What's buggin' me today? Part II

Pretty much nothin.  Is that a good day or a bad day?  I mean, am I really having a good day or am I feeling so apathetic that I don't even care enough to complain about anything?

No.  I'm having a good day.  It's not that I haven't noticed how annoying the stories of bed bugs and the impending Royal Wedding are.  Or how I wish I had a flight scheduled so I could get felt up by a stranger...  I definitely have.  And it's not that I could give a shit about the poor victims in their beds or that Diana's prodgidy has bequeethed her ring to another, I do (not).  I really do (not). It's big big HUGE news.

It's just that, hey, it's Friday.  My life is not spinning out of control.  My bills are paid.  My dogs are healthy.  My friends are the shiznit.  My new tat is healing beautifully.  My new hair color is rockin' it's arse off.  It's going to be a gorgeous weekend to ride my not broke down bike.  Life is truly good.  Even if I don't have any travel plans that involve nude pictures or gang groping!

Letting Go of the Past

Anyone who believes they have let go of their past, needs only to pay attention to their actions within and with others in the here and now, to know that the very thought is ludicrous.  Even once you've accepted the past, it is still affecting you daily, for you are who you are in "this" moment, because of "those" moments.  Lessons learned, love of self lost and gained, boundaries drawn and erased, are all here because of the past.  My goal is to embrace what was so that I can continue to find the peace I've found lately.

I've pulled back, coccooned and begun to protect myself the last year or so.  My reactions to people outside of myself have lessened in frequency and intensity.  I have dedicated myself to my therapy and my program and my spirituality.  I have taken deep looks at how I've treated myself and others.  I've taken deep looks at how I've allowed others to treat me.  I have taken full responsibility for that which belongs to me, however painful or embarrassing it may be.  I have made choices that have left me many times where I had zero desire to be and had to make other choices to get to where I belonged.

This process of realization of self has been remarkable.  Catching myself thinking and reacting like the worst parts of me and actually noticing it before I can cause too much harm.  Easing up on myself while holding those around me to stricter standards has not been easy.  I enjoyed being the victim for too long.  I had loved the attention of negativity I drew to myself because if something "bad" was happening, it was yet another perfect time for me to show everyone who would look how mistreated and taken advantage of I was.

Bad things have happened.  I place no blame, not even on myself.  It is what it was and can never be changed.  The here and now are all that can differ.  Here and now, I choose to free myself from present pain by not participating in "business as usual".  Boundaries don't work for me too well, because I have never possessed the inner sense of self to enforce them. 

A recent meditation class I attended spoke of how being angry with a person who strikes you with a stick is as pointless as being angry at the stick.  My sense of well being doesn't depend on not being angry, as I'm truly not.  My sense of well being depends on being able to stay away from anyone with a damn stick. 

Unfortunately, that has meant stepping back from an entire tree.  It has brought sadness to me.  This is the oldest and most important tree I have.  How can I just walk away?  Because I have to.  At least for awhile, I have to completely step away so I can learn some things about myself that I've never wanted to see.  The forest of my life began with that tree.  I have been completely incapable of seeing the forest for the trees....  It's so entirely past time for me to get some focus for the first time in my life.  I'm not cutting down and logging the whole forest.  It's still growing.  Hell it's not even on fire.  No need to run for the hills Bambi.  I'm just going to step back and take a walk with me for awhile.  There's a really peaceful stream I'd like to dangle my toes in and I think I will...

Thank you to those that love me enough to know that I need to make the journey.  Blessed be to those that are actually walking with me.  For those that wish to throw sticks and stones at my back, I'm not any angrier at you than I am the objects.  Everyone is where they are.  Me.  I'm ovah heyah!  ;)   

73

There was an auction in Camp Point, IL yesterday, 08/15/10.  An auction I refused to attend.  Not because I couldn't physically be there.  I did not go because I could not emotionally do it.  It was an auction to sell what remained of my grandparents' belongings.  The items that had not already been thrown in the trash or burned by their children.  My sister had the agonizing task of taking our grandpa to the auction house week before last to see "his stuff".  She wept watching this man we love so deeply delicately pick things up and "pat" them before he placed them back where he'd found them.  His things.  His wife's things.  Yes.  Just things, but an entire life time of things.

My other sister sent me the on-line link this morning to the listing of "things".  I saved the list as well as all of the photos.  I've looked at each "thing" several times.  Each time, the same emotions:  sweetness, joy, bitterness, sadness.  These "things" that can't be touched by me again.  My cousin Kim bought the top that each of us at one point or another played with.  I remember that much of my conversation with my sister last night.  The top is safe.  My mind spun away with the memories of it for the rest of our phone call.  I can't recall who she said bought the pull tractor.  I hope it's being loved as it should be.  The buttons.  Where are the buttons?  I remember dumping out the jars and cigar boxes of buttons and trying to find matching ones, listening to the tinkling noise as I learned to count by dropping them one by one back into the glass jar.  Almost every time I went to visit, they were the first thing I'd go for: to the left side of the door in the first room to the left in the hallway.  They're only buttons.  Why do they make me weep knowing someone has them and they're not where they belong?

How can 94 years be narrowed down to 73 pictures?  I started looking up the significance of the number 73.  Because, well, because that is what I do.  I feel a NEED to make it all make sense on some metaphysical, spiritual, non-visible plane of my existence.  73 itself is meaningless. 

When I looked up Psalm 73, there were a few phrases I connected with, it's meaning translated to "The Suffering of the Righteous and the Success of Sinners".  Not that I find my family "sinners" for selling my grandparents' things(I honestly have quite another word for it), but I do relate to "The Suffering of the Righteous".  I feel that my grandpa is truly a righteous man in every aspect of the word, as defined by dictionary.com:  Perfectly wonderful; fine and genuine.  And I feel that making him go thru this while he still lives made him suffer on some level.  If it hurt me to see his things go, how painful was it for HIM?

When I looked up Shakespeare's Sonnet #73, I cried.  It is a sonnet on aging and dieing, the last line transalates to this:  'This is something you can see, and it gives your love the strength deeply to love that which you have to lose soon."   Yes.  That is what this heart ache is.  These "73 somethings" that I can see.  They are giving my love for him the strength to continue to love him as deeply as I do even though he will be gone sometime soon.  He told me on my visit with him last month that he thought he had another 4 or 5 years in him.  I told him that I hope so.  He said he hopes not.  One of us will be right.  Either one will break my heart but not my love.  I sure wish I had some of grandma's buttons to close up these gaps I'm feeling lately...

Maybe I'll start my own glass jar.  One button at a time...

Roots

I am notorious for killing plants.  Cacti have even died under my less than watchful eye.  My thumbs are black instead of green.  I have made it very clear over the years that I suck at taking care of plants.  My sister sent me one as a housewarming gift when I bought my house.  She laughed her ass off when I called her the day it was delivered and exclaimed, "What the HELL did ya do THAT for?!?!?".  I actually DID keep it alive for quite awhile but eventually abandoned it in Montana in February 2004 to a fate unknown.  Hell, I barely made it back from there alive, ya can't expect me to have kept track of that damn plant!

I have made it a "tradition" of mine at the funerals of my Grandma and Grandpa Dooley and my Grandma 'Cille to take a pretty "fake" arrangement in a nice container, so that after the "flowers" get too dirty to display, I can keep the basket or vase as my remembrance of them.  I don't think I'd be able to handle experiencing their deaths over again by killing a plant I attach to their memory.

That fateful Montana experience cost me more than my sister's housewarming gift and the many, MANY consequences and pains I've dealt with, but the absolute worst one that can NEVER be recovered from, was that I wasn't able to get back in time to say good-bye to my Grandma Powell.  I got back two days after her burial.  Too late to hold her hand one more time.  Too late to kiss her weathered cheek.  Too late to mourn this woman I loved, with the rest of my family.  Instead, my sister took me to her grave a few days later.  It was cold.  It was overcast.  It was over and I had missed it all through my misguided choices.  Ronda let me kneel there and weep alone at a time when I had never felt so quite alone.  I asked for my Grandma's forgiveness that I hadn't been there.  Funerals may not be anyone's favorite things, but for me, they are my one last chance to let that person know that they mattered deeply to me and I ache for just one more minute of their time.  So here I was, wishing for that one glance and praying that she knew somehow that I was there.  I took a small clod of dirt from her freshly turned plot and put it in the ashtray that I'd never used in my car.  That was my only memento from the private service I had just attended.  My reminder that I had lost someone I loved.

Fast forward to last year, July 2009...  I totalled my car.  The title had been signed over to the insurance company.  I had cleaned out the car of my belongings and was ready to go, when I remembered I needed that ashtray that I had tucked in the console with that small piece of dirt.  I had carried it with me for 5 years, periodically opening the ashtray and saying a few tear filled words now and then.  I had talked to that dirt the night I almost purposely ended my life in that car, planning on putting it somewhere outside the vehicle so she wouldn't have to "see".  It meant something to me.  I planned on carrying it with me forever.  So, it got transferred to the new car.  Same make, year and model, same safe place to keep my piece of dirt/peace of mind.

Fast forward to January 2010...  My sister gave me another plant.  This one, was huge.  I could barely lift it.  It was a portion of my Grandma Powell's Mother-in-Law's Tongue plant, that belonged first to her mother.  My Grandpa Powell had seperated and transplanted the plant into several different pots and asked that they be distributed.  I brought it home with me and vowed I would take care of it and not let it die.

I decided a few months back that I wanted to seperate and transplant it some more, to make it more "manageable" because it was taking up so much space in my house.  Sunday, Independence Day, I sat down with that monster of a plant and four empty pots.  As I broke up the original dirt, I realized it was dirt from my Grandparent's home.  A home that was just recently sold, as my Grandpa has been moved to assisted living.  I will never be there again.  The ground I walked since I was able to walk is no longer part of the family.  The dirt I had my hands in was dirt my Grandpa owned through the lives of my mother and her siblings and all of their children.  The ground that my grandparent's had built not one, but two homes on in their life together.  And this was all I had left of it.  I started literally trembling.

Then, I remembered my little piece of dirt.  My small piece of my Grandma's memory.  I got the ashtray out of the car and started bawling as I opened it and took out that piece of earth.  I held it in my hands and told my Grandparent's how much I love them.  Then, I crumbled it onto the pile of THEIR dirt and cried more as I mixed the soils together.  It finally made sense to me why this dirt had been so special to me.  It was meant to be used to replant the roots of a family plant.  MY family.  OUR dirt.  OUR tears.  I won't ignore these plants.  They're going to take root and grow showing me every day that I love my family, whether I can look in their eyes or not.  I'm pretty sure my Grandma was smiling on the 4th of July.  I was, even as my tears watered those newly potted plants...  :) 

Making New Friends and Keeping the Old

"Each friend represents a world in us, a world possibly not born until they arrive, and it is only by this meeting that a new world is born."    - Anais Nin

I've recently been thinking a lot about "Friends".  No.  Not the TV show.  The never recorded version of reality "Friends".  I have a "friend" who is struggling to figure out how to be friends with more than one person at a time.  That difficult time when some people realize their world is smaller than they'd like, because they have only ever made room in it for one other person at a time. 

I've had those times in my life.  Those times that I was only capable of giving of myself to one specific person, male or female, because I was so consumed with myself that I just didn't have the space for anyone else.  The universe was centered around me and I had hijacked someone else to not feel so alone in my own orbit.  I didn't even really have a friend in that person, because that's not what I wanted.  I had a hostage, a witness to my chaos.  They needed to LISTEN to me.  They needed to be available to me whenever I needed them.  Yet, when/if I allowed them to talk, I had no interest in what they were saying.  I would lose myself in the middle of one their sentences and interrupt them as soon as possible to revert the conversation back to myself and my experiences.  Not to "share" with them how I may have addressed the same problem at some point, with the possibility that it might be helpful to them to know they weren't alone; I interrupted because I could've given a rat's shit what they were talking about.  I, ME, I had something to say, and as my FRIEND, they OBVIOUSLY needed/wanted to hear it.  I would do this over and over and over and over.  And, inevitably, I would wonder some months later, alone again, what the fuck had happened.  It never even dawned on me, that I had worn their ass out with my own bullshit, so much so that they had moved on to another galaxy.

I hadn't always been like that.  In high school, I didn't really have a BFF.  I genuinely loved LOTS of people.  I had my BEST times on band trips and roadside parties and travelling around country roads with 2-3 other girls in the car.  I didn't really have just ONE person that knew ALL of my wildest dreams and tragic secrets.  In fact, I made it a point not to have someone in my life like that.  I didn't want ANYONE to know all about me.  That would make that person able to break my heart in two and therefor dangerous.  My heart was already torn, tattered and punctured from things they couldn't even imagine, and shouldn't imagine, they were teenagers for gawd sake.  No.  I was quite content being the girl that others could confide in without them really knowing anything about me, other than that I could be trusted with their secrets and I could make them laugh through their tears.

So, maybe that's why, when I got out into the big bad city, I turned to the dark side of the moon.  I was lost and desperate to find someone to hold onto.  Someone to be familiar with.  I don't know why I started emotionally vomitting on each and every indivual that got within three feet of me.  Maybe I needed to?  Maybe I needed to get some of what defined me out there?  Just to see how people would react?  See if they'd still like me?  See if maybe I was crazy?  Probably.  Yeah.  I'm actually pretty sure of it.

So, over the years, I guess as I've gotten to know myself a bit better, I've begun to know others.  Finding a few friends here and there that have stuck it out with me no matter how bad I've fucked up.  I've only got one person in my life, that has been absolutely consistent for the entire last 12 1/2 years.  I appreciate that person.  I love that person.  I have zero complaints with the balance we've had.  I'm grateful that the two of us have never been going through drama at the same times, for sure!  I think I'll keep that one.  There are others too numerous to begin to mention that have saved my life and my ass, sometimes at the same time!  I think I'll keep them too.  And the thing is, the ones that are "keepers" know for a fact that I'd do anything for them as well, because I've been there for them when they needed me.  My universe includes them and they've given me gravity, made the fucking sun shine and the grass grow where there used to only be spun-out, dry darkness.

What I've realized over the past few days, is that I have some relatively new worlds being born, with the arrival of new unexpected people.  I'm making new friends.  It seems so strange to say that.  After feeling pretty comfortable in the last year with my little microcosm, I'm finding myself reaching out to the universe again, finding intelligent life out there and I gotta admit it's pretty fuckin' cool.  Thanks Girls Scouts of America for the guiding light:  Make new friends, but keep the old...  I think I will.  ;)   

1000 miles an hour

Do you ever look around you and think, "JEEZUS!  How did I get here????"?  That's where I'm finding myself this morning.  I looked around my place while I was putting my shoes on and thought, "Gawd.  This place looks like a crack den."  (And yes, even though I've never actually done crack, I've been to some dens, the first one before I even knew what crack was!  Country girls can be pretty naive in the big city.)  But I just wandered off topic...  which, seems to be my life lateley...  can't finish.

I'm tieing my shoes and wondering how the hell it can be April 8th already.  I have been on a constant run for at the very least the last month straight.  Every single weekend I have had somewhere else to be other than home.  It's wearin' on me.  I like activity.  I do.  I'm hyper by nature.  But, I really NEED to have some time in my own space, in my own mind.  I know that even then, I have things to do.  I have a place to clean up from the tornado of me that's been coming and going.  Laundry and dishes are done regularly, but everything else has gone to shit.  I need to de-clutter.  I need to dust.  I need to vacuum.  Clean the bathroom.  Clean the garage.  Clean the basement office.  File.  Re-pot plants.  Organize the mess that is the entertainment center.  Put away movies and video games where they go. 

Outside is matching the inside right now.


Inside jobs to be done are just as mountainous.  I need to read my book from my therapist.   I WANT to finish reading the three books I've started reading.  I need to work on the two writing assignments my therapist gave me last week.  I need to start writing on my 6th Step.  I need to blog and journal more.

Last weekend on my bike, the wind blew my mind clear of lots of things, but it didn't get rid of the tasks that need doing in my life.  I feel like I'm running out of time, ALL the time.  Schedule full, check back next month.

I am neglecting myself.  I can feel it.  It's time to slow down and take stock of me again.  Let's see, where can I fit that in...?  Maybe next week.  I'm out of town again this weekend...    

Debridement

As defined by Wikipedia:  "Debridement is the medical removal of a patient's dead, damaged, or infected tissue to improve the healing potential of the remaining healthy tissue."

As defined by Diniepedia:  These past few months of working with my therapist.

I'm a literal person.  A visual person.  A person whose imagination takes me places I can't go for really real.  A person who has pretended too many times that things are not as they seem but as I want them to be.  While at times, this practice has kept me safe from the brutality of reality, it has wounded me deeply and severely.  It has left it's mark, as a Marilyn Manson lyric says, "This crack in my soul is almost a smile.  Whatever doesn't kill you will leave a scar."  Though, for the most part, I am a good person, I am also torn and tattered, dead, damaged, infected, scarred.  This current course of work with my therapist feels like a debridement.  I am cutting things open.  I am scraping on parts of me that hurt beyond measure.

I have referred to previous spiritual growth as a snake outgrowing and shedding it's skin that no longer fits.  It's painful and uncomfortable to no longer belong in your own skin, but with enough twisting and writhing, I split open and leave what no longer serves a purpose behind.

This is different.  I've outgrown myself many times and am almost eager for those times in my life now.  This stuff.  This business of examining deep traumas that have so much scar tissue over them that a whole new callous has formed and it's ugly.  I'm used to it being a part of me.  I know how to wear myself to hide these inner parts of me better than I know how to utilize different clothes to hide the hail damage on my ass.  I struggle for willingness to keep going, as I have grown so comfortable in the familiar pain.  Why go through this when I'm honestly already a good person?

Why?  Because I'm not doing this to become a better person.  A friend stated last night, that I already am.  I am doing this to "improve the healing potential of the remaining healthy tissue."  I am doing this to become a healthier person.  I can't stop now...

Why Blog?

Why not?  So what if it's a big joke to people who don't do it!  Those that do are viewed by some as "attention whores".  Am I seeking worldwide or even friend's approval when I dump the contents of my brain onto these pages?  No.  What I am doing is sharing pieces of myself WITH myself.  It's free "art" therapy.  It's how I paint a bigger picture FOR myself OF myself as a I shine light on the dark corners.  I tell my sponsees that sometimes, we have to put aside the pieces of the puzzle that we just can't seem to figure out where they fit, so that we can put together the ones we know for sure where they go.  The big picture falls into place when we stop focusing on the one piece that just HAS to go where WE think it's supposed to.  This blog, is me, putting aside those pieces so I can step away from them, stop turning them over and over and around and around and trying to jam them in with the hammer of MY will and let the universe (and the world wide web) have them instead.  I feel released from the burdens of my thoughts afterwards.  So, again, do I really give a shit if anyone reads it or likes it? No.  Is it nice if someone out there relates to the puzzle?  Absolutely.  Is it neccessary?  Absolutely not.  I have two other blogs that don't get posted at all, so if you think THIS shit gets bizarre, feel blessed that you don't see the other two that have the poor bastard pieces that I've tried to cut to fit!  ;)

The pain of the process

is so much scarier than the outcome.  I honestly don't fear the outcome of what I have to do.  I fear the process of arriving at the end result.  I hurt so badly in the here and now, but I know without a doubt that the then will be better than the now.  The moment can be so daunting.  Living in it, seems like it should be so much easier than living in the dynamic projected future or static immobile past, but sometimes... sometimes, the moment seems to morph uncontrollably backwards and forwards until I don't know what the moment is any longer.  It is a place of pain and hope all at the same time.  Does wanting to get out of that suffocating moment in time, mean that I'm not in it?  Not to me it doesn't.  I can still be in the middle of now, desperately longing for the next now.  That's where I am a lot lately.  I have started my EMDR therapy again.  It scares me, hell, it flat out fossilizes me at times, yet I know that once the process has been reckoned with, the other side of me will know some peace with itself.  It's the in between times.  The dash from birth to death.  The blank page pauses between chapters.  The fade to black to the next scene.  The doors I stand in front of and don't want to open.  The standing with my hand on the knob and deciding whether to slowly turn it or just kick it in.  Those are the times my heart feels like it's going to explode and my mind whispers to me to just walk away.  But I'm not.  I will stay in the moment to stay in the process.  Momentarily unraveling?  Yes.  And that's o.k. too.  I have to unlace the bindings to redo them more comfortably.  Time to suit up and show up.  I'm the coach and the players.  This is my game of life.  No more sitting on the bench.  This is my moment to shine.



And so is this one...



And this one....

AaAaAaCk!

I have HAD it!  I am ready to split wide open and scream my flippin' HEAD off!  This fog that has settled in over the past week is seriously driving me nuts.

I have always loved fog.  It has always been my FAVORITE weather phenomenon.  I'll never be able to fly through the clouds, so I've always found it so beautiful when the clouds come to me.  Walking and driving in the fog is just so surreal.  Not being able to tell whether I'm going up or down hill, not seeing what lies ahead or behind, has brought me comfort all of my life.  I would breathe in the mist with a quiet smile on my face, feeling hugged/protected by all that surrounds me.

That was before.  Before, when it was a morning or evening happening, not a damn CONSTANT for a week.  I am feeling smothered/compressed instead of caressed/comforted.  I am ready to kick shit.  I am ready to beat the crap out of an inanimate object (no, I don't want to punch anyone in the face).  I am ready to yell louder than I've yelled in years to release the pressure and back this fog up off me!  My jaw is so damn tense from grinding my teeth all day supressing my urge to tear something with my teeth.

The fog has got to lift.  The sun has got to show it's face.  I need some damn LIGHT so I can lighten the fuck up!!!!

Honesty and Ignoring the Pain

So.  My dad used to say, "I'm a fucking liar and that's the honest truth."  I have always found this completely authentic.  He is being honest about the FACT that he's a liar.  Why can't everyone be that genuine?

My best friend had an experience this morning that I couldn't help but laugh at the absolute honest ridiculousness of it all.  She sent me a text first thing this morning, "He's lieing already."  I knew enough that a text was not sufficient.  I called.  We talked all the way into work. 

We discussed how different men are from women when it comes to lieing.  Well, how different men "in the fellowship" are from women "in the fellowship".  I'm not making assumptions/observations about men/women NOT trying to "practice these principles in all their affairs", as I don't really have much experience in the past 12 years of my life with people who aren't.  I digress...  As women on this "spiritual journey", we were discussing the complete and utter DISPAIR we go through when we aren't being honest.  Even "lies of ommission" are draining and painful as hell. 

She and I happen to have a "shared history" of one of the BEST friggin' liars either one of us has ever crossed paths with, so suffice to say, we KNOW what we're talkin' about when we talk about deceipt! ;)  And, having dated "that one" and more than my share of "recovering" men, I personally have observed some pretty big differences in how we as opposites view the whole process of getting to the core issues that feed our disease. 

I am currently desperately working on my inner demons and I hate it.  But, I'm going to do it, knowing that if I don't they will fucking kill me.  This entails brutal honesty with the people in my life that are here to guide me on the path that I've never been down.  Humiliating admissions to virtual strangers.  Following "suggestions" that I don't really want to do.   I'm sad.  I'm angry.  I'm confused.  I'm a bit lost.  But I don't have to figure out how or why I got here just yet.  I just have to keep moving down the path, tentatively following those that have already hacked their way through.  Pick up my machete and cut away all the shit blocking my way instead of sitting down and building a cozy little hut right here where I sit.  Slice away the painful thorns and get to the other side no matter how deep I'm cut, instead of turning around and going back from whence I've come, to have the very people who've hurt me try and heal my wounds.  It's time to be a self rescuing princess and fight my own fucking dragon before it torches every last thing I stand for, including the morals and values that I've already worked so hard to attain.

I can't, I repeat, I CAN NOT be like "most" (I'm leaving it open, as I KNOW the "healthy ones" are out there) men in recovery (or out) and tell myself (or anyone else) that there is EVER a reason to be comfortable with being dishonest.  My girlfriend said this morning, "Have you ever seen that Chris Rock comedy monologue about men being liars?  The one where he says, 'Men, we lie all the time.  We lie so much, it's damn near a language. lt's like, to call a man out for lying... is like playing basketball with a retarded kid and calling him for double dribble. You gotta let some shit slide.'?"  I can't do that.  I can't let it slide.  Or I'll end up like her guy.  Telling her BULLSHIT like this, "Yeah.  O.K.  That was a lie.  But we haven't even kissed yet, so I don't HAVE to be honest with you."  REALLY?  SERIOUSLY?  Can anyone actually LIVE with themselves with this kind of belief?  I guess they can and they most certainly do, but I can't.  That shit will kill me inside and then all hell will break loose on the outside.  I will be the dragon and blow fire all over my shit, your shit and anyone else who gets near me's shit.  Whether I've kissed 'em or not.  Pfft.  C'mon.

UGLY person

I got up early to check out the road report after our latest arctic blast.  My news channel "broke" the news to it's viewers that one of their long time newscasters had passed away from throat cancer a little before five a.m.  One of the anchors was literally holding back tears.  I've lived here since 1992.  This gentleman had been working at this station since 1966.  Having spent five days a week with someone for that long, I personally felt an odd sense of loss knowing that he'd passed away.  That's just me.  I can't fathom how his co-workers feel.  Out of curiosity, albeit possibly morbid, I decided to check the other network's sites, to see if they were "reporting" it, since he was technically a "rival".  To my pleasant suprise, each of the other networks were in fact reporting on it and posting their own kind tributes on their websites for their lost colleague.  Truly admirable, paying tribute to someone who had, like them, dedicated their life to broadcast news.  Then, I started reading some of the "reader comments", all of which were heartfelt and sincere, wishing him "Godspeed" and sending "condolences to his wife and children".   Then, and I just HATE it, that there is ALWAYS a THEN, this ASSHOLE (his name is Frank Garrett) had written the following:  "Another liberal Clinton Obama Loving Bush Basher Christian Hater joins Satan. Long live Rush and Fox News".  Seriously?  Wow.  Unfortunately, this "gentleman" is most likely a self proclaimed "God Fearing Christian", who doesn't have the first clue what the basics of his religion are.  I'm not a Christian, but I'm relatively sure that most "God Fearers" know the one about loving thy neighbor.  Ignorance and intolerance are what keep evil alive in the hearts of even the best people.  Turns my stomach.  It really does.  Again, I find myself questioning what the hell is WRONG with some people???  I truly hope that Frank Garrett's family never has to see something awful from a stranger posted about him when he passes away...  Tsk Tsk Tsk.  Shame on you Frank.

What's buggin' me today?

No. 1:     CONSTANT VIGILANCE.  I got an e-mail referring to a need to have "constant vigilance".  It hit me wrong.  It's seems rather redundant and the mere thought of it makes me tired.  It's wierd, I'm o.k. with being "ever vigilant" but "constantly"?  Sigh.  Reeeeally?  No.  I'm too damn lazy to do anything CONSTANTLY.

No. 2:      KIOSK.  I was reading the Mongolian Girl's blog (at http://www.thecusp.wordpress.com/ GO) and she was musing on buying a new cell phone and possibly getting another carrier.  This made me think about how much I truly hate cell phone companies and their KIOSKS.  They force us to commit to YEARS with them and they can't even commit to a place for their workers that doesn't have fucking wheels on it?  Sigh.  Reeeeally.  No.  I don't want to deal with Joe Jock that totally thought he'd be able to get a better job.

No. 3:     FATTIES.  At least the report on the over 5000 people who got dumped off the beautifulpeople.com website because they're too fat to be beautiful anymore.  WTF is WRONG with people?  Ya know what I think?  GOOD.  I'm glad you got your fat ugly ass kicked off that site.  You fuckin' deserved it for being so vain that you signed up for it in the first fuckin' place.  I hope it hurts like hell for you to realize how shallow you once were.  Go drown in some gravy and get a fucking real life.  Unfortunately, they're all probably too fucking stupid to realize the people still on there are the ugly ones and they'll starve themselves fighting to get back on the site.   I hope they get a spiked heel in the eye crawling over one another to get back to the top of the pile of pretty meat.

No. 4:    DEAFNESS.  Nooooooo, not deaf PEOPLE or even the actual impairment of being DEAF.  I'm talkin' about ME here folks, PAY ATTENTION TO ME!  I have had such a massive influx/outflux of snot with this cold I've had for a week and a half, that for the past 5 days, I have been DEAF.  ME.  CAN'T FRIGGIN' HEAR.  I don't like it.  I want it to stop.  I want to be able to stop tilting my head to listen to people and still not being able to understand what the the hell they're saying.  I look dangerously insane.  (Please refer to Learn to Speak Body: Tape 5 on YouTube if you do not understand my "dangerously insane" reference.)

No. 5:    UP.  And other children's movies that people (like me) who don't have children think they can't watch because they don't have children.  I watched UP the other day and am sick of trying to find people who can relate to me saying, "It is funny, because the squirrel gets dead."  That line in and of itself made the entire movie worth watching for me.  If you haven't seen it, DO IT.  If you have seen it, gawd bless you and I love squirrels.

Nanny, PopPop, TiTi, GiGi, WtF...

I have friends and loved ones who just outright REFUSE to be called Grandma or Grandpa.  I don't get it.  What is so horrendous about having a second generation that's been created?  I never had to call my grandparents, any set of them, (which I had several, being in a "step" situation), anything other than Grandma and Grandpa.  I like to think that none of them felt the need to be set apart as "special" by being called something different than the other set.

Some of my friends say they're just "too young" to be called a Grandma or Grandpa.  What a bunch a crap!  They didn't think they were old enough to be parents at 16 to 22, but by Gawd they didn't have a damn choice, mommy and daddy were made.  Period.  So how come, all of the sudden 16 to 22 years later they're given a choice to confuse the hell out of a kid and make up some cute name that makes THEM feel better?  Some name that once the kid gets to school they're going to have to repeatedly explain over and over and over to the 90% of other kids who have a "normal" Grandma and Grandpa.  Explain to their friends that their parents' parents have serious issues about growing up and being a mature adult who is a part of the cycle of life and actually ages.

Whatever happened to tradition and simplicity?  Our generation just seems to have to fuck with everything don't we????   

Security

se⋅cu⋅ri⋅ty  /sɪˈkyʊərɪti/ Show Spelled Pronunciation [si-kyoor-i-tee]

–noun
1. freedom from danger, risk, etc.; safety.
2. freedom from care, anxiety, or doubt; well-founded confidence.
3. something that secures or makes safe; protection; defense.
4. freedom from financial cares or from want

The reading I did this morning was on being "secure in the love of the fellowship" and no longer being trapped in a downward spiral of obsession and compulsion.  I have recently gone over my "fearless, moral inventory" of myself in regards to the area of my life that I suck at profoundly: relationships.  In the process of that inventory, my "spiritual guide" made some notes with respect to my motivation in my relationships of being "safe and secure".  Were my motives that bad in seeking those things?  Or was I just "misinformed" as to what safety and security meant and how to obtain it?  I have mused on this for a month now and am not sure I am any closer to "the answer"...

And yet, after reading the excerpt this morning, and viewing "secure" from a slightly different angle, I'm finding that once again, "the answer" is just as multi-faceted and ever changing as I am.  I've had "security" of all types in all kinds of relationships.  It's not been "financial security" I've sought, as I've given up all of my possessions in my two divorces and two other disastrous relationships; houses, cars, clothes, money.  Just simply walked away, as it just really didn't matter to me what crap I owned or how much money I had in the bank.  I've never even kept a wedding or engagement ring once it was over.  Who the hell cares about a shiny bobble when your heart is shattered into more glittery pieces than diamonds in bright lights?  It hasn't been "physical security" that I've lacked, as I can pretty much say that every man I've ever been with could probably do some pretty damn good ass kickin' if I were to be threatened with harm.  They've protected and sometimes possessed me as I've allowed, and only one was ever physically harmful to me to the extent that my very life's security was in danger from them.  No, it just hasn't been external safety that I seek. 

The "security" I have relentlessly sought from another is that which can never be given.  I want to be secure that the "other" will take care with me.  Note that I did not say, take care OF me, but WITH me.  The "security" that has elluded me over and over is that the "other" won't hurt my heart and abandon me in the middle of life.  No one can guarantee me that.  No ONE.  And yet, there have been times where I was relatively close, and hurt and abandoned the other so they wouldn't/couldn't do it to me first.  There's a guarantee! 

"They" say that "happiness is an inside job".  Well, if I look closely at the definitions of security, I think it's safe to say, for ME anyway, that "security is an inside job".  The most important things to me have always been internal, so it seems this holds true here as well.   That second definition:  freedom from care, anxiety, or doubt; well-founded confidence.  If I possess that "well-founded confindence", which ONLY comes from trial and error, trial and error, trial and success, THEN I will conversely possess freedom from care, anxiety, or doubt.  What a conundrum life can be...  Confidence is needed for security, yet failure is needed for confidence, in my case anyway.  I'm not talkin' about confident I can solve a damn math problem either and ya know it!

Anyway, as you can see, Little Miss LifeMagnet is feeling a bit "polarized" these days, trying to define and refine security in self.  I'll keep at it.  Meanwhile, beware of gettin' too close to me!  You're liable to be taken for quite the push/pull journey!  :)