Less Than

Toxic people are those who make you feel "less than". For me, that includes (especially) people who think I'm an idiot. Yes, it's entirely possible to have a high IQ and be ditzy at times or scatterbrained. On the doses of anti-depressants, anti-anxiety, and other meds I take daily, it's a wonder I can function at all. Know what? Before the meds, I was very bright and sometimes scatterbrained. There are two ways of looking at that: You can say I'm clueless or you can say I wake up to a new world most days. I prefer the latter, although the former is probably more accurate.

I rode with George to Zoey Zieber's first birthday party today. It was out of Bozrah. GPS kept changing its mind, but that was my fault. I couldn't see my phone's screen very well, even with sunglasses, and that was my fault, too. I was planning to pick up a present and card on the way, and was told I'm stupid and disorganized and "last-minute Laurie". I have never in my life wanted so very badly to slap the living crap out of a person as I did him.On the way home from the party, he took a wrong turn and corrected it, and I didn't say a thing. If I had been him, I'd have called him an idiot, a pompous jackass, and a few things that aren't to be said in polite society, but I didn't, because it would put me down on his level. He is a supercilious clod.

We were talking about my frustration at having moved to Ledyard with the verbal promise of a bedroom, a living room (the bedroom across the hall from mine), and my own bath. That has shrunk to being only my bedroom and bathroom. That would be hard enough if I were in college, but at almost 51, it's horrible. Pretty soon I'm going to be restricted to just my closet at the rate it's going.

A couple of months ago I was asked to reorganize the lower kitchen cabinets. I spent several hours over a couple of days doing just that, figuring out what would make the most sense - mixing bowls and plastic storage near the work island AND the sink AND the dishwasher, pans across from the cook top, rarely-used items at the far end of kitchen so they'd be out of harm's way but fairly accessible. Suddenly, all my Tupperware is in the pantry! In another room about 20' away from the sink. Literally. There is nothing efficient about that.

I was encouraged to bring things of mine to add to what is already in the house, so I'd feel it's my home, too. That was a joke. Perhaps I'll next be invited to decorate the (unfinished) basement. Anything I've brought in has pretty much been stashed someplace hidden away. Screw it.

If a pet potties in the floor, you can guarantee it's MY pet, even if nobody saw it happen. I KNOW when my pets are locked in my room with me (most of the time 24/7), they cannot possibly be the ones pottying in the kitchen floor or outside my bedroom door.

I'm supposed to have ONE shelf in the refrigerator. I don't even have that much.

My doctor has said if I move back into George's house, it'll kill me, the way living with my mother killed my dad at age 53. Being at Kelly's initially brought down my blood pressure, but I'm now at the point where no matter what I do, I'm going to get corrected because it's not done her way, and all my stuff is crammed into one bedroom. Last night I actually got out my Happy Bunny sign that says "Please knock, then go screw yourself" and put it on my door, along with a note saying that 'The complaint department is closed for the weekend."

Kelly wanted me to feel this is my home, too. How in the hell can it when everything I do has to be undone or isn't adequate? I'm PAYING to get to clean this house. The rent is almost impossibly high anyway, but being expected to take on most of the household chores during the week is adding insult to injury.

 I would LOVE to be in a committed relationship with an amazing man who isn't irritated when I laugh, who finds joy in my joy, who wants to hear what I think, who wants to hold me, and who couldn't imagine life without me - you know, the kind who doesn't exist. Those men exist for many other women. Kelly's divorcing husband #5 and working on #6 (who, by the way, is a GREAT guy). She, like so many other women, is used to being pleased, not to pleasing. And guess what? She gets what she wants. So much for catching more flies with honey than with vinegar.

Lastly, monogamy does not mean making someone your "bitch". It means valuing them enough that you don't want to share them. Expecting that is NOT unreasonable.

Rant over.

That's what is terrific about you."

When I was in 9th grade, Mrs. Martha Mae Baker, recently retired as principal of the school at Garland City, Arkansas, came to be the principal at my school. One day near the end of the school year, exasperated by way too many kids asking for help before attempting to solve problems themselves, she stopped class and announced "I just want to point out that Laurie finds her own answers. She works things out for herself, and almost NEVER asks for help. I wish more of you would do that!" That was high praise, and it was dead-on. I wasn't the jock in my family, and in a family where everyone is very bright, being bright wasn't much to get excited about, or even noticed.

In my experience, being a squeaky wheel might get you the grease, but it wasn't a pleasant sort of thing, so I made as little fuss as possible and kept plugging along, not asking for help even when it would've benefited me in the long run. I didn't want to give up the one thing I was ever praised for - not inconveniencing other people.

Fast forward 36 years. Thirty-six years. Yesterday I attempted (yet again) to have a non-nagging talk with someone about making two hours of time for me. Thursday before last, I had asked this person to look at the day planner for the ten days upcoming, and find a block of two hours (any time, day or night) not already committed in writing, and put it down as an appointment, without feeling  a need to justify it to anyone. "I'm not near my day planner. I'll check as soon as I'm at my desk." Every day or two, I'd gently ask how that was going, and got variations on the same theme. These were always followed by "I'm sorry. I'm busy. I have this and this and this going on."

I understand being overwhelmingly busy. I used to have a life, too. But the past couple of days, I've been so unspeakably lonely, and felt that old, familiar "ugly puppy" feeling nipping at my heels pretty hard, I finally challenged this person to do one thing for a whole month, I dared this person NOT to say "I'm sorry" one time unless "I'm sorry" was sincere enough to actually correct whatever the problem was. Why? Because an apology, no matter how sincerely it is meant, has no value if you don't intend to take measures to correct the problem. Furthermore, it's a lie!

I am not Catholic. I have an absolutely amazing aunt who is, and who lives her faith. There are some concepts the Catholic Church actually puts into writing so well, so from www.stmattewhillsboro.org, I'd like to quote an Act of Contrition: 

":My God, 

I am sorry for my sins with all my heart. 

In choosing to do wrong 

and failing to do good...

I firmly intend, with your help 

to do penance, 

to sin no more..."

Wait. Does this mean that truly being sorry for something involves not continuing to do the thing for which we are truly sorry, and correcting the situation?? It sure sounds that way. Granted, this might mean simply telling the person we're discounting "Hey, I'm sorry. You're a great person, but you're just not important enough for me to make two hours in one month for you. My gosh, that's 1/360th of an entire month, and I can't spare that much time." Yes, it might be a little uncomfortable, but at least it's honest. It's also a bit more polite than saying "If I had a rat's ass to give, I still wouldn't give it to you!"

This person explained that life is busy, with this and this and this and this going, and said "Working out is my stress reliever". I get that. "Like you have your vices..." I felt compelled to ask exactly which vices we were talking about. I don't drink to excess, abuse drugs, rarely even think a cuss word, throw tantrums, blame people when I'm having a bad day, bite my nails, sleep around, smoke, binge eat, kick dogs and children, or gossip. 

I considered what, exactly, I do when I'm angry or hurt or stressed, and the answer sounds very lofty and noble. When asked what I do or use to balance life issues, I examined myself and came up with this answer:

 I internalize and put on a happy face. I pretend I'm not hurt or lonely because it's not fair to make other people suffer for what they didn't cause. I go into overdrive trying to make sure those around me aren't going through anything I could help alleviate.

I know the response was meant as a compliment: "I know. You're a great person. That's what's terrific about you." No. Anything done to excess is NOT terrific. Once I didn't cry for 5 years, because I was so afraid it would feel so good, I wouldn't be able to stop. Ever. This led to anxiety attacks and eventually alopecia areata. Yep, my hair fell out in a big clumps. My doctor at the time, who was a personal friend, told me I'd better start learning to externalize my pain, beginning with allowing myself to cry. He then prescribed an anti-depressant.  I eventually learned to cry again, but I still hate it. I accuse myself of throwing a pity party if I so much as allow myself to think "Hey! I build you up, bend over backwards to accommodate you, praise you perpetually, and am sooooo understanding about your having a lot on your plate, and you don't even know what my favorite color is or that I need a hug or that I'm so emotionally starved, the crumbs from your table seem a feast."

It is NOT "so great". It's horrible. It's painful. It leads right back to my feeling like the ugly puppy, the only one in the litter who didn't get chosen to be some child's special puppy, and instead, puts her front paws against the window of the pet shop and wags her tail and begs with her eyes "Pick me! Pick me!" 

Maybe this is why, when Tyler and I went to adopt a dog for him at the Ft. Smith ASPCA 14 + years ago, I chose Schatzi, who died less than a month ago. I saw in her a kindred spirit. There were 16 medium-size dogs in individual kennels on that wall, four rows of four dogs, all of them except one barking and yipping and clawing at the gate to get out and go home with someone. She was the only one who stood there silently, wagging her tail slightly, looking terrified yet incredibly brave and hopeful, with this "PLEASE choose me. I promise I'll love you and I'll protect you and I'll never bark or tear up things and I'll be the best doggie anyone ever had!!" look on her fuzzy face, but never making so much as a whimper. She was that way her whole life. I miss her sweetness and her understanding of my pain. She truly seemed to understand, and she never forgot for one second that she had been chosen to be loved. She was perpetually appreciative and adoring. 

So now I'm here alone in the kennel of life again, waiting. Just for a little while, I want NOT to need to suppress my feelings and NOT to have to ask to be considered worthy of bumping some other commitment aside for two hours. So far, it's not going too swimmingly.

And now back to our regularly scheduled programming of "Fake It 'til You Make It".

Fragments of my past

Having been a battered child whose mother could never be pleased, and having been a battered wife, I am clinically depressed. I have taken my medication faithfully for fifteen years, kept my therapy appointments, and refused to let life make me old and bitter before my time. To do so would be to allow "the bad guys" of life to win, and that's not happening!

My mother and my sons' father have almost all the photographs documenting my life, except for maybe two dozen. They think they're punishing me for having escaped, but they're wrong. Don't they know I have a mind and heart full of "snapshots" of my life? 

In my mental photo album, I have a picture of my grandmother, salt-and-pepper hair wrapped around her head in braids, wearing a house dress and apron. My cousin Adrienne was about six, so I would have been almost five. My sister would have been 2 1/2. The pasture behind my grandparents' house had been mowed, raked, and made into "square" bales of hay the day before, and it hadn't been stacked and hauled to the barns yet. My grandmother dragged two bales end-to-end and sat down on one. She directed Adrienne to sit in front of her so she could plait her hair, and me to sit in front of her so Adrienne could brush my hair. My sister sat as still as a toddler reasonably can so I could brush the tangles from her cotton-white curls. This picture comes not only with a visual image, but the smells of the hay, the slightly sweet oily scent of my grandmother's skin, and the scratchy texture of the hay against my legs. 

On another page not far past that first one, it's a dark, overcast day, and it's the Fourth of July. The heat is oppressive, and I have just helped my Pappaw fill the back of his truck with corn, stalks and all. The sky has just begun to rumble and the wind is picking up. Just as the first flashes of lightning cross the sky and big fat raindrops start to fall, we take the truck across the road to the house and back it up to the carport. He opens the tailgate and begins pulling ears of corn off the stalks. He puts them in a bushel basket and my grandmother puts the basket down in the middle of a circle of cane bottom chairs. My great-uncle Bear and his wife Elsie are visiting from Dallas, and we sit there as the sky opens up, enjoying the cool breeze coming through the carport. I listen to my elders talk and for that moment, my world is a good place for a little girl to be. The smell of the rain on tilled sandy loam, the murmur of the women's conversation, and the scent of fresh corn as it is shucked and put in plastic dishpans? Those can't be taken from me by anyone, ever.

Christmas here is.... well, it'll be another one for the book of nothingness.

I moved to an apartment an hour from here just over a year ago. I put all the money I had into deposits and first and last months' rent and so on. For six months, I was in a safe, clean, non-threatening environment. I was lonely sometimes, but nobody EVER once said ONE single unkind thing to me. I swam. I lost 30 lbs. I rested when I needed to, and was the closest to "okay" (whatever that is) I've been in years. I had hope.

Dear Lord, was I dumb. Once again, I've learned from my mistakes, but that doesn't mean I can unmake them. I put trust in another person, believing that just because I don't throw other people under the bus, it doesn't mean they won't do the same to me in a heartbeat. They have and they will continue to do so.

I ended up being forced to move back to the very place where emotional hell exists. I cannot do anything right, and my depression is deemed my own fault for making bad decisions. If I clean, it's my job, so there's no thanks, just more crap dumped in my path for me to deal with. I'm not okay to deal with it. Punishing me as a reward just doesn't work. I'm so depressed, it feels like it creates a whirlpool, sucking my soul down into the darkness. If I cook, I can't get "thank you". If I request groceries so I can cook, I get lambasted and told I'm wasteful. It DOES.NOT.MATTER. what I do; appreciation for the effort is never going to be forthcoming. Whatever I do, it's never enough, although since it was what I "should have done, anyway", there's no praise.

Yes, I can move back to Arkansas and live with my brother and his little girl. I know I'd be loved and overwhelmingly appreciated, but just ONE time, I'd love to be in my OWN home - with someone who loves me and wants to spend time with me but isn't a stalker and doesn't hit me with his fists or abrade my soul with words.Moving back there means I'll be safe, but it also means STILL being a half. JUST an odd half - not part of a whole.

I miss Christmas cantatas and caroling and Chinese gift exchanges and family and Christmas dinner and laughing and reminiscing. I was supposed to be the keeper of the stories, the teller of the stories. Those stories are locked away inside me for a time and place and people that may never be aligned.

I miss New Year's Day dinner to celebrate my dad's birthday, after being up most of the night for a scavenger hunt and watch night service. I miss, more than just about anything, belonging.

Right now (and so many other times) I need to be wrapped up in a big snuggly hug and feel a loving hand stroking my hair. I want to be reassured that it's all going to be okay; that I'm not going to be either always alone or always abused. The words and being ignored hurt even more than the blows ever did. There were okay times between the blows and the forced conjugal situations. Here and now, there are the times I'm ignored and the times I'm a moving target for hatred. There's nothing in between.

I think I know how the ancient Children of Israel felt when they were told to increase their production of bricks, and did, only to be told they had to do so without proper supplies. I'm not Rumplestiltskin; I can't spin straw into gold. If I had mountains of money, I still would have flaws to make me "less than".

I'm sick of being alone, sleeping alone, talking only to the dogs and cats, existing only electronically to most of the people in my world. I'm a real person. The tears running down my face are real. They were caused by the vicious words and manipulations of real human beings. Yeah, this isn't much of a step forward. And it's not about the presents. It's about being needed and loved.

I'm really trying not to throw myself a pity party, but I  some of the meanest, most undeserving people I've ever known are smug in their own homes with friends dropping by to deliver Christmas cookies or just visit, and sitting at the table with family and friends and knowing that, flaws and all, they're one of the privileged few, no matter how awful they may actually be. Somehow by leaving a man who beat and sexually assaulted me (between the times he was nice), I took a step in the wrong direction. I'm so tired.

Tristesse

Il a été de cinq mois. Il s'est passé beaucoup de choses, mais très peu de choses sur les faits essentiels de ma vie ont changé. Encore une fois, je me trouve assis dans une pièce faiblement éclairée, salle larmes coulant sur mes joues, s'égoutte sur ma chemise. Encore une fois, je me demande pourquoi la vie de délices de râtelage déjà blessés âmes sur les champs de verre cassé.Aujourd'hui j'écris. Je l'appelle "poésie", même si c'est vraiment juste un véhicule tangibles pour exprimer la même vieille douleur d'une vieille blessure rip fraîchement ouvert.

Tristesse

Il pleut dans mon âme à nouveau. 
Gouttes de liquide douleur humidifier ma peau. 
Nous les femmes âgées ont besoin d'absorber tout ce que nous pouvons 
dans l'espoir de garder 
les jeunes filles innocentes 
nous l'intérieur frais
 et plus réceptif aux plus sentiments de rejet.

S'il-vous-plaît, seulement un peu plus de temps, 
dites-moi comment je suis la meilleure amie jamais, 
la main- d'œuvre la plus qualifiée amant, 
plus amusant ami, le plus gentil et le plus généreuse, 
puis conclure votre éloge en disant
 "mais l'amour a très peu à faire." 

Encore une fois, s'il te plaire.