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.

Once More With(out) Feeling

I keep writing because it allows me to clear the dross from my head.

Nobody reads these but me, so I do not worry about what I say for any

reason other than I try to remember privacy concerns for others. I do

admit that at times I would like someone to read these and maybe be

able to hold a conversation about my thoughts. However, lately maybe

I think that I would rather not have others read these after all. In a

previous post from January of this year, I mentioned that I have opinions,

but I stopped sharing them on other platforms because apparently my

opinions were either wrong, or I was just not allowed to have or express

them.

(Insert image of a man who has been gagged or censored, except the

only images that I can find are of women because this only happens

to women.)

(And if you are already pissed off because I insinuated that it cannot

happen to a man as well, your attitude is showing.)

(People really do need to realize that another X [person or race or sex or

nationality] can be a victim as well without taking away your victim status)

In my prior post, I mentioned some of the responses I received regarding

me expressing my opinion. I heard “Oh, come on!” and “You can’t seriously

believe that crap!” and “Maybe you should just back down a little.” As I said,

I am not allowed to have my own opinion. 

Two recent events.

A recent comment I made in response to a friend’s post gave me pause

to consider that I wanted to say more on the subject. It was a poll post,

where people could select a specific answer, then add their comments

as well. I did. I then wrote my own post based on the comment I had

added and expounding further about how I felt a certain group had

been treated. Or, more accurately, mistreated. I (mistakenly) expressed

my thoughts about this and how I felt regarding this mistreatment and

offered some additional ideas about how I thought people could work

through making changes to prevent this from continuing to happen.

One friend, or former friend now maybe, commented on the first half of

my comments, but had apparently not completely read my words as

their feelings mirrored what I had stated later. Her words matched what

I had felt and posted, but stopped short of reading what I said after the

initial part. Another person also answered my comment on the original

thread, but, too, had failed to read to the end. They did, however, have

their own opinion on my words. Theirs must have been more valid. 

I absolutely loathe to delete my posts. I feel that words are important.

The words a person uses should be considered. I understand that learning

a new truth about something which you have had thoughts or feelings

about may make you edit your words, but I also do not think that people

should just post mean things just to hurt others. Stick to the truth.

Acknowledge when you are stating an opinion. Opinions should matter too.

Apparently, mine do not. After re-reading my post and understanding where

the comments were coming from, I came to the realization that my own

opinion does not matter and I removed my post and the original comment

on the other thread. Nobody has missed them.

The second event was similar, but had the same effect. Over a period of

time I noted that when I was talking with people they would simply just

shut down to whatever I was discussing. I literally just watched as they

stopped listening, stopped considering what I was thinking, and discounted

any further discussion. When it happens repeatedly, you get the message.

My opinion only matters when I agree with them or if the topic at hand is

inconsequential. How I feel does not signify.

But that is just my opinion.

Is Four Several, a Few, or Many?

 Is Four Several, a Few, or Many?

Generally speaking, several is used to refer to quantities above two or so but not so much that it's a lot or many. Perhaps the most common interpretation or intended sense of several is around three to five, but this can vary greatly depending on the context.- Dictionary.com

I grew up in a small town that was situated in a bowl of a valley. There are only a few ways in and out of the valley, most of which necessitate passing through a canyon. Of those canyons, one is prettier than the others, but also is the type of road that requires you to pay attention while driving the narrow, curvy road as well as the possibility of wildlife which can interrupt your safe passage.

Several decades ago, I was in the process of breaking up with a girl I had been dating. I will call her N, not wanting to use her real name. I have no illusions that she ever thinks of me, and severely doubt that she will stumble across this post. Dating her started okay, but then she began to get quite possessive of my time, and quite demanding. After a while, her demands began to be quite unreasonable, even down to timing how long it would take me to go from one place to another and giving me a deadline in which I had to call her. Things came to a head when she started to mention harming herself or others (meaning me or whomever I was seeing instead of her.) It was borderline Fatal Attraction type of behavior, but prior to that movie coming out. 

This was pre-cell phone times, so making a phone call meant being at a physical place where there was a phone. Landline phones were hardwired into the wall or an actual phone booth. An investment of time and committing yourself to a location. Phone booths were great for talking in private to someone, but you worked out in advance that they would know the number and you would call (drop a dime) them at home and let the phone ring once, then hang up and retrieve your dime. They would call back and not only was the call free, your call would not time out requiring investing another dime. 

I do not remember where I was coming from or going to one night, but I noticed that N was following me, so I started to just drive around town. Once N realized I knew she was there, she started to follow more closely, more aggressively. It was late, as in way after midnight late, the time of night when the town stoplights would flash amber north and south and red east and west. There were not a lot of other cars on the roadways and I just kept driving around the city and into the county. N began to drive even more erratically, enough so that I thought she might actually ram my car, so I began to increase my speed and distance between the two of us.

The chase was on.

Stop signs and traffic lights be damned. I was trying at first to stay at least close to posted speeds and obey the traffic controls, but N had no compunction about that stuff. She was flashing her high beams at me whenever she got close. I knew the roads better than she did, was arguably a better driver than she was, and definitely a lot less emotional at this point. I worked my way east through town on the main road to exit the valley through one of the previously mentioned canyons, which was one more benefit I had. I grew up, quite literally, in that canyon and in the wilderness through which it passed. We were now heading into my briarpatch. 

I realized that N may well crash in the canyon, so I did not want the chase to go too far into it. I managed to increase the distance between us by simply being quicker on the throttle, ignoring the brakes in favor of downshifting, and straightening some curves. She honestly had the better, faster car. I had a better skillset. Once I was far enough in front of her that I knew I could take a side road and get out of sight, I picked a turnout that took me across a bridge over the river and went dark. I only had to wait a few minutes and then saw her car zoom past behind me. I gave her another minute or so and then returned down the canyon.

I was really worried that she was going to go off the rails and crash, so when I got to the mouth of the canyon, I pulled off the road and parked where I could watch the cars come out to see if she returned. I was there for about 20 minutes and had just restarted my car to look for debris or evidence of a possible crash, when I saw headlights coming out of the canyon and N flashed by at a very high rate of speed. I waited another 10 minutes or so and left, taking nothing but backroads. I did not want to go home yet for fear that she would be waiting for me there. I was not afraid of her, I was just avoiding the confrontation. Well, delaying the confrontation that would eventually happen.

I have often wondered why she put so much effort into trying to keep me. I freely admit that I was never that good looking, certainly not enough so that I warranted that kind of trophy seeking actions. I was nobody’s great catch. I was immature and callow. (Some would argue I never got past that stage.) I just was. I was me, nothing more. Once we did finally cut things off, she moved on to another guy almost instantly. 

It was at that point where you have a hard time deciding whether it is still night or starting to be day. It was late enough that the sky was just about to lighten. I drove through the streets and through the gravel pit that is now filled with neighborhoods and homes. Back then, it was a favorite spot for young kids to drink beer stolen from their parents and to find out just what they did and did not know about the other sex. Giraffe Hill: a place you go to for a long neck.

It was empty that time of day, which did not really matter to me, but it did give me a feeling of isolation. I parked my car and shut it down, turning the key so I could listen to the radio. KNBR out of San Francisco. AM radio was great overnight. The signals would skip on the atmosphere and you could listen to stations from hundreds of miles away. I sat on the hood of my car, reclining on the windshield as I did just that. I let my mind wander and just sat there.

There is something magical to me in a sunrise. More so than a sunset. First, there are typically few people about. Second, it is the time that the one day passes the torch to a new day, and all the newborn possibilities and power that goes with that.

Giraffe Hill was located on the east side of the valley, which meant that with the steep mountains around the valley, the sun would come up and light the west side of the valley long before it would touch me. I remember being amused as I watched the sunlight slide down the Wellsville Mountains and across the valley. It certainly was not instant, but it happened a lot more quickly than I thought it would. About the time it did reach me, I got back in my car and drove home. I wondered whether N would be waiting there for me, but that was not the case this time. 

Things ended shortly after that and another page turned. New chapter. N went on to her new guy, and they ended up getting married. A mutual friend told me years later that they were married, then separated, then reunited, then separated again. I do not know what their status is currently. It has been decades since this happened. They have their own stories.