Older Me to Younger Me

 Older Me to Younger Me

Make friends. Make a lot of friends. Gather connections like gold. 

Be kind. Be real, but be it kindly.

There is enough garbage in the world. Pick it up when you come across it.

You will always be cleaning up other people’s trash. That is okay.

If you are going to do something, do it right, do it completely. Do not seek credit for it.

When you ask someone for something, thank them effusively.

Do not do kindness expecting something in return.

Remember the little things about people.

Do not worry about nor judge what someone else loves.

Do not worry about whether someone worries about or judges what you love.

Younger Me to Older Me

All the friends that you make when you are younger will stop being your friends.

Friendly, yes. Friends, no.

Siblings are rarely your friends.

Extended family will only want you to be a part of their life if they want or need something.

Your own family will have their own family.

You will stop being a part of their family.

You will not be anybody’s priority.

Learn to like yourself, or learn to be someone you like. Noone else will like you.

Everywhere you go, there you are.

I Hope

 I hope that when I die, it is on a day that is convenient for others.

Second, I hope that the day of my funeral is also convenient for them.

Inside My Head

I was reading an autobiography in which the script from the movie “Promise” was

being discussed. Specifically, this part concerned schizophrenia, but there are very

many similarities to bi-polar dysfunction, and I believe these two to be one and

the same, best described as along the spectrum:

“It’s like, all the electric wires in the house are plugged into my brain. And every one

has a different noise, so I can’t think. Some of the wires have voices in them and they

tell me things to do and that people are watching me. I know there really aren’t any

voices, but I feel that there are, and that I should listen to them or something will happen.

That’s why I send for those ads on the TV, because I feel the voice in the ad is talking

to me. I hear him talking to me. He tells me to buy the things and that… well, I’m afraid

if I don’t.”

I know I am broken. I do not know why, nor do I know how to fix me. I do not hear

voices as was described, but the intrusive thoughts are always there playing like a

subliminal track from a movie. So I turn up the music. I sing along to give me a voice of

my own using borrowed words and thoughts because my own are destructive. Not

destructive in a final countdown to the big sleep kind of way, just self-destructive. So I

try to build walls to keep myself inside and safe from myself.

The walls are created out of music or books or movies. And yet I still hear the thoughts cloyingly

chanting “tear down these walls.” Sometimes, I write to build another part of the wall.

My words acting as bricks and mortar to shore up my defenses. I write and I write and I spew

another pile of verbal vomit to clear the inside of my mind. I write in different places to confuse the

thoughts. I blog to my self, because I absolutely cannot convince myself that others want to hear

what I am thinking.

I write to get rid of the pain of these thoughts. The pain is not acute, but a chronic thing that is always

there. It ebbs and flows, much like the pain of an old injury that is now a weather-tell and has highs

and lows affected by an incoming storm. Most days it can be ignored. Some days I need to take the

edge off by medicating, using writing as an analgesic. Once in a while the pain comes on hard and

fast and I have to seek relief much like using Lamaze breathing techniques to force my focus away

from the pain. Much like an addict, when you find something that alleviates the pain, even temporarily,

you cling to it. You seek it. And when it is taken away from you or no longer works, you panic. You

try harder.

You get desperate. You get afraid. 

I wish you peace.

You Matter (no i do not)

The phrase “You Matter” seems to be getting bandied around a lot lately. I understand

the sentimentality of it, the intent of being positive. But, I struggle with hearing it. At least,

I struggle with hearing it said to me. 

Too often, it gets said with sincerity, but with hollow feelings. People mean it, but it is similar

to saying “How are you?” to someone and not waiting to see how they answer, if they even

do answer. Things get said pro forma, out of habit, or just because that was what one was

taught. Someone says hello and you ask how are you?

I think that the reason that it concerns me a little, is that people really should be reaching

out to one another and actually telling them that they matter. Not just simply brushing over

by formality, but telling someone that they matter with true intent. 

I believe that this is similar to the other platitude of “You never know what life will bring, so

tell someone how you feel before you die,” which is also making the rounds regularly. (Side bar:

This is not always received as well as one would be led to believe.) I do not mean to sound

jaundiced on either of these concepts, but I wish that social media had not turned them into

just handing someone a warm fuzzy. 

Now I really am sounding jaded.

I do believe that one should tell someone that they matter, but quantify the sentiment by

adding the simple words “to me.” Tell someone that they matter to you. Tell them in context. Add

to the phrase. Do not just give them the bread and tell them to make a sandwich of your words.

Add the meat and cheese. Or peanut butter and jam if you prefer. Help them to know where

your thoughts are coming from.

A former co-worker lost her husband a few months ago. It was very sudden and very

unexpected. She called me while dealing with everything from his death to the constant

battles with his family. She was struggling. We talked for a couple hours and I helped her down

off of the ledge she was on. I have since reached out to her a few times, texting or calling. I

do, in fact, tell her that she matters.

Not too long ago, I had posted a few lines about some of the things I had been dealing with.

Earlier this year was kind of a carnival show. The kind that you see next to the abandoned

clown hotel in the middle of the Nevada desert. I then received the requisite “you matters”

from well-meaning people, but I noticed that not one person managed to find the inclination

to really tell that I  mattered or reach out to see that I was handling things. Some days I

was not. 

Do not forget to tell someone they matter if they matter to you. Tell them why. Then

listen. Have a conversation rather than just dictate back and forth. Listen to what they are saying

rather than for an opportunity to tell your next part of the story.

Just Another Thursday

Just another rock;

Just another liver.

I will get over it.

I Yam

 

And in spite of how hard I try I yam never enough. 

I yam a watchdog, I yam a protector, I yam a defender. But nobody wants those unless and until they need them.

I yam a teacher, I yam a Shishou, I yam a student. I am constantly learning, always trying to gain knowledge, to teach myself more. I am not a master of anything, but there are skills where I am very proficient. This works for others if and when they want it to. The only time I will be forceful with my teaching is when I can prevent harm or injury. If you are miserable, I am miserable too. I may make you take steps to protect yourself, to prevent you from coming to (once again) harm or injury. Most often, this results in resentful appreciation.

I yam trying to be better. I yam trying, albeit taking small steps, to improve myself physically and mentally. I struggle physically because I broke and damaged parts of my body over the years that are coming back around to say "You cannot do that any more" or to remind me of all the things I hurt every time it storms. Also, heredity apparently has something to do with some of this.Mental mprovement is a discussion for another time. 

Mostly, I yam wrong. I yam intrusive. I yam forgotten until something is needed.

I yam just not needed.

Voices From The Past

Many times in an investigation, witness testimony is, while important, sometimes

taken with a grain of salt. The adage is “There are three sides to every story: Your

truth, My truth, and the REAL truth. I have heard so many stories about me that

were hand-on-a-bible/swear to God, the gods, or The Great Spirit truth that were

just that – stories. Friends, mostly former friends now, co-workers, bosses, and the

hardest cut of all, family, have fabricated their versions of truth about me.

For the most part, I really do not care. Sticks and stones may break my bones,

but whips and chains excite me. Or something like that. The only time that it

bothers me overmuch is when someone is trying to cause me harm by their

words. I have walked away from all of the above, friends, employment, and

family to protect myself. I will do so again.

The past few days I have been blessed to be able to speak with someone who shares

a lot of history with me. It has been wonderful. It has been cathartic for me, and I hope

for them as well. There has been much laughter, some tears, and a fair amount of anger. 

Comparing our two truths, we have been able to piece together a lot of the “story” that

is closer to the real truth than what others have voiced, much to our collective relief.

There have been many questions answered. There have been many revelations and realizations.

Now, she does not have any shared history with any of my friends, nor my co-workers,

but there is a treasure of shared history with family. Obviously, this was where our focus

has been. We both laughed when we commented that there were a lot of family that

wanted nothing to do with us (often with blatant hostility) and were only “nice” (read

that as courteous or polite) when they wanted or needed something from us. And since

we have both outlived so many of our family members, the ones that are left have no

issue with assigning their hatred and anger with other family members to us. It is almost

as though the ones that have died slighted them once again by not living to be a target

for their feelings.

Blame it on the living, the dead do not care.

As more parts of the cartoon are colored, the picture is more clear. Regarding the laughter,

tears, and anger I mentioned previously, a lot of very ugly truths came to light. The amount

of mental and sexual abuse, along with the neglect and reckless endangerment that

happened of the decades is disgusting. The alcohol and drug abuse that has plagued this

family is abhorrent. The fact that this was all allowed to continue that long is shameful.

Generations have been drawn into all of this. I still have many questions.

She believes she has grown past what happened to her (and so many others) and is

getting stronger every day. She is happy now, and getting happier each day. She also

struggles each day. The trauma, the PTSD, the anger, and the hurt, drag on a person.

She is a better person than she has any right to be. 

I, however, am still not a good person, although I try. I try every day. I still fail every day, but

I try every day. 

I was asked for advice recently regarding raising kids. I was asked how you raise them, how

to be a good parent. My answer was “Teach them kindness and courtesy. Teach them to

think of others and to not be hurtful or mean. Do not bully. Teach them that if you are going to

do something, do it right.” If you teach people these things and they choose to be a lesser

person, at least you taught them what they should be. Anything after that is on them.