Part of the problem with hating to be a whiner and trying to rarely complain about health issues is that when you really really really really really need to talk about it, you don't know how.
You don't know how to start.
You don't know how to ask someone to listen. I mean seriously, who actually loves to hear a litany of someone else's health complaints? I don't.
I mean if you're sick, sorry, wish I could help but I can't. I can't be there in person in most cases. I can't drop by with homemade chicken soup. I can't pet your head and say "there there."
I don't want you to feel that way about me. I don't want you to worry, I don't want to feel like an inconvenience, I don't want to bore you if you just don't care.
On the other hand, I want you to pet me on the head and say "there there." I want you to hug me and comfort me and tell me I'm going to be fine.
But I don't know how to talk about it. I don't know if I should be more concerned or less.
Yet the thought of pity freaks me out and sympathy makes me awkward.
**AS FAR AS I KNOW IT IS NOT THE BIG C so cross that off the list for the moment. That may be the ONE thing that isn't broken.
But I am overwhelmed and scared and depressed. I'm confused with all the things.
I feel lost and alone and, for one of the few times, really lonely.
I don't know what to do.
So don't say anything. Don't ask me although I want to be asked, because I really have to process everything first myself, plus I'm not sure about anything at the moment.
I just wanted to tell you.
Showing posts with label less shallow thoughts. Show all posts
Showing posts with label less shallow thoughts. Show all posts
Tuesday, January 26, 2021
Monday, November 02, 2020
To summarize:
Every once in a while you just want to be somebody's, anybody's, Number One Person.
I mean, other than "feared" or "hated" or "enemy."
I got that covered.
Wednesday, July 29, 2020
Cemeteries and ceremonies.
I love visiting old cemeteries.
I love the peaceful feeling. I love to take photographs of interesting headstones and markers
I feel comfortable and calm in the midst of them.
I like to look at the names and the dates and inscriptions and imagine the people beneath.
But I never go visit my own lost loved ones.
In fact there are a few that I can't even remember which cemetery they belong to.
It isn't that I don't care, it's just that I can't seem to keep it fixed in my mind and that's weird because I remember SO MUCH STUFF. Useless, trivial, obscure stuff.
Maybe I block it out.
Maybe not 'remembering' makes me feel less guilty for not visiting.
I have no explanation.
Anyone else? No, just me then?
Speaking of cemeteries and such, many of you have been with me here long enough to know how my FINAL WISHES have changed and EVOLVED and how I've even written MY OWN SONG for the memorial.
I love the peaceful feeling. I love to take photographs of interesting headstones and markers
I feel comfortable and calm in the midst of them.
I like to look at the names and the dates and inscriptions and imagine the people beneath.
But I never go visit my own lost loved ones.
In fact there are a few that I can't even remember which cemetery they belong to.
It isn't that I don't care, it's just that I can't seem to keep it fixed in my mind and that's weird because I remember SO MUCH STUFF. Useless, trivial, obscure stuff.
Maybe I block it out.
Maybe not 'remembering' makes me feel less guilty for not visiting.
I have no explanation.
Anyone else? No, just me then?
Speaking of cemeteries and such, many of you have been with me here long enough to know how my FINAL WISHES have changed and EVOLVED and how I've even written MY OWN SONG for the memorial.
So once again things have changed and yes, I still want to be cremated and yes, you still have to take a scoop of me with you when you leave, but the majority of my remains I want to be planted with a tree, so I can be the fertilizer. I mean everyone says that shit is the best kind of fertilizer and heaven knows I've been told I'm full of shit enough times in my life that seriously Ima have the best tree EVER and you can SUCK IT. I hope it's a fruit tree because it will have the most fruit, the biggest, juiciest, tastiest fruit ever, many people have said.
Or it might taste like shit, to which I say HAHAHAHA HAVE ANOTHER BITE, SUCKERS.
Or it might taste like shit, to which I say HAHAHAHA HAVE ANOTHER BITE, SUCKERS.
ANYWAY. This is what I want:
If for some reason this can't happen, my second choice is being put into a record (no really, a vinyl record that you play on a record player! YES THIS IS ACTUALLY A THING FOR REALS).
The album I want to be pressed into is, of course, Buckcherry's 15, and specifically the song Crazy Bitch. Alternate choice would be Carol Burnett's sign off song, because that would be appropriate.
So I would like the planting ceremony to be held at dusk, and wherever because why do I care, but I am going to need some hidden fog machines and speakers, because a nice ambiance with ground mist and spooky sounds, whooshes, moans, etc, is sure to freak some people out and make them check the backseats of their cars before they leave and if it's very successful, HAVE NIGHTMARES ABOUT ME. #SCORE!
MAKE THIS HAPPEN FOR ME OR I WILL EFF YOU UP FROM THE AFTERLIFE AND I JOKE YOU NOT, MISSY.
So I would like the planting ceremony to be held at dusk, and wherever because why do I care, but I am going to need some hidden fog machines and speakers, because a nice ambiance with ground mist and spooky sounds, whooshes, moans, etc, is sure to freak some people out and make them check the backseats of their cars before they leave and if it's very successful, HAVE NIGHTMARES ABOUT ME. #SCORE!
MAKE THIS HAPPEN FOR ME OR I WILL EFF YOU UP FROM THE AFTERLIFE AND I JOKE YOU NOT, MISSY.
Sunday, August 24, 2014
Things I SHOULD Say
Just to counterbalance my last post...things I don't say often enough and shouldn't assume that you already know.
(#YIIAY Lisa)
1. I don't hate you. Mostly.
2. Your posts always make me smile with delight at your happiness.
3. It is utterly comforting to know I can ask you for anything, any time.
4. I'm glad I met you.
5. Your friendship sometimes makes me a nicer person.
6. I sincerely appreciate you and all that you do for me. In fact I like you well enough that I'd probably appreciate you if you did nothing for me ever.
7. Sometimes the laughter at your posts is what gets me through the day.
8. I truly value you and I'm happy you're in my life in some small way.
9. I hardly ever want to headstab you.
10. I do love you. For reals, yo. In a totally non-sexual way. Except maybe you and you...how YOU doin', baby?
11. Most of these are probably about all of you.
(#YIIAY Lisa)
1. I don't hate you. Mostly.
2. Your posts always make me smile with delight at your happiness.
3. It is utterly comforting to know I can ask you for anything, any time.
4. I'm glad I met you.
5. Your friendship sometimes makes me a nicer person.
6. I sincerely appreciate you and all that you do for me. In fact I like you well enough that I'd probably appreciate you if you did nothing for me ever.
7. Sometimes the laughter at your posts is what gets me through the day.
8. I truly value you and I'm happy you're in my life in some small way.
9. I hardly ever want to headstab you.
10. I do love you. For reals, yo. In a totally non-sexual way. Except maybe you and you...how YOU doin', baby?
11. Most of these are probably about all of you.
Saturday, April 05, 2014
a day out of time
Apparently the 12th street Love's Country Store in Ardmore is a popular place for Kid Exchange. As we were transferring my kids/wheelchair/duffel bag from my van to the dad's truck, a lady pulled in next to me, a little girl with a suitcase got out & walked to the truck on the other side of my van, hugged Dad hello, hugged Mom goodbye, and the vehicles drove off in opposite directions.
Then I went through the exact same scenario myself.
A little funny. A little sad.
As many times as I've been to Ardmore, I never knew that there was a tiny library tucked on a little side street right across the way from my hotel. A small-town library (one of two libraries, I came to find out) in a mid-size town...where silence is still golden without the buzzing chat and activity that I'm used to at the Midwest City library near my home. It was so small that even hushed voices could be heard clearly, but it wasn't disturbing. There was the white noise hum of machinery, the quiet clicking of mouses and keyboards, the occasional cough or cleared throat, and soft, soothing Muzak in the background that barely registered but added atmosphere. It was the most pleasant, relaxing two hours I've spent in a very, very long time.
As many times as I've been to Ardmore, I never knew that there was a tiny library tucked on a little side street right across the way from my hotel. A small-town library (one of two libraries, I came to find out) in a mid-size town...where silence is still golden without the buzzing chat and activity that I'm used to at the Midwest City library near my home. It was so small that even hushed voices could be heard clearly, but it wasn't disturbing. There was the white noise hum of machinery, the quiet clicking of mouses and keyboards, the occasional cough or cleared throat, and soft, soothing Muzak in the background that barely registered but added atmosphere. It was the most pleasant, relaxing two hours I've spent in a very, very long time.
Monday, September 16, 2013
'Til Death Do Us Part
I think about death a lot.
I mean, I don't actively worry about it, but I think about it. It hovers in the back.
Regarding my son - I've told you before about my Cher moment, every morning. You know in the movie "Mask", near the end when the school calls and says Rocky isn't at school and she looks at his closed door? That look is how I feel in the mornings before I step across the threshold of my son's room.
He wasn't predicted to live past infancy, then doctors said it was doubtful he'd live past 12 years of age, and then they told me he'd not make it into adulthood.
But he's 18 now and all I can do is pray for at least 18 more years.
I think about death a lot.
I'm not, in actuality, a morbid person, but I think about it. More aptly, the thoughts pop into my head and my imagination takes over to give me worst case scenarios.
Regarding my daughter - whenever I read something or watch a show about head injuries that can be the cause of death several years later, I remember rushing home from work because my daughter had gashed her head open on a branch & fallen off a pony. Took about, what, 10 staples, I think? I've blocked it out. But I worry over that. I had to wake her up every two hours that night, to ask her name, my name, the day, where she was...scary stuff. She never cried though, not the whole (4 fucking hours) we were in a cubicle in the ER, not when the doctor (FINALLY) started rinsing the blood away from the wound, not when they were stapling it closed. Not a tear.
But I imagine subdural hematoma and frontal lobe damage and all sorts of other calamities.
I think about death a lot.
I'm not really scared of dying, I'm scared of the unknown. And possible pain. Because I am a baby like that.
Regarding myself - mostly when it concerns me, I think about my final wishes and how you people better make sure they're carried out correctly. But when I worry, I think: I don't want to outlive my children. I don't want my daughter to have to be the one to find me. I don't want to be home alone with my son when it happens.
As a single parent, I have to think about these things. I mean, sure I'd love to fall asleep peacefully in my bed, but what if that happens and my daughter, my CHILD, has to be the one to find my body? Because EW. And also traumatic. And also I wouldn't be around to pay for her therapy to recover from it.
And what if she is gone - moved out, or on vacation or away for the weekend and I'm home with just Joshua? That worries me the most, I think. Because who would know? I don't have any "just dropped in for coffee!" kind of friends who would come over regularly. My phone is often dead or at least buried at the bottom of my purse where I can't hear it, so friends & family are used to me not answering calls or texting back right away.
Who would know? What would become of Joshua? It hurts my heart to think of him here, stuck in bed or his wheelchair with no one to feed him or give him juice or change his diaper or pay attention to him or turn on the TV or change the dvd for him. THAT, my friends, is a scary fucking thought.
I think about death a lot.
I don't brood over it, or actively seek out the thoughts of death, I don't plan my own (sometimes I plot yours, though)...but it's always there, that little dark cloud in the back of my mind.
PS: I also think up ways to haunt you. Because COOL.
I mean, I don't actively worry about it, but I think about it. It hovers in the back.
Regarding my son - I've told you before about my Cher moment, every morning. You know in the movie "Mask", near the end when the school calls and says Rocky isn't at school and she looks at his closed door? That look is how I feel in the mornings before I step across the threshold of my son's room.
He wasn't predicted to live past infancy, then doctors said it was doubtful he'd live past 12 years of age, and then they told me he'd not make it into adulthood.
But he's 18 now and all I can do is pray for at least 18 more years.
I think about death a lot.
I'm not, in actuality, a morbid person, but I think about it. More aptly, the thoughts pop into my head and my imagination takes over to give me worst case scenarios.
Regarding my daughter - whenever I read something or watch a show about head injuries that can be the cause of death several years later, I remember rushing home from work because my daughter had gashed her head open on a branch & fallen off a pony. Took about, what, 10 staples, I think? I've blocked it out. But I worry over that. I had to wake her up every two hours that night, to ask her name, my name, the day, where she was...scary stuff. She never cried though, not the whole (4 fucking hours) we were in a cubicle in the ER, not when the doctor (FINALLY) started rinsing the blood away from the wound, not when they were stapling it closed. Not a tear.
But I imagine subdural hematoma and frontal lobe damage and all sorts of other calamities.
I think about death a lot.
I'm not really scared of dying, I'm scared of the unknown. And possible pain. Because I am a baby like that.
Regarding myself - mostly when it concerns me, I think about my final wishes and how you people better make sure they're carried out correctly. But when I worry, I think: I don't want to outlive my children. I don't want my daughter to have to be the one to find me. I don't want to be home alone with my son when it happens.
As a single parent, I have to think about these things. I mean, sure I'd love to fall asleep peacefully in my bed, but what if that happens and my daughter, my CHILD, has to be the one to find my body? Because EW. And also traumatic. And also I wouldn't be around to pay for her therapy to recover from it.
And what if she is gone - moved out, or on vacation or away for the weekend and I'm home with just Joshua? That worries me the most, I think. Because who would know? I don't have any "just dropped in for coffee!" kind of friends who would come over regularly. My phone is often dead or at least buried at the bottom of my purse where I can't hear it, so friends & family are used to me not answering calls or texting back right away.
Who would know? What would become of Joshua? It hurts my heart to think of him here, stuck in bed or his wheelchair with no one to feed him or give him juice or change his diaper or pay attention to him or turn on the TV or change the dvd for him. THAT, my friends, is a scary fucking thought.
I think about death a lot.
I don't brood over it, or actively seek out the thoughts of death, I don't plan my own (sometimes I plot yours, though)...but it's always there, that little dark cloud in the back of my mind.
PS: I also think up ways to haunt you. Because COOL.
Friday, September 06, 2013
First Paycheck.
Today Becca got her first official paycheck. Granted, it's small because she only worked 2 half-days before the pay period ended, but STILL.
FIRST PAYCHECK!
I don't know why I feel so emotional about it...maybe it's this whole menopause deal because half the time I'm crying about one thing or another and the other half of the time I'm irrationally angry about one thing or another.
Mostly though, I think my eyes just got completely opened to the fact that SHIT, SHE'S LIKE A GROWNUP NOW.
Which, when I think about it, is groovy because I'm always wishing for grownup to come and handle All Of The Things. So maybe she can do that now.
[dammit I am trying to type and eat a hot dog because I skipped dinner and I just dropped a big blob of mustard and relish on my WHITE tank top because AWESOME]
I just keep thinking about how tiny she was at birth, how she wasn't expected to live, how the bleeding in her head back then caused significant developmental delays, her enlarged (and holey!) heart...
And now she has a job and a PAYCHECK and come Monday she'll have her own checking account as well.
*sigh*
FIRST PAYCHECK!
I don't know why I feel so emotional about it...maybe it's this whole menopause deal because half the time I'm crying about one thing or another and the other half of the time I'm irrationally angry about one thing or another.
Mostly though, I think my eyes just got completely opened to the fact that SHIT, SHE'S LIKE A GROWNUP NOW.
Which, when I think about it, is groovy because I'm always wishing for grownup to come and handle All Of The Things. So maybe she can do that now.
[dammit I am trying to type and eat a hot dog because I skipped dinner and I just dropped a big blob of mustard and relish on my WHITE tank top because AWESOME]
I just keep thinking about how tiny she was at birth, how she wasn't expected to live, how the bleeding in her head back then caused significant developmental delays, her enlarged (and holey!) heart...
And now she has a job and a PAYCHECK and come Monday she'll have her own checking account as well.
*sigh*
Friday, August 16, 2013
Cloak of Invisibility
Sometimes I wish I could fade into invisibility. No fuss, no fanfare, just quietly fade away (from the internet, I mean). Disappear myself. Relax away from reading about perfect lives and food pictures and lolcatz and "too funny!" comments on the most unfunny of posts. Relief from petty envy. Of course then I think that no one would ever notice that I was gone and worse, no one would miss me. Or if they did eventually notice, it would be like "hey, whatever happened to that one girl? You know, hated everyone, weird, sometimes funny...what was her name?" Then my ego goes all Breakfast Clubby and starts singing "DON'T YOU FORGET ABOUT ME!" and yelling "I AM HERE! I AM HERE! I AM HERE!" much like the Whos whom Horton hears.
HEY I HAVE VERY COMPLEX EMOTIONS.
HEY I HAVE VERY COMPLEX EMOTIONS.
Thursday, August 01, 2013
In Which I Take Up A Challenge
I miss blogging - I may have mentioned that a time or two. I read back over the last 5 or 6 years' worth of posts and sometimes think I have already written my best posts and thought my best thoughts.
And then I go back to composing blog posts in my head while I'm in the shower (because everyone knows that's when you think your best thoughts) and end up never typing them or even writing notes. Then a friend posted this "one paragraph a day for 30 days" challenge and I figure that SURELY (don't call me Shirley) I can come up with one tiny paragraph. Until I forget and skip a day which becomes four days and then I give it up as a bad job due to very poor memory.
But for today, I accept the challenge and count this as my paragraph.
And then I go back to composing blog posts in my head while I'm in the shower (because everyone knows that's when you think your best thoughts) and end up never typing them or even writing notes. Then a friend posted this "one paragraph a day for 30 days" challenge and I figure that SURELY (don't call me Shirley) I can come up with one tiny paragraph. Until I forget and skip a day which becomes four days and then I give it up as a bad job due to very poor memory.
But for today, I accept the challenge and count this as my paragraph.
Tuesday, October 04, 2011
Re Evaluating
Recently we had the dreaded IEP meeting for my son - actually, mine are pretty okay. He's in the multiple-disability class you know, so it's always pretty much the same. The goals are simple: matching words to objects, putting blocks in a bucket, tolerating the stander for 45 minutes at a time, choosing the letters of his name and stamping his name on paper. Really the only thing that ever changes is the percentage of times he's expected to get the task correct.
Basically we read through all the extremely wordy, repetitious, and double-speaky government-drone-written paperwork (and OMG I feel for the teachers who have to read it to me - and it is required that they read it aloud). No big dealio.
I mean he is what he is - he's cute and often funny and generally filled with laughter...and typically teen with outbursts of temper and fighting me when I try to get him up in the morning and just being generally difficult. I don't usually think about his disabilities - it's just like background noise and I don't notice. We have our routines and you do what you gotta do. He's my boy, I'm his mom, and that is that.
But sometimes it sneaks up on me - the momentary sadness that swamps every cell when we go over the results of the latest Callier-Azusa Scale test, and once again all areas measure in the 4-9 month old range.
He's 16 now so I think THIS YEAR it's not going to bother me - and then I see it and I feel my face turn red and my eyes fill with tears and I stare at the paper and nod so the teacher won't see me try not to cry. I'm sad because I know that it's never going to be any better. I'm not going to suddenly see a miraculous range of 1-2 years old, even.
And then I think of a funny story to say about something he's done and everyone laughs and the PE teacher pats my hand and tells me she loves my IEPs and looks forward to them every year and then the sad moment passes and everything is okay.
And I have a whole year to work on forgetting about it before we have to do it all again.
Basically we read through all the extremely wordy, repetitious, and double-speaky government-drone-written paperwork (and OMG I feel for the teachers who have to read it to me - and it is required that they read it aloud). No big dealio.
I mean he is what he is - he's cute and often funny and generally filled with laughter...and typically teen with outbursts of temper and fighting me when I try to get him up in the morning and just being generally difficult. I don't usually think about his disabilities - it's just like background noise and I don't notice. We have our routines and you do what you gotta do. He's my boy, I'm his mom, and that is that.
But sometimes it sneaks up on me - the momentary sadness that swamps every cell when we go over the results of the latest Callier-Azusa Scale test, and once again all areas measure in the 4-9 month old range.
He's 16 now so I think THIS YEAR it's not going to bother me - and then I see it and I feel my face turn red and my eyes fill with tears and I stare at the paper and nod so the teacher won't see me try not to cry. I'm sad because I know that it's never going to be any better. I'm not going to suddenly see a miraculous range of 1-2 years old, even.
And then I think of a funny story to say about something he's done and everyone laughs and the PE teacher pats my hand and tells me she loves my IEPs and looks forward to them every year and then the sad moment passes and everything is okay.
And I have a whole year to work on forgetting about it before we have to do it all again.
Monday, October 18, 2010
Back to Basics
Aaahhh, I'd forgotten how it is to blog for the sake of...well, blogging.
I know, I know, I'm late to that particular party. Some of you have remained true to your original blogging plan, some have strayed and returned, some have reincarnated and found a new home.
I've resisted returning to regular blogging because I don't have a niche. What's more, I don't WANT one. I don't want to have an "elevator pitch" to blurt out when people ask "what's your blog about?". It's about everything and nothing. It's about anything I want.
It's about kids and disabilities, work and play, it's about how I feel the gas company bending me over every winter and about random stuff that *I* find amusing, whether anyone else gets it or not. It's about inappropriate funeral humor and ranting and soapboxing and bra reviews.
Last night it felt really good to unload some feelings I've been hauling around so that I can deal with them properly. I'd forgotten that I need to examine my issues so that I can fix them. It was like blowing out the cobwebs and I feel ... nicer, today.
Well, relatively speaking.
Nowadays so many blogs are all about the angle, the motive, the monetizing. Hey, that makes no nevermind to me - none of my business. Whatever works for you.
But I remember the days before mommybloggers went rabid over advertisements and logos. The days when tech bloggers often amused us with personal posts. When no one talked CONSTANTLY and INFINITELY about branding and social media and monetize this and that. When there were like 3 blogging conferences a year and they were A Big Deal. (well, they still are A Big Deal to me)
Our once pretty tight community has spread and changed with facebook and twitter.
Remember Michele Agnew's weekend Meet & Greets? Those helped keep me on track with the blogging, because HEY! People were going to come here to say HELLO, MICHELE SENT ME and I needed to have something NEW!
Also I somehow had more time back then.
Now I spend a LOT more time on email - which I love, don't get me wrong. I couldn't get through my day without email from a certain couple of someones who know who they are.
With them, I haven't really needed to blog like I used to. So you can just blame them for my rusty blogskillz.
But yeah, this feels nice. For the moment.
My blog is me, in text form.
What's yours? Has it changed, evolved?
I know, I know, I'm late to that particular party. Some of you have remained true to your original blogging plan, some have strayed and returned, some have reincarnated and found a new home.
I've resisted returning to regular blogging because I don't have a niche. What's more, I don't WANT one. I don't want to have an "elevator pitch" to blurt out when people ask "what's your blog about?". It's about everything and nothing. It's about anything I want.
It's about kids and disabilities, work and play, it's about how I feel the gas company bending me over every winter and about random stuff that *I* find amusing, whether anyone else gets it or not. It's about inappropriate funeral humor and ranting and soapboxing and bra reviews.
Last night it felt really good to unload some feelings I've been hauling around so that I can deal with them properly. I'd forgotten that I need to examine my issues so that I can fix them. It was like blowing out the cobwebs and I feel ... nicer, today.
Well, relatively speaking.
Nowadays so many blogs are all about the angle, the motive, the monetizing. Hey, that makes no nevermind to me - none of my business. Whatever works for you.
But I remember the days before mommybloggers went rabid over advertisements and logos. The days when tech bloggers often amused us with personal posts. When no one talked CONSTANTLY and INFINITELY about branding and social media and monetize this and that. When there were like 3 blogging conferences a year and they were A Big Deal. (well, they still are A Big Deal to me)
Our once pretty tight community has spread and changed with facebook and twitter.
Remember Michele Agnew's weekend Meet & Greets? Those helped keep me on track with the blogging, because HEY! People were going to come here to say HELLO, MICHELE SENT ME and I needed to have something NEW!
Also I somehow had more time back then.
Now I spend a LOT more time on email - which I love, don't get me wrong. I couldn't get through my day without email from a certain couple of someones who know who they are.
With them, I haven't really needed to blog like I used to. So you can just blame them for my rusty blogskillz.
But yeah, this feels nice. For the moment.
My blog is me, in text form.
What's yours? Has it changed, evolved?
Sunday, October 17, 2010
Dear My Blog:
Hello, you.
I've missed you. Have you missed me?
I gave myself some advice today - sometimes you have to go back to the beginning and start over.
I guess that way a person can see where she might have strayed from the path.
The trick is to NOT TAKE THE SAME FORK IN THE ROAD.
I mean really, that just sounds like good common sense, right? But I surprise myself with the propensity for doing things the exact same way even if I didn't like the outcome the first (or second or third or even fourth) time.
So, my blog, my friend, my pal, remember when you and I started together, back in LiveJournal land? So much ANGST! ANXIETY! PRESSURE!
Those were the Zoloft years.
I'd forgotten how much you smoothed my rough edges.
So I thought I'd tell you - because hey, we all need to hear it, right? - some of the reasons I love you, blog.
1. You never criticize me. Which is good, because you ALSO know how much I don't like to be criticized. Even if it seems like I'm taking it well, I'm really NOT.
2. You always allow me to share my feelings, good and bad, and never once have you told me I was wrong to feel that way. You don't interrupt and you always let it be all about ME, if that's how I want it.
3. You don't analyze me, you don't pick me apart, and you're never mean on purpose. You let ME be mean on purpose though, and I really love that you don't judge me for it. Well, there have been a couple of disapproving looks but I knew you just did that for form's sake.
4. No matter how badly I screw it up, you never hold it against me. You comfort me instead and help me realize that next time will be better. You make me feel better instead of bad about myself.
5. You let me vent, cry, laugh, snark, yell, complain, swear, talk about sex toys and cleaning products and chocolate fried pies...and you always let me be exactly who I am.
Blog, it's good to be home. And remembering why I moved in here in the first place.
Oh, and thanks for not moving without telling me, like my parents did that one time.
I've missed you. Have you missed me?
I gave myself some advice today - sometimes you have to go back to the beginning and start over.
I guess that way a person can see where she might have strayed from the path.
The trick is to NOT TAKE THE SAME FORK IN THE ROAD.
I mean really, that just sounds like good common sense, right? But I surprise myself with the propensity for doing things the exact same way even if I didn't like the outcome the first (or second or third or even fourth) time.
So, my blog, my friend, my pal, remember when you and I started together, back in LiveJournal land? So much ANGST! ANXIETY! PRESSURE!
Those were the Zoloft years.
I'd forgotten how much you smoothed my rough edges.
So I thought I'd tell you - because hey, we all need to hear it, right? - some of the reasons I love you, blog.
1. You never criticize me. Which is good, because you ALSO know how much I don't like to be criticized. Even if it seems like I'm taking it well, I'm really NOT.
2. You always allow me to share my feelings, good and bad, and never once have you told me I was wrong to feel that way. You don't interrupt and you always let it be all about ME, if that's how I want it.
3. You don't analyze me, you don't pick me apart, and you're never mean on purpose. You let ME be mean on purpose though, and I really love that you don't judge me for it. Well, there have been a couple of disapproving looks but I knew you just did that for form's sake.
4. No matter how badly I screw it up, you never hold it against me. You comfort me instead and help me realize that next time will be better. You make me feel better instead of bad about myself.
5. You let me vent, cry, laugh, snark, yell, complain, swear, talk about sex toys and cleaning products and chocolate fried pies...and you always let me be exactly who I am.
Blog, it's good to be home. And remembering why I moved in here in the first place.
Oh, and thanks for not moving without telling me, like my parents did that one time.
Monday, September 01, 2008
Is the election over yet?
I am apolitical. I loathe the whole political game.
I rarely talk about politics and even more rarely write anything about it.
Mostly because I don't get it, but in large part it's due to the fact that y'all (just the general "y'all") are rabid. Foaming-at-the-mouth howl-at-the-moon CRAZY.
And if I write about what I think, there's always someone in one camp or another who wants to argue and yell and get red in the face and convince me that I'm wrong and then list all the ten thousand and one reasons why I'm wrong.
You can't just let me be. You can't let me believe what I want, like my thoughts and beliefs are so much LESS important, less RIGHT, than yours.
You suck the life out of the air around me.
So I avoid it.
I hate the mudslinging and the digging of the "dirt" and the half-assed "facts" that are printed prior to being thoroughly researched.
I hate the people who get such a thrill every time some of that nastiness on the "opponent" is printed or aired on the news, and then they rush to spread the gossip just like that creepy old busybody down the street who's always all up in everyone's bidness. (sorry Mom)(you're not really creepy)
I'm here to tell you that you're all right, and you're all wrong.
Each side has its own balance of good and evil.
What seems to be overlooked most frequently is that the candidates for ANY political office or government position are...HUMAN BEINGS.
Humans. People.
And people are stupid. And they fuck up. And they make piss-poor decisions. And they trip and fall down.
If only those people who had never smoked weed, cheated on a spouse, never told an off-color joke, never had an abortion or premarital sex, never gotten drunk, never had a teenage pregnancy (or had a pregnant teenage daughter), never got old, never made an error in judgment, never grabbed an ass or showed their boobs or misspoke or screwed up were the ONLY ones allowed to pontificate, there would be silence across the land.
I mean yeah, once they're in the spotlight (or planning to seek it out) they should avoid the hookers and drugs and embezzlement.
And interns.
And cigars.
And penis pumps.
And whatever.
Sure, I want to know if the candidates have done jail time and if so, why. Or if they've spend time in rehab or a mental institution.
But not every 18 or 21 year old kid who just got caught taking a drunken piss in a public fountain or flashing their tits for some Mardi Gras beads knows right then that they're going to be running for office some day, do they? And yet we condemn them for it, years later. We judge them on the actions of their families, when we have no control over our OWN.
Someone said to me today that we SHOULD hold presidential candidates to much higher standards than we hold ourselves, because it's part of being a leader.
So... they're less human than I? More perfect? I should allow THAT sort of person, the kind running for president or VP or even Senate to be the example by which I lead my life?
Not only no, but aw HELL no.
I say I am a leader too, and have to set a good example for my children. I have to lead by example, practice what I preach, do unto others, and a whole bunch more cliches & sayings and stuff.
I mess it up sometimes. I fail sometimes.
Sure, I'm not in the spotlight so maybe my fuckups don't matter so much to you and the rest of the general public, they don't affect national security or have the power to start/end a war or balance the national budget...but they should matter a WHOLE LOT MORE TO ME.
Yes, it's a very narrow, simplistic view, but then, my world is somewhat narrow.
I think it's great you have your strong opinions and that you speak out against what you believe is right or wrong. You should be firm in your beliefs and stand up for them. You should do that, but maybe you should keep in mind that people can't always live up to your expectations.
I tend to take a more realistic approach.
So left or right, red or blue, D or R or I, here's what's wrong with YOUR candidate: he (and by "he", I mean "he/she") LIES, because he's human. He trips and he falls down and he speaks without thinking, because he's human. Sometimes he's WRONG, because he's human. He fucks up-sometimes really BIG- because he's human.
Being in the spotlight magnifies the fuckup to the nth power.
I don't see Jesus walking around out there running for any office. Or even John The Baptist.
Okay, maybe Judas, though.
So we sit around so smug and self-righteous, passing judgment and doling out criticisms and bad mouthing and pointing fingers and backpedaling and getting all rabid, just like we've never made a mistake in our lives and have the perfect right to act like that and be all judge-y.
All I'm saying is that maybe you should relax a little, stop screaming for five minutes, don't take it all so personally, and stop trying to cram your opinions down my throat before I vomit all over you.
What, you expect people to be perfect?
When was the last time YOU fucked up?
I rarely talk about politics and even more rarely write anything about it.
Mostly because I don't get it, but in large part it's due to the fact that y'all (just the general "y'all") are rabid. Foaming-at-the-mouth howl-at-the-moon CRAZY.
And if I write about what I think, there's always someone in one camp or another who wants to argue and yell and get red in the face and convince me that I'm wrong and then list all the ten thousand and one reasons why I'm wrong.
You can't just let me be. You can't let me believe what I want, like my thoughts and beliefs are so much LESS important, less RIGHT, than yours.
You suck the life out of the air around me.
So I avoid it.
I hate the mudslinging and the digging of the "dirt" and the half-assed "facts" that are printed prior to being thoroughly researched.
I hate the people who get such a thrill every time some of that nastiness on the "opponent" is printed or aired on the news, and then they rush to spread the gossip just like that creepy old busybody down the street who's always all up in everyone's bidness. (sorry Mom)(you're not really creepy)
I'm here to tell you that you're all right, and you're all wrong.
Each side has its own balance of good and evil.
What seems to be overlooked most frequently is that the candidates for ANY political office or government position are...HUMAN BEINGS.
Humans. People.
And people are stupid. And they fuck up. And they make piss-poor decisions. And they trip and fall down.
If only those people who had never smoked weed, cheated on a spouse, never told an off-color joke, never had an abortion or premarital sex, never gotten drunk, never had a teenage pregnancy (or had a pregnant teenage daughter), never got old, never made an error in judgment, never grabbed an ass or showed their boobs or misspoke or screwed up were the ONLY ones allowed to pontificate, there would be silence across the land.
I mean yeah, once they're in the spotlight (or planning to seek it out) they should avoid the hookers and drugs and embezzlement.
And interns.
And cigars.
And penis pumps.
And whatever.
Sure, I want to know if the candidates have done jail time and if so, why. Or if they've spend time in rehab or a mental institution.
But not every 18 or 21 year old kid who just got caught taking a drunken piss in a public fountain or flashing their tits for some Mardi Gras beads knows right then that they're going to be running for office some day, do they? And yet we condemn them for it, years later. We judge them on the actions of their families, when we have no control over our OWN.
Someone said to me today that we SHOULD hold presidential candidates to much higher standards than we hold ourselves, because it's part of being a leader.
So... they're less human than I? More perfect? I should allow THAT sort of person, the kind running for president or VP or even Senate to be the example by which I lead my life?
Not only no, but aw HELL no.
I say I am a leader too, and have to set a good example for my children. I have to lead by example, practice what I preach, do unto others, and a whole bunch more cliches & sayings and stuff.
I mess it up sometimes. I fail sometimes.
Sure, I'm not in the spotlight so maybe my fuckups don't matter so much to you and the rest of the general public, they don't affect national security or have the power to start/end a war or balance the national budget...but they should matter a WHOLE LOT MORE TO ME.
Yes, it's a very narrow, simplistic view, but then, my world is somewhat narrow.
I think it's great you have your strong opinions and that you speak out against what you believe is right or wrong. You should be firm in your beliefs and stand up for them. You should do that, but maybe you should keep in mind that people can't always live up to your expectations.
I tend to take a more realistic approach.
So left or right, red or blue, D or R or I, here's what's wrong with YOUR candidate: he (and by "he", I mean "he/she") LIES, because he's human. He trips and he falls down and he speaks without thinking, because he's human. Sometimes he's WRONG, because he's human. He fucks up-sometimes really BIG- because he's human.
Being in the spotlight magnifies the fuckup to the nth power.
I don't see Jesus walking around out there running for any office. Or even John The Baptist.
Okay, maybe Judas, though.
So we sit around so smug and self-righteous, passing judgment and doling out criticisms and bad mouthing and pointing fingers and backpedaling and getting all rabid, just like we've never made a mistake in our lives and have the perfect right to act like that and be all judge-y.
All I'm saying is that maybe you should relax a little, stop screaming for five minutes, don't take it all so personally, and stop trying to cram your opinions down my throat before I vomit all over you.
What, you expect people to be perfect?
When was the last time YOU fucked up?
Monday, March 31, 2008
A review for a book that hit me where I live.
First, a confession: When Mother Talk offered "A Road Map To Holland" by Jennifer Graf Groneberg up for review, my first thought was "Aha! I want to be on this book tour - I'll be able to relate."
When the book arrived, however, I had misgivings. I wondered how it might affect me emotionally. Well, typically I like to be affected emotionally by the books that I read, but I worried that it might be a bit too much. But I'm generally pretty comfortable discussing the circumstances of my own children's premature birth, so I dove in.
And wept my way through the entire book.
Five days after the premature birth of the author's twins, one of them was diagnosed with Down Syndrome.
It plunged me right back there, thirteen years ago in the NICU...feeling the same fears and heavy guilt and grief and helplessness and the ever-present "It's NOT FAIR!".
Struggles with disrespectful and uncaring doctors and nurses, with friends who turn away, with the TELLING of the news...and the love and support from so many unexpected sources.
"I hate my weakness. I hate my fear. I hate my selfishness. I hate the NICU, and the cheery nurses in bright colorful caps. I hate the niceties, every 'Good morning!' and 'You look wonderful!' and the standard response to any question about the babies: 'They're doing great!' As if I can't see the state of affairs clearly, as if I'm a child that needs to be handled, or an imbecile."
I also spent some time angry at the author for some of her feelings, only underneath it wasn't really anger, it was shame - because some of those same thoughts could've come right out of my head. Like wanting to run away, or stick my head in the sand, or just...not deal with anything.
"Breathe, baby, breathe."
"Please, baby, please. Please, come back to me."
People ask, "Hoping for a girl or a boy?" and we reply, "Doesn't matter, as long as Baby is healthy!"
But what if Baby (or in my case - and the author's, BABIES) is NOT healthy? Does that mean you don't have to step up to the plate and parent? Is that a deal-breaker?
No, of course not.
If I'd have ever been pregnant again, my answer would've been "Doesn't matter, as long as Baby is alive."
"I haven't held the twins. I've barely even seen them."
Jennifer's twins were born several weeks early, by C-Section. It was difficult, having them whisked away to NICU immediately. No cuddling, no bonding, no shared happy tears. Only the vague nausea from the anesthesia, the sort of...emptiness and sadness, the feeling that something is off.
"While we were waiting, a nurse I had never seen before comes up to me. 'I wanted to tell you,' she says, 'that there's a waiting list for babies like yours. People waiting in line to adopt them.'"
Jennifer Graf Groneberg takes us through her spectrum of overwhelming emotions, being brutally honest about her reactions and thoughts. Courage is something she doesn't appear to lack, because it's hard to admit to some of those feelings. It's shameful to admit when you think of just running away, or consider (however briefly) letting someone more "qualified" have your baby.
Man, this is hard.
Jennifer brings you into her life, on the journey from birth to the NICU through the first couple of years...and it's a heartbreaking and beautiful story.
Whether you have children or not, whether they're disabled in some way or not, read this book.
At the very least, it will help promote understanding, especially if you're faced with a situation in which you don't know what to say or how to be a friend to someone with disabled children.
READ IT.
You'll thank me later, I promise.
"Emily Perl Kingsley is a mother of a son with Down syndrome. She's often asked to describe the experience...help others imagine how it would feel. It's like this, she says: expecting a baby is like planning a fabulous trip. Everyone you know, including you, is planning to go to Italy. But after months of eager anticipation, you get the news that your arrangements have changed. You still go on a trip, but not to Italy. The place you're in isn't a bad place, it's just different. Slower-paced. Less flashy. Instead of Italy, you're in Holland. She continues the metaphor, allowing for the disappointment of missing out on Italy, like everyone else. But still, she says, once you get acclimated, you might find there is much that is good about Holland."
I live in "Holland" now, and there's no place I'd rather be.
Monday, March 17, 2008
LOVE Bitching, but hate whining and complaining
...today, however, I'm willing to make an exception.
There will be angst, whining, and self-pity in overabundance.
In fact, probably you should just stop reading and go listen to this instead. It's way better.
WAY better.
So I've spent the weekend being angry and upset about things which are totally out of my control. Yes, I know it's stupid to worry about things like that. Got it, thanks Mom.
My car died a little over a week ago.
For those of you who may not know, I'm poor (monetarily, that is, but rich in friendships). However, as much as I'd like it to be so, friendship doesn't pay for new wheels. :) I don't have savings, I don't have...well, much of anything beyond the basic necessities of life, but I'm not complaining about that at all. I'm luckier than so many other people to have what I do have. It's all good.
But then the car died.
I don't have a way to get to work. Last week I rode with my sister, because on alternate weeks my mom babysits my niece and my sister was here anyway. This week? I'm fucked.
My uncle's minivan was on loan to my mom for a bit, whilst mom was taking care of grandma after grandma's recent stroke.
So I sucked it up (I really REALLY hate asking anyone for favors. HATE. LOATHE. DO NOT LIKE AT ALL. Inherent fear of rejection) and called my uncle to ask if I could borrow the van this week (as he has another car that he uses - one person, two vehicles, okay) just to get back & forth to work.
He said, "No. *pause* Sorry."
Yeah, that's it. After a few awkward moments (in which I could tell he was scrambling for an excuse), he came up with "in fact, I was just getting ready to call your mom & tell her I needed the van back because I need to get it into the shop for a little work."
Me? "Oh, okay, thanks anyway, bye."
Then I cried like a little girl for awhile. And called him some names.
But I can't really be angry, it's not like he owes me a favor or anything, it's his van and he's got no obligation to loan it out. But MAN.
I shouldn't be surprised, really; this is the guy who bought lavish, expensive gifts for his best friends AND THEIR CHILDREN... but didn't buy either of his sisters a SINGLE THING for Christmas. Or his sisters' kids, for that matter, but I don't care anything about that. I was TOTALLY pissed that he didn't get my mom anything, especially when she quit her job & turned things upside down because SHE was the one elected to take care of grandma. When my uncle has, in fact, LIVED with my grandma since he's been going through his divorce.
But whatever. That's just my meanness talking, because my feelings are hurt since he turned down my request.
I know, I KNOW I'm being a big baby about it. I get that. Dealing with it.
And then there's the Sperm Donor.
There's a need for a good headstabbing if ever there was one.
The original plan was to either meet halfway between our houses (he's about 3 1/2 hours away) so he could take the kids overnight this weekend...or for me to take them all the way to Texas (which would've been okay, because I could've spent some awesome time with Nicole).
Well, obviously, with no car that wasn't going to happen.
So I'm chatting on the phone with Sperm Donor & tell him that we'll have to figure out some other way.
Then he does the thing that he ALWAYS DOES, which makes me so angry...goes into a litany of woes and money issues and whatthefuckever.
Starting, as always, with a dog.
See, he recently spent thousands of dollars in leukemia treatments for his dog. Sadly, after a brief remission, the dog died. :( I AM sorry about that.
Okay fine, whatever. Why he finds it necessary to tell me this stuff, I'll never ever know. I never said anything though.
THIS TIME it was, "Yeah, I caved, Shirley (wife) and Trevor (her son) decided we needed another dog. So we rescued one from the "kill shelter", and I just spent ANOTHER $150 on *blah blah blah blah*."
I blew up. "You can spend thousands on your pets, and meanwhile, your kids can't go to the doctor because we have no insurance. FUCKING NICE. Here, talk to your daughter, I can't deal with you right now."
You'd think he'd get a clue.
Next time I talk to him? "Okay, I guess I'll just come up there & stay in a hotel & spend the night & take the kids. It'll max out my credit cards, because I'll be staying at the Residence Inn and the pet deposit is nonrefundable. But it's cheaper to bring the dog than board him in a kennel. And I'm in the truck, so it'll probably take at least 3 tanks of gas to get there and back, that thing is a monster gas hog, and *blah blah blah blah blah*"
I mean really, what am I supposed to say to all that? And why does he stay at the MOST EXPENSIVE hotel in town? And it's 30 minutes away from here? There are nice, fairly new hotels five minutes away (I should know, I used to manage a couple of them), and they take pets.
And guess where his wife was this weekend? Vegas, with her sister.
Six months ago I had to hear all about how the truck he had was almost paid off, he was so happy about that, that was one less monthly payment.
Once it was done, he immediately traded it in and bought something new. And they'd just bought Shirley a new car six months before THAT, after they bought their new house.
I DON'T GET IT.
I just do not get it.
I'm so angry.
I don't know what to do.
I KNOW. Pathetic and pitiful, innit? I TRIED TO TELL YOU. Blah.
I feel like such a GIANT ASS when I complain.
Go away. You don't want to be here right now.
Oh yeah, Happy St. Patrick's day.
May you be in heaven half an hour before the devil knows you're dead.
There will be angst, whining, and self-pity in overabundance.
In fact, probably you should just stop reading and go listen to this instead. It's way better.
WAY better.
So I've spent the weekend being angry and upset about things which are totally out of my control. Yes, I know it's stupid to worry about things like that. Got it, thanks Mom.
My car died a little over a week ago.
For those of you who may not know, I'm poor (monetarily, that is, but rich in friendships). However, as much as I'd like it to be so, friendship doesn't pay for new wheels. :) I don't have savings, I don't have...well, much of anything beyond the basic necessities of life, but I'm not complaining about that at all. I'm luckier than so many other people to have what I do have. It's all good.
But then the car died.
I don't have a way to get to work. Last week I rode with my sister, because on alternate weeks my mom babysits my niece and my sister was here anyway. This week? I'm fucked.
My uncle's minivan was on loan to my mom for a bit, whilst mom was taking care of grandma after grandma's recent stroke.
So I sucked it up (I really REALLY hate asking anyone for favors. HATE. LOATHE. DO NOT LIKE AT ALL. Inherent fear of rejection) and called my uncle to ask if I could borrow the van this week (as he has another car that he uses - one person, two vehicles, okay) just to get back & forth to work.
He said, "No. *pause* Sorry."
Yeah, that's it. After a few awkward moments (in which I could tell he was scrambling for an excuse), he came up with "in fact, I was just getting ready to call your mom & tell her I needed the van back because I need to get it into the shop for a little work."
Me? "Oh, okay, thanks anyway, bye."
Then I cried like a little girl for awhile. And called him some names.
But I can't really be angry, it's not like he owes me a favor or anything, it's his van and he's got no obligation to loan it out. But MAN.
I shouldn't be surprised, really; this is the guy who bought lavish, expensive gifts for his best friends AND THEIR CHILDREN... but didn't buy either of his sisters a SINGLE THING for Christmas. Or his sisters' kids, for that matter, but I don't care anything about that. I was TOTALLY pissed that he didn't get my mom anything, especially when she quit her job & turned things upside down because SHE was the one elected to take care of grandma. When my uncle has, in fact, LIVED with my grandma since he's been going through his divorce.
But whatever. That's just my meanness talking, because my feelings are hurt since he turned down my request.
I know, I KNOW I'm being a big baby about it. I get that. Dealing with it.
And then there's the Sperm Donor.
There's a need for a good headstabbing if ever there was one.
The original plan was to either meet halfway between our houses (he's about 3 1/2 hours away) so he could take the kids overnight this weekend...or for me to take them all the way to Texas (which would've been okay, because I could've spent some awesome time with Nicole).
Well, obviously, with no car that wasn't going to happen.
So I'm chatting on the phone with Sperm Donor & tell him that we'll have to figure out some other way.
Then he does the thing that he ALWAYS DOES, which makes me so angry...goes into a litany of woes and money issues and whatthefuckever.
Starting, as always, with a dog.
See, he recently spent thousands of dollars in leukemia treatments for his dog. Sadly, after a brief remission, the dog died. :( I AM sorry about that.
Okay fine, whatever. Why he finds it necessary to tell me this stuff, I'll never ever know. I never said anything though.
THIS TIME it was, "Yeah, I caved, Shirley (wife) and Trevor (her son) decided we needed another dog. So we rescued one from the "kill shelter", and I just spent ANOTHER $150 on *blah blah blah blah*."
I blew up. "You can spend thousands on your pets, and meanwhile, your kids can't go to the doctor because we have no insurance. FUCKING NICE. Here, talk to your daughter, I can't deal with you right now."
You'd think he'd get a clue.
Next time I talk to him? "Okay, I guess I'll just come up there & stay in a hotel & spend the night & take the kids. It'll max out my credit cards, because I'll be staying at the Residence Inn and the pet deposit is nonrefundable. But it's cheaper to bring the dog than board him in a kennel. And I'm in the truck, so it'll probably take at least 3 tanks of gas to get there and back, that thing is a monster gas hog, and *blah blah blah blah blah*"
I mean really, what am I supposed to say to all that? And why does he stay at the MOST EXPENSIVE hotel in town? And it's 30 minutes away from here? There are nice, fairly new hotels five minutes away (I should know, I used to manage a couple of them), and they take pets.
And guess where his wife was this weekend? Vegas, with her sister.
Six months ago I had to hear all about how the truck he had was almost paid off, he was so happy about that, that was one less monthly payment.
Once it was done, he immediately traded it in and bought something new. And they'd just bought Shirley a new car six months before THAT, after they bought their new house.
I DON'T GET IT.
I just do not get it.
I'm so angry.
I don't know what to do.
I KNOW. Pathetic and pitiful, innit? I TRIED TO TELL YOU. Blah.
I feel like such a GIANT ASS when I complain.
Go away. You don't want to be here right now.
Oh yeah, Happy St. Patrick's day.
May you be in heaven half an hour before the devil knows you're dead.
Friday, November 16, 2007
Putting it into perspective
**EDIT! What you missed last night...
Friday Night Live with Monty: v. CONCERT SERIES (Part One)
AND!
Excellent music
Lots and lots (and LOTS!) of wine (Steph, you should've been there!)
Love, love, love
A Mr. Fab-induced giggle fit
A big chesty laugh
Hoss Cartwright
Bea Arthur
Game of the future: SCULPEYOPOLY!
and
Me
Luckily I uploaded the wholedebacle show for you RIGHT HERE.
TUNE IN LIVE next week for PART TWO of the Concert Series.
One of the sites I lurk via bloglines is this wonderful lady, Jill.
Yesterday I read a paragraph that made so much sense to me, it was like a bell in my head and my first thought was simply "EXACTLY!"...I've observed this behavior in people. I think there are many of us who could benefit from her wisdom.
(the bolding is my doing)
"To put it in a simple way, I think excessive optimism is hazardous to a person's mental health. When you put too much trust out, it can come back to you in the form of paranoia. When you expect someone you love to have the same interpretation of a certain positive action or honor, if they don't you experience resentment. Sowing too much perceived "good" does not necessarily reap good in terms of mental health benefits. Both negative and positive feelings should be admitted in a direct way and without expectation that the listener will reply or comply or return in kind, etc. This too is about accountability."
In other, less elegant words...keep it real. Really real, for your own sake.
And (I'm directly admitting that) excessive optimistics get on my nerves sometimes, because I tend toward cantankerousness.
I'm okay with that facet of myself.
Friday Night Live with Monty: v. CONCERT SERIES (Part One)
AND!
Excellent music
Lots and lots (and LOTS!) of wine (Steph, you should've been there!)
Love, love, love
A Mr. Fab-induced giggle fit
A big chest
Hoss Cartwright
Bea Arthur
Game of the future: SCULPEYOPOLY!
and
Me
Luckily I uploaded the whole
TUNE IN LIVE next week for PART TWO of the Concert Series.
One of the sites I lurk via bloglines is this wonderful lady, Jill.
Yesterday I read a paragraph that made so much sense to me, it was like a bell in my head and my first thought was simply "EXACTLY!"...I've observed this behavior in people. I think there are many of us who could benefit from her wisdom.
(the bolding is my doing)
"To put it in a simple way, I think excessive optimism is hazardous to a person's mental health. When you put too much trust out, it can come back to you in the form of paranoia. When you expect someone you love to have the same interpretation of a certain positive action or honor, if they don't you experience resentment. Sowing too much perceived "good" does not necessarily reap good in terms of mental health benefits. Both negative and positive feelings should be admitted in a direct way and without expectation that the listener will reply or comply or return in kind, etc. This too is about accountability."
In other, less elegant words...keep it real. Really real, for your own sake.
And (I'm directly admitting that) excessive optimistics get on my nerves sometimes, because I tend toward cantankerousness.
I'm okay with that facet of myself.
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