Saturday, August 10, 2013
A Bit of Life, In My Own Words
It's difficult to stop, and focus on what I need to say. Me, as Abbi. When I dissociate, what comes out is free to be itself. Sometimes it's in really profound and beautiful ways. Much of the time it's sad, and, to me, pretty pathetic. No matter what, and even if no one listens, I'm going to speak out about this. But every time I try, I zone out. I pull into my mind, where it is safe and dark, and yet my fingers keep moving across the keys without missing a beat.
And when I realize the time passed, I am amazed to see what I've written, yet sometimes disappointed because I was not able to finish my original point without going on Auto Pilot.
This may be an illness. But it's also an instinct.
It's such an overpowering instinct, I cannot emphasize enough how it can change me in an instant. Just by reading my own thoughts on paper, another side might emerge in response to the idea, or statement. It's a constant juggling of opinions and interactions, an exchanging of words and feelings, mulling them over a hundred times over before I say a thing.
It's an adaptive response to what used to be my natural habitat. I'll tread lightly on this subject now. My own honesty does seem to switch my Auto Pilots into On. Like I said, my tone and wording switches, my opinion shifts, as does my point. But this is more than just ordinary zigzagging ways of talking. Though I can't deny having issues with attention, I must insist, this is different.
(Bear with me, I'm feeling zoney)
If your natural habitat is unsafe, or unstable, day-in and day-out for decades, you basically have to learn to juggle a lot of shit, while hopping barefoot through a mental and emotional minefield. For years. Fuck being a kid, you have to grow up fast. Your mind goes on Auto-Pilot. It starts processing everything differently, just so that you can keep from dropping the ball; to keep that terrible, destructive bomb from going off in your face again.
It becomes a subconscious game you play. Maybe, that minefield will turn into a meadow one day, and you'll get to dance and play without fear of pain and retribution. And when the bombs do go off, you'll be picking the glass out of your own flesh and you'll pretend it was done by someone who cared more than you.
But enough of that. Today is today, and my keys are a-clacking, and dinner is coming out of the oven, and I have a handsome man to share it with.
Good night to you all.
Abbi Z.
A Letter Written in a Dissociative State
"There's nothing quite like coming out of a fog, to find yourself feeling empowered and rich. It doesn't tend to happen to Abbi, but to us, it's a breath of fresh air. To react, to express oneself freely without the consideration of restraint or doubt.
Perhaps there's a bit too much impulsiveness at times. At others, there is too much blatant horror contorting the face. Abbi is suspended in time. She is a roof, housing so many hidden things, it seems to be collapsing under the pressure.
The truth is, she's been on auto-pilot for a long time. But this does not mean she has been disconnected. No, she has lived through her ups and downs while automatically switching through her roles, never realizing she gave us the wheel long ago.
It's so much like when a driver panics and pulls her hands off the wheel to shield her eyes from danger. The mind, ever present and anxious to survive will move the hands, take the wheel, and take control, despite the fear of harm.
But if you look even closer at the idea, you'll see the parts that hid in fear to begin with, the ones that take cover to shield her from pain, they are also playing their roles, taking their turns.
There is an endless dance within the mind, and the leads keep switching back and forth all the time, depending on the music, depending on the people around. It is beautiful, and it is complex, but it was made out of a great need for protection and strength.
And though Protection and Strength play their parts, they would be so much stronger had she not split them up from so many others.
To Abbi, I am the Goddess of communication, of symbols, and script. I know much, and I know many. But they do not always know me. I survey in the silence, in the dark of the mind. I pick up the pieces they've all left behind, and bring them up in word.
There is much to be said, but life does get in the way of things. I'll leave it at this.
Your sky has so many faces. The dark blue night, freckled with white stars. The yellow king of Day, the pale queen of Night. The melancholy, tearful clouds that tantrum through your world. How can you expect to wear just one face? In the midst of such power and change, how can you expect to stay the same?
Good day, friends.
Until we meet again.
Nyx N."
P.S.
It's hard to explain exactly what I learned from reading this. There is a lot I can learn about myself in what was written, I know that much is true. What I was doing prior to this, was listening the Dresden Dolls, though I can't remember which song (a sign I was already zoning out), when I suddenly, and quite urgently needed to write. I remember thinking how odd and annoying it was that I lost interest in the music, and went on to write a blog post instead, when I didn't feel like writing at all. I remember typing, but I didn't realize what I was talking about, except that I used a car as an example for something.
Welcome to my weird ass life.
Abbi
Thursday, August 8, 2013
Learning About Alters
I'm sitting here, typing this, with very little enthusiasm in my fingertips. I'm only writing this because I'm prompted to do so, not at all because I really want to talk about this. I honestly don't want this to be my reality. The fact that it is is quite troubling, and scary. But I'm not here to pity myself. I'm here to explore the shattered bits and piece of who I am, in a blind attempt to glue them together. And yet there are times when I am not so blind at all. There are parts of me that know all there is to know about what I've been through and who I am. Sometimes I see myself quite objectively and honestly, with open, constructive criticism that is neither soft, nor harsh.
The thing is, it's tremendously difficult to access that objective, logical side of me while feeling intense shame and guilt. There are walls between certain expressions and emotions, and some of those walls are very sturdy, and what's been hidden within them can be very sick.
I'm still getting to know "everyone" inside my head. A lot of the parts of me that have come forth (through journaling, and video journaling, both of which I'll be posting here soonish) have been very open and supportive. When I recorded some videos to discuss what's bothering me, it didn't take long before an Alter took over to finish the point I was struggling to make.
She was very verbally direct, unemotional, and intensely protective of me. She discussed my past abuse, and my current relationship with my family with a jadedness I hardly recognize. She regarded my family as cruel, heartless wastes of time and effort.
When she finished making her point, she stepped aside, and another Alter stepped up. This one was very gentle, patient and sympathetic. She explained to the camera, with great concern, that I've been struggling to cope with daily life, and that she has been encouraging me to stay positive and active.
Once she began discussing ways she tries to help me remain active, another younger, much more enthusiastic Alter basically shoved her way forward to talk about all the exciting activities she has planned for me. She talked happily about the fun things she wanted "us" to do now that Autumn is on its way. She admitted openly that she was younger than me, and that her job was to be free and enjoy herself, and keep me having fun.
I noticed she was the only one, in all the recordings, to refer to any other Alters by name. She referred to the sympathetic side as Miss Nicki, and briefly discussed being friends with Annie, who she said was a lot like her, but little, and sweeter. She also said "Annie has been Annie for a long time." So maybe Annie was my first Alter, and maybe this chipper side of me that recognizes other alters by name and function, knows a lot more about what's going on than I originally thought.
Still trying to piece together this twisted puzzle. one day at a time.
Until next time
The thing is, it's tremendously difficult to access that objective, logical side of me while feeling intense shame and guilt. There are walls between certain expressions and emotions, and some of those walls are very sturdy, and what's been hidden within them can be very sick.
I'm still getting to know "everyone" inside my head. A lot of the parts of me that have come forth (through journaling, and video journaling, both of which I'll be posting here soonish) have been very open and supportive. When I recorded some videos to discuss what's bothering me, it didn't take long before an Alter took over to finish the point I was struggling to make.
She was very verbally direct, unemotional, and intensely protective of me. She discussed my past abuse, and my current relationship with my family with a jadedness I hardly recognize. She regarded my family as cruel, heartless wastes of time and effort.
When she finished making her point, she stepped aside, and another Alter stepped up. This one was very gentle, patient and sympathetic. She explained to the camera, with great concern, that I've been struggling to cope with daily life, and that she has been encouraging me to stay positive and active.
Once she began discussing ways she tries to help me remain active, another younger, much more enthusiastic Alter basically shoved her way forward to talk about all the exciting activities she has planned for me. She talked happily about the fun things she wanted "us" to do now that Autumn is on its way. She admitted openly that she was younger than me, and that her job was to be free and enjoy herself, and keep me having fun.
I noticed she was the only one, in all the recordings, to refer to any other Alters by name. She referred to the sympathetic side as Miss Nicki, and briefly discussed being friends with Annie, who she said was a lot like her, but little, and sweeter. She also said "Annie has been Annie for a long time." So maybe Annie was my first Alter, and maybe this chipper side of me that recognizes other alters by name and function, knows a lot more about what's going on than I originally thought.
Still trying to piece together this twisted puzzle. one day at a time.
Until next time
Saturday, August 3, 2013
NEW: PTSD, DID, and Learned Ways of Coping With Trauma
"The blank page is ever staring me down. I'll have to close my eyes and let this flow. There is much to be said, and I hate to be vague about it, but things are getting sort of gritty and sharp around here lately. All my goods and bads are switching places and rubbing each other the wrong way and I find my personality shifting shapes just to balance things out.
I suppose I underestimated my mind's ability to assess stressful situations and organize my reactions accordingly. Rather, I underestimated its ability to do so without my realizing it. And while I go through my days, piecing together blurry, dark moments gone by, oftentimes without say in the matter, I find the ironies of life becoming increasingly burdensome to deal with."
I'm not sure when I wrote the above text. My response to logging into this account and reading my last saved blog was "What the fuck?" I cannot emphasize how odd it is to read such a profoundly true statement about my daily life. I am proud that I was at some point able to express my situation so fluidly and accurately. However, I forgot expressing these feelings openly. I completely blocked it out. I have not logged in since writing it, I'm positive of that.
With that being said, I'm coming back here with "one I open and one I shut." Please forgive me if I'm being strangely cryptic. I'll try to stay on track, but please bear with me. It's been some time.
I've learned much since last writing. Every day is more informative than the last, in some way or another. I've been in therapy for a few months now, and calling it an eye opener would be such a dramatic understatement, it kind of nauseates me. Without giving out names and mini details, I'll say this:
I've been diagnosed with Complex Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD), as well as Dissociative Identity Disorder (DID), formerly known as Multiple Personality Disorder, blah, blah, blah. No, I am not like "Sybil," or "USA of Tara," or any other nonsensical portrayals of the disorder. (No offense, Sally, you're great.) It's difficult to pen down how it affects my job, relationships, and daily functioning. Those details or useless unless you understand the problem, because the disorders have little to do with my present life, and all to do with my past.
Of course there was love and warmth and joy and togetherness my childhood. "Faith like a mustard seed" is the truthiest of truths, my friends. But more on that later. There was also a lot of abuse-free illness, sharp physical pain, and fragility that I experienced from a very young age that traumatized me as a child in deep, lasting ways. Soon after, there was a lot of abuse that I experienced, either by witnessing it and its results, or experiencing it directly. Most of it was verbal and very emotional, some of it was physical and sexual. I learned to dissociate from pain and compartmentalize emotions almost effortlessly, so that the abuse I would come to experience for the years, and years to come, became quite manageable indeed.
The problem, of course pops up when I am unable to turn my (many) designated Auto Pilots on standby. By "Auto Pilots" I mean the different sides of me that I sectioned off during my dissociation. I'm sure I'll be getting into that later. I have every intention of spilling my guts out here, in ways I have never done before. This will be a place for all the different sides of me to have their say and make their mark. Dear Goddess this might get mad!
Until next time
Thursday, November 17, 2011
Tuesday, November 8, 2011
So may the sunrise bring hope where it once was forgotten
Productivity is key to change. Whether it be singing, writing, cleaning, speaking or cuddling, living is production in itself and should not be stifled or polluted, but cherished and kept whole.
Hold close those whose hearts are glad and gracious, for they found their way on different paths and through lessons you might have yet to learn. Giving hearts are pleased to share their methods of joy, love and forgiveness.
Warmth is a sign that someone is close to their core, which burns hotter than our sun. Coldness is a sign of a stifled soul. Be not afraid of pain and tragedy, be only afraid to say you have not lived and loved freely, despite risk.
Give yourself over to the abundance of pure, effortless satisfaction that surrounds and cradles you, even through the fear that curls you into stone. Let it pull you apart, piece by piece until you are open like the sky and air, full of all things yet becoming as free and light as the breeze that passes through the leaves above and the grass below you.
You are one with the flowers that arch towards the sun, just as you are one with the great flame that nurtures you without question.
Hold close those whose hearts are glad and gracious, for they found their way on different paths and through lessons you might have yet to learn. Giving hearts are pleased to share their methods of joy, love and forgiveness.
Warmth is a sign that someone is close to their core, which burns hotter than our sun. Coldness is a sign of a stifled soul. Be not afraid of pain and tragedy, be only afraid to say you have not lived and loved freely, despite risk.
Give yourself over to the abundance of pure, effortless satisfaction that surrounds and cradles you, even through the fear that curls you into stone. Let it pull you apart, piece by piece until you are open like the sky and air, full of all things yet becoming as free and light as the breeze that passes through the leaves above and the grass below you.
You are one with the flowers that arch towards the sun, just as you are one with the great flame that nurtures you without question.
Wednesday, October 5, 2011
Blind Girl/Little One's Eggs
I'll sing sing sing
like it's all in a dream
that twists down into
the darkest cave
and only my echoes will
bring me home
Oh it's so so sad
that I lost my sight
and that I always confused it
with my mind
And my blindness makes
the silence so bittersweet
Because even a blind girl
oh even alone
can see she's surrounded
Even a dumb girl
can tell she's taken care of
Taken down though
she may be
She can see, she can see
all the light
there has to be
Even after she's lost her sight
she's not so sad
as long as she doesn't confuse it
with her mind
~~~~~~~~
Oh clue me in, little one
What happened to you
That made you love all
the damage you do
That snake made to ravage
all the innocent ones
you were keeping so close
In your cold, dark slumber
I know you still wonder
what happened to your
most precious one
Oh what happened to you
to make them all prey
You said you would keep them
then took them away
All the damage you love
is sinking into
all the cracks and the gouges
they tore into you
What did they do
to that littlest one
they were keeping so close
that made you love all the damage
they poured into you
Little one, give me a clue
why you crushed it all into you
every bit you had left
to save from the snake
made to ravage the flesh
you were keeping so close
What happened to you
to make them all prey
you said you would keep them
then crushed them away
like it's all in a dream
that twists down into
the darkest cave
and only my echoes will
bring me home
Oh it's so so sad
that I lost my sight
and that I always confused it
with my mind
And my blindness makes
the silence so bittersweet
Because even a blind girl
oh even alone
can see she's surrounded
Even a dumb girl
can tell she's taken care of
Taken down though
she may be
She can see, she can see
all the light
there has to be
Even after she's lost her sight
she's not so sad
as long as she doesn't confuse it
with her mind
~~~~~~~~
Oh clue me in, little one
What happened to you
That made you love all
the damage you do
That snake made to ravage
all the innocent ones
you were keeping so close
In your cold, dark slumber
I know you still wonder
what happened to your
most precious one
Oh what happened to you
to make them all prey
You said you would keep them
then took them away
All the damage you love
is sinking into
all the cracks and the gouges
they tore into you
What did they do
to that littlest one
they were keeping so close
that made you love all the damage
they poured into you
Little one, give me a clue
why you crushed it all into you
every bit you had left
to save from the snake
made to ravage the flesh
you were keeping so close
What happened to you
to make them all prey
you said you would keep them
then crushed them away
Tuesday, October 4, 2011
Stuck on Pause
When I began this blog, I started it with the intention of documenting my multifaceted life-lessons. But what do I share when I let my days slip through my fingers like water? I don't know what phase this is, but it is strange to me, and I don't know what I'm learning. There is apathy and laziness, but I feel there is more to it. I've swapped back to my nocturnal sleeping routine. Sunrise is bedtime, and I wake at sunset. And even when I wake, I don't always get out of bed, and sometimes I don't even wake up until I've slept the entire day away. I wish I could pin it on illness or depression, but I am unsure. I feel as though I am in a mysterious fog of malaise. I rarely leave the house, rarely go to see my friends. It's as if I'm beginning to hibernate, but during the season I normally flourish. My body is unusually exhausted, my thoughts dull. Even the family I live with wonder why I've been so absent.
I wish I had answers. I wish I knew why I feel as though I am on pause while everything else is moving by as usual. I rarely listen to music, rarely dance, or sing, or play, or laugh. I seem only to manage eating, sleeping, and bathing. But why? I usually have an idea. Some sort of perspective about my present situation, but it is a blur. I feel heavy, burdened by some invisible presence that has closed my eyes to everything that made me feel alive before.
I am happy to have my partner, my cat, and my family. But does that make me a happy person? I remember days I would go to the park by myself and walk for hours, soaking in the sunlight or the rainfall, and feel connected with life. I remember when interacting with people, listening to a song, or seeing a tree would fill me with childlike wonder. I could wear a brightly colored skirt and twirl in public without worrying that I stuck out like a sore thumb. I remember a freedom that I have lost. I see these ways I lived and associated wholeheartedly with myself as something so far away from the cubbyhole I've created for myself.
The thought of driving somewhere, socializing, or going upstairs exhausts me, and I only count the hours that I will be able to sleep again. But when I sleep, it is troubled sleep, with dreams of danger and loss and I wake up in a state of terror I cannot shake for the remainder of my day. But why? Why must I feel so separate from the Abbi I once knew? I can only hope I am in between versions of me.
Hoping for a better tomorrow
I wish I had answers. I wish I knew why I feel as though I am on pause while everything else is moving by as usual. I rarely listen to music, rarely dance, or sing, or play, or laugh. I seem only to manage eating, sleeping, and bathing. But why? I usually have an idea. Some sort of perspective about my present situation, but it is a blur. I feel heavy, burdened by some invisible presence that has closed my eyes to everything that made me feel alive before.
I am happy to have my partner, my cat, and my family. But does that make me a happy person? I remember days I would go to the park by myself and walk for hours, soaking in the sunlight or the rainfall, and feel connected with life. I remember when interacting with people, listening to a song, or seeing a tree would fill me with childlike wonder. I could wear a brightly colored skirt and twirl in public without worrying that I stuck out like a sore thumb. I remember a freedom that I have lost. I see these ways I lived and associated wholeheartedly with myself as something so far away from the cubbyhole I've created for myself.
The thought of driving somewhere, socializing, or going upstairs exhausts me, and I only count the hours that I will be able to sleep again. But when I sleep, it is troubled sleep, with dreams of danger and loss and I wake up in a state of terror I cannot shake for the remainder of my day. But why? Why must I feel so separate from the Abbi I once knew? I can only hope I am in between versions of me.
Hoping for a better tomorrow
Monday, September 19, 2011
Now it Shows, How Time Has Made Us Soldiers: Part 1
Here I am again, your beaming host of emotional baggage and occasion charm and wit!
Let me start by saying, I'm sure unnecessarily, that I have a tendency to analyze basically everything. I've always enjoyed breaking things down to their very basics to find out what makes them what they are. Whether it be plants, toys, or Subway sandwiches, I've always wanted to understand things as much as I possibly could. This is also part of why I find people so incredibly fascinating. I like listening to people's stories, because finding what a person understands and feels is like getting a glimpse of life through their eyes. We go our days without realizing it, but none of us are living the same life. The world is not the same place to any of us. And it is oh, so intriguing to discover the worlds of others.
But far more interesting and difficult is discovering your own world. What you feel, think and perceive, and why. Being your own psychologist can be quite a burden. Exploring the corners of your brain and researching all the glitches while simultaneously finding out whether or not you have the tools to correct them, I find, is a really taxing yet necessary task. And the process of discovering if you have the tools is often far more grueling and long-lasting than that of finding the glitches themselves. The only trusty tool I've learned to use is writing, so I will wield its healing powers here.
Since I can recall, I've known my past had a lot to do with all my problems, but I was under the impression I had a hold of it all. I thought I knew my story, the sad and happy parts and all the main characters. I knew that my father was the antagonist, a tyrant and a pervert. I knew my mother, sister and I were all his victims, and that I'd been born into a lot of chaos. I knew my dad made my mother do manual labor while she was carrying me and was already so weak she was ordered to be on bed rest, and so I was born with a low immune system and weak joints that plague me to this day. I knew he was unfaithful and that I'd eventually have to choose my mom over him.
What I didn't know was that I shouldn't have been told these things regularly by my mother and sister when I was a child. But I always knew they were hurt, so I never blamed them for anything, even saying things I didn't want to hear. I didn't blame my mom for showing me the lipstick stains on Dad's collar, because I thought she was educating me. I didn't blame my sister for telling me no one would love me if I didn't fit perfectly in a string bikini, I thought she was warning me. And I didn't blame my mom for showing me my reflection so I could see how much I looked like the man who ruined her life, because I thought I must have been just as evil as him.
I didn't know I should have been homeschooled past 4th grade instead of being left by myself every afternoon for years, that I should have had more than one meal daily, that I should have been taken to the doctor and dentist for annual check-ups, or that ephedra is not a medicine your mother should give you to lose weight. I was innocent, and I trusted them all to have my best interest at heart. I assumed any neglect or punishment was due to mistakes I'd made. I thought there must be something very wrong with me to be receiving all this negativity, and I was very angry and frustrated with myself for doing whatever it was I kept doing to make my family reject me.
And now I'm coming to see how broken and messy it all was and that everyone who was supposed to take care of me dropped the ball in some unfathomable ways. I know without a doubt that my mother, father, and sister all love me. But I know now that they were all too broken to love me properly. I hold no grudges towards them, I am closer than ever with my mother and I'm happy to say we're good friends, my sister and I are learning to be good to each other, and I see my father on occasion. But I'm still left with the mess they left.
I've never been the kind of person to bring up what I know of my childhood on a whim, but it's following me like a shadow, and I know I have to face it to let it go. I have to be honest with myself, and accept that I'm stuck with a laundry list of health problems that have formed from long-term malnutrition and neglect, and mental problems ranging from Post Traumatic Stress to Body Dysmorphia. I know that if I want life to be better, I have to unlearn almost everything I know about myself and the world because most of it is mutated by all the dysfunctional ways I learned to live. I mainly have to learn to see myself as the good guy that deserves every bit of happiness rather than the villain who should be tossed down a well.
Part of me knows that life doesn't have to be a big bad scary monster, and that things are likely to turn out OK. A small part, that is. Though I naturally find myself thinking life is going to squash the people I love like bugs and leave me all alone, I find comfort in the fact that it hasn't happened so far. Actually, now there are lots and lots of things I find comfort in. Things that make life worth living and make me appreciate every step I've taken to get where I am now, which I will save for Part 2, but really is the main point of this entire blog. The only way to change the way I view life is to become its student and see every day as a lesson to be learned.
But bonus lesson for the day is that I need to get a normal sleep schedule going, because it's 5:00AM! Yikes! Good day to you, sir!
Abi-Wan
Let me start by saying, I'm sure unnecessarily, that I have a tendency to analyze basically everything. I've always enjoyed breaking things down to their very basics to find out what makes them what they are. Whether it be plants, toys, or Subway sandwiches, I've always wanted to understand things as much as I possibly could. This is also part of why I find people so incredibly fascinating. I like listening to people's stories, because finding what a person understands and feels is like getting a glimpse of life through their eyes. We go our days without realizing it, but none of us are living the same life. The world is not the same place to any of us. And it is oh, so intriguing to discover the worlds of others.
But far more interesting and difficult is discovering your own world. What you feel, think and perceive, and why. Being your own psychologist can be quite a burden. Exploring the corners of your brain and researching all the glitches while simultaneously finding out whether or not you have the tools to correct them, I find, is a really taxing yet necessary task. And the process of discovering if you have the tools is often far more grueling and long-lasting than that of finding the glitches themselves. The only trusty tool I've learned to use is writing, so I will wield its healing powers here.
Since I can recall, I've known my past had a lot to do with all my problems, but I was under the impression I had a hold of it all. I thought I knew my story, the sad and happy parts and all the main characters. I knew that my father was the antagonist, a tyrant and a pervert. I knew my mother, sister and I were all his victims, and that I'd been born into a lot of chaos. I knew my dad made my mother do manual labor while she was carrying me and was already so weak she was ordered to be on bed rest, and so I was born with a low immune system and weak joints that plague me to this day. I knew he was unfaithful and that I'd eventually have to choose my mom over him.
What I didn't know was that I shouldn't have been told these things regularly by my mother and sister when I was a child. But I always knew they were hurt, so I never blamed them for anything, even saying things I didn't want to hear. I didn't blame my mom for showing me the lipstick stains on Dad's collar, because I thought she was educating me. I didn't blame my sister for telling me no one would love me if I didn't fit perfectly in a string bikini, I thought she was warning me. And I didn't blame my mom for showing me my reflection so I could see how much I looked like the man who ruined her life, because I thought I must have been just as evil as him.
I didn't know I should have been homeschooled past 4th grade instead of being left by myself every afternoon for years, that I should have had more than one meal daily, that I should have been taken to the doctor and dentist for annual check-ups, or that ephedra is not a medicine your mother should give you to lose weight. I was innocent, and I trusted them all to have my best interest at heart. I assumed any neglect or punishment was due to mistakes I'd made. I thought there must be something very wrong with me to be receiving all this negativity, and I was very angry and frustrated with myself for doing whatever it was I kept doing to make my family reject me.
And now I'm coming to see how broken and messy it all was and that everyone who was supposed to take care of me dropped the ball in some unfathomable ways. I know without a doubt that my mother, father, and sister all love me. But I know now that they were all too broken to love me properly. I hold no grudges towards them, I am closer than ever with my mother and I'm happy to say we're good friends, my sister and I are learning to be good to each other, and I see my father on occasion. But I'm still left with the mess they left.
I've never been the kind of person to bring up what I know of my childhood on a whim, but it's following me like a shadow, and I know I have to face it to let it go. I have to be honest with myself, and accept that I'm stuck with a laundry list of health problems that have formed from long-term malnutrition and neglect, and mental problems ranging from Post Traumatic Stress to Body Dysmorphia. I know that if I want life to be better, I have to unlearn almost everything I know about myself and the world because most of it is mutated by all the dysfunctional ways I learned to live. I mainly have to learn to see myself as the good guy that deserves every bit of happiness rather than the villain who should be tossed down a well.
Part of me knows that life doesn't have to be a big bad scary monster, and that things are likely to turn out OK. A small part, that is. Though I naturally find myself thinking life is going to squash the people I love like bugs and leave me all alone, I find comfort in the fact that it hasn't happened so far. Actually, now there are lots and lots of things I find comfort in. Things that make life worth living and make me appreciate every step I've taken to get where I am now, which I will save for Part 2, but really is the main point of this entire blog. The only way to change the way I view life is to become its student and see every day as a lesson to be learned.
But bonus lesson for the day is that I need to get a normal sleep schedule going, because it's 5:00AM! Yikes! Good day to you, sir!
Abi-Wan
Wednesday, August 10, 2011
Appreciation
For the first time in a long time I see my future through hopeful eyes. I feel there might be something good coming, some relief. Though I have no doubt I will have to sweat for it, this past year in Hot Springs has taught me sweat makes it sweeter. After I moved a away from my family and friends to live with the man I loved, part of me quickly grew up to face the various responsibilities of living out from under my mother's roof. But no matter the level of my responsibility and faith in the future of my life with Andrew, life still threw us off track in some immense ways. Most of which are still too painful to go into right now, mostly because of how poorly timed the events were and how detrimental they were to my stability. With five car accidents, four months of unemployment, and roaches 24/7, I found myself fighting constantly just to keep my head above water financially, mentally, and physically, all the while trying to be as optimistic of the outcome as I could. It was much like learning to ride a bike on the bumpy, scary, gravelly road of adulthood, praying you'll begin to find your balance and quit toppling over and scraping yourself up just to do it all over again. When finances began leveling out, and we were able to quit starving ourselves to make rent money, the stress of experiencing a disappointing six months of fighting to stay afloat instead of the anticipated months of comfort and food took its toll on me.
As though collapsing into a dream state, lost memories reformed and began playing as though on a projector reel with no end. I found myself re-experiencing events from my childhood almost as vividly as they'd been when they were happening. I felt the same terror that haunted me as a girl, the fear of being alone, the feeling of being completely unsafe. It tormented and broke me daily. I spent much of my time curled in a ball screaming and sobbing the same way I had as a child, losing many hours and days to the painful regression. Because of it, our move to the small, beautiful cottage on the mountainside and the months that followed are a painful blur. And now as I begin to gather my books and skirts and candles into boxes to go back home, I find myself wishing that I'd been able to feel the reality of my situation, how blessed I have been having the place, the privacy, the mountains and the chance to see Andrew daily. I am sad to find that much of my year of living as an adult on my own has been spent curled up like a scared little girl.
Especially now that my time here is ending, I see that I was never as unsafe or alone as my mind made it seem. I am so grateful for Andrew, in ways that I may never be able to fully express. He laid with me and held me for hours, as I was hit with memories and images that brought all my wounds to a boil. He held my hand every step of the way, he called my name when I was lost in a trance of my own subconscious until I came back to him, no matter how long it took. In many ways, he saved my life. I never would have been able to survive those months without him, I'm positive I would have wound up committed, or drained of blood. He's shown me love, true love; that I don't have to fight my battles by myself, that I am not alone in this world, like I have often felt. He has given me something I can trust in.
And now I am going home a new person, and I am overwhelmed with anticipation. The Gervasios, the family of one of my very closest friends are letting us rent out their basement apartment for an extremely reasonable price that will finally let us get our heads above water. And I guess I can't just pin the "Best Friend's Family" title onto them, as they are more like family to me than anything I've experienced before. They've welcomed me into their home countless times, with smiles and embraces and lots of food, and they taught me what a family really is. Their offer to let us move in with them is a favor I will not soon forget, and it brings me to tears as I write this. Because I have spent so much of my time here feeling helpless, scared, and unsafe, the relief I feel that I will be able to go somewhere with people that love and accept me is almost too much to bear. I am thankful beyond words. They are once again providing me with a safe haven, someplace where I feel true comfort, and am able to rest and feel safe, and feel like I belong; not because I did anything to deserve it, but because they care. I don't know if they are aware of how much I love them, or how much they are saving me, but I hope one day they will see that they have had much to do with my faith in love, and that they've changed my life in some very lasting ways. To feel as though I have a home to come back to is a gift I cannot take for granted, because it makes me feel that things will be okay, which helps me to chase away the dark thoughts that torment me. For that, I am eternally grateful.
I'm afraid I'll have to write a different post about how happy I am to have their daughter Lori in my life, and what a blessing she's been to me. I'll save that sentimental ramble for a later day. I just had to talk about how thankful I am for the people and opportunities that I've been given, and how good it feels to feel the lightness of optimism and anticipation for the future for the first time in a long time.
Until next time
Abbi
As though collapsing into a dream state, lost memories reformed and began playing as though on a projector reel with no end. I found myself re-experiencing events from my childhood almost as vividly as they'd been when they were happening. I felt the same terror that haunted me as a girl, the fear of being alone, the feeling of being completely unsafe. It tormented and broke me daily. I spent much of my time curled in a ball screaming and sobbing the same way I had as a child, losing many hours and days to the painful regression. Because of it, our move to the small, beautiful cottage on the mountainside and the months that followed are a painful blur. And now as I begin to gather my books and skirts and candles into boxes to go back home, I find myself wishing that I'd been able to feel the reality of my situation, how blessed I have been having the place, the privacy, the mountains and the chance to see Andrew daily. I am sad to find that much of my year of living as an adult on my own has been spent curled up like a scared little girl.
Especially now that my time here is ending, I see that I was never as unsafe or alone as my mind made it seem. I am so grateful for Andrew, in ways that I may never be able to fully express. He laid with me and held me for hours, as I was hit with memories and images that brought all my wounds to a boil. He held my hand every step of the way, he called my name when I was lost in a trance of my own subconscious until I came back to him, no matter how long it took. In many ways, he saved my life. I never would have been able to survive those months without him, I'm positive I would have wound up committed, or drained of blood. He's shown me love, true love; that I don't have to fight my battles by myself, that I am not alone in this world, like I have often felt. He has given me something I can trust in.
And now I am going home a new person, and I am overwhelmed with anticipation. The Gervasios, the family of one of my very closest friends are letting us rent out their basement apartment for an extremely reasonable price that will finally let us get our heads above water. And I guess I can't just pin the "Best Friend's Family" title onto them, as they are more like family to me than anything I've experienced before. They've welcomed me into their home countless times, with smiles and embraces and lots of food, and they taught me what a family really is. Their offer to let us move in with them is a favor I will not soon forget, and it brings me to tears as I write this. Because I have spent so much of my time here feeling helpless, scared, and unsafe, the relief I feel that I will be able to go somewhere with people that love and accept me is almost too much to bear. I am thankful beyond words. They are once again providing me with a safe haven, someplace where I feel true comfort, and am able to rest and feel safe, and feel like I belong; not because I did anything to deserve it, but because they care. I don't know if they are aware of how much I love them, or how much they are saving me, but I hope one day they will see that they have had much to do with my faith in love, and that they've changed my life in some very lasting ways. To feel as though I have a home to come back to is a gift I cannot take for granted, because it makes me feel that things will be okay, which helps me to chase away the dark thoughts that torment me. For that, I am eternally grateful.
I'm afraid I'll have to write a different post about how happy I am to have their daughter Lori in my life, and what a blessing she's been to me. I'll save that sentimental ramble for a later day. I just had to talk about how thankful I am for the people and opportunities that I've been given, and how good it feels to feel the lightness of optimism and anticipation for the future for the first time in a long time.
Until next time
Abbi
Friday, July 22, 2011
Such a Late Night
Such a late night
gonna drive you home
a quiet ride
there's blood on the road
and blood on your face
I'm gonna cry, cry
Why didn't you brake?
Did you even try?
--Nina Nastasia, Late Night
I can't help but love Nina Nastasia's song writing. It's so simple and direct and visual, and genius. But then when you add in her voice, it's as euphoric as drinking a fine wine, or chocolate milk. Ahh, music.
So I promised Andrew I would write a blog about the date we had the other night. It involves Harry Potter, a raccoon, and fajitas. Take a guess which one we had for dinner!
Since Andrew got his job as a line cook at Olive Garden six months ago, we've barely had one night off together a week. Somewhere along the line, they managed to allow both of us Monday's off. Only seeing your partner one day a week makes you realize, over time, how important it is to be on your best behavior as far as patience and thankfulness go. You know, virtues and whatnot. So this past Monday we planned a special dinner and movie. Well Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows was really only special to me, but Andrew played along. He was happy to take me to a movie where I had lots and lots of nerdgasms, because he thinks my nerdiness is cute and wants me to have his nerd babies. Ahem. Anyway, we planned to have home made fajitas after the movie, so beforehand, we marinated the steak, cut up the garlic, red bell pepper, avocado and onion a girl could hope for, and let it sit while we boarded the Hogwarts Express to the land of badass magical duels. Andrew also had the idea to take me to a campsite just a mile east of where we live, to show me the pretty spot along the path he'd found the other night.
Well when I hear the word "path", I don't think of climbing. And when I hear the word path, and it is regarding something I'm going to be following after midnight with only a flashlight the size of pen to provide light, I will admit I especially dislike the idea of climbing. And yet, after we'd packed our ziplocks and satchel with as much fajita goodness, guacamole, and sour cream as they'd carry, we set off onto the mountain path, only to stop at a specific side, perfect, according to Andrew, for climbing. Mind you, I am in some beat up old chucks that are far more like socks than shoes, and of course, a skirt. He bounded up the rocks like a spider monkey, barely bothering to shine any light on where he was going, to prove how easy it was. Yeah, easy for him. He can sleep in trees. But he took my hand and shined the light at every solid foothold, and I begrudgingly followed along, clutching my skirt up to my thighs so as not to step on it and de-skirt myself, and latching onto every poor little tree along the way. A few minutes and several dozen cuss words later, we arrived at a flat stretch of stone and perched. The view was amazing. From where we sat, we faced a small clearing in the treetops, with the bright moon hanging perfectly in the center. We were completely bathed in the silence and moonlight. I was also still pretty traumatized and pissed from climbing rocks in the dark in those terrible old shoes, so I wasn't quite able to appreciate it all immediately. But once I had a few of those delicious fajitas, I mellowed out.
And then there was a rustling. Oh yes, a rustling. Quiet, though it was, it got our attention. Andrew grabbed the light and aimed it right into two beady raccoon eyes, just feet away from our picnic. Now let me give you a prime and authentic example of the difference between Andrew and I. I gasped, and exclaimed "Oh shit!" at the sight of the creature's shiny evil eyes. This is mostly because about a year ago, a raccoon tried to eat my foot, and I have not been able to warm back up to the species since, because they are hungry, desperate little devils that find me delicious. Andrew, on the other hand, has never been turned into a raccoon treat, but knowing that I have, he lunged right into defense mode. He stomped towards it, thrust his arms in the air and yelled "RAAAAWWRRR!!!!!" The raccoon ran straight down the mountainside in terror. And to make sure he knew he wasn't welcome, Andrew watched it with the light and tossed rocks at it for about five minutes straight until it was out of sight. It was glorious.
Nothing especially interesting happened after that, except the climb back down, and the only interesting thing about it was that my pinkie toe poked out of a hole in my shoe. All in all, I'd say it was a pretty good date night. Even as scared and frustrated as I was during the dark climb, I was happy to have Andrew's hand to hold the whole way up. It felt symbolic of all we've been through during our time together, with my being terrified of trusting life, fearing a lot of pain and broken limbs, only to find myself safe and surrounded by beauty with the one who loves me. Yes, it was a very good night, and I must say once again, this is a very good life.
Abtoo Deetoo
gonna drive you home
a quiet ride
there's blood on the road
and blood on your face
I'm gonna cry, cry
Why didn't you brake?
Did you even try?
--Nina Nastasia, Late Night
I can't help but love Nina Nastasia's song writing. It's so simple and direct and visual, and genius. But then when you add in her voice, it's as euphoric as drinking a fine wine, or chocolate milk. Ahh, music.
So I promised Andrew I would write a blog about the date we had the other night. It involves Harry Potter, a raccoon, and fajitas. Take a guess which one we had for dinner!
Since Andrew got his job as a line cook at Olive Garden six months ago, we've barely had one night off together a week. Somewhere along the line, they managed to allow both of us Monday's off. Only seeing your partner one day a week makes you realize, over time, how important it is to be on your best behavior as far as patience and thankfulness go. You know, virtues and whatnot. So this past Monday we planned a special dinner and movie. Well Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows was really only special to me, but Andrew played along. He was happy to take me to a movie where I had lots and lots of nerdgasms, because he thinks my nerdiness is cute and wants me to have his nerd babies. Ahem. Anyway, we planned to have home made fajitas after the movie, so beforehand, we marinated the steak, cut up the garlic, red bell pepper, avocado and onion a girl could hope for, and let it sit while we boarded the Hogwarts Express to the land of badass magical duels. Andrew also had the idea to take me to a campsite just a mile east of where we live, to show me the pretty spot along the path he'd found the other night.
Well when I hear the word "path", I don't think of climbing. And when I hear the word path, and it is regarding something I'm going to be following after midnight with only a flashlight the size of pen to provide light, I will admit I especially dislike the idea of climbing. And yet, after we'd packed our ziplocks and satchel with as much fajita goodness, guacamole, and sour cream as they'd carry, we set off onto the mountain path, only to stop at a specific side, perfect, according to Andrew, for climbing. Mind you, I am in some beat up old chucks that are far more like socks than shoes, and of course, a skirt. He bounded up the rocks like a spider monkey, barely bothering to shine any light on where he was going, to prove how easy it was. Yeah, easy for him. He can sleep in trees. But he took my hand and shined the light at every solid foothold, and I begrudgingly followed along, clutching my skirt up to my thighs so as not to step on it and de-skirt myself, and latching onto every poor little tree along the way. A few minutes and several dozen cuss words later, we arrived at a flat stretch of stone and perched. The view was amazing. From where we sat, we faced a small clearing in the treetops, with the bright moon hanging perfectly in the center. We were completely bathed in the silence and moonlight. I was also still pretty traumatized and pissed from climbing rocks in the dark in those terrible old shoes, so I wasn't quite able to appreciate it all immediately. But once I had a few of those delicious fajitas, I mellowed out.
And then there was a rustling. Oh yes, a rustling. Quiet, though it was, it got our attention. Andrew grabbed the light and aimed it right into two beady raccoon eyes, just feet away from our picnic. Now let me give you a prime and authentic example of the difference between Andrew and I. I gasped, and exclaimed "Oh shit!" at the sight of the creature's shiny evil eyes. This is mostly because about a year ago, a raccoon tried to eat my foot, and I have not been able to warm back up to the species since, because they are hungry, desperate little devils that find me delicious. Andrew, on the other hand, has never been turned into a raccoon treat, but knowing that I have, he lunged right into defense mode. He stomped towards it, thrust his arms in the air and yelled "RAAAAWWRRR!!!!!" The raccoon ran straight down the mountainside in terror. And to make sure he knew he wasn't welcome, Andrew watched it with the light and tossed rocks at it for about five minutes straight until it was out of sight. It was glorious.
Nothing especially interesting happened after that, except the climb back down, and the only interesting thing about it was that my pinkie toe poked out of a hole in my shoe. All in all, I'd say it was a pretty good date night. Even as scared and frustrated as I was during the dark climb, I was happy to have Andrew's hand to hold the whole way up. It felt symbolic of all we've been through during our time together, with my being terrified of trusting life, fearing a lot of pain and broken limbs, only to find myself safe and surrounded by beauty with the one who loves me. Yes, it was a very good night, and I must say once again, this is a very good life.
Abtoo Deetoo
Saturday, July 9, 2011
There is depth in design when it melts down to nothing, when you open your eyes and don't see it coming
I just spent two hours attempting to write a blog and failed miserably. I was trying to write about the frustrations I've had to deal with while living surrounded with Andrew's stuff and the bugs that came with it, both of which were dumped off at our place by Andrew's father. I think my first mistake was attempting to write with Andrew around. He's a talker. He's also going through his cook books and magazines to pack them up, which should have been a big sign to begin with that I wouldn't get any quiet. He sees a recipe, his eyes bulge and he makes some excited noise and starts reading the description off to me, but over and over again, with weirder and weirder food. I think after the tenth recipe he interrupted me with, he saw the look in my eyes saying that he was stepping on my creativity's toes and that he'd ought to back off. But he just moved on to stomping on it with even more recipes, so I chucked the blog and told him I'm writing a different one, blaming him for the death of the former. But I didn't say it in a mean way, I just said "I love you, even though you ruined my blog."
See, that's the problem with having a boy who likes talking to you, and likes hearing what you have to say. When you try pouring what you have to say into a laptop, he sabotages you! Bastard. Anyway, I'm not hugely disappointed in losing that other blog. Who wants to read about clutter and roaches? I certainly want little to do with them, which was the point of writing about it, but I imagine it wouldn't have ended up being particularly cathartic. It probably would have just made me even more neurotic about things, and honestly, I wouldn't wish that on anyone. So what do I write about in its stead? I could tell you everything Andrew just told me about craw fish, but I'm not especially inspired by craw fish. I am, however inspired by him. Why? Because I wrote him into existence. And he gives me kisses. Let me explain...
When I was a teenager, I was far more awkward than I am today. I'd had little social interaction from being left at home most of my adolescence, instead of being put in school. By fourteen I'd read most of the dictionary and had written a novel or two. Writing helped me dream of different lives, and explore all the corners of my imagination. But then I decided to write a dream about my life, as fictional or non-fictional as I wanted it to be. It told essential parts of my story, with my emotional mother and selfish sister whose beauty I never felt I could match, and how it all followed me like a dark cloud. I made up a best friend for my character, who found my character in an abuse-induced dissociated state, and helped her out of it. He was tall and lanky, drove a red pick up and loved good oldies and indie music. He was uninhibited and honest, and saw through all her walls to who she was. He didn't care that my character was overweight, with deep-seated trauma, and cutting habit in tow. Ah! Perfection! But being the pessimist that I am, I had to turn their relationship even more dysfunctional. My character spun further into a web of extreme self-abuse and depression, and that perfect boy fell with her, exhausted by his attempts to save her. Yes, at fourteen, I believed that story to be romantic.
Months after I'd started the book, I turned fifteen, and had finally scraped together a social life. The booming popularity of Myspace and Xanga, etc. made socializing all the more easy, and being the computer geek I was, I dove right in. I started making friends all over the world with people as weird and nerdy and funny as me. I found Aaron in Australia, Konrack in England, Sara in Dubai, and Andrew in Arkansas. Andrew was a lanky seventeen year old with a beard, big sunglasses, a taste in music that blew my mind, and a cornucopia of random yet solid information that he shared so gladly, I wanted to punch him. I wasn't too sure about that Andrew Dodd, but my best friend who was over all the time liked him a lot more than I did. Her mom didn't approve of her crushing on some Arkansas boy who didn't love Jesus, nor did she approve of her being best friends with some crazy-haired Mexi-Jew that wore a cape. So to be vindictive and helpful, I called my friend and Andrew on three-way so they could talk in secret. This lasted maybe a month before my friend called me one night in tears, saying Andrew told her he kissed some other girl and that their little thing was over. I hated him for tossing her aside. I deleted him from all of my friends lists and didn't speak to him again for two years.
By seventeen I'd been ditched by that friend of mine, and had long-since forgotten any hostility I'd had towards Andrew. Eventually, we picked back up about where we'd left off. He wasn't as much of an asshole as my friend made it seem, and he was far less full of himself than I remembered. My insecurities had diminished enough that I could pull my weight in a conversation with him without feeling like an idiot, and found that he actually listened and considered what I had to say. We started talking more often, online and on the phone. We talked about everything. He showed me his new photography, and his food photography of the food he made. I told him about the stupid guys I'd date, and he'd make snide remarks about them that I resented, but he was always right. And it turned out that Andrew treated me better as a friend than a lot of the guys that liked me did. Realizing that helped me to raise the bar, and stop settling. By then I was nineteen, and we finally made plans for me to come stay the weekend with him and his girlfriend. I was stoked. I'd be taking my first road trip alone, and I'd finally get to hang out with Andrew.
I was in store for a handful of surprises. A couple of them came before I hit the road.
The First Surprise: A week or two before my trip, I was facebook stalking Andrew with my best friend Lori, when she exclaimed "That's Andrew?! He's hot!" I said, "No he's not. He's Andrew." But then I looked at his picture again, like I'd never seen him before, and gasped. He was beautiful! He was everything I'd ever dreamed of rubbing against! I was horrified! How was I supposed to handle myself around him and his girlfriend with that knowledge?
The Second Surprise: The day before my trip, he told me (supposedly not for the first time) that his girlfriend had left him the week before. I guess I'd somehow managed to miss that detail. That's right, instead of going to spend the weekend with a fun, platonic and most importantly taken guy-friend, I was suddenly off to spend the weekend in Arkansas with a sexy single guy with a really attractive face. Surprise!
But I didn't chicken out! No, no! I went there and I arrived exhausted and mortified at how nice-looking he was. Even scarier, was how comfortable I was with him. Our hug wasn't awkward, our conversation was just as effortless and politically incorrect as usual, and I realized as I was sitting, laughing in the chair next to him that it was special. I didn't worry constantly about what he thought about how I looked or what I said, because I trusted him without realizing it. Normally, I tensed up and got nauseous when guys touched me, or saw too much of my skin, or looked at me in the eyes. But Andrew and I spent the whole weekend lounging on his bed, watching movies and drinking Sailor Jerry. He rubbed my skin when it was cold, and I didn't feel like vomiting from it at all.
He had to go to work early on my last day there, so we said our goodbyes before I went back to bed to recoop from our night with Sailor. We had a perfectly friendly hug, with a sad wave, then I closed his apartment door behind him. I ripped a good chunk of his music off of his computer to take home with me, and I was about to take my hangover nap when he called me to say he was coming back from work because he felt sick to his stomach. Thanks, Sailor Jerry! When he got back we laid down together to rest, and we laid with our faces so close together for so long I thought he'd never kiss me. But he did. For four hours straight. I left at 8pm instead of arriving home at 8pm as I'd planned, but it was cool, because he was a really good kisser. Before I left, he kissed me one more time, and scratched the top of my head to make my hair go all wonky and he smiled the nicest smile I had ever seen. Then I left, and I didn't see him again for over three months, and not because I got lost in the woods. Well, I did, but not for three months.
But I'll leave our story at that for now. There's so much more to tell, so many more surprises and twists. But I don't want to give it to you all at once. It's my favorite story in the world, after all, and it must stay paced. The best part is that our finding each other was so unexpected. Part of my growing up and learning about life is that it's always better not knowing what is going to happen next. I spent all of my creativity and energy on making a story for myself, that had all my sadness and all the happiness I could imagine for myself. But what life brought was so much more clever and intricate, and personal. And better. The turns our lives take can be dangerous and frightening, and not knowing what's going to happen next is part of the thrill, and it keeps us from wimping out. The blindness we have in this life is a blessing. It helps us to remain innocent and courageous, and see the beauty in the unexpected.
There's something special about the way my life with Andrew has unfolded, the fluidity in the timing and details, that helped me to see that perfection exists. I mean, if perfection doesn't exist, then Andrew never would have gotten sick and had to come home before I left to feel me up for hours. It proves to me that there is some beauty to have faith in, and that beauty is all I need to know is real.
-Abbi
See, that's the problem with having a boy who likes talking to you, and likes hearing what you have to say. When you try pouring what you have to say into a laptop, he sabotages you! Bastard. Anyway, I'm not hugely disappointed in losing that other blog. Who wants to read about clutter and roaches? I certainly want little to do with them, which was the point of writing about it, but I imagine it wouldn't have ended up being particularly cathartic. It probably would have just made me even more neurotic about things, and honestly, I wouldn't wish that on anyone. So what do I write about in its stead? I could tell you everything Andrew just told me about craw fish, but I'm not especially inspired by craw fish. I am, however inspired by him. Why? Because I wrote him into existence. And he gives me kisses. Let me explain...
When I was a teenager, I was far more awkward than I am today. I'd had little social interaction from being left at home most of my adolescence, instead of being put in school. By fourteen I'd read most of the dictionary and had written a novel or two. Writing helped me dream of different lives, and explore all the corners of my imagination. But then I decided to write a dream about my life, as fictional or non-fictional as I wanted it to be. It told essential parts of my story, with my emotional mother and selfish sister whose beauty I never felt I could match, and how it all followed me like a dark cloud. I made up a best friend for my character, who found my character in an abuse-induced dissociated state, and helped her out of it. He was tall and lanky, drove a red pick up and loved good oldies and indie music. He was uninhibited and honest, and saw through all her walls to who she was. He didn't care that my character was overweight, with deep-seated trauma, and cutting habit in tow. Ah! Perfection! But being the pessimist that I am, I had to turn their relationship even more dysfunctional. My character spun further into a web of extreme self-abuse and depression, and that perfect boy fell with her, exhausted by his attempts to save her. Yes, at fourteen, I believed that story to be romantic.
Months after I'd started the book, I turned fifteen, and had finally scraped together a social life. The booming popularity of Myspace and Xanga, etc. made socializing all the more easy, and being the computer geek I was, I dove right in. I started making friends all over the world with people as weird and nerdy and funny as me. I found Aaron in Australia, Konrack in England, Sara in Dubai, and Andrew in Arkansas. Andrew was a lanky seventeen year old with a beard, big sunglasses, a taste in music that blew my mind, and a cornucopia of random yet solid information that he shared so gladly, I wanted to punch him. I wasn't too sure about that Andrew Dodd, but my best friend who was over all the time liked him a lot more than I did. Her mom didn't approve of her crushing on some Arkansas boy who didn't love Jesus, nor did she approve of her being best friends with some crazy-haired Mexi-Jew that wore a cape. So to be vindictive and helpful, I called my friend and Andrew on three-way so they could talk in secret. This lasted maybe a month before my friend called me one night in tears, saying Andrew told her he kissed some other girl and that their little thing was over. I hated him for tossing her aside. I deleted him from all of my friends lists and didn't speak to him again for two years.
By seventeen I'd been ditched by that friend of mine, and had long-since forgotten any hostility I'd had towards Andrew. Eventually, we picked back up about where we'd left off. He wasn't as much of an asshole as my friend made it seem, and he was far less full of himself than I remembered. My insecurities had diminished enough that I could pull my weight in a conversation with him without feeling like an idiot, and found that he actually listened and considered what I had to say. We started talking more often, online and on the phone. We talked about everything. He showed me his new photography, and his food photography of the food he made. I told him about the stupid guys I'd date, and he'd make snide remarks about them that I resented, but he was always right. And it turned out that Andrew treated me better as a friend than a lot of the guys that liked me did. Realizing that helped me to raise the bar, and stop settling. By then I was nineteen, and we finally made plans for me to come stay the weekend with him and his girlfriend. I was stoked. I'd be taking my first road trip alone, and I'd finally get to hang out with Andrew.
I was in store for a handful of surprises. A couple of them came before I hit the road.
The First Surprise: A week or two before my trip, I was facebook stalking Andrew with my best friend Lori, when she exclaimed "That's Andrew?! He's hot!" I said, "No he's not. He's Andrew." But then I looked at his picture again, like I'd never seen him before, and gasped. He was beautiful! He was everything I'd ever dreamed of rubbing against! I was horrified! How was I supposed to handle myself around him and his girlfriend with that knowledge?
The Second Surprise: The day before my trip, he told me (supposedly not for the first time) that his girlfriend had left him the week before. I guess I'd somehow managed to miss that detail. That's right, instead of going to spend the weekend with a fun, platonic and most importantly taken guy-friend, I was suddenly off to spend the weekend in Arkansas with a sexy single guy with a really attractive face. Surprise!
But I didn't chicken out! No, no! I went there and I arrived exhausted and mortified at how nice-looking he was. Even scarier, was how comfortable I was with him. Our hug wasn't awkward, our conversation was just as effortless and politically incorrect as usual, and I realized as I was sitting, laughing in the chair next to him that it was special. I didn't worry constantly about what he thought about how I looked or what I said, because I trusted him without realizing it. Normally, I tensed up and got nauseous when guys touched me, or saw too much of my skin, or looked at me in the eyes. But Andrew and I spent the whole weekend lounging on his bed, watching movies and drinking Sailor Jerry. He rubbed my skin when it was cold, and I didn't feel like vomiting from it at all.
He had to go to work early on my last day there, so we said our goodbyes before I went back to bed to recoop from our night with Sailor. We had a perfectly friendly hug, with a sad wave, then I closed his apartment door behind him. I ripped a good chunk of his music off of his computer to take home with me, and I was about to take my hangover nap when he called me to say he was coming back from work because he felt sick to his stomach. Thanks, Sailor Jerry! When he got back we laid down together to rest, and we laid with our faces so close together for so long I thought he'd never kiss me. But he did. For four hours straight. I left at 8pm instead of arriving home at 8pm as I'd planned, but it was cool, because he was a really good kisser. Before I left, he kissed me one more time, and scratched the top of my head to make my hair go all wonky and he smiled the nicest smile I had ever seen. Then I left, and I didn't see him again for over three months, and not because I got lost in the woods. Well, I did, but not for three months.
But I'll leave our story at that for now. There's so much more to tell, so many more surprises and twists. But I don't want to give it to you all at once. It's my favorite story in the world, after all, and it must stay paced. The best part is that our finding each other was so unexpected. Part of my growing up and learning about life is that it's always better not knowing what is going to happen next. I spent all of my creativity and energy on making a story for myself, that had all my sadness and all the happiness I could imagine for myself. But what life brought was so much more clever and intricate, and personal. And better. The turns our lives take can be dangerous and frightening, and not knowing what's going to happen next is part of the thrill, and it keeps us from wimping out. The blindness we have in this life is a blessing. It helps us to remain innocent and courageous, and see the beauty in the unexpected.
There's something special about the way my life with Andrew has unfolded, the fluidity in the timing and details, that helped me to see that perfection exists. I mean, if perfection doesn't exist, then Andrew never would have gotten sick and had to come home before I left to feel me up for hours. It proves to me that there is some beauty to have faith in, and that beauty is all I need to know is real.
-Abbi
Thursday, June 30, 2011
Random Bookstore Blog
I'm so happy I've been writing again. It's so obvious how good it is for me. When I write out my thoughts and passions, I can focus on what's important to me. I don't get as bogged down and overwhelmed by things. They don't make a sticky cluster of worry in my head when I write them out. I just try to come up with a solution for what bothers me, and if I can't, then I try to be patient. That is not at all how I function when I don't write. I got holed up in my room, trapped by everything I can't change until I'm completely detached from the present. I get stuck without writing. I don't let things flow out of me like they should, I get pent up and flustered until I can't see things clearly. Realizing it's my own doing doesn't help, it just gives me a reason to be more miserable most of the time. Unless I can find my center, that is. And that's exactly what writing helps me with. It helps me remember who it is I really am, and what it is really believe in, and to let go of the rest because I start remembering that anything else is just baggage.
Anyway, I have to go to work. I got stuck at this crappy book store instead of being allowed to go in early, but it was nice to get to write again.
Until next time!
Abbi
Anyway, I have to go to work. I got stuck at this crappy book store instead of being allowed to go in early, but it was nice to get to write again.
Until next time!
Abbi
Monday, June 27, 2011
Truth and Love
All right, Mr. Blogger Sir, I'm inspired again. By what? Oh, by so many things. But let me get warmed up first by going back to last week when I spilt my guts to you in a very real way by saying that I'm detaching from my sister for the time being. Mainly because she's remained melodramatic and narcissistic well into her late-twenties, and having been absent only 8 years out of her 30, I've experienced enough soap-opera material to put Guiding Light to shame, and would really rather not digest any more. With that being said, I have to mention one teensy weensy yet particularly sad move on her part before I go on to speaking about what actually matters. I mentioned before that she blogs as well and has been posting things about me for the past week or so. I could copy over all of what she said, but I don't need the writer's block. She mostly said a lot of half-baked things. Few of them made sense, even fewer were honest, especially when they concerned herself. She spoke a lot of god (and I mean a lot) and also the action-reaction dynamic as seen through Christianity.
She claims to reflect on action-reaction often, though it seems if she had, we would not be in the situation we are in, but I can go on about that some other time. Something she said on her most recent entry opened my eyes quite a bit to her perception of things. After going on about her recent purchase of plane tickets to Africa, which she believes to be the will of god, she made a list of occurances that have been sent by "the enemy" to knock her off course in the same week. Apparently her behaving calously and my decision not to take it any longer was dramatic enough to make the list, though there's no way in hell she'd put it that way. Alas, I only made number three on her list. Check out my new label:
"3- My sister, who is not serving the Lord, etc gets upset with me, slings crazy amounts of insults, nothing I said or did would fix it. And now she is no longer speaking to me. - ironic that this all happened in one week,"
Mind you, I have not said one single disrespectful thing about her religion, and displayed nothing but support when she decided to move to Africa to do missions, even though I don't believe in the same things she believes. So when did I get simplified down into the prodigal sister/non-believer? When I stood my ground, and respected what I believed in. And isn't that always the case when dealing with radical people? I tend not to label myself, because I know that whatever I say I am is just going to distort the truth of who I really am, and what I really believe.
I used to call myself a Christian, and I used to call myself a Jew, and I used to call myself a Believer, but at some point those words drew a blank for me. I stopped believing that they told me anything about myself or anyone else. They are words, and names we attach meanings to and nothing else. And when I see gatherings of Christians or Jews or Muslims or Athiests or Buddhists, it's the same thing as seeing gatherings of Wandas or Jennifers or Tonys or Bills. They're just names, and I don't believe I can get any true impression of the people by what they call themselves. If you know I go by the name Abigail, what does that tell you about me? Only the name I go by.
But having grown up in a strict Christian house-hold, I have to add that there is a particular reason I don't call myself a Christian anymore. It's not just because I no longer believe Jesus came back to life and in so doing made it possible for those who know him to find inner peace. It's mostly because of the attitude that you seem obligated to take on after becoming a Christian. What attitude is that? The proselytizing attitude. The idea that those who believe in Jesus are on the right track just by believing, and have the task to spread the righteousness onto others, and convert them to their way of life. There's the belief that those who don't believe are simply wrong, either because they don't know any better, or because they are willingly throwing their life away. When they share their beliefs, it's not to cease judgment and replace it with love and kindness for their fellow man. They pretend it is. But the idea is to condescent and convince others Jesus is the only way into happiness. They say this is what the man who lived and died ages ago did for his fellow man, and this is what he would do today, if he was still alive. Which he is not. And they believe he would write you off as an un-believer in his little black book if you didn't follow him like a sheep. Though he spoke strongly against such attitudes. So why is this such a prominent attitude. Because they believe, above all else, they are right and others are wrong.
This mentality is what alienates and segregates people, it is the sin we are comitting. This is what blinds us from seeing clearly. We all want to know the truth, we are all searching for it, and we all come up with different results, because none of us are looking through the same eyes. None of us have lived the same lives, what is true to us cannot and will never be 100% true to anyone else. And we must respect each other's right to come to his or her own conclusions without the need to judge or agree, because other people's theories and ideas and opinions are just that. We don't need to compare everything we believe or doubt because we don't even know. And any attempt to display it to someone else will be inaccurate. There's nothing wrong with that, it's just what comes with having a man-made library of symbology as a tool for communication. It's flawed. It's us. There's always lost elements when we attempt to communicate with one another, but we can feel when someone is trying to communicate something coming from the integrity they have within them, because it's an integrity we all have, that we can recognize easily unless we keep ourselves from it. Our honesty, our courage, our faith, our imagination, our love that makes us who we are as human beings.
Love is acceptance without judgment. If you see someone who is not like you, and think they should be like you, you are not loving them. You are projecting your own opinions onto them, and disrespecting their right to be whatever they want. If you see someone different who is in pain, and think they would be better if they were like you, you are not loving them, you are not trying to heal them. You are trying to change them for your own personal reasons. You are faking love in order to manipulate someone. You are lying.
The stories in the ancient books can be beautiful and helpful, because they are written by people trying to share something important they've learned and pass it on. Whether it be in metaphor, or honest depiction, it's always just a story somebody wrote. It may be a beautiful story. It might be true, but we can't know it for sure because we weren't there, we didn't write it. So the best we can do is search for what feels right, instead of automatically assuming everything is.
Most of the wise people who lived long ago had this one message in common: You find heaven and peace by loving. That is the way, the truth, and the light. And we can fill our days with tradition and prayers and discipline but we are empty unless we see the need to love people equally as family. If we neglect to see we are all made of the same things, that we are one, together, no matter our beliefs, we are fruitless. Barren. We cannot produce love, no matter how many times we read a book or pray to fill the emptiness we've created.
Whew, I need to wind down now. I'm glad I got this out. I'm glad I'm following my heart and loving people and life as best as I can. I'm glad I'm not caught up believing distracting stories as much as I used to. I'm still learning to sniff out the fiction, but I am so looking forward to the day I will see life clearly. without the lies and superstition that distort it. I will finally see heaven. If I am labeled an un-believer by believing such a thing, I am proud. I am proud to say I am still learning, that I am still trying, that I am beginning not to believe in some abstract source of peace and strength, but tuning into what has been within me all along. The force that created the universe and this tiny planet that has the freshest air and the greenest grass and the bluest water needs no name. It lives beyond language and understanding, and when I remember that, I stop trying get knowledge. I only accept what is, and accept my cluelessness as a gateway to great peace.
Until next time
Abigail
"It is because you claim to have sight that you are blind"
-Jesus
She claims to reflect on action-reaction often, though it seems if she had, we would not be in the situation we are in, but I can go on about that some other time. Something she said on her most recent entry opened my eyes quite a bit to her perception of things. After going on about her recent purchase of plane tickets to Africa, which she believes to be the will of god, she made a list of occurances that have been sent by "the enemy" to knock her off course in the same week. Apparently her behaving calously and my decision not to take it any longer was dramatic enough to make the list, though there's no way in hell she'd put it that way. Alas, I only made number three on her list. Check out my new label:
"3- My sister, who is not serving the Lord, etc gets upset with me, slings crazy amounts of insults, nothing I said or did would fix it. And now she is no longer speaking to me. - ironic that this all happened in one week,"
Mind you, I have not said one single disrespectful thing about her religion, and displayed nothing but support when she decided to move to Africa to do missions, even though I don't believe in the same things she believes. So when did I get simplified down into the prodigal sister/non-believer? When I stood my ground, and respected what I believed in. And isn't that always the case when dealing with radical people? I tend not to label myself, because I know that whatever I say I am is just going to distort the truth of who I really am, and what I really believe.
I used to call myself a Christian, and I used to call myself a Jew, and I used to call myself a Believer, but at some point those words drew a blank for me. I stopped believing that they told me anything about myself or anyone else. They are words, and names we attach meanings to and nothing else. And when I see gatherings of Christians or Jews or Muslims or Athiests or Buddhists, it's the same thing as seeing gatherings of Wandas or Jennifers or Tonys or Bills. They're just names, and I don't believe I can get any true impression of the people by what they call themselves. If you know I go by the name Abigail, what does that tell you about me? Only the name I go by.
But having grown up in a strict Christian house-hold, I have to add that there is a particular reason I don't call myself a Christian anymore. It's not just because I no longer believe Jesus came back to life and in so doing made it possible for those who know him to find inner peace. It's mostly because of the attitude that you seem obligated to take on after becoming a Christian. What attitude is that? The proselytizing attitude. The idea that those who believe in Jesus are on the right track just by believing, and have the task to spread the righteousness onto others, and convert them to their way of life. There's the belief that those who don't believe are simply wrong, either because they don't know any better, or because they are willingly throwing their life away. When they share their beliefs, it's not to cease judgment and replace it with love and kindness for their fellow man. They pretend it is. But the idea is to condescent and convince others Jesus is the only way into happiness. They say this is what the man who lived and died ages ago did for his fellow man, and this is what he would do today, if he was still alive. Which he is not. And they believe he would write you off as an un-believer in his little black book if you didn't follow him like a sheep. Though he spoke strongly against such attitudes. So why is this such a prominent attitude. Because they believe, above all else, they are right and others are wrong.
This mentality is what alienates and segregates people, it is the sin we are comitting. This is what blinds us from seeing clearly. We all want to know the truth, we are all searching for it, and we all come up with different results, because none of us are looking through the same eyes. None of us have lived the same lives, what is true to us cannot and will never be 100% true to anyone else. And we must respect each other's right to come to his or her own conclusions without the need to judge or agree, because other people's theories and ideas and opinions are just that. We don't need to compare everything we believe or doubt because we don't even know. And any attempt to display it to someone else will be inaccurate. There's nothing wrong with that, it's just what comes with having a man-made library of symbology as a tool for communication. It's flawed. It's us. There's always lost elements when we attempt to communicate with one another, but we can feel when someone is trying to communicate something coming from the integrity they have within them, because it's an integrity we all have, that we can recognize easily unless we keep ourselves from it. Our honesty, our courage, our faith, our imagination, our love that makes us who we are as human beings.
Love is acceptance without judgment. If you see someone who is not like you, and think they should be like you, you are not loving them. You are projecting your own opinions onto them, and disrespecting their right to be whatever they want. If you see someone different who is in pain, and think they would be better if they were like you, you are not loving them, you are not trying to heal them. You are trying to change them for your own personal reasons. You are faking love in order to manipulate someone. You are lying.
The stories in the ancient books can be beautiful and helpful, because they are written by people trying to share something important they've learned and pass it on. Whether it be in metaphor, or honest depiction, it's always just a story somebody wrote. It may be a beautiful story. It might be true, but we can't know it for sure because we weren't there, we didn't write it. So the best we can do is search for what feels right, instead of automatically assuming everything is.
Most of the wise people who lived long ago had this one message in common: You find heaven and peace by loving. That is the way, the truth, and the light. And we can fill our days with tradition and prayers and discipline but we are empty unless we see the need to love people equally as family. If we neglect to see we are all made of the same things, that we are one, together, no matter our beliefs, we are fruitless. Barren. We cannot produce love, no matter how many times we read a book or pray to fill the emptiness we've created.
Whew, I need to wind down now. I'm glad I got this out. I'm glad I'm following my heart and loving people and life as best as I can. I'm glad I'm not caught up believing distracting stories as much as I used to. I'm still learning to sniff out the fiction, but I am so looking forward to the day I will see life clearly. without the lies and superstition that distort it. I will finally see heaven. If I am labeled an un-believer by believing such a thing, I am proud. I am proud to say I am still learning, that I am still trying, that I am beginning not to believe in some abstract source of peace and strength, but tuning into what has been within me all along. The force that created the universe and this tiny planet that has the freshest air and the greenest grass and the bluest water needs no name. It lives beyond language and understanding, and when I remember that, I stop trying get knowledge. I only accept what is, and accept my cluelessness as a gateway to great peace.
Until next time
Abigail
"It is because you claim to have sight that you are blind"
-Jesus
Saturday, June 18, 2011
Growth, and Letting Go
Lord knows it's been ages since I posted, what with my laptop crapping out and being without Internet for so long. There's been so much that's happened over the past year, I can't imagine where to begin. I'll most likely have to post a juicy, descriptive article on the goodies, drama and horrors that have ensued but I don't believe this will be the post. No, as I sit here at Books a Million, watching the time pass till I have to put on my tie and smile and go into work, there's one subject I feel the need to wash my hands of.
My sister has been posting some pretty absurd blogs regarding me and my decision to stop speaking to her. She feels the need to post publicly that I basically want nothing to do with her and plead her case to get as much sympathy as possible. Let me begin by saying how exhausting it is having to break morals down to someone who is supposed to be older and wiser than me. I still don't understand how someone can be so willingly insensitive, for years, and still have the nerve to stand behind their behavior even after they've jumped through hoops to look like a better person. When you step on someone you love's feelings, when you use them, when you hurt them, then deny it and turn any blame back onto them, that is not love. It is a delusion. My sister has picked me up then tossed me aside like a rag-doll since I can remember, punishing me for disagreeing with her by showing me how little she needs me, over and over and over again. And each time I've let it pass, because we're family. When she decided I was worthy to be back in her life, I was ready, but trusted her a little less each time. She's lived out of state for years now, doing her make-up thing in NY and now doing her missionary thing in Africa. Why such a switch? She's a dynamic chameleon. Whatever persona looks best on her, she pastes right on. We've kept in contact on the phone and online, mostly I get an update of whatever romantic drama she's soaking herself in at the time, and that's mostly the extent of our relationship, if you can call it that. She doesn't know me as a person anymore, because she's been away too long, because she is too focused on who she is and what's going on in her life, and because after this long, I know better than to let my guard down around her.
Now I'm older, living on my own with my fella in a little cottage by the woods, experiencing real love and acceptance that my mind and heart have to stretch to accept. I've learned how to work hard to keep a relationship going, about the sacrifices and compromises that you undertake without looking back. And you learn it's worth it, every moment of it. And it's pure. When you know you both are doing your best to be good to each other, it changes you as a person, and you know you can't do anything but fight for what you believe in. But it doesn't stop life from changing on you. Things you love fade or clash, and you find yourself open to warmth from people you don't usually expect it from. So then my sister comes back into play, initially playing the sweet sister then immediately segueing into non-stop stories of her life, and a gush of comments that pour out without a second thought, of course she steps on my toes. She says something unkind, inconsiderate as I am in a vulnerable state, and is confused as to why I might react, because she feels how she feels, and that's it. What she says and does to other people are filtered through her web of emotions that distort everything, just like the rest of us, but she is unwilling to recognize it. She is unwilling to recognize her actual behavior and deeds that accumulate to make her who she is, and when I push against them, and say they're hurtful or disrespectful, and unacceptable, she does not understand. She gets upset, pushes back. She does not listen, she automatically defends, and justifies and expects to win.
But she forgets that the substance of our relationship is brittle now from too much wear over time. She does not understand that I speak to her and listen, not out of obligation to her as family, but as a choice to have her in my life, just like any other relationship is a choice. Some relationships are bad decisions, sometimes they do not nurture you, or heal you, or help you to grow, in which case they are dysfunctional and useless unless they change. Patience is a treasure, it helps teach you to wait and see the complexity of things and people, and to make educated decisions. I've been patient, waiting for her to grow and see life and people clearer as a person. I've seen the potential and hopefully anticipated its bloom, but so much disappointment has made me weather-worn and tired. I don't have the will to wait expectantly for a growth I've seen little proof of over 22 years. After having been subjected to so much disrespect and deception, I've decided to do what's best for me, and let her go. She has her life, and lives it happily without seeing me or speaking to me regularly, the sister she believes in is mostly a memory of when I was too afraid to stick up for myself, to nice to talk back. She's been absent too long to witness the change, but she saw when she showed her colors again that mine had changed. I have no tolerance for those who are unkind to me, who disrespect me, and stand their ground while doing so. Why would I? I don't need it, it's not love. I walk away from it and spend my time with people who dislike the idea of behaving that way towards me, who show me they value my heart and my time.
I'm so happy I have people in my life who love me, who have taken the time and effort to show me what respect and kindness can grow into if you nurture them, the rewards they bring. Those relationships have filled my heart to the brim, and have opened my eyes to the naturalness of integrity, and I would not be the same person without them. I am sorry I had to let go of someone I have loved, it was not something I wanted to do. But I must make room for those who deserve and appreciate all the love give, and I must stop wasting my time and energy on those who are too unable or too unwilling see it. Part of the growth I am undergoing includes loving myself, and not just others. It includes defending myself and respecting myself, especially when others will not, and this is a test I believe I've passed. I made a decision that was difficult, and yet the best thing for me, and I feel the lightness of that fact and cannot bring myself to regret it.
She has made a big mess of the situation. Calling and venting to our mother about how irrational I'm being, posting blog after blog about how rough our family life has been, and all the reasons she has for her malfunctions, and all the ways I've hurt her by letting her go, without once acknowledging her own present actions as wrong or deserving of discourse. She does not see things the way they are, because she does not want to. And though it hurts, there is nothing I can do to change that. And that is the end of it.
I feel better now. Twas good blogging to you, Mr. Blogger Sir. I will try to type in you more often. Until next time!
Abigail
My sister has been posting some pretty absurd blogs regarding me and my decision to stop speaking to her. She feels the need to post publicly that I basically want nothing to do with her and plead her case to get as much sympathy as possible. Let me begin by saying how exhausting it is having to break morals down to someone who is supposed to be older and wiser than me. I still don't understand how someone can be so willingly insensitive, for years, and still have the nerve to stand behind their behavior even after they've jumped through hoops to look like a better person. When you step on someone you love's feelings, when you use them, when you hurt them, then deny it and turn any blame back onto them, that is not love. It is a delusion. My sister has picked me up then tossed me aside like a rag-doll since I can remember, punishing me for disagreeing with her by showing me how little she needs me, over and over and over again. And each time I've let it pass, because we're family. When she decided I was worthy to be back in her life, I was ready, but trusted her a little less each time. She's lived out of state for years now, doing her make-up thing in NY and now doing her missionary thing in Africa. Why such a switch? She's a dynamic chameleon. Whatever persona looks best on her, she pastes right on. We've kept in contact on the phone and online, mostly I get an update of whatever romantic drama she's soaking herself in at the time, and that's mostly the extent of our relationship, if you can call it that. She doesn't know me as a person anymore, because she's been away too long, because she is too focused on who she is and what's going on in her life, and because after this long, I know better than to let my guard down around her.
Now I'm older, living on my own with my fella in a little cottage by the woods, experiencing real love and acceptance that my mind and heart have to stretch to accept. I've learned how to work hard to keep a relationship going, about the sacrifices and compromises that you undertake without looking back. And you learn it's worth it, every moment of it. And it's pure. When you know you both are doing your best to be good to each other, it changes you as a person, and you know you can't do anything but fight for what you believe in. But it doesn't stop life from changing on you. Things you love fade or clash, and you find yourself open to warmth from people you don't usually expect it from. So then my sister comes back into play, initially playing the sweet sister then immediately segueing into non-stop stories of her life, and a gush of comments that pour out without a second thought, of course she steps on my toes. She says something unkind, inconsiderate as I am in a vulnerable state, and is confused as to why I might react, because she feels how she feels, and that's it. What she says and does to other people are filtered through her web of emotions that distort everything, just like the rest of us, but she is unwilling to recognize it. She is unwilling to recognize her actual behavior and deeds that accumulate to make her who she is, and when I push against them, and say they're hurtful or disrespectful, and unacceptable, she does not understand. She gets upset, pushes back. She does not listen, she automatically defends, and justifies and expects to win.
But she forgets that the substance of our relationship is brittle now from too much wear over time. She does not understand that I speak to her and listen, not out of obligation to her as family, but as a choice to have her in my life, just like any other relationship is a choice. Some relationships are bad decisions, sometimes they do not nurture you, or heal you, or help you to grow, in which case they are dysfunctional and useless unless they change. Patience is a treasure, it helps teach you to wait and see the complexity of things and people, and to make educated decisions. I've been patient, waiting for her to grow and see life and people clearer as a person. I've seen the potential and hopefully anticipated its bloom, but so much disappointment has made me weather-worn and tired. I don't have the will to wait expectantly for a growth I've seen little proof of over 22 years. After having been subjected to so much disrespect and deception, I've decided to do what's best for me, and let her go. She has her life, and lives it happily without seeing me or speaking to me regularly, the sister she believes in is mostly a memory of when I was too afraid to stick up for myself, to nice to talk back. She's been absent too long to witness the change, but she saw when she showed her colors again that mine had changed. I have no tolerance for those who are unkind to me, who disrespect me, and stand their ground while doing so. Why would I? I don't need it, it's not love. I walk away from it and spend my time with people who dislike the idea of behaving that way towards me, who show me they value my heart and my time.
I'm so happy I have people in my life who love me, who have taken the time and effort to show me what respect and kindness can grow into if you nurture them, the rewards they bring. Those relationships have filled my heart to the brim, and have opened my eyes to the naturalness of integrity, and I would not be the same person without them. I am sorry I had to let go of someone I have loved, it was not something I wanted to do. But I must make room for those who deserve and appreciate all the love give, and I must stop wasting my time and energy on those who are too unable or too unwilling see it. Part of the growth I am undergoing includes loving myself, and not just others. It includes defending myself and respecting myself, especially when others will not, and this is a test I believe I've passed. I made a decision that was difficult, and yet the best thing for me, and I feel the lightness of that fact and cannot bring myself to regret it.
She has made a big mess of the situation. Calling and venting to our mother about how irrational I'm being, posting blog after blog about how rough our family life has been, and all the reasons she has for her malfunctions, and all the ways I've hurt her by letting her go, without once acknowledging her own present actions as wrong or deserving of discourse. She does not see things the way they are, because she does not want to. And though it hurts, there is nothing I can do to change that. And that is the end of it.
I feel better now. Twas good blogging to you, Mr. Blogger Sir. I will try to type in you more often. Until next time!
Abigail
Monday, August 30, 2010
I never realized how awesome Man vs. Wild is! We're watching the episode where they set off a full-scale avalanche in the Canadian Rocky mountains and Bear survives it! Or so we believe. We haven't watched it all. We're hoping he doesn't pull a Sonny Bono and just hit a tree. This is intense. Oh wait, they just did it to a dummy so far. Damn them! They got me all hot and bothered for nothing.
I just wanted to stop in and say hey. I've missed writing in you. My boyfriend's response to this episode, "Honestly, the best way you could be buried in an avalanche is upside down, so you could pee and create a cavity which you could breathe in. Yeah, you'd urinate on your face, but I think it's a small price to pay for surviving an avalanche." Oh, Andrew.
Oh ... I live in Arkansas now.
=D
I just wanted to stop in and say hey. I've missed writing in you. My boyfriend's response to this episode, "Honestly, the best way you could be buried in an avalanche is upside down, so you could pee and create a cavity which you could breathe in. Yeah, you'd urinate on your face, but I think it's a small price to pay for surviving an avalanche." Oh, Andrew.
Oh ... I live in Arkansas now.
=D
Sunday, May 16, 2010
My feet are so super dirty, I call them Superfeet. In my head it sounds like Sam Jackson say "Superfeet ... they're dirty." Anyway, the reason my feet are so dirty is because I spent the evening at Mayfest. The Cherry Poppin Daddy's played in a grassy nook amongst downtown Tulsa's versions of skyscrapers. Laura, Matthew, Ali, Sabrina and I had our spot on the grass. When the music started, my feet started tapping, my head started boppin and I leaned over to Sabrina and said "Let me know when you want to dance." There's a wide cobblestone path in front of the stage that had a clearing for swing dancing. I'd say it was about three minutes later that Sabrina hopped up and took me up there with her. We found a spot at the edge of the path out of the way of the dancers. I didn't realize it was so muddy until I took of my shoes from all the dancing. Sabrina and I danced for over an hour, twirling around, kicking the air, snapping our fingers. We don't know to swing dance at all, but by the time the last few songs rolled around, I was shaking my head to the beat with a smile on my face saying "Oooh yeah." My feet didn't stop moving the entire time. It was amazing. But now my feet are covered in mud and I'm too exhausted to wash them tonight.
I did, however, find enough energy to make a delicious midnight snack: Grilled provolone and salami sandwich with tikka masala sauce. Just think about it.
Is it me, or does the way that cheese melted down remind you of something ... drippy and opaque.
Le sigh. I miss my boyfriend.
I did, however, find enough energy to make a delicious midnight snack: Grilled provolone and salami sandwich with tikka masala sauce. Just think about it.
Is it me, or does the way that cheese melted down remind you of something ... drippy and opaque.
Le sigh. I miss my boyfriend.
Saturday, May 15, 2010
Oh wonderful days!
I just got home. Because the bars close at 2:00. And that means something to me because I'm now 21... =D
I wanted to embrace the bartender at Caz's tonight. Let me just say that I don't drink often, but when I do, I do drink well. I was just sitting in a bar stool wondering what to ask for. I'm also frugal. A frugal and picky drinker, that's me! Anyway, I saw they had pomegranate syrup at hand, and decided instantly that it needed to be involved in whatever drink I ordered. So my friend William I was with told the bartender, who is his friend, that I wanted a drink with pomegranate syrup in it. And what did the bartender do? He delivered. Amazingly. I don't know what the hell he put in it. Well, let's just say I lost track. I saw him put some ice and a glass, turn a bottle of Sky over it and after that, it was a blur and random liquors upside down over my glass and then suddenly he topped it with a cherry and set it down on the bar in front of me. It. Was. Glorious. It tasted like a tart pomegranate, which made me happy. I don't care if it already has a name, it should be called a Pomegranate Sweet Tart. I like sweet tarts, I like pomegranates. It was heaven.
This all happened AFTER I'd just spent an hour dancing to amazing rock music at The Marquee, a venue a block a way. I danced and jumped and swung my hair around like a mad gypsy and it was beautiful.
My attention span won't go further than that I'm afraid. I'm going to watch Daria now.
Tally ho, laddy!
I wanted to embrace the bartender at Caz's tonight. Let me just say that I don't drink often, but when I do, I do drink well. I was just sitting in a bar stool wondering what to ask for. I'm also frugal. A frugal and picky drinker, that's me! Anyway, I saw they had pomegranate syrup at hand, and decided instantly that it needed to be involved in whatever drink I ordered. So my friend William I was with told the bartender, who is his friend, that I wanted a drink with pomegranate syrup in it. And what did the bartender do? He delivered. Amazingly. I don't know what the hell he put in it. Well, let's just say I lost track. I saw him put some ice and a glass, turn a bottle of Sky over it and after that, it was a blur and random liquors upside down over my glass and then suddenly he topped it with a cherry and set it down on the bar in front of me. It. Was. Glorious. It tasted like a tart pomegranate, which made me happy. I don't care if it already has a name, it should be called a Pomegranate Sweet Tart. I like sweet tarts, I like pomegranates. It was heaven.
This all happened AFTER I'd just spent an hour dancing to amazing rock music at The Marquee, a venue a block a way. I danced and jumped and swung my hair around like a mad gypsy and it was beautiful.
My attention span won't go further than that I'm afraid. I'm going to watch Daria now.
Tally ho, laddy!
Friday, April 23, 2010
I've been quietly sitting in my room to relax my mind. It's a long story, how I got to the conclusion I'm about to share with you. Maybe I'll tell you the details someday, maybe I'll never tell another soul, but I just want to say to myself and whoever else might be reading:
Whatever your beliefs, whatever your theories, only put your trust in what feels authentic to you. Without explanation, without words, appreciate what authenticity you find. It's not about what you think you understand about your beliefs, it is about what you know to be true within you. It is about leaving your need to understand behind you, and trusting a truth you instinctively recognize. Truth is genuine, and we are meant to be attracted to it, because the truth sets us free. We all want to be free, which is perfect because we are all meant to be free. Freedom is an instinct. We all know truth when we feel it. We can try to forget it or convince ourselves it doesn't exist, but our mind doesn't create truth. It just exists. Our attraction to it connects us all. There is no need to prove it. It just is. So if what connects us is true without words, why spin our words around to correct perfection? If it is true, it is true for us all. We are whole. But we don't believe it. We don't believe we are perfect, we believe we are very imperfect. But riddle me this ... if truth is perfect, wouldn't imperfection, in nature, be untruth? Does that not mean the imperfections attached to us, the imperfections that "make us human" are lies? Put your trust only in truth, perfection, and beauty. Everything else is a lie. The proof is in the freedom.
Whatever your beliefs, whatever your theories, only put your trust in what feels authentic to you. Without explanation, without words, appreciate what authenticity you find. It's not about what you think you understand about your beliefs, it is about what you know to be true within you. It is about leaving your need to understand behind you, and trusting a truth you instinctively recognize. Truth is genuine, and we are meant to be attracted to it, because the truth sets us free. We all want to be free, which is perfect because we are all meant to be free. Freedom is an instinct. We all know truth when we feel it. We can try to forget it or convince ourselves it doesn't exist, but our mind doesn't create truth. It just exists. Our attraction to it connects us all. There is no need to prove it. It just is. So if what connects us is true without words, why spin our words around to correct perfection? If it is true, it is true for us all. We are whole. But we don't believe it. We don't believe we are perfect, we believe we are very imperfect. But riddle me this ... if truth is perfect, wouldn't imperfection, in nature, be untruth? Does that not mean the imperfections attached to us, the imperfections that "make us human" are lies? Put your trust only in truth, perfection, and beauty. Everything else is a lie. The proof is in the freedom.
Sunday, April 4, 2010
Spring has Sprung!
Oh I do love Spring ever so much. It always seems to have perfect timing. Maybe this is because winter can be so damn harsh, the warmth is always hoped for. This year I spent Spring Break with Andrew, I went to Arkansas to pick him up on a Thursday night and we drove back early Friday morning. And by "early" I mean, one o'clock in the morning. It was an adventure. We said our "Hello there's" as I like to call them, which end up with my hair looking even more wild than it had already been from driving for 4 1/2 hours.
Andrew packed so quickly, all we had left to do was to get some pants on and use the restroom. We ran some errands, which included some late-night library book returns, which made me melancholy that I'm no longer allowed to borrow books from the Tulsa Library (long story). We snatched some Wendy's then we were on our way back to Oklahoma. This is often our routine whenever we can afford enough time to see each other. Long distance relationships are tricky. But we have a blast. I played some Andrew Bird he'd never heard and I helped him keep an eye out for deer near the road that twisted and curved through the forest. I like being in the passenger seat on that highway, so I can look up at the stars and reassure myself we're not in some woodsy tunnel that goes on for hours. Also, because the starts are beautiful, and I miss them when I'm among the cluttered bright lights of Tulsa.
As the night and the driving went on, we kept ourselves awake with music we loved singing to. Besides making a stop at a little gas station for a 5 Hour Energy shot for Andrew and a Pepto-Bismal for my road-dizzy stomach. We listened to dozens of songs from bands like Built To Spill, Bowie, and the soundtrack to Hedwig and the Angry Inch. We sang and danced and smoked cigarettes and chewed gum and got into Tulsa around 5:00am.
Here's something not too many people know about me: I cry often. So after Andrew and I had gotten in and collapsed on my bed for awhile then got out of my creaky bed to say our Hello There's once again, we returned to my very creaky bed to sleep at last. I stayed up looking at the shadows on my ceiling and rested to the feel of his breathing on the back of my neck, listening to the music he'd put on.
I cried because I was thankful for that moment. After lying there for awhile, I got my notebook and took these notes from the moment.
"The road to happiness is flooded with tears.
Be here now.
Oh my stars.
Tears are highest gratitude.
Sing not only for each other, but most intently for yourselves, so that the beauty will be purified from within and flow out through your very being, so that your very touch will sing with love."
Hooray for spring! Finally my ability to see things with poetical randomness has thawed. Now, it's well passed Spring Break, and I'm getting myself back to my daily life, without Andrew - or Lori =( - to spend my days with. I have to spend more time with myself than usual. This is also because I don't have the money to go anywhere. So this beautiful weekend I've spent cleaning my room and reading Fables. Don't get me started. It's a graphic novel that I love. Also, I've been listening to Jeremy Enigk and Mazzy Star with the window open while burning candles and incense and laying in bed. I have no complaints, except I wish I had enough gas to go to the park and lounge. But ah well. There will be more beautiful days, I hope.
That Friday was the last day of winter, and it was the sunniest, breeziest, most beautiful day of the year. Andrew and sat and ate outside an Italian-Mediterranean Fusion cafe, he took pictures of our food and jotted down his review in his Foodie journal, and I played Sudoku. Later that evening we went to our friends Kim and Brenton's house to have a cook out. Kim and Brenton are some of my favorite people. They're very spiritual, and quirky. Brenton has hair down to his lumbar, a keg on tap, a wii, and the most contagious laugh I've ever heard. Kim is always smiling, she makes jewelry and dresses, and loves dancing and smoking cigarettes. That night we sat on the back porch and drank wine and laughed and watched the sun set. At some point of the evening, Kim and I got to talking about ourselves as young girls, and Kim leaned over to me and told me delicately "No matter how old you get, or what happens, you're always that girl. It's just a matter of seeing it." This is why I love Kim.
It rained that night while we were still sitting outside. By the next morning it was snowing. On the first day of Spring. Seriously?
Anyway Andre and I had a good spring break. We were really young and playful this time. One day we went to eat at Mr. Taco and ate delicious greasy food, then went to Starship Records and looked through all the records we couldn't afford. Another day we went to see Alice in Wonderland, ate at Schlotzky's, went to the Library, then went to Toys'R'Us and fought with foam swords, and then got ice cream at Baskin Robbins. On another day, we got gyros and baba ganush and had a picnic in the park and cuddled. We also have gotten into the habit of calling each other Baby. Whew.
Unfortunately Andrew missed some of the lovelier days spring had to offer. This weekend has been beautiful. I've hardly left my room, but I've been sunbathing all weekend so who can say I haven't been enjoying the weather? Dear lord, I think I'm a human cat.
Meow.
Andrew packed so quickly, all we had left to do was to get some pants on and use the restroom. We ran some errands, which included some late-night library book returns, which made me melancholy that I'm no longer allowed to borrow books from the Tulsa Library (long story). We snatched some Wendy's then we were on our way back to Oklahoma. This is often our routine whenever we can afford enough time to see each other. Long distance relationships are tricky. But we have a blast. I played some Andrew Bird he'd never heard and I helped him keep an eye out for deer near the road that twisted and curved through the forest. I like being in the passenger seat on that highway, so I can look up at the stars and reassure myself we're not in some woodsy tunnel that goes on for hours. Also, because the starts are beautiful, and I miss them when I'm among the cluttered bright lights of Tulsa.
As the night and the driving went on, we kept ourselves awake with music we loved singing to. Besides making a stop at a little gas station for a 5 Hour Energy shot for Andrew and a Pepto-Bismal for my road-dizzy stomach. We listened to dozens of songs from bands like Built To Spill, Bowie, and the soundtrack to Hedwig and the Angry Inch. We sang and danced and smoked cigarettes and chewed gum and got into Tulsa around 5:00am.
Here's something not too many people know about me: I cry often. So after Andrew and I had gotten in and collapsed on my bed for awhile then got out of my creaky bed to say our Hello There's once again, we returned to my very creaky bed to sleep at last. I stayed up looking at the shadows on my ceiling and rested to the feel of his breathing on the back of my neck, listening to the music he'd put on.
I cried because I was thankful for that moment. After lying there for awhile, I got my notebook and took these notes from the moment.
"The road to happiness is flooded with tears.
Be here now.
Oh my stars.
Tears are highest gratitude.
Sing not only for each other, but most intently for yourselves, so that the beauty will be purified from within and flow out through your very being, so that your very touch will sing with love."
Hooray for spring! Finally my ability to see things with poetical randomness has thawed. Now, it's well passed Spring Break, and I'm getting myself back to my daily life, without Andrew - or Lori =( - to spend my days with. I have to spend more time with myself than usual. This is also because I don't have the money to go anywhere. So this beautiful weekend I've spent cleaning my room and reading Fables. Don't get me started. It's a graphic novel that I love. Also, I've been listening to Jeremy Enigk and Mazzy Star with the window open while burning candles and incense and laying in bed. I have no complaints, except I wish I had enough gas to go to the park and lounge. But ah well. There will be more beautiful days, I hope.
That Friday was the last day of winter, and it was the sunniest, breeziest, most beautiful day of the year. Andrew and sat and ate outside an Italian-Mediterranean Fusion cafe, he took pictures of our food and jotted down his review in his Foodie journal, and I played Sudoku. Later that evening we went to our friends Kim and Brenton's house to have a cook out. Kim and Brenton are some of my favorite people. They're very spiritual, and quirky. Brenton has hair down to his lumbar, a keg on tap, a wii, and the most contagious laugh I've ever heard. Kim is always smiling, she makes jewelry and dresses, and loves dancing and smoking cigarettes. That night we sat on the back porch and drank wine and laughed and watched the sun set. At some point of the evening, Kim and I got to talking about ourselves as young girls, and Kim leaned over to me and told me delicately "No matter how old you get, or what happens, you're always that girl. It's just a matter of seeing it." This is why I love Kim.
It rained that night while we were still sitting outside. By the next morning it was snowing. On the first day of Spring. Seriously?
Anyway Andre and I had a good spring break. We were really young and playful this time. One day we went to eat at Mr. Taco and ate delicious greasy food, then went to Starship Records and looked through all the records we couldn't afford. Another day we went to see Alice in Wonderland, ate at Schlotzky's, went to the Library, then went to Toys'R'Us and fought with foam swords, and then got ice cream at Baskin Robbins. On another day, we got gyros and baba ganush and had a picnic in the park and cuddled. We also have gotten into the habit of calling each other Baby. Whew.
Unfortunately Andrew missed some of the lovelier days spring had to offer. This weekend has been beautiful. I've hardly left my room, but I've been sunbathing all weekend so who can say I haven't been enjoying the weather? Dear lord, I think I'm a human cat.
Meow.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
