Thursday, May 31, 2007

to sum it up

Yea, I suppose this pretty much sums it up....damn shame he'll never understand it.

"I know you believe my "complaint" of the level of support you've offered during this whole cancer deal is petty and insignificant, but it is extremely significant to me...perhaps the single most important event or series of event in my life, that not only affects, but even threatens my life and I feel as though you left me to deal with it alone for a year....I'm not at all certain that I can ever forgive you for that....and I think it would be foolish of me to think I could ever depend on you to provide the support I'm going to need in the coming years as I continue to deal with this."

when shaking fists begin to shake their head instead

How odd that it no longer seems to anger me — the hypocrisy of it all as she speaks to me of determination, twisted rationalizations, reciprocity and love that would never allow you to walk away.

It still saddens me and I often find it annoying or even maddening, yet I can no longer bring myself to respond with anger. Perhaps I simply no longer care enough to be angry.

Of course, it is so much better now than in years past and I find myself nearly comforted by the familiarity of it all as she turns to walk away, taking credit for my strengths while claiming no responsibility for my shortcomings, but I am proud that she remembered to tell me she loved me first.

reality check

It hit me as soon as I entered the waiting room. It always does — that crushing weight of reality when I enter my information into the touch screen system. Yes, that is me. Yes, my appointment today is in oncology. Yes, I know I have a balance due.

It's so easy to allow myself to forget when I am outside of those walls. Until of course I have to apply the treatment or deal with the side effects. It can be difficult to forget when my calendar becomes crammed with appointments or well-meaning friends refer to me as a "survivor", but for the most part, the truth of it stays pushed to the farthest recesses of my mind.

Until of course, I am sitting in that office, or sprawled out in that procedure room — the air heavy with words we don't like to use — cancer, extensive, widespread, sexual function, surgery, biopsy, imperative.

I wish I could say it was sheer strength of character or some sense of not wanting to concern others that made me hold so firmly to this stoic facade, but no, my motivations are purely selfish. I'm simply afraid that if I ever allow myself to truly experience the myriad of fears that swirl within, it would only serve to render me crippled and helpless. And really, who needs that kind of fucking shit?

Monday, May 28, 2007

the old Catch-22

I don't know if it's actually the protocol in the military but let us assume the validity of Joseph Heller's assertion that if you question your sanity, then surely you must not be insane.

If that is indeed the case, then I must have a rather tight grip on the last remaining shreds of my sanity as I have been questioning it endlessly over the past 24 hours.

Psychological warfare. The U.S. Department of Defense defines psychological warfare (PSYWAR) as: "The planned use of propaganda and other psychological actions having the primary purpose of influencing the opinions, emotions, attitudes, and behavior of hostile foreign groups in such a way as to support the achievement of national objectives."

Somehow that doesn't even come close to covering it.

Of course, perhaps there is a subtle difference between psychological warfare and what I have come to refer to as "mind fuck" — namely that whereas psychological warfare seeks to influence, "mind fuck" seems to be closer akin to torture, it’s aim being the complete annihilation of your thinking self.

I believe a well laid "mind fuck" is much like and probably has the same objective as the method the military, particularly the Marines, uses to create soldiers — the tearing down of an individual, stripping them, so that you can then rebuild them into the person you desire. And if performed by one skillful at the art, the victim will in fact be so grateful to be "saved" and "fixed" that they will completely forget that the practitioner was the one that that destroyed them to start with.

While I can appreciate the necessity for questioning one's actions or motives or even thought processes, how dare anyone attempt to make another second guess all that they are.

Wednesday, May 23, 2007

skyline pigeon

That window had a great view.

The field stretched for several hundred yards to meet the woods, the heavens extending forever above them both.

I could often catch a glimpse of myself out there.

It annoys me now. I rarely look in that direction when I visit, every detail of the landscape having been etched in my mind years ago.

During the summer months, that window offered vivd rainbows set against blackened clouds and the hum and angry jolt of the bug zapper. From it I had a great view of the ant town my father crushed with his car each evening, prompting me to rebuild it every afternoon.

Through that window I would watch as my mom wiped the length of the clothesline with a wet paper towel before hanging laundry.

And it was through that window that I first caught sight of the boy who would become the man I married.

I spent my childhood at that window, my nose pressed against the screen in a poor attempt to expand my line of sight.

Tuesday, May 22, 2007

"happy" to help

It's hot in here and I want a cigarette.

So I suppose if someone could turn the AC down and toss me a pack of Kools, it would probably make me feel better right this instant, especially if they threw in a country ham or steak biscuit, but would it make me happy? Eh, I guess it depends on how broadly you define the term "happy". I suppose it would in that instant gratification, superficial desires having been met kind of way (Although I so very deeply desire a cigarette right now.)

But true happiness? That come from within sort of peace with one's self and one's life? I realized long ago that no one can achieve that for me, or hand it to me — it's not something that can be packaged and adorned with a little bow to be presented as a gift. I've got that much figured out, I'm just still not completely certain how to reach it.

I've often felt as though I've stood in the way of my own happiness, whether by building walls to keep others out, or through a complete lack of forgiveness — for others and for myself. They say that you have to be happy with yourself before you can be happy with anyone else. That's always really pissed me off, mainly 'cause I'd like to meet someone who is truly happy with themselves. Are these people even out there? I think surely I am not one of them although I suppose I'm as happy with myself as I've ever been.

I often feel as though I am still in mourning, not so much for my husband but for the part of me that died with him. I think, well hell, I know that I'm still kind of pissed over being shitted out of our happily ever after and incessantly guilt-ridden over the role I played in that ruin.

So what can one do to make me happy? I'm not certain that's even possible. I'd certainly like to think it was, but can hardly charge anyone else with that monumental task when I do not even have a clue as to how to accomplish it.

So often I think if I could just live here in my little world — this private little place where I must only clear the clutter and immerse myself in the beauty created by others — I could achieve something close to happiness. But life or fate or God or whatever the fuck you want to call it, seems to have other plans for me....and that pisses me off as much as anything.

Monday, May 21, 2007

the Midas touch

It occurs to me that everything I touch eventually turns to shit, even if it shimmers like gold when I first brush against it.

I think most of us feel that way at some point. After all, we always hurt the ones we love and the ones we love always hurt us — as trite as it is — love fucking hurts (such a simple concept) .

But it matters as nothing else can...it gives meaning and worth.

Don't get me wrong, I'm all about going batshit....but damn, it can be dangerous and we must always keep that in mind — while flirting along the edge of the cliff, struggling not to topple.

I can't help but half-ass grin when I think about a number of conversations Bj and I had about our stressing each other slap the hell out. "Crazy ass woman..." It's pretty fucked up when you realize you can stress somebody out to the point they seize. Didn't really come as a surprise though...hell, half the time I thought the stress was going to send me into a seizure!

That's the really shitty thing about people who can always make you feel better — they can also always make you feel a hell of a lot worse.

perfect blue buildings

I should be working, yet find myself horribly distracted and longing for that perfect blue building.

There is such a place, near where once sat such a "perfect blue building", indeed "there by the green apple sea". It is where I first experienced that sweet oblivion and it is there where I long to return. I can see it so clearly in my mind, even feel the salty breeze sticking to my skin. That perfect blue building once rising to serve as a beacon from the shore, now demolished, the only evidence of its existence trapped in my memories and a few poor photographs.

I may need to go there this weekend, as much as I hate to travel on holidays, but yes, I certainly need a little oblivion.

serenity

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I love that feeling! And those are the coolest trees!

Sunday, May 20, 2007

sure about that?

Yea, okay, so you want me to write?

Well I suppose I can do that, in fact I am quite aware of the fact that I can. But if it hurts me to write so many of these words, why would I subject anyone else to the pain of reading them?

I have tried to make sense of other's maddening thoughts, and often find it much more draining, than enlightening.

Of course every now and then, this perfect sense of still washes over me. And all is well, for we ...... I never bother to finish that sentence.

I am hardly incapable of love — and instead am nearly broken by it. It cannot be easily defined or even compared, but how I feel when I am writing comes close — take a breath, close your eyes, focus your thoughts — and I am there in that safe place where I can release my defenses and, unafraid, offer all that I am.

accepting blame

I was filled with a certain sense of sadness this evening.

I do not know that I was really missing him — it seems as though I have been missing him for so long — I'm used to feeling alone.

I've been trying so desperately to remember a time I was happy in my marriage, as surely I must've once been in order to have ever married in the first place.

After all, I had vowed to never marry again. I never again wanted to feel such responsibility for another person, never wanted to endure the pain of losing another husband. I was dogged in that belief and so what changed my mind?

It's no secret that I hate to be alone. I am afraid of it in fact, almost to the point of being terrified at the prospect. I chalk it up to having felt so alone during my childhood. The only thing I ever wanted was a family — a family of my own. I was tired of feeling as I were a mere observer to someone else's family, an unwelcome guest in someone else's home.

I suppose that is what we shared in the beginning — that strong desire to be a family. And at the time, I thought that was enough. I mean after all, I had been fortunate enough to have two great loves, surely that couldn't happen again in my lifetime. A good, stable man to grow old with would be enough. Or so I thought.

And yet as time went on, I had the audacity enough to decide I wanted more and in turn, to resent his inability to be something he had never promised to start with.

Then, like a stubborn child, angry to not be allowed to change the rules once the game's begun, I've decided I don't want to play anymore — effectively shattering what once held us together.

Blur

I remember the very first time I was ever told "why that's emotional abuse!"

I thought, "well yea, but at least I'm not beaten or starved."

Though I've often wished I had been. A black eye seems preferable to a broken heart, although that's easy for me to say having only suffered such superficial injuries at the hands of those I've loved so few times in my life. Still, it seems as though at least the scars may not have been so very deep.

I suppose it's really no different when you think about it. Somehow a child who is beaten always feels as though it were deserved, by some fault or flaw of his own and somehow the women always go back because at least he tells them he loves them the next day.

And all of it leads to the same type of bullshit — accepting that way of life simply because it is familiar, and so somehow even the pain is comforting because at least it is something you know. Often it results in a vicious cycle as the abused become the abusers. I have tried so desperately to escape that cycle, tried to shield my boy from those who would subject him to such and tried to explain why Mommy tries so hard. Nevertheless, I feel as though I have failed.

I struggle not to let it define me, but we are, after all, the sum of our experiences and our perception of the world is so often blurred by the memory of tears long since shed.

What do you mean "connection"?

Ok, um, if you have to ask then it's probably a complete waste of time for me to attempt to explain as it is a concept that, if never experienced, can be damn near impossible to understand.

I should, in fact, be sleeping instead of allowing my mind to be bothered by the matter. The dogs are all laid out in the floor surrounding the couch where I recline, laptop perched against my thighs. Every now and then one will sigh heavily and cast a perturbed glance beneath drooping lids in my direction as if to say, "damn woman, at least turn the light off!"

*Gets up to turn off the light out of courtesy for the drowsy dogs*

Ok so what was I talking about? Oh yes, "connection" and how to explain it to those not fortunate enough to have experienced it.

I would like to use the term "soul mates", but find it to have become cheapened by card companies, jewelry stores and automatons who believe a round of IM e-smoochies qualify as a relationship. *rolls eyes*

So instead I will stick to the less-encumbered term "connection".

Mutual interests, shared goals, common bonds, etc. are hardly the makings of what I refer to as "connection". Anyone can have these things with any number of people, but the "connection" of which I speak exists on a much deeper level, often even with a lack of such superficial similarities as enjoying the same food, books or even adhering to the same religious doctrine. Certainly, these parallels can be helpful in establishing a relationship among friends or co-workers as similar interests often bind people through shared activities.

But no, a true "connection" lies much deeper, binding the very being of people.

I have often referred to it as that "follow you off the edge of the cliff" feeling and have recently heard it likened to going "batshit insane". It is simply because it can be no other way. It is not rational, nor logical, nor easily dismissed. It is thrilling and exhilarating and horribly frightening all at once. It is all-consuming, driving every other thought from your mind. It is a complete sharing of souls, which so nearly seem to merge that you can hardly tell where one ends and the other begins. It is looking into the very depths of each other's being and knowing instinctively what lies there. It somehow fulfills and completes you, even if you had no previous knowledge of being void. It is the bliss of sitting in silence, when words are no longer needed and the wonder of finding something closely akin to illumination in conversing for hours on end about everything and nothing at all. It is more than mere words can ever convey. It is eternal.

And it is nothing short of enchanting.

And if you cannot conceive of such, then I will surely pray you find it, for everyone should have that connection at least once in their lifetime although, once experienced, nothing else will ever compare or satisfy.

Saturday, May 19, 2007

so um, yea

Apparently I am supposed to write.

I'm not exactly sure why, other than the simple fact that I've always done so. Granted, I'm not claiming to be any good at it, only stating that I've always done it, if for no other reason than to somehow make sense of and perhaps even clear some of the clutter from my mind.

For whatever reason, there are certain individuals who believe the various ramblings of my mind are worthy of the light of day. Personally, I cannot see where I have anything of real value or interest to say, but if somehow, rummaging through the black and white version of my thoughts and emotions should help you discern your own, then well, so be it.