the member’s only area that told me how these strange little beasts worked. I never got the insider’s book on how to be a girl. Instead I always thought it was normal for girls to do things with their dads like I did with my dad. I always thought it was normal to want to tear down walls and rebuild houses and have a workshop in the garage. What was the sense in painting your nails a different color every day and owning sixteen different handbags to match all your outfits? What’s the point of having a million pairs of shoes to wear with different clothes and what’s the point of accessorizing? Put on a shirt and pants and shoes and out the door you go. Run a brush through your hair and over your teeth before you leave, too, if you want to make a good impression. I didn’t understand getting up four hours before school so you could dress and bathe and do your hair and makeup and all that crap. Get me up an hour before school, shower, clothes, brush, out the door. Done.
I wasn’t really part of the female gender, although I do understand it decently well, I figure. I know that girls think everyone is always dropping them subtle hints and clues and shit or always talking behind their backs or making a dig at them. So as long as I realize that women are crazy and think everything I say and do is against them, I’ll be fine. As long as I know that I can neg them into doing what I want, that works even better. That way I can get away from them that much faster.
I understand males a lot better. No talking in the shitter, no frilly decorations and don’t worry about wearing makeup because we want to know how you’re going to look when we wake up beside you. Plain, simple, direct and to the point. That makes sense. You can greet someone you know without saying a word and you don’t have to stand there and chatter to them all afternoon about what you’re wearing to whatever thing you’re going out for. Guys are good to be dressed.
The reason why queens and trannies bothered me is because deep down and underneath it all, I was one of them and I was terrified to face it about myself. Thankfully after a lot of gnashing of teeth and ruined velvet dresses, I got the hint.
October 5, 2009 § Leave a comment
When I was eight years old, my parents liked to drive to visit friends of theirs when they moved all over the country and would take me along with them. At one point, their friends had moved out to New Jersey and while we were out visiting, they agreed to take me to the shore to get steamed clams.
I had eaten steamed clams when we had been in Pennsylvania visiting my aunt when she lived out there and fell in love with them when I was four or five. Finding them had been nearly impossible. So when I had a chance to get some off the coast, I was stoked!
I asked dad to get me a couple dozen clams and I waited happily at the table for him to come back with them. When he came back to the table, he only had six.
“Where’s the rest of them?”
“You get around those and I’ll go up and get you more.”
“But I wanted at least a dozen of them.”
“The guy wouldn’t give me more.”
“What? What for??”
“Just get around those and I’ll go up and get you some more of them.”
I polished off six of them no problem and dad went back to get me the other dozen and a half. The guy at the shop said he would give him another six, but dad told him that he’d be back for the other dozen. He brought them back to the table and I gave him a look. He told me the guy wouldn’t give him more. So I ate all of those and dad went up to get another half dozen for me.
The cook came out with dad to the table and stared at me. “Who’s helpin’ you eat them?”
“E-excuse me? What?”
“Who’s helping you eat all those clams?”
“Nobody here LIKES clams but me.”
“Somebody’s gotta be helpin’ you eat those clams.”
I just looked at my parents like “save me from this frigging madman.”
I ended up getting my last half dozen for free because I was the only eight year old kid he’d ever seen eat two dozen clams in a single sitting.
This story was reminded to me by my father who told it to my girlfriend as we sat eating fried pickles and drinking rumritas on my parent’s anniversary which so happened to also be the day I graduated from massage school.
October 4, 2009 § Leave a comment
Apparently I am called “The Miracle Worker” at work.
A client of mine, after I had worked on her and gotten some relief for hip pain she had been having for several years, came back through the darkened glass door separating the clinic from the reception area and called to me.
“I just heard your nickname.”
“Oh? What’s that?”
“The Miracle Worker.”
“Oh! I didn’t even know I had a nickname!”
Leave it to me to have a nickname I didn’t know about. At least it’s not that silly rhyming bullshit. I HATE that.
Apparently the story began with a client who had cancelled her membership six months or so prior to coming in for bodywork before a rigorous training session. She was a self-admitted hardcore “push yourself to the limits” kind of person and was having some pretty severe pain. She had turned down one of the people up front a few times when asked about renewing her membership.
When I got finished with her, she came back out front and said she would make it work somehow and renewed her membership. The two girls up front looked at each other and said I was “the miracle worker”.
So today when a client was talking about how wonderful I was for helping her pain, they jokingly made the comment about it being my nickname. At least my client said she agreed.
Apparently this nickname has stuck. I don’t mind.