Pieces of Me

So, in therapy last night, Regina asked me if I'd ever had medication for ADD. And I realized: I am SO ADD! XD So we discussed some ways for me to focus - like working on 2 or 3 chores a day so I don't get gung-ho and say I'm cleaning and unpacking the whole apartment, stand in the middle and feel overwhelmed, and then watch a show about Chimp attacks on Animal Planet. (...I just pulled that instance out of the air... ok, yeah it happened this week.) Also, creating a specific place for things to go and simplifying everything else. :) So, I'll probably throw out the clothes I never wear because they are so uncomfortable - and maybe give away the cute cute shoes that have drawn so much of my blood. (Maybe. :S They are so cute, though.)

Another realization I had this week that made even more sense to me while talking to Regina is that I need to write more. Becoming a writer was the thing I dreamed of as a kid. I wrote mystery stories around age 11 that were exactly like the Nancy Drew books, but I wrote several chapters of intrigue and loved it. In 8th grade my English teacher asked us to write a short fantasy story. The day before it was due I went in all stressed and told her it was 20 pages long and I wasn't finished yet and could I turn it in anyway. I realize now how thrilled she probably was about that. =D The next year I forced my next English teacher to read it and the next year Mr. Smith - my favorite teacher of all time - read it and we struck a cool deal that I would be able to write historical fiction stories for extra credit. I really did my research, too. :) I did get in trouble when I killed off his favorite character in one of them, though. XD He had me sign them cause he said I'd be a famous author some day.

But, in college people would laugh at my creative writing major. And a lot of the other English majors - not the teaching ones, just to clarify - were really odd. And I met like 5 girls named Arwen in those classes. And a professor made me give an oral presentation about why Whitman wrote about... little Walt... so much. I think that Professor did that JUST because of how painfully shy I was at the time. >:( If I see him again I'd like to smoosh a strawberry on his forehead. I did have one professor - Deb (we were on a first name basis) - loved my writing. My first paper - the run of the mill type I wrote for all other classes that did well - got a C. I was petrified. But, she knew it wasn't MY writing. So, I started writing for her in my style and she gave me A's and A+'s and wrote awesome comments all over them that still can make me cry. Once I was sick and told her I was heading home, but she begged me to stay for the discussion of Sylvia Plath and ... I forget, but another suicidal one (I think Ann Sexton). And these kids started complaining that the poems were sad and dark. So, I told them that I had a brush with suicide and that in that place you feel so alone and anguished and that I found it amazing that they could take those emotions and create something beautiful with it. And the class actually applauded. (I know it sounds like a movie now, but it actually happened.)
But, when I went back to school I started loving science and wanted a career that I could be a breadwinner with, since John's knees were getting bad (and then miraculously healed at Basic Training, making my heroics less necessary). And now I just want to go with my nature and write and cook (eventually... we had ants get into the kitchen and I smeared toothpaste everywhere because they hate mint scent and I HATE ants, so the kitchen it a little... minty fresh) and let myself be who I actually am. Of course, I'll always love Geology - it's a definite part of me - but I'm going to be all of my parts again. :) [Garfield is singing in my head while choosing his Halloween costume: What should I be? There's so many sides to me. I could be an astronaut, a robot, a hobo, a clown, or an alien creature goin' out on the town...(Personally, I endorse the alien in the tux, but he goes with pirate.)] Anyway, I'm a writer again. It's a good thing.

Crazy Blustery

Yesterday was an interesting day. We had stayed up late Saturday night, so we were enjoying a peaceful lie-in, as the Brits say. I woke up to a woman angrily yelling. We have neighbors 3 doors down that fight outside a lot, but I looked through the blinds anyway to make sure it wasn't something else. I saw one police car in the street - the MP's actually (Military Police). They wear army uniforms and red berets that are shaped a little differently than the other soldiers'. One thing I've learned is that they are strict and they mean business and you just don't want to mess with them. When there were 3 or 4 MP cars on the street I noticed the husband from the usual fighters' town house was outside talking with the MP's. Obviously, we wondered what in the world was happening and looked out frequently. When there were 6 MP cars, I looked out to see them frisking the husband, cuff him, and escort him into a vehicle. O.O Wow. There is quite a chance that his military career will be over or severely affected by whatever happened. The Army is extremely strict about spousal abuse in any form, they are strict about affairs... they care about how a soldier treats their family. At least at Fort Bragg thus far.
Later in the day a pretty huge thunderstorm rolled in. One thing we enjoy during a storm is to game together. So, we were cozy and at our computers and talking and playing with Miles laying on his cardboard (I'd explain, but you'd feel compelled to tell me how spoiled my cat is, so to be brief: he likes to lay on cardboard...)in the room with us. Then the lights flickered, our computers shut off, and we were thrust into darkness. Have I mentioned how I lost momentum unpacking since we'd be moving again and saw little point? Especially since there's nowhere to put anything... So, we used the lights from our cells to find a flashlight and a few candles that thank goodness I'd unpacked so far and a lighter. (John needs one to burn off the little threads that hang off his uniform - that way they don't fray. It's army protocol.) So we had Taco Bell by candlelight. XD The lights came back on just as we were finishing dinner and then my younger brudder called, so it was all happy. :) Just a crazy blustery day in every way.
Also, randomly, I realized I've thought about therapy wrong for a long time. See, I thought we would need to talk about the past quite a lot. Focus on everything that had happened to me - the now messed up product. That's how it's always portrayed in the movies... (I know, great source, eh?) "Tell me about your mother... And how did that make you FEEL?" But, now I've realized it actually is supposed to focus on now and what I'm doing to change. Less worry about blaming my "condition" on experiences A-L and worrying about where we are, which is Q, and how the crap I'm going to deal with R when I get there in a different way than I dealt with every letter up to now. Making choices day after day to be more of the person I want to be and let go little by little of the pieces of me I don't want to hold onto.
As far as the medicines for my stomach... well, I'm still getting sick from them. We'll try one then go back to another and realize how sick that one made me, though less sick than the new one. ;P There is another different kind of medication that my doctor said a GI Doc would prescribe that we could try if these ones don't work. I pretended to know what a GI Doc was, and we moved on. So, we'll see what happens. :)
I'm still happy, though. Sure I'm sick a lot in one way or another or another, but John and I have a lot of time together and we can just be in our world for a little while. Which I've needed. So, no worries. ;)
PS - Last week, I was able to tell the garbage men - in my head in the psychotic way previously mentioned - that I wore shorts outside. =D Yayz!!!

Responsibility and Consequence

Blame is an interesting thing... Blame, excuses, cop-out... they all mean pretty much the same thing. Ducking responsibility. How so many blame their parents for who they are now. Sure, things parents do impact you; it can be hard to overcome patterns you may have learned from them growing up. It's tough to forgive them for different events from the past. But, where does it start to become a person's own responsibility? When you haven't lived with your parents for 10 years, is it possible that the perceived failures of life could be due to a person's own conscious choices and attitudes? I think so. I've termed these life excuses as crutches we lean on. ADD, depression, illness, parents, environment, money. There's a reason Charles Manson's helpers are in prison, though. They handed their choice to him in the beginning and they have to pay for that initial decision and where it led them. Charlie made them do it - yet, his dad was gone all his life and his mom was a hooker. So, it's their fault. But, then whose fault do their decisions belong to? ... Hm. Must be God's fault then, cause he's where this world started. Yet no one forced these events to happen. Other blames can fall on drugs and society. However, I've always felt if there is something you really don't want to do you won't do it, whether you're high or drunk or whatever. And if you can't control yourself enough under the influence of those substances, you accept that consequence when you pick up the shot glass, the needle, whatever.
My Johnny is so awesome this way. He doesn't blame things he's done on his family or the city he lived in. According to him, he "swims in his own pool of stupid." Ah, Johnny and his awesome analogies. Well, I'm shedding the need to blame, as well. Who cares whose fault it is? Let's just fix the problem. I've done my share of pushing my actions onto my parents or the culture I grew up with or society. But, at the end of the day, I'm this way because I choose to be. Because I don't have the courage to stand up and change it. It's like when someone is overweight, but they don't like to go running or any kind of exercise. There are only two options there, work it off or stay fat. No one can do the work for you. You can get a trainer at the gym to help, but the work always lands on the shoulders of the individual. The first time I had to swallow this icky medicine was when I was suffering from panic attacks. Once I accepted that I was allowing it to happen and I was not a victim, but I was in fact the instigator of these attacks. I was the accomplice to my own sorrow.
The anxiety isn't acting on me - I have allowed it; I am the anxiety. I admit that I need help changing myself though, thus the different lines of aid I am navigating through. Just needed to release the blames and let y'all know that I am indeed aware that I am my own illness. And I'm cracking off the shells of myself that are this way and getting down to the wisp inside that is me in all truth and innocence. The me before. The little girl inside with the cats. ;)

Thank you, garbage crew.

The garbage men/women. Every week they noisily come at a stupidly early hour for such loud machinery. All week long, the things I cast away pile up - reminders. Shouldn't have bought that... we ate out too much again... that was SO worth the money and I didn't think twice about throwing away the tags and receipt. And always thinking through: did I throw away something Miles loved too much. The puffy envelope from Jiles came back out after much whining and garbage rubbing and Miles's furry keester has been sitting on it protectively at least once a day since. But, I digress. Every week this crew comes by and carts away what I have shed from the week. It is the main thing that marks the pass of a week for me. The panic in the morning, trying to remember if we put the can out at the street, as well as the separate recyclables bin... the loud noise of the truck coming and going periodically through the day... what is missed blowing away through the yards. Those squeaky brakes remind me how fast life is gliding past me and calling for me to be more, do more.
I wish I had a system so I could shed the emotional trash from the week. Something thoughtless a stranger said, degrading thoughts as I look in the mirror, the crippled feeling and hopelessness that accompanies illness, anger, tears, streaked mascara. I wish there were a crew of people that came every week, loud and annoying as it may be, and brush it all out and take it all away. But, though my therapist tries her best, she can't work those kind of miracles. And if she could it would be under-appreciated, anyway. The real garbage crew are taken for granted and are paid less than they hoped to make as kids, but we need them so much. (I am aware that normal people think much less about garbage than I do at this moment. And, humorously enough, I don't mean my mind is in the gutter! XD -I'm funny, ok?-) So, I guess I'll have to figure out a way for myself. (I'd like you all to hear that as meself, as it'd been in an Irish accent. It's cooler. John can do it. If any of you are ever around us again - cause it feels like it's been decades already - I'll tickle him til he caves and does the Irish accent for y'all.)
I wore shorts this week for the first time in 11 years. That's how much I've hated my body. I could probably count on one hand the people that have seen my knees and fewer those that have had any kind of glimpse of my thighs - the ever-hated area I avoid seeing. I was anorexic for a time, which is apparently significant according to the doctors I've been seeing. And honestly, society paints us women that don't look that good themselves and that is what we emulate as women. Dove is doing a brave and noble thing - just as a side note. But, of late, though I have gained a little weight - like 5-10 lbs depending on the last time I revealed my weight to you. And somehow I just don't care. I've been ordering clothes that fit me now instead of saying I'll wait until I can wear a smaller size to buy it. And I bought shorts. Little sweats shorts that are gray with a cute heart on them and that say PINK on the behind cause I buy from Victoria's Secret lately. And I've been wearing them. Not yet in public... we'll work up to that. The cat calls from junior high of "dog ugly," "fat," and "thunder thighs" still reverberate through my emotions when I get to the doorway. But the prepubescent voices are growing dim. I care less and less. I can feel my personality growing bolder and I can hear my own inner voice telling them that I'm attractive, cuss it. (Just saw The Fantastic Mr. Fox... loved it far too much - thus using the word cuss instead of the cuss word. XD I kill me! -- that's a throwback to Alf for anyone old enough to know what I quote.) In any case, I am making plans to jog in these shorts and in the second pair - blue with a rainbow heart - that will be shipping soon. *giddy* Because the humidity is arriving and the heat creeps up and I will not be sweat-laden and long-pantsed all summer like I have been for so long. I will actually wear summer apparel at last. This may seem to be a small step. But I look forward to the day when the garbage crew comes and I can tell them - ok say in my head as if they can hear me and then understand again why I'm in therapy - that THIS time they're taking the excess away from a girl that wore shorts outside. Life is made of little things. And in the end, those big things don't end up mattering so much... cause they are all held together by the bonds of little things.
Randomly: I've realized that it can be awesome to admit you were wrong to someone. It feels good somehow. Telling someone that they were right about you and you hated it so you're working on it... it's got a release. You might just want to try it. Unless you're one of those people that are never wrong just not right. I really hope not, though, cause that'd mean you kind of annoy me.
Anyway... last little thing to report for now: I've started dancing again. I'm happy, y'all.