Bitch

Bitch

 

In light of some recent rumblings, I thought I’d throw my two cents in the wishing well…

 

I won’t deny that being called, “BITCH” hurts me.  My first reaction is usually to withdraw into my Self and start blubbering a la Evelyn (Kathy Bates’s character in the movie version of “Fried Green Tomatoes (at the Whistle Stop Café) by Fannie Flagg); ‘why?!  What’d I do?!?  Why?  What did I do to deserve THAT?’

 

The truth is, most of the times I did nothing to deserve being called a bitch.  Every situation is a tad different.  But most of the times, if I look at whom are calling me a bitch, well then it all makes sense.

 

Usually that person is very upset that I am not agreeing with his (usually is male, sorry guys) opinion, orders, or other points of view.  So usually he quickly recovers from his shock that anyone, let alone a mere woman, voiced her differing opinion, daring to disobey his previously unchallenged rules….his anger flashes hot and usually he retaliates by calling me a bitch, sometimes then followed by what he thinks are additional insults.

 

In those cases, I am secure in my knowledge, in my right to voice my opinion, in my right to choose my own actions (and not follow his order), and in my Self.  I know who I am.  If his definition of bitch is that I disagree with him.  Well, then, I can wear the label with ease, usually taking heart in the fact that I don’t agree with him.

 

I usually take that attitude regarding other criticism that is not valid or constructive.  Rather than sink to their level and engage in petty quibble that can escalate into flaming wars, I choose to ignore those little irritants and move on.  Sometimes silence is golden.

Weekend Assignment: Sibling Story

My brother is about two and a half years older than I am.  When we were younger, it was not so cool for my brother to have a younger sister.  I did not tag along, so there were very few times past the age of ten that we did stuff together that was fun.

 

At the time of this story, we lived in a small town in northeastern PA.  The playground was directly across the street from our house.  It was rather small and intended for small children’s play.  Big kids played over there though, taking over the basketball nets and sometimes dominating the entire playground.

 

For some forgotten reason, quite a few of us kids were playing football.  It was guerilla-style, which meant there were few rules other than getting to your team’s fence on whichever side of the playground was yours.  It was starting to get dark.  Most of us should be getting home, or we’d be catching it from our folks.  But the score was so close and most of us just wanted to cram in as much as we could before we went home.  It was turning into autumn and so it was pretty cool, especially since we were all sweaty.  So we kept moving, ignoring the lateness of the hour as best we could.

 

This was one of those few times my brother and I were playing, let alone around others!  So,I was pretty happy.  We weren’t on the same team, THAT was a bit much to ask for.  But, I had the ball and was running hell-bent for my section of fence.  I could hear some kids screaming and yelling behind me.

 

The harder I ran, the louder they screamed.  I was almost afraid I was running toward the wrong goal.  But I assured myself I was going good.  But they kept yelling, so I whipped my head around fast to look behind me.

 

Outta the corner of my eye I saw my brother gaining on me.  I knew that it was pretty much over, but I put a bit more burst into my race.  As I turned back to face front, I collided with him and we both went ass over tin-can sprawling.  I ate some dirt and had grass stains sliding down my chest, marking my thighs, and that was the extent of my ahem injuries.

 

My brother on the other hand had blood rushing down his rather white face.  It was smeared on his fingers, too.  He was warbling, “how bad is it?”  I was apologizing hastily and we (his best friend and I) were pulling him up and under a streetlight.  “Huh?  How bad, huh?”  His best friend was holding my brother’s hands away from his face, “saying, oh it’s not so bad”.  Most of the other kids had already run off towards home.

 

By the time we got my brother under the light, all I could see was shiny dark purple river running down from the two inch gash under his eye.  When I whipped my head around, I caught him, the corner of my glasses sliced open the taunt skin on his cheekbone, just under his eye.  I looked at his best friend, and he looked at me, and we all knew the fun and games were over, cuz someone got hurt.

 

We took him across the street, to mom and dad.  We started to get him all cleaned up.  We were kinda ribbing on him about how his little sister beat him up, without even trying.  He was even starting to get some color back into his face.

 

That’s when my dad said to my mom, “think it needs stitches?”  Yes, she thought it did.  “Well,” dad says, thoughtfully, “you best get your needle and thread then.  What color do you want?”  he asked my brother.  My brother paled and began to tremble.

 

Mom and dad assured him that they were just joking, mom was not about to sew him up.  But she did take him to the hospital for stitches.  And when people asked what happened, he told them he was playing football (but not with whom) at first.

 

Later, after the stitches came out, a thin white scar can be still be seen.  We tell him it adds to his roguish good looks.  For a coupla years, he told the girls he got the scar in a fight.

 

Sigh, it’s all fun and games, til someone gets hurt.

Myths and mental illness and stigma, oh! my!

Some friends and I were talking in the not so distant past about stigma toward people with mental illnesses.  One said that she preferred “brain disorder” to mental illness.  She does have a point.  “Brain disorder” brings to mind a neurological dysfunction that is organic in nature, very scientific.  In our society, scientific means more legitimate.

 

Here’s the catch….lean close now, looking around, ducking low to whisper...Most mental illnesses are chemical imbalances that are neurological dysfunctions that are organic in nature….very scientific.  Oh!  Dare I say, oh I certainly may, legitimate.

 

 

Now, having said that, stigma does exist.  No denying it.  Yes, mental health field (which contains dual branches of mental retardation and mental illness) has come a long way baby.  But let’s not let our past gains eradicate our needs for future gains.  We got a looooooooooooong way to go yet.

 

Now, I can understand (not excuse, not justify---but understand) how it would be that the majority of the population might hold misconceptions of mental illnesses and those who have it.  There is a multitude of myths surrounding mental illness.  Hence there is fear, doubt, confusion, dislike expressed toward those who have mental illness.

 

Information, knowledge, education, experience all lead to deeper understanding of any subject.  Usually as we come to know more about a subject, we tend to become less fearful about it, because we understand what we are facing.  For instance, if I understand that some medication impairs comprehension temporarily, then I might not fear I have become stupid.  Or if I have experienced panic attacks myself, then I might not fear the woman in the restaurant who quite suddenly stands up and rushes from the building, knocking over obstacles in her path so that she can breath, gaining some control over her anxiety.

 

Now, medical doctors are trained, educated, have information, knowledge…I would think that medical doctors would be less likely to hold misconceptions than the general public.  My mistake, never ever assume, my folks taught me (apparently not very well, because there I go, assuming again).  Medical doctors can apply stigma (discriminate) just as well as anyone else can.

 

The catch is that usually if a medical doctor discriminates, it is much more harmful to the patient than if the general public does.  Why?  Because if your doctor thinks your input is not legitimate, because well, it’s all in your head, then any complaint you present is discarded out of hand as being not legitimate.  Hence, misdiagnoses occur, treatment becomes inaccessible, and conditions worsen.

 

Medical doctors must keep abreast of a wide array of disorders and treatments.  I like to be an informed patient.  Call me crazy, but that’s just the way I function best.  So, I tend to research in depth any condition, diagnosis, treatment, medication, therapy, and such that affects me and mine.  So I usually am well informed on the latest and most effective, as well as alternative means and methods of treatment regarding my disorders, conditions, illnesses.

 

SO, recently when I expressed my frustration with my doctor’s (lack of) treatment, I heard lots of agreement and similar accounts from my friends.  It occurred to me that while there are many who cannot speak for themselves, with persuasion, I might.  I might be able to express clearly my dissatisfaction and site specific examples of my doctor’s behavior, explaining to my doctor why this is not acceptable.  Perhaps it will affect the way he deals with future patients, especially those with mental illnesses.  Even if it has no effect on him whatsoever, at least I will have spoken, advocating for myself, and hopefully others.

 

As Forrest Gump states, “that’s all I have to say about that."

hands

There are a few pictures of me that I really do like.  This is one of them.  Actually, it is the only favorite one I currently have in my possession.  I was four.  I was wearing my favorite sweatshirt.  I was very happy.  See?

It was my dearly departed maternal grandmother’s favorite picture of me.  She had it inside a locket she wore on her necklace.  I think my mother still has the locket, for safe keeping, with other very special mementos.

Can I be found in that little girl from then?  Is there a part of that little girl from then in me now?  Yes to both questions.  I am still the same in many ways.

I experience happiness and joy the same now as then.  Last night, a smidgeon of that giggly ecstasy broke through when I got the wonderful news about the Heartsong Award.  I still chatter on ceaselessly, wearing out the ear canals of just about anyone who will listen to me.  I still am a klutz, tripping over my own feet and sometimes losing my balance for no apparent reason.

When I first came upon the picture last year, I scanned it into my computer and e-mailed it to several friends.  Most said that they could still see little resemblance.  One said that my hands have not changed a bit, other than they are now slightly larger.

I peered closely and she is right, my hands do look remarkably the same then as now.  I did not realize that could be so.  Somehow, this seems important to me.  I am not sure why.

I do know that hands tell lots about a person.  I come from a line of seamstresses.  My mother went to work at the shirt factory her mother worked in, within a week of graduating high-school.  My mother told me that if ever I went to work in a sewing factory, she’d break every one of my fingers.  I believed her.

My grandmother seemed like such a very old lady to me, as a small child.  I loved her very much.  One day I told her that I could tell she was an old person.  Know how?  Cuz she got scruchee skin, I pronounced, rubbing the back of her hand carefully.  I hope I age as gracefully, lovely as she did.

My mother’s hands are fine, slender fingers with naturally pretty nails that are strong.  Her cool palm held my forehead when I would be sick.  Her fingers move nimbly about, threading needles, kneading dough, doing a multitude of tasks.

But, years of labor have curved her fingers, leaving her knuckles swollen and arthritic.  She has beautiful hands; hands that raised the four year old child pictured to the woman who uses her hands to write/type now.  Her skin is only slightly scruchee.

My hands are scarred with numerous tiny creases from untold, unremembered cuts, scrapes, and such.  Recently I went through an elaborate fingerprinting process so that I could be cleared for a background check in order that I might volunteer with a very special segment of our population, those with mental retardation.  I was quite fascinated with all the whorls, swirls, interruptions, creases, and the like.

I don’t know what I would do without my hands.  I’ve grown rather attached to them over the years.  I hope I might keep them always.  Even when I am old and they are scruchee.

pappa always said it all come down like this...

sigh, pappa always said it all come down like this...sigh, this morning when i signed on, my little AOL news box popped up to greet me.  ....whaaaat?  i did a double-take that would rival those of Nat & Natalie's in Natalie's video of "Unforgettable".  so hard as it was to swallow, it's not so hard to believe that we'd do such a thing as this...

the peace train dude, yusef islam (cat stevens), has been rerouted, interrogated, held, refused entrance to the US, and will be sent back from whence he came...because the peace-loving activist has been deemed by the powers that be that he is a threat to NATIONAL SECURITY.  gag.  cough.  sputter.

for those of you who haven't read it about, you simply must.  don't take my word for it.  but check out what the, uhm, newsources have to say.  get the scoop.  i'll wait, cuz i got sumpin' to say...

Fox News and affiliates polled various folks within 24 hrs of the events of Sept 11 on American soil, the surveys were then administered 3 days, 1 week, 3 weeks, and 2 months afterwards.   The surveys were not identical, as some questions changed to reflect information as it became widely known.  However, throughout all the surveys was one thread that became the focus of my study a bit later.

At the time, I was working on my PhD in sociology.  These data were considered to be reflective of the US population as a whole.  This does not mean that we all feel this way, exactly the same.  Rather it means that the data from the sample of folks polled are representative of the larger population.

The thread of questions that piqued my curiosity, hence the focus of my study at that time dealt with national security, and how much of your rights, invasion into your privacy, would you be willing to forfeit in the name of national security.  Would you be willing to allow the government to tap into your telephone conversations, intercept your mail (including email), and other communications, including divulgence of seemingly irrelevant information if the government thought it necessary?

Now, what is deemed necessary is a big huge gray area and can quite potentially cover a wide array of actions.  So violations of privacy and rights can fall under the umbrella, guised as ensuring our HOMELAND/national SECURITY.  Anyone ever dealing with organizations knows that it is the nature of bureaucracy that once a committee comes into being, seldom is it ever dissolved.

So, this is my opinion, the government started to feel us out immediately...would our fear weaken our stance of protecting what rights we have managed to defend successfully over the years...why, yes, it seems that with proper reason or likely reason, or show us a possible future threat...and yes we will allow all sorts of violations and infringements in the name of protection and security.

SO, is it any wonder that a man who converted to muslim (oh, horrors!) and has criticized the US-led war in Iraq....a man who has publicly criticized acts of terrorism (including 9/11 and the recent Russian school hostage situation)...a man who has founded educational systems in UK...a man who has (and continues) to donate to charitable, humane causes (half of his royalties from his recent DVD boxed set of the Majikat Tour went to the "Sept 11 Fund" to assist victims and their families )...a man who states, "crimes against innocent bystanders taken hostage in any circumstance have no foundation whatsoever in the life of Islam and the model example of Prophet Muhammad, peace be upon him"...a man who attempts to clarify some confusion post-Sept 11 by stating, "no right thinking follower of Islam could possibly condone such an action:  The Quran equates the murder of one innocent person with the murder of the whole of humanity"...

well, it really is no wonder to me that this man would be deemed a threat, and his name placed on a government terrorism watch list.  Why?  Because we as citizens are more than a tad apathetic as our rights are stripped, so why should be bother ourselves when someone else's human rights are violated.

besides, he did criticize the war that most of the world is criticizing.  so there.  stomp.  pout.  that's the story, and they're sticking to it...for now anyway.

Reminds me of a quote by Martin Niemoeller, a Berlin Lutheran pastor who was arrested by the Gestapo and sent to the Dachau concentration camp in 1938:

"First they came for the Communists and I didn't speak up because I wasn't a Communist.  Then they came for the Jews, and I didn't speak up because I wasn't a Jew.  Then they came for the trade unionists, and I didn't speak up because I wasn't a trade unionist.  Then they came for the Catholics, but I didn't speak up because I was a Protestant.  Then they came for me, and by that time there was no one left to speak up for me."

Waaaahoooooo!! alllllllllllllrrrriiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiite

today was a loooong day for my guy, so when he got home a little after 8, even though we were glad to see each other, we were both tired and after some quiet shared time, i snuggled in the blankets (he was burning up) and after awhile i realized that he was snoring softly, and i was W I D E awake...lots on my mind but no ONE thing, just flits and floats.

so i groped for my glasses, covered my guy, kissing him gently, and tiptoed down the carpetted steps.  as carefully quiet as i could, i set up my laptop and logged on, muting the sounds.  he needs his rest.

so i missed the WELCOME!!  You've got mail!  that sounds so much like a smiling game show prize announcer.  But, i soon got to sorting thru it and yippeeee!!!  dancing in circles, unable to contain my sheer unbridled joy, i had some outstandly great wonderfully joyous news awaiting.  i LOVE when that happens.

judi of heartsong land and her judges selected ME and my essay!!!!  i am going to be able to hang in my home her artwork.  and this thrills me beyond measure.

i am so very honoured and blessed, thank you, judi, from the happiest heart in j-land.

there are sometimes when words cannot adequately express my feelings and thoughts, but i hope this conveys just a fraction of the blooming in my soul.

i thank you all for the warm welcome to j-land....good sweet rest, hugs, debra

lessee moved over 50 times, 3 years in spot is a loooooooong time

well now, ain't thet sumpin'?

i was born and raised in the northeastern quadrant of Pennsylvania, moving around quite abit.  my dad was a truck-driver when i was little, and we moved every year for most of my elementary school years.  i kinda liked it though for lots of reasons.

one was if i screwed up somehow with making friends this year, here at this school, no biggee, moving on next year....and so i did not have lots of friends growing up, because no one had time to really get to know each other.  besides which, as the constantly new kid, you are not quite welcome for oh! at least 20 or 30 years and then only if you marry a local and you are STILL considered a tad eccentric, cuz ya ain't from these here parts, is ya girly-gurl?

my immediate family was very close.  we did lots of nature oriented stuff, like fishing, hunting, walking, berry picking, camping, etc.  so i learned that if you wanted to really appreciate an area, you should become familiar with the roads, spots, fishin' holes, swim holes, and such that only the local folks used.  so i usually would get to know some locals right off.

now occassionally this would back-fire on me, imagine that?

when i first moved to valdosta, georgia (how that came to be is for another time), i rented a room in an upstairs apartment from a young woman who was a corrections officer at the county prison.  Now this woman truly had good intentions of being helpful, I firmly believe that.  Really, I do.

She thought it awfully odd that my first priority was not meeting the man of my dreams and marrying him, having his children, then maybe divorcing him and such and so forth.  In fact she refused to believe it wasn't a priority at all.  I had just moved from PA to GA, was in graduate school pursuing a master's degree and working my butt off as a stats instructor to the good folks over in the EDD program (don't ask, that's another story).  So i didn't have the time or the energy to go noodling about finding me a man.

oh don't fret so, my dears, she took it upon herself to round a few up for me.  one such roundee, pardon the pun but hewas a bit rotund, came from a family of pecan farmers.  he was a little overbearing in his presence but i just chalked that up to nerves and thought, sunday morning to kill, why not? when he suggested a tour of some of the back-road local area.

now, in those days, i was pretty wiry, but solid.  i mean, i was about 135 lbs but muscular.  i could kick ass, having been a bouncer just before that (yet another story--if you ever see a pic of then, you'll know just how funny THAT is).  So i was not overly worried about this guy.  besides, he worked with my roommie at the prison.  i don't know where the logic was in THAT, but it seemed to work for me just fine.

i shoulda known something was up, esp. when i went to leave the house and my roommie stopped me with a horrified, "oh my gawd, you are NOT wearing that, are you?" indicating my faded blue jeans, hiking boots, and dark blue long-sleeved henly shirt.  I thought it was perfectly reasonable attire for mucking around the back roads so off i went.

now, i already wrote about adventures with mis/directions, so suffice it to say it took me awhile to find this guy's place.  it was next to a john deere tractor retail store.  now you'd think he woulda mentioned that, but nay nay i say.  instead he gave me lots of other landmarks that were not very relevant, things that i would go past, and such.

so i got there about half an hour late or so.  he answered the door in his boxers.  i obviously had woken him with the pounding on the aluminum door.  he muttered something about a shower and getting dressed, coming in, watching TV or something.  i decided i'd hang outside, the porch had a comfy swing and as always i brought reading material with me.

an hour and a half, numb butt, and a sore neck later, i looked up from my studies as he was locking the door to go.  his hair was slicked and combed carefully.  his face was freshly shaven.  he was wearing a button-up dress shirt, khaki slacks, and penny-loafers with no socks.  k, THAT was another clue, but yours truly can be extremely slow on the uptake.

he turned and said, well i thought we'd have some lunch first.  um, ok.  this was smacking more and more of miscommunications and misconceptions.  i was thinking, field guide, field trip.  he was thinking, date.

but i could be wrong, i reasoned.  so off to the local buffet we went.  there were lots of folks there as church had just let out.  in fact i was thinking i would already be back "home" studying.  but i figured it was ok, cuz i did get some reading down while waiting for him to gussee it up.

dinner was a disaster.  clear proof that we were NOT compatible.  but why is it that some guys think that is just a challenge, making you more irresistable?  he stated that he thought it was a waste of time, my education.  i mean, he said, look at me, i gotta job, a damn good state job, with good pay, good benefits.  i gotta good house, i'm a good guy, don't drink much, and i'd be a good husband...my ears were buzzing and my mind was reelin' in at least 12 different thought patterns, including how to escape this guy and get my vehicle, which was parked at his place.

so i tried to be as delicate as i could, lest i disturb some not so very deep waters.  i did not commit to anything (which some take as committment and agreement).  after dinner, we loaded up in his truck with oversized tires (smaller than a monster truck, but definitely a wanna be).  he said, ok now for that tour.  AHA, so he did understand why I was there....

nay nay i say.

it was extremely humourous, his idea of a tour.  we rode down a STREET in a very small town, and he stopped at the corner.  he stuck his arm in front of my face, pointing out the tinted window.  see that there tree?  i did indeed see that there tree.  well, he says with great importance, there was a building there.  I went to kindergarten there.

i was speechless as we continued to go back out to the highway.  at this point i was really glad we did not go mucking through the back country. but i wanted to cry in frustration, or laugh hysterically one, when we pulled up in front of a strip mall and he climbed out, hitching up his drawers and said, let's go get a movie.

i protested that i really did not have the time to watch a movie, having to study.  he gave me an indulgent smirk and pulled me outta the truck.  in the store i could be of no assistance, because i do not make choices well unless i am in a certain frame of mind.  I WAS CERTAINLY NOT IN THAT FRAME OF MIND right then i was desperately wanting to go.  my plan was now, as soon as we got to the house, i would make my escape.

having selected the movie, 'lost in paradise' (because it was set in PA) he drove back to his place, asking me repeatedly about Boston.  i explained ONCE that boston is not in PA and not all that close, really.  but distances are funny to conceive...

when we pulled up into his drive, he parked behind me, altho that was not his customary space and gave me a lewd grin.  i am sure he thought he was smashingly devastatingly charming, but i really had enough of the whole lil lady routine.  so, i said as i got out of the truck and reached in my pocket for my weighty keys, "well, thanks for dinner, gotta go, really..." to which he frowned, "i tried to tell ya, but," i shrugged, "so if you could just move a bit, i'll be on my way"

oh he did NOT like that, "now see here" he started, advancing on me.  now, i don't like violence, and the odds were against me.  but i don't deal well with threats, implied or overt.  i held up my hand, raised my voice, and moved to my car, "no, it's obvious that we are not a good match, and i do value my education, so i must go study. NOW" and with that i swung open the door of my car.  Right into him.  it threw him off balance, and i took advantage of that.  i got in, locked the door, started the car, and pulled across his yard to the highway to go "home".

when i got there, he was on the phone with my roommie and she was fit to be tied.  it was then that i knew for sure that i had to get my own place.  he called later that night to talk with me, saying he forgave me....imagine that?

betcha can guess what my response might have been....

directions

Borrowing a page from life's journal....this morning while browsing through some of the other j-land jewels, I read an entry on directions.  This brought to mind some of my own experiences.  In my opinion the best directions to get are from someone who is not from that area, this is because they give directions based on things as they currently are, not as they used to be...and usually they know the names of streets and highways verses vague landmarks that most likely won't be meaningful to you at all.  This is important for a variety of reasons...time, accuracy, and patience being just a few of them!!

Take for instance, the time a few years back when I had recently moved to Alabama from Georgia.  I had been working hard and had not had a chance to do much exploring, indulging in rambling around the back roads.  At the time I lived in Port of Birmingham, or Birmingport, or as the locals called it FOUR CORNERS (due to the fact that the nearby intersection had the only blinking red light for 20 miles in either direction).  Four Corners consisted of a convenience store, with 2 regular gas pumps, 2 diesel pumps, and a dinette (inside the store) that served the local coal workers a meat and 3 (veggie) lunch special and made the most incredibly delicious biscuit sandwiches I ever had the privelege to taste.  Across from the store was an empty lot.  Caddy-cornered from the store was garage, with two gas pumps.  There had been a produce stand on the fourth corner, but apparently folks grew their own and did not need an overpriced mart that only sold local foodstuff anyway.

I was inside the dinette, seated in a booth, finishing my chicken, greens, creamed (not mashed) potatoes, black-eyed peas, and cornbread trying to figure out what i was gonna do with the rest of my unexpected day off.  Well, I thought, it's been awhile since I saw a movie and there was one I did want to see, so I decided that was what I wanted to do.

Now, I coulda (and most likely shoulda) drove down 269 through Espy, hopping on 20/59, connecting to 65, and getting off at the appropriate exit for the Galleria.  But, I do not particularly care for Espy, for the malfunction-junction of the connecting highways, nor do I like tons of traffic.  So I thought I'd ask for directions for some back way, shorter, more pleasant.

This is sorta the answer i got when i asked Dawn (the waitress/cashier/stocker/diesel machanic) for directions:  well lessee, you go up this road that runs right out here, up over that hill, and then you'll see a dirt road, don't take that one...keep going, and the road kinda curves to the right, but you'll wanna take that road to the left there, k?  an' then ya jes gooooo ooooh lessee 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7 miles down that way til ya get to where the Lambert's got that big ol tree, n just past that ya wanna take that left and go on down, turn where Flo's Flowers used ta be and then you go straight on in ta Bessemer then i think it's the, hold on now, JONNY, JOOOONNNNEEEE, this here girl wants ta know how to get to the shopping mall out there, that new one.....(at which point Jonny yells back some long set of garbled directions around his wad of chew, or snuff, or some such tobacco product that comes in a pouch--he's the cook and usually doesn't stray to far from the kitchen, which is a good thing on reflection, cuz i am squeamish when it comes to things in my food that shouldn't be there, and sometimes my overactive imagination strays, like now...anyway) Dawn agrees with him, rolling her eyes at me in comraderie, uhuh, yeap, uhuh, ok, yeah, and then you go up that there road til, HOW MANY LIGHTS DO YA GO, (this time i understood his reply, which was...) Ohhhh, 2 or 3, I think past that first one by the old school...Right, Dawn says, and then you just go about 5 miles, can't miss it, hon.

At this point, I take a deep breath and repeat as much as i can remember, asking for some clarification along the way (such as what kind of tree is the Lamberts?  and Is there a sign or something on the old florist shop?).  Dawn through in some additional confusing landmarks that did not exist anymore.  She was trying to be helpful, I truly think.  So I set off thinking at the very least it would be a pleasant drive.

And ya know, I did find the Galleria, just past where the ol bbq joint use ta be...

How Art Has Influenced My Life (in response to Judith HeartSong's call for essays)

How Art Has Influenced My Life
(in response to Judith Heartsong’s call for essays)

http://journals.aol.com/judithheartsong/newbeginning/entries/1039

{**edit Thursday 13 Jan 11 by author DKWolf:  AOL journals no longer exist, so this link is not active}

 I knocked on the door, winded with excitement and from the climb of rickety wooden stairs to the small studio above the Chinese restaurant on the lower part of the main street.  I could feel the grin on my face stretching my chapped lips, knew that my eyes must be shining with anticipation.  I tugged the cuffs of my sweater, a nervous habit that I picked up somewhere along the way and since have lost.

“c’min!”  his voice called, dropping into muffled curses and cascading thuds of falling canvases, books, and assorted other objects.  I twisted and tugged, pushedand finally realized the door was locked and I was going to have to wait, rather impatiently but not rudely, I sang out, “I can’t!”  Just then the door flew open and he gathered me up into his arms in one of his friendly exuberant hugs that most everyone loved.  Then just as abruptly, he set me back from him, holding me at arms length and perusing me with pursed lips.  He scowled, scolding me, “you really ought to do SOMETHING with ….” He gestured vaguely toward my unmade flushed face, or was it my unevenly chopped hair?  “no matter,” he muttered, turning away and tripping over a towering leaning stack of books.  “come come,” accompanied with his trademark snap/clap that ONLY he could pull off with such authenticity.  Leading the way into the small cramped well-lighted back corner of his apartment, he chattered at me in a breathless melodic monologue that ended with a hasty question, which I almost missed, as I was feeling the lag of hearing the words and processing what he was saying.  I was trying to take it all in, as delightful as visiting him was, every time felt to me to be only the second time, as I recognized very few things, but being fascinated with so much more.

He was talking again, explaining what he wanted, how he wanted it, why he just KNEW that I would be perfect for this project and would I please, please TRY to pay attention?  “take off that ghastly thing, what IS that white streak there?  (it was where I had leaned against his freshly bleached counter on a previous visit) Oh, never mind, leave it, it’s so, well so you.”  He deposited me on the sofa, which I always found uncomfortably stuffed.  SoI moved to the edge and intertwined my legs, then draping my arms over them and leaning forward to watch him whirling about like some sort of dervish dancer, setting up his tools, brushes, canvas, and the like.  Most of his words showered over me, streaming at a constant rate that I did not try to follow, focusing instead on his face as his expression became more serious and his body more still.

“hold that,” he whispered with such urgency that I was startled and almost fell into a heap on the worn matted chartreuse shag carpeting.  Then silence sounded so loudly it hurt my ears and my eyes teared.  I blinked rapidly but then cut that short too.  I found that I was hardly breathing, so shallow, so as not to disturb the air, my skin, the wrinkles of my clothes, and least of all did I want to disturb his work, his concentration as he captured ME on canvas.

ME?!?  I could hardly believe it when he first told me that he wanted me to pose for him for his new series.  Hewanted to take less than perfectly beautiful women and show the world their sensuality, their vitality, and somewhere along about there he lost me as my mind tried to settle on which response I should be feeling, slightly offended from the left-handed compliment, or honored that he had chosen ME…?

Of course I agreed, thinking that it would never happen, as he has too many enthusiastic ideas that never come into being, as he is only human and has only so many resources.  Also, I doubted he would really want me to pose for him.  Then too there was my cramped schedule of two part-time jobs, full-time undergrad student class load, and study time.

But itdid happen, there I sat, comfortable for a bit and then tingling numbness eventually set in as the blood flow was limited to certain parts of my body.  I grew lightheaded from shallow breathing.  Snapping out of my zone, I realized he was again moving about, talking, cleaning brushes.

I was loath to move, lest Ibreak some sort of special spell of the situation.  But the sitting was past, finished.  So I stood and shook myself, rubbing circulation back into my extremities as best as I could.  I wanted so badly to see the canvas.  How did he SEE me?  But I was so shy to approach, awkward lest I violate some code of conduct.

But he gestured toward the canvas, exasperation in his voice, “doncha wanna see it?”  YES, I silently screamed, but instead I only nodded and tiptoed around to take a peek.  I was speechless, a rare state for me.  It was me, with something extra.  Me, but moreso, if that makes sense at all.  An extra playfulness to the curve of my slight smile.  A sort of intensity to my gaze I did not realize was there.  A certain appeal to the angle of my head, the curve of my cheeks.  I looked graceful, and I never felt graceful in my life!

The rendering of me was astounding.  But what surprised me even more, thrilling me still (some 15 years later) is that someone bought it, paying what seemed to me to be an obscene amount of money for a painting of someone they did not know.  Although art has influenced me in many ways, at various times, this situation has had great impact.  Mostly because I became aware that others might see me radically different than I.  Perhaps, I was a creature of beauty, of sensuality, of appeal.

tell me something good...

last week, i rewatched "as good as it gets" and helen hunter's character (carole) at one point is standing in a restaurant telling jack nicholson's character (melvin) that she NEEDS a compliment.  "give me a compliment, melvin, i need one".

i love that.  cuz we all need compliments, sincere, heartfelt compliments, from time to time.  they taste best when unsolicited i think.

but ya know, give yourself a compliment.  an honest appraisal of a job well done, a pat on the back for bringing a smile to another's face, a congratulations for getting thru a tough moment.  Catch your self doing something GOOD.  and then acknowledge that.

it may feel awkward and you might want to argue with yourself, pointing out how you could, would, should improved this or done that differently.  but give yourself some credit when it is due.  treat your self like you would a friend.  or even a stranger.  chances are you give folks you don't even know the benefit of the doubt while being hard on yourself.  LIGHTEN up.

so, tell me something good...and let that be your motto for just a moment.  debra

peevish of me, ain't it?

My guy is reading, studying and I thought I would not disturb him with music.  Besides there are sometimes when no music to intrude on my reflections is a good thing.  Speaking of reflections, it seems that the listings under the "mood" option are rather limited...you cannot type whichever mood, but must select from a predetermined range of moods (or choose none, i suppose, but i know that i am never without feeling, even if that feeling is an emptiness).  So i can't choose accurate descriptions of the moods i am actually feeling.

Maybe though I am in a very sensitive mood this evening though.  I don't think so, because the things that are irritating me the most now, irritated me earlier, and annoyed me yesterday.  mostly it is this:  i am doing several online bible studies.  Each one is slightly different in its approach.  But the one that I am the most excited about, looking forward to each lesson, is the one I cannot access right now.  And i have no idea why.  i spoke with another student who is engaged in the study too and she cannot access it either.  it is not the server, because other parts of the site are up and running, we just cannot log in.  the reason this annoys me is because there was such a big deal made about the obligation and commitment of this study.  the terms to sign up included being clear that this study was to be taken seriously and not a halfhearted endeavor.  so how serious can i take it if i cannot even sign in to access my current lesson, journal, goals, or prayer list?

and i sheepishly admit that this most likely is NOT a christianly attitude to have.  i am a new christian, having been agnostic my entire life, altho i studied various belief systems from an academic perspective.  so perhaps this is one way in which i am learning patience.  if that is the case, then obviously, i am not learning the lesson well!

Pet peeves are nasty things.  They consume energy, resources, and attention.  The feeding and care of pet peeves, to groom them just so...well, you can become overly fixated on the things that annoy you, focusing on them, talking about them, giving them attention, rehashing them with friends, letting them eat at you, until youbecome very embittered.

I KNOW this, and yet, I am not having too much luck at stopping this behavior of mine.  I have an almost overwhelming urge to tell the table of loud gossip-mongers 30 feet away in a crowded restaurant that I literally CANNOT help but hear their conversation, which is utterly ridiculous.  That it should annoy me so and that they engage in rude loudness are both preposterous re/actions.

Irritation is an indication of mania.  this is often not expressed as i described above but rather for the reason that often the manic person is experiencing such rapid thoughts that they are unaware that a seemingly simple idea is actually not a linear string of logic, but rather a complex computation that others might not have the easiest time trying to follow.  Add to that the fact that usually the manic person is speaking so rapidly that it might be hard to understand him or her, let alone to actually comprehend the stream of thought flooding from their mouths.

All this is to say that since i am aware of this, sometimes i am not sure if i am experiencing disproportionate irritation or if i am on par with the rest of the majority ("normal") folks.  In the movie, "Beautiful Mind", John Nash (played by Russel Crowe) asks a student if she sees the strange man too...that is his check and balance.  Although Nash's illness (schizophrenia) is not my own, I find myself checking with others to see if i am re/acting appropriately.

Now, being an individual is one thing, but being an extremist makes life very difficult to navigate.  I think i may have gotten so used to being eccentric, existing on the fringes, outside the borders of what is acceptable that becoming more moderate, mid-range, toning it down some, is very difficult at times.  I am becoming better at that most of the time i think.  then there are times i cannot seem to modulate my own SELF at all.

SO, if you are so inclined, try this one for size, and see if it makes sense.  The normal bell curve distribution of people, their thoughts, actions, opinions, beliefs, etc. can be divided into deviations from the mean.  the mean is the average, the bulk of most folks, the consensus ofsociety.  a little ways from that main bulk, in either direction is one deviation, still very much in the majority range.  further out from that, you start to get away from the bulk of what is considered normal and get closer to the fringes.  yet another deviation out, and you are significantly different from all the rest of main society.  which in some cases is not such a bad thing.  but it is hard to function IN a society if you are considered too deviant in too many ways.

in some ways, i am more deviant than others, and is some cases, that is just FINE.  I have extensive tattooing and in most environments, that sets me aside.  and that's kewl.  in some crowds, i fit right in (in that regard) and that's ok too.  in some ways being deviant can be a positive thing, after all, i did not get to be a PhD student because i had "normal" intelligence and drive.  i got there by using my head and by determination.  i am the first to go through college in my family.  i did not come from priveleged folks where money'd pave the way.  so i am fiercely proud of being different than most in that way.

but then some normalcy, some order to the chaos, some routine...well, those can be GOOD things.  they lend predictablity and peace, rest and stillness to life, making it less jarring.  for those of us with panic disorders, having dealt with a fair amount of trauma and disturbances, less excitement can be a decidedly good thing.  what may seem mundane to some, may be welcomed to others.

well, i could go on and on and on, for longer than i have, but i think i shall attempt the sleep thing again, tonight, since last night it was a failed mission.  so sweet rest and til next post, enjoy the occasional still moments.  debra

Do you think I'm mental (paraphrasing KDLang)

ok, it's like this...i have no intention of writing my complete memoirs in one sitting.  but there are some things past that help us to understand the present and prepare us for the future.  so, i cannot tell you when exactly my madness began, but i sure fooled alot of people for a long time.  (Joan Osborne/one of us)  I was always a tad different and special, gifted, in some way or another, in almost all contexts in my childhood.  As a teen, I did not go through the typical angst period, but i did not really fit in anywhere.  Most of the kids my age thought I was strange.  Most adults thought i was mature.  Then in my twenties and on, as an adult, i was just a tad eccentric.  Sometimes, i would be too far out there, inappropriate in behavior.  But since i moved so often, very few folks got to know me well enough to know that may be there was more going on then what meets the eye.  (cowboy junkies/oregon hill)

Leaving aside most of the details, in sum, early last year, i accepted the diagnoses that classified me as having mental illnesses.  THAT was quite slippery, i had the hardest time wrapping my mind around being MI.  I mean, at the time, I was a graduate student, working on my PhD, with a master's in sociology, and three bachelor's.  I was teaching undergraduate students, doing research, working in a computer lab for the department, and maintaining a very full social life as well.  Being mentally ill was not part of the plan for the big picture.

Now, I had already dealt with having learning disability.  I have dealt with poor health most of my  life.  I had dealt with abuse, surviving, coping, and (I thought) moving on.  What I did not recognize was that much of this was not dealt with at all, rather it was squashed down until I simply lost my resiliency, losing my ability to continue to cope, losing my mind it seemed.

Currently, I am affected by bipolar disorder (rapid cycling), borderline personality disorder (THAT is misunderstood even by psych-peeps), PTSD, panic/anxiety disorder, depression, and compulsive overeating disorder.  No two people handle their diagnoses in the same way, because no two people are affected in exactly the same way.  So, for instance, I do not self-mutilate.  I amnot an impulsive spender/shopper/etc.  I hate the mania more so than the depression.  I do not "look" like I have an eating disorder.  I despise whining, abhorring it in myself.

SO, I am learning to go a bit lighter on myself.  I am learning that it is not ok to push myself beyond my limits.  I am learning just where those limits are and how to pull back when I need to.  I am learning that I might not have developed a great sense of self, so now I am doing just that.

I tire easily.  I am not always chipper.  I am not always quick with wit.  Sometimes, I am irritable beyond belief.  Sometimes I cannot comprehend a sentence, let alone a paragraph, let alone an article.  Sometimes, I feel so utterly defeated that I am sure isolation has merits.  Sometimes, I cannot explain myself very clearly.  Sometimes, knowing me, can be pure unadulterated hell.  I try to know myself enough to be able to recognize the warnings, the shifts, the need to be still and quiet, the need to rest, the need to withdrawl from social circumstances.  sometimes I am sure that my toxicity spills over, tainting relationships.  sometimes, though, i go too far with my self-monitoring.

and most of the time, people enjoy being around me.  they are glad to know me.  and that's when i know that i am worth all the fuss.  i deserve to be healthy, happy, to know love. 

i hope this has been clear, as i am entering a manic period, not having slept for quite some time. racing thoughts, speed....so, i am off to see if i can't rest before i get much worse.  thanks for listening, it ain't easy, to read some of this, i am sure.  but i am not always maudlin, so serious, so intense.

have a good day.  til next post.