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. 

Something Happened Along The Way

I tend to default to thinking that it is my fault, but the reverse of that coin is that it is usually the case.

But what I think does not signify.

I get tired of being wrong. I get tired of being wrong when I am right. And yet, I am still wrong.

So, in the end I will distract myself with words belonging to others who most surely tell no lies, or music which will tell only truths. At times there will be the loudness of one while consuming the silence of the other. There is no fear of the dark, but merely the ominous presence of the silence of the world allowing the workings of the mind to gather steam and forge ahead into the abyss once more.

Digging up bones, ghosts, and empties. Nothing like sitting with the ghosts of the past drinking the spirits they bring to the game, while gnawing on the bones of past decisions and actions. And while the past no longer exists, you feel every scar that the past left on you. The sympathy you feel for others who were victims to your deeds, and the pity for yourself knowing the selfishness you exhibited in your hubris. 

I had always hoped I was not that person, but as I said: It is my own fault.

And when I Die... 02052024

 

I'm not scared of dying

And I don't really care

If it's peace you find in dying

Well, then let the time be near

• Blood, Sweat, and Tears 1977

Death was never far away as a child. Not like in a “It is the plague, bring out your dead” kind of way, just that it was there. I remember older relatives dying, and then in later years it was just something that happened. I remember feeling kind of ambivalent about it, but I could not have explained it back then. I am still ambivalent, but I now know why.

I have my reasons, but you do not want to hear them. 

Dad died first. He had gone in for a serious, but routine surgery and his body had just had enough. The surgical team tried for hours and nothing they tried could save him. I think mom knew when they went in for the surgery, but did not say anything. I can still remember the look on her face as she talked with him just prior to his funeral services. She expressed so much love and compassion for him. Dad did not care what happened to him after he died, but mom had a fear of being buried alive. They had already discussed things, and she expressed her desire to be cremated. As dad did not have a preference, he was cremated after he died.

We joked with mom that after she was cremated, we would combine their ashes and place them in shaker bottles and give each of us kids one with their ashes so that whenever we were cooking one of their recipes, we could shake a little bit of them in the food in remembrance. It was a little morbid, but mom laughed out loud with the humor of it.

My sister Sam died next. It was a brutal death, a homicide. She did not deserve to die the way she did. She was always so caring and giving, and ultimately that is what brought about her death. Sam died on the anniversary of dad’s death, and I always wondered about the significance of that. I believe he was there for her to help her across. Sam, too, was cremated. I do not know whether she had any great desires for what happened to her after she died. 

My sister Chris died after many, many years of alcohol and drug abuse. The consumption of all that alcohol caught up with her and her body just started shutting down. She had problems with her heart, her liver, and her kidneys. She was another one that really was very creative and caring, as long as she was not under the influence of alcohol. Chris was also cremated, and I wonder whether she was following Sam’s example, or if it was representative of the transient life she had led. 

Mom died in 2009. She was just weeks away from her 81st birthday. Mom had lived with an aortic aneurysm for a long time. And then she died from it. It was a sudden death, as deaths go, but she still fought it in the end. Mom had always been told that if/when the aneurysm ruptured, she would feel a warm rush in her chest and would be dead within minutes. She managed to survive for the ambulance ride to the helipad for the air ambulance which transported her to the hospital. There were attempts at surgery to try and save her, and she still did not die for a few days, but in the end, she succumbed. 

I have other distant family who have passed that I am unaware of what their choices were for their final rest, and still others who are living, but none of them like me enough to share their preferences either. They have closer family ties than me. They do not owe me. Truth be told, I doubt that they ever even think of me.

I guess I might be next here. I am not planning on it any time soon, but then again, none of the rest of my family was either. Between the car crashes and motorcycle accidents and various close calls, I am sometimes surprised that I am still alive. Maybe God has just forgotten about me and left me behind.

I believe I take after dad with my desires in that I do not care what happens to me after I die. I am partly driven by my wallet in that I do not want the expensive and expansive coffin and services. Save your money. I do not even want to be embalmed, but that feeling stems from the years that I have had to put so many chemicals in my body to stay alive. I joke (only partly) that I think I will make my own coffin out of plywood, nicely enough finished, to save the cost of a coffin. I do not care whether, or even if, I am buried. In actuality, I would love nothing more than to be left on a mountain, in my mountains, under a tree, and left to go back to the earth. My body will be empty of me, but the thought of being able to watch mountain sunrises for eternity brings me peace.