My mother stood at the basement door, the door we used so that we wouldn't mess up the upstairs, and screamed at us: "You kids are driving me crazy! No help! I don't get any help from you! I could have a wreck on the way to work and die because I'm so tired because you don't care! Why don't you love me?"

A swish and a slam punctuated her exit, but the words still rang in the air. The three of us stood there and drank in the sad, sinking, sick feeling that lingered. It stung our lungs and felt like death. It was like a combination of black licorice and putrid, rotting flesh. We all felt sick... The air felt sick. It was familliar, but uncomfortable.

This had become an increasingly predictable part of our life. I sank further into intertia and self-loathing. My brother's ever-intensifying hatred was reinforced. My sister, who had been terrified since birth, was more terrified. We just stood like deer in headlights and tried to decide what to do. No one wanted Mom to die, but a new thought had dawned on me in recent weeks... I wondered what would happen if she died. Would it be better if she did? When the thought ran through my mind it was chased by intense, searing pain and the realization of the permanance of death and life without a mother.

I FOUND IT !!! I FOUND IT !!! (aka Phasing Out)

I solved the mystery that has been haunting me for at least 12 hours now. A bob of mine named Bob (I've decided to use the word bob interchangeably with friend because Bob is such a good friend that his name should mean friend) reminded me that I hadn't blogged in a while. Then I realized that I know longer remembered my username and password and realized I couldn't blog without it. I didn't want to start a new blog because that would be me repeating an old cycle.

(Here's the cycle: Phase One: I get a new notebook or blog or some venue for self expression. Phase Two: I determine in the depths of my soul and / or promise myself that I will express myself on some semblance of a regular basis. Phase Three: I forget, loose interest or forget and loose interest. Phase Four: I get another journal and / or blog and continue to Phase Two again. Somewhere in there there is a fifth phase. I like to call it Phase Five. Phase Five: I find an old journal and or blog and feel shame and despair that once again I failed to be consistent at a thing that I had promised myself and / or decided upon. Phase Five can happen at any given point in this repetitive and redundant cycle.)

I've started working on this vicious cycle. I've been slowly phasing out Phase Five for quite a while now. Now when I find an old notebook or blog that I decided to express myself in on a consistent basis and failed to do so, I feel melancholy / discontent instead of shame / despair. I now feel like an inconsistent, flaky person instead of an idiot. (HEY! It's a start. Quit judging me!) Therefore, now I feel ready to start phasing out Phase Four. I've quit buying journals and starting new blogs (and it's not just because it hasn't occurred to me yet even though that may be part of the reason.) (Quit judging me! It's a start!) Now I just have to go back and work on Phase Three, and I feel certain that I will have more success with that in the past. I'm starting to be able to remember and concentrate better than I use to.

Ch-ch-ch-ch-Changes (Turn and face the strain)

When I started going to “Bible School” (a small, religious school) instead of public school, I learned that people are always going to judge you. NO matter what you do or how hard you try, someone is going to have something negative to say. It’s unfortunate for me that I’ve always cared what people have to say. I understand that some people don’t have that problem. Good for them.

I wasn’t fully aware of what went on around me most of the time. I had a keen intuition and almost no perception of events as they happened. For instance, I didn’t think anything of it when we started having church Bible studies at our house. I didn’t think anything of it when the preacher spent more time at our house than his wife. I didn’t notice, as the weeks and months passed by, that the preacher was spending more time at our house without his wife when my dad wasn’t home. I did, however, notice that things weren’t as comfortable at home.

At first, it didn’t seem to be that big of a deal to anyone involved. The preacher was counseling my parents on their marriage difficulties and naturally that meant spending more time around them. Progressively, though, insidious little things grew more obvious. My grandma next door, who often helped Mom with ironing and laundry now and then would get a request to hem up something of the preachers. Grandma didn’t got to the church we went to, but since she helped Mom and Mom helped the preacher, she found herself also helping the preacher. All of these little things started out small and no one seemed to think anything of them at first. As they grew more noticeable, the tension in my home grew exponentially.

Writers Block (head)

So I started this blog to write all my inner stuff. Now I find myself attempting to maneuver around doing just that. I find myself editing what should and shouldn't be told. the whole purpose of this blog was to talk about the stuff that I tend to block out. I want to express the things I can't express elsewhere. WHY IS THIS SO DIFFICULT? I guess part of it is the compulsive need to get things right. Part of doing things at all is accepting they'll be imperfect. Therefore, I will just start writing and be content to not make sense. Keep in mind that this takes major effort on my part. I know it's not going to be correct gramatically, nor will it be "good writing". It's just something I'll have to learn to accept.

I got it covered...

My absense is inexcusable. And yet, somehow I feel excused! I need to get back to the writing I was doing, but I have a huge, emotional block I need to overcome. AND I SHALL OVERCOME IT! (Although it may not happen until years from now.) Anyway, I heard a great story and thought it was worth sharing:

Two Wolves:

One evening an old Cherokee told his grandson about abattle that goes on inside people. He said, "My son, the battle is between 2 "wolves" inside us all.One is Evil. It is anger, envy, jealousy, sorrow, regret, greed, arrogance, self-pity, guilt, resentment, inferiority, lies, false pride, superiority, and ego.The other is Good. It is joy, peace, love, hope, serenity, humility, kindness, benevolence, empathy, generosity, truth, compassion and faith."

The grandson thought about it for a minute and thenasked his grandfather:"Which wolf wins?"The old Cherokee simply replied, "The one you feed."

School Daze

Summer time used to drag. I never did the usual childhood things like camp or baseball, but I was happy just not to go to school. I wasn’t “happy” in general, but I was happier at home than I was at school. Every year started out the same. I loved the new school supplies and wanted so bad for this year to “be different”. This year I was going to try harder and keep up and pay attention and do better. I was defiantly going to remember to bring my stuff to class and I was defiantly not going to forget it every day.

School was the bane of my existence. I spent most of my evenings during the school year crying to my mother about how I didn’t have any friends and other kids didn’t like me. Mom and I had always been very close. I was the oldest. My brother and sister were “the little kids”. Sometimes Mom would talk to me about things that were bothering her and I’d do my best to comfort her. She and I were very close until about fourth grade. Before that I really never had any other friends.

Mom, overwhelmed by my social and academic difficulties, decided to put me in private school. As I understand it now, Mom had wanted to put me in private school for a while and Dad didn’t want to. He had been “backward”, as he puts it, in school, but he knew the solution to that. You have to learn to deal with things. (Why didn’t I ever think of that?) He didn’t want to spend the money on tuition, but Mom felt that the problems I was having in school would be solved. Or maybe it was just that she was ready to try anything out of sheer desperation. Either way, I was transferred in the middle of fifth grade to a small, religious, private school.

The religion based school had a dress code that required skirts below knees for girls and sleeves below elbows for everyone. Girls couldn’t cut their hair during the school year and couldn’t wear makeup or jewelry. State laws didn’t require private school teachers to have any license or certification to teach so none of the teachers were certified. All of the classes were made up of two grades combined. My teacher looked like she was in her mid forties, but I found out later she was about ten years younger than she looked. Everyone was nice at first, but soon the cycle started all over again.

I was the person who didn’t fit. Prior to the transition, I assumed (as did my mother) that it was the mean, cruel children in the class with me, or in the playground or on the buss. I always knew I was different, but then everyone does, right? No one is the same as anyone else, so, therefore, we’re all “different”. Most of us, however, can manage to function as part of a group. This was my downfall.

My hypersensitivity didn’t help. I could be brought to the verge of tears by the idea that someone “didn’t like me”. Because I always had the idea that people didn’t like me, I was always on the verge of tears or maybe just numb to the world. I was always left outside the circle. I always tried too hard. I never “got it”. I felt isolated, alone and frustrated. Above all else, I couldn’t ever seem to figure out 1.) What the problem was nor 2.) How to fix it. School was my nemesis.

I was always in a fog and never knew what was going on. That’s the story of my life.

Stupid Blog

My blog is against me. It's probably conspiring with other blogs... Maybe all of our blogs are conspiring with other blogs about all of you!

Have you ever been sitting at home, along, thinking about blogging. Then you decide to blog, open a web browser and sign into your favorite blog? You write until you have what you want blogged and then decide to upload a picture? But, alas, when you upload said picture the blog disappears?

DON'T LET THIS HAPPEN TO YOU!

Call 1-800-Bloganon

Ok, I made the last part up. There is no Bloganan and sorry for the rambeling. I do that sometimes. Anyway, the weirdest thing... when I went to uplaod a pic and hit [Publish Post] button, my blog (in priview and on the actual blog page) looked like a few tiny squigly lines. When I didn't add a picture, it looked fine. When I added a different picture it looked a like a few tiny squiggly lines... When I got rid of that picture, it was fine again. My blog h as eaten my pictures. I'm very mad at it. Bad Blog.