A question comes up from time to time, in activist space, in philosophical and solution-making space – if not now, when? I think we are in “when”. It’s now, it’s here, it’s…when. It’s now. We never counted on now and when being the same thing…we presumed now and THEN were different things, I believe. Then…past, and future…but not now. So, why NOT now? Why me? Why NOT me? These are the rubber-meets-the-road questions, the questions that should catapult us beyond talk, beyond good intentions, beyond “in a perfect world”. We can’t split hairs with the Universe over timing, especially since our doomsday clock is counting down seconds but still doesn’t inspire us to do anything differently. Especially since we are but a blip on the radar of infinity, and not a solid blip…one that blinks and fades with asymmetrically. But, we got this. Um, guess what? We don’t got this. Not by a long shot.

I was conversing with my therapist earlier today, and recounting some childhood memories of time with my aunt, my mother’s only sister. I was the first of the next generation, so I was the little princess. My aunt wasn’t married to my Uncle Robert yet, and I remember them making goo-goo eyes at each other when he visited at my grandmother’s house. I remember their wedding, mainly because my aunt almost passed out during the ceremony, owing to probably 50 pounds of wedding dress and a heat index of close to 100 degrees in a church with no air-conditioning. I must have been 4 or 5 when all that was going on, and I loved it only because there was lots of food and dessert and joviality.

I always got along well with my aunt. She was fun and sillly in a way that my mother was not. My mother was disapproving and frail and sick. My aunt seemed to actually like me, like she enjoyed my company. She had not had children yet, and her path to having them was painful…she had three miscarriages before birthing three girls, my first cousins, who I hated when they started to horn in on my grandchild gig. But that’s another story. They are fine women now, and I no longer hate them. Before they showed up, though, it was all me all the time. As I said, I think my aunt rather liked me. She took me to see Rumpelstiltskein when I was about 4, and it was just me and her, all by ourselves. It was like a date. I got dressed up in in my dressiest velveteen dress, and I had little white gloves and the shiniest of shiny black patent leather shoes. And off we went, to the big people’s theatre down town, and I was one of the big crowd. I was so proud. I don’t remember the show itself, but remember it being such a special thing to be able to go off on the adventure with my aunt, by myself, like a big girl. While I was recounting that, I remembered there was a time during my childhood, not sure exactly when, but I was still very young, when I wished secretly that my aunt was my mother. That it had been her that I stayed with. My aunt was more fun, less persnickety about details, less apt to deem what I did as wrong. Again, she seemed to actually like me, like she was as excited to be with me as I was with her. It’s not that I thought my mother didn’t like me, but never thought she was especially happy to be with me. I learned a long time later that she wasn’t happy to be with anybody, not happy to be anywhere, but of course I didn’t know that as a child. The other really special memory I have of my aunt is when she picked me up and we spent the afternoon together making lasagna. From scratch. I don’t remember anything I did wrong, or anything that I got fussed at for doing, or anything unpleasant at all. I was just a kid, doing what kids do with a favorite aunt, and having a blast. Then I went home. And that cycle started up again, the one that let me know I was incompetent – at 5 – and had no real idea what I was doing, what was expected, what I was really doing wrong. The one that seemed to be inconsistent, even though I had no words to describe that, but it confused me to feel as though one day something I did was fine, the next day it was causing the end of life as we knew it. *sigh* I’m not sure I’ve entirely gotten over that, because the anxiety of wondering if what I was doing was right or wrong has evolved into the constant need to be overvigilant for either outcome. If i did wrong, or I did right, it seemed life went on and in either case, it wasn’t all that pleasant. I think I had emotionally flat-lined very early, but had no frame of of reference to let me know that wasn’t normal.

So, these days, I am trying to put together the pieces of this rip to my fabric…I remarked earlier today that I have been assuming I could simply repair that tear, as though it had not happened, patch it together seamlessly so that it appeared perfect and nobody would know there was a rift there. Right now, I believe that’s not even possible. I will always know there was a tear, there was a fault in the fabric, but mending it is still what needs to happen. It’s not all about the appearance. It’s about the viability of the fabric itself, so that it’s strong enough to provide a backing for ornamentation and fancy stichery that is added later. This is a complex concept for me, because it is so incredibly simple. I comprehend the imagery, I resonate with the image, but…there is some deeper level of acceptance that hasn’t been reached. I suppose it will take a moment, but I’ll keep ringing that bell and waiting for all the frequencies to resonate at all the layers. Thinking of all of this makes me sad, makes me cry, because I feel there are certain parts of me that are simply not there. The stiches were never cast, there is nothing to connect. There is a dead zone, where nothing grew. I have to contemplate whether that’s a forever circumstance, or whether pushing oxygenation and nutrients to the area will spark growth, even at this late date. Until it’s apparent that can happen, if it can, I suppose I’ll need to give myself a bit of grace. Dammit. That again. *sigh*

I’ve always liked the song “Losing My Religion”, by REM…one of the verses says:

Consider this
Consider this
The hint of the century
Consider this
The slip that brought me
To my knees, failed
What if all these fantasies
Come flailing around?
Now I’ve said too much

So, yeah…what if all the fantasies come flailing around? What if what we are fighting for, dreaming, fighting against, came around? What if we won? How would that be, what would that be, who would we be? People used to say, maybe they still do, “careful what you wish for, you just might get it”. Sometimes the cure is worse than the disease, sometimes the solution brings about more problems. More problems…it seems that we always have more problems. Without the problems, would there be simply boredom, lethargy, malaise? Would we tell stories around the kitchen about the good old days, when every day was a new battle ground, a new outrage? How would we be without that? Anger is such an incredible motivator…it will be harder than people think to have peace.

Maybe peace should not be the ultimate goal. Maybe the ultimate goal, and the ultimate commodity, is wisdom? That sounds rather lofty, and vacuous, but…I don’t know how one can be at peace without being assured of their own survival, and without having a perspective of abundance. Until I know that I can return to the well as many times as I feel thirst, I will be obsessed with my thirst and obsessed with the possibility of the well going dry. My obsession about the well going dry will eventually cause me to be paranoid about the motives and possible interference of everyone else, and I will have no peace. If I’m ambitious, I’ll get proactive about ensuring my water supply and will probably take action to protect what I have. So that nobody else can get it. So that I know what I have and it’s safe. That’s how afraid I am that I might not have enough…one day…but probably not today…but I have to be ready. Have to stay ready. This is serious business.

This notion of advance preparation reminds me of another song…”Life During Wartime” by Talking Heads:

High on a hillside, the trucks are loading,
Everything’s ready to roll
I sleep in the daytime, I work in the nighttime,
I might not ever get homeThis ain’t no party, this ain’t no disco,
This ain’t no fooling around
This ain’t no Mudd Club, or C. B. G. B.,
I ain’t got time for that now

This is war, I suppose. We are fighting for our lives, in ways that we don’t even understand. We are fighting because we can’t be sure that we can survive, that there’s enough out there to support us. I’ve said for a long time now that our planet has enough resources to support us, all of us, the billions and billions of us and the animals and the plants and everything far and wide. There is enough, but not if we dole it out inequitably…one for me, none for you. Two for me, 1/2 of one for you. That doesn’t work, and we end up wasting a lot of stuff. Rather throw it out instead of giving it away for free. Yeah, that’s the way advanced intelligence would do it.

So. It definitely ain’t no party, ain’t no disco…but still…I’m losing my religion. Do I even have fantasies any longer? When I speak of dreams, they are simply things I want, things for which I have a frame of reference. I’m not sure those are dreams, or fantasies. I would imagine a dream is something that is not real, not breathed into existence. Yet. Fantasy may be something not even possible, like maybe a dream on drugs or something not tethered by my understanding of reality. Or vice versa. Or maybe both-and. I don’t know, but what I’m thinking is that we sometimes don’t imagine or say “What if?” any longer. How would I want the world to look when I wake up in the morning if there was no more racism, if overnight there had been some cataclysm of divine intervention, and race, ethnicity, skin color, culture were simply…non-issues. What exactly would that look like?

First, I have to say that eliminating racism and the dividing lines of ethnicity and skin color and culture would not necessarily, nor immediately, make a perfect world. We’ve got a lot to do before we can eliminate the dysfunctional systems that uphold and gird those forces. The systemic infrastructure, its roots, are us. We’ve got to do a lot of work on ourselves to figure out when and how we’ve been contributing to that status quo, intentionally and unintentionally and sometimes because we don’t know any other way. The groundwater is tainted, the soil is contaminated, but we are living with it and just trying to get by.

Oh, no – I’ve said too much…I haven’t said enough. I definitely haven’t said enough, and not in places where people might listen, where my voice might join with others to shout. That goes back to previous discussion about confidence, and second-guessing whether anything I have to say is worth saying it, let alone listening to it. But, that’s neither here nor there at the moment. I haven’t said enough. And I don’t need to be in this damned corner any longer (NOBODY puts Baby in a corner!). What comes to mind about that, too, is…there are no corners in a circle. This whole linear arrangement is really not working for us…we need more circles and curves and way less rigidity. WAY LESS. Rigidity, and perfectionism, is part of the white supremacy culture, so…let’s get past that. Human beings are going to fuck up, going to be far less than perfect. If you want perfect, find a deity that has some time on their hands. You won’t find it – and shouldn’t find it – in people. There’s actually a spirituality of imperfection, and there’s actually a book by that name that I will have to look up later, but I believe that to be true. I’ve discussed previously the difference between success and mastery, and mastery implies way more spirituality than success. Success is linear – did we go from Point A to Point B, as our goal said we’d do? Yes…or No. Mastery is going to have a number of checks in the No column, and that’s fine. Lack of success does not mean losing, does not mean uselessness. The experience is the goal, not the end of experience. Mastery implies that we’re still on the journey, still on the path, and … wait for it … there may be joy in it, there may be insight and meaning that are entirely unplanned. Unplanned, but essential to enhancing the fabric of life with colors and textures and sound and … who knows what else. If we planned the journey, it would be merely a transaction, and not a relationship with the journey. There me, there’s the journey, and there’s the new thing consisting of me and the journey joined together. Me with the journey is a totally new thing, and it is more than the journey and more than me. You don’t get that by going from Point A to Point B; a linear path is not necessarily a journey, only a means to an end.

Perhaps I am being too hard on linear modality. I suppose there are times when that’s necessary, like driving to an designated place or going to the bathroom. I’m not sure I have much of a relationship with my journey to the bathroom…I suppose I have one with my body, although usually my bladder is in control of the conversation. But body relationship is another issue, and we don’t need to go there. At least not yet. But I digress. Linear may have its place, but it is not the place for everything. For instance, I have railed against using Robert’s Rules of Order for the business of less formal groups and organizations. To me, it’s elitist and exludes a great number of people, those who simply do not know all the formal machinations of that tool. If you don’t know the difference between a point of order and a point of privilege, or when it’s allowed to introduce an amendment to an amendment of what’s been introduced, at best you’re going to have a blinding headache. At worst, this is nothing but form over substance, and you and your substance are going to be shut out of the process, and out of the business at hand. Icky poo. With all due respect, I choose NO to dear Mr. Roberts and his Rules. Rules are becoming more and more passe’ for me, come to think of it, so…thanks but no thanks.

OK, back to me. I’ve been through reflection on what’s missing in my life, and settled on a primary missing component that I name as sense of well-being, sense of confidence, lack of feeling that I’m OK. All of that, wadded up and thrown at the wall, is fear and reluctance to be vulnerable, to take a risk, to put myself out there so to speak. OK, that’s just dandy. Now what? Next questions, then, are why is that missing, and what might I do to fix that? This might take more coffee.

So, why do I lack the confidence, why don’t I believe in myself, whay don’t I have any self-assurance concerning my skills, potential, abilities? I have probably run the attachment disorder train into a ditch at this point, and probably need to devote a whole series of examinations to that alone. I think it’s way more complex than just explaining not having any self-confidence. On the level of the here and now, however, I have to wonder what’s up with such incredible anxiety concerning being out in front, taking the lead, being in the spotlight. I enjoy being the center of attention sometimes, but exhaust myself second-guessing myself about my skills, my talent, my ability to succeed. Some of that is negative self-talk…you always screw up; you know you don’t know what you’re doing; you just think you can do this well, but if bumped against others doing the same thing, your effort would be mediocre at best, and you would be laughed off the stage (literally and proverbially); you know the likes of you can’t do anything like this. And it goes on and on and on, until sometimes it is simply easier to abandon the effort in its entirety. Don’t even try, don’t put it out there, don’t produce a finished product. Just admit that you are pretty much a failure, and so don’t even try. Be realistic; you’re just not talented.

So, this second-guessing exercise, no matter how many times I go through it, is exhausting. Debilitating, even. The ensuing depression and feeling of utter defeat causes me to lose focus, and to derail any creative or innovative thought I may have even dreamed of having. Not just some people, but every person, is more talented and skilled than me. Why do I think I can success at the top of an effort, in anything. Remember? I am dangerously mediocre. Dangerously. Laughably, even. I battle this not-so-subtle foe all the time, and my resistance consists of RiceKrispies treats, pizza, coffee, and video games. And this writing stuff. That’s my arsenal. I suppose on some days I’m out of ammunition, too…those are the really dark days, when not only do I feel incompetent at everything, including breathing, but I don’t even have the energy to get off another round.

There is a part of me that says I need to check my humility, and my ego. OK, that’s my recovery side, and that’s fine…what I’ve learned there teaches me that humility means that I’m no better or worse than anyone else, and that we all have different skills and make different contributions, but such gifts are all valid. If I think I’m the best or the wosrt of everyone, my ego is a bit unbalanced and I am probably looking for attention and not entirely spiritually on the mark. So. Yeah. Now what exactly is that supposed to do for food portion size and motivation to take risks, put myself out there, have confidence in my ability to realistically assess reality? There’s some point at which I have to be able to follow-through on dreams, on desires. If I want a job with a comfortable salary but am too petrified to apply for anything, that doesn’t do me a lot of good.

Sometimes I just get incredibly tired of fooling with myself, and this is getting close to being one of those times. I have always wondered if everyone goes through such endless self-reflection, second-guessing, questioning of one’s being. I suppose that really doesn’t even matter…it is my reality. I figure I’m not alone in that, but not looking to get together with all of us who have similar modalities…I doubt we’d get much done, probably couldn’t even decide what to do or how to do it. I can imagine we’d probably die of natural causes brought about by inaction and failure to make a decision on things like food, water, shelter. Thank goodness there are people who love us in spite of ourselves.

Posted to Facbook earlier today…almost lost it, too. I had a near breakdown until I found it again and got it posted!

Harlem

BY LANGSTON HUGHES

What happens to a dream deferred?

Does it dry up

like a raisin in the sun?

Or fester like a sore—

And then run?

Does it stink like rotten meat?

Or crust and sugar over—

like a syrupy sweet?

Maybe it just sags

like a heavy load.

Or does it explode?

______________________________________________________________________

so, what DOES happen to a dream deferred, in Harlem, or in Ferguson, or in Topeka, or in Wilmington, New York, New Orleans, Los Angeles? i am sure one could make the case for any of the outcomes the poet lists. At this point, perhaps the dream deferred is all of these simultaneously – dried up, festering, running, stinking, crusting, sagging, and…exploding. Exploding gets our attention more than drying up or festering, although each outcome is painful.

I suppose these are stages of healing…some of them exhibit discoloration, sometimes itchiness, always a sensory reaction that lets you know SOMETHING happened. There is a wound, trying to heal. The body is doing what the body is programmed to do, heal itself. It’s not a voluntary reaction, and it is ultimately a survival mechanism. When the stages are interrupted, however, strange things happen…if the wound remains open for too long, the body’s healing mechanisms cannot activate, the white corpuscles do not gather and promote coagulation of the blood, and eventual production of healing fluid and possibly blistering, designed to protect the wound from further damage.

If the wound remains exposed for too long, bacteria and other nasties seize an opportunity to feed, and the fluid turns to pus, and there is an invading infection that adds insult to injury, quite literally. The secondary insult often goes very far out of control, and the body can’t handle it without external assistance, like antibiotics, antifungals, or other medicinals. But, there’s still a chance for wound recovery, for the body to reconcile its injury, for the body to heal.

There’s still a chance for healing, though, unless the wound is opened again, the injury is not allowed to heal and then repeated. The body will continue its attempt to heal, but there is an escalation in the response and it takes a toll on the overal health of the entire system. Sepsis may set in, and if not arrested, leads to septic shock and eventually death of the tissue and possibly the body in its entirety. A person suffering from septic shock can be considered “not in their right mind” – the infection can make one dizzy, disoriented, confused, nauseous, pale. clammy.

So…it is entirely possible that, at this point in our societal development (or lack thereof), we are suffering from what amounts to septic shock caused by the unhealed infection of toxic racism, egregious intolerance, and superlatively heinous arrogance and hubris. In so many cases, we are simply not willing to entertain the notion that we may be off course, that our aim is not true, that we are simply … wrong. That we may be injuring and re-injuring and re-injuring the same part of our body that nags at us, hurts a little, itches at times, turns blue and yellow and looks rather unpleasant, but…the pain and the discomfort are not quite strong enough to stop us.

At this point, though, maybe the infection has gotten out of hand, and we have symptoms. We are not in our right minds. We have parts of the body politic arising in protest over the killing of unarmed Black and Brown people, the killing of transgendered persons, the inhuman treatment of certain marginalized people in our communities (the mentally ill, the addicted, the poor). Equally and opposite, we have insurrection and vigilantes and extremist militias. We have a gun for everyone and nearly everyone with a gun, and we have new and creative ways to kill each other with and without guns. And then we have to notice that we are not healing.

We are in need of medication, we bandage the wound, we achieve some measure of infection control…and we feel a little better. We see a little bit of change and a little less pain, a change in the discoloration. We feel better. We do not, however, get to the end stage of the healing…the deep healing and the scabbing over of the original wound. Even if we see a scab beginning to form, some of us declare the healing complete and rip off the scab or neglect to protect it further, so that it is torn off. We want to move on, and we are irritated when we’re told to wait…just wait…it’s not time yet. Keep up the protections and the medication.

When the wound is not fully healed, the risk of re-injury is high, and…the entire healing process has to begin again. This is what keeps happening in our country, in my opinion. We often recognize there are certain wounds that have been inflicted on the collective consciousness, the collective heart of us…slavery, racism, white supremacy and the violent resistance to civil rights for marginalized identities (women, people of color, GLBTQIA+ people, ethnic and religious minorities). We recognize those wounds, but unless they are painful enough, unless they engender a sufficiently disruptive and painful response, we ignore them. If we can’t ignore them, we attempt to simply kill the pain, with numbing agents or bandages that hide the wound.

We have to recognize that our goal should be healing, not simply feeling better. Those remedies are, at best, temporary reprieves; unless there is debriding and disinfection of the wound, it will recur and never truly heal. And therein lies the rub…we don’t go quite far enough with our healing, because…it’s unpleasant. It hurts. Debriding a wound that has nasty debris embedded in tender skin hurts. Debriding a burn to eliminate the dead tissue hurts.

There can never be full healing without going through the necesary steps to clean out the unhealthy agents. When we stop just short of completely, to the best of our ability, cleaning out the wound, to the point that we encounter a clean, raw, and tender surface that can host new growth, we sabotage the entire healing process. And we will be operating at far less than our full vitality, we will be vaguely ill, there will be an itch that we cannot scratch and a vague pain that we can’t quite get rid of. There will be a mark that won’t fade, no matter what we do. If we never get to the root of the wound, we can never heal.

So, I’m still working on what’s missing. I still don’t think I’ve quite hit it yet. Let me see if I can get at it more directly. Here is one thing I think is missing – a sense of purpose. I don’t yet know exactly why I’m here. I feel as though I am wandering, which is not a bad thing, and positive things happen, but almost by accident. I’m in the right place at the right time, or when negative things happen, I’m in the wrong place at the wrong time. I don’t much feel as though I set out to accomplish something intentionally, and did a good job of making that happen. I’m not sure if that’s really how life goes or not…not sure if I believe all the people who claim to have “created their reality” in terms of circumstances. I can buy that when it comes to happiness, or satisfaction, or some intangible things, but I’m not sure about the so-called titans of industry having intentionally created all of their domain intentionally. Some of it just seems like providence, sheer luck, accident. So many others are equally intentional, and do not fare nearly as well. In some cases, there is sabotage, and flat out cheating. You really can’t account for that, even if you know it’s there.

So, what I wanted was job security, and financial security. I’ve always just wanted to be comfortable, not opulently wealthy. I wouldn’t turn down a bag full of small unmarked bills or anything, but I’ve never had absolute wealth as a goal. I’ve always wanted to be unfettered by worries over finite and inadequate financial resources…want to be able to have some spontaneity for creature comforts, gadgets, electronics, books,musical instruments, lodging, necessary accoutrements like health insurance, a vehicle, gasoline and maintenace money. I’ve never been a clothes hog, and could really not care less about jewelry, shoes, designer fashions. I have a solid collection of graphic t-shirts and sweat pants, and I will splurge on a decent pair of tennis shoes, but outside of that…I’m good. I would also like to be able to take care of the dog reasonably well, and if she needs something it shouldn’t cause a panic financially. I no longer have any family to buy presents for or provide for medical care. I belong to a “church” and do need to pay my pledge money for maintenance, upkeep, and staff…and I wouldn’t mind putting up money for extras like the annual convention, workshops, social gatherings. Lunches, dinners, etc. for socializing. I don’t drink, or smoke, so I’m not spending money on those vices. So…I’m not looking for all that much. I just want to be reasonably comfortable, such that unexpected things don’t cause a panic attack. A little savings in reserve. With all that, I’m good to go.

I don’t consider myself particularly high maintenance, although I have a few health maintenance costs these days, but that’s why I have health insurance. If I could pay for exactly what I want, I would be a little less stressed about that, but I’m grateful for what I have. That didn’t become an issue until I became unemployed, but I’m managing. It irks me no end when I consider the cost of health insurance, because it reallly doesn’t have to be that bad. Any efforts to derail the for-profit insurance industry have been met with cries of “socialism”, so we’re stuck, but everybody knows that we could do better. We could do better about a lot of things, but that’s a function of capitalistic politics, greed, and corruption. All of that is discussion for another day, and it’s simply reality at this point. I will simply remain grateful for having the means to provide some kind of protection right now. It’s not a given, and many people can’t do it at all.

I don’t miss not having children, although a part of me wonders how that might have changed my current predicament. I was about eight years old when I told everyone that I would never have children. People think I’m making that up, but I remember clearly making that very conscious declaration at a very young age. I would watch television shows, doctor shows and soap operas, where women gave birth, and there was all manner of bloodthirsty screaming, agony, drama, pain. Why in the world would anyone raise their hand to do that, I thought? Not me. I’ll never go through that. Was I afraid? Of course. But truthfully, I never once had the urge that women often describe, the urge to “feather the nest”, the urge to have a family, to have children. I’ve never had that feeling of wanting to have a baby, wanting to be pregnant. Never. Is that hormones? Maybe. But now I wonder if that decision gives rise to my feelings of being so alone in the world, of being so totally unmoored. Would having a child have changed that? I know of a couple of women who have biological children, but still feel very alone and very disconnected from their progeny. When I made that declaration at eight, I was solid with that. As I got older, and my peers began to waddle into maternity suites, I thought about it, and sincerely felt as though I was not really fit to reproduce. I felt crazy, and I probably was; there are enough screwed up children in the world and I don’t need to add to that population. I was pretty clear about that. Was all of it, from age eight and beyond, simply about fear? Of course it was. But I had good reason to be afraid.

I had my uterus and ovaries removed when I was thirty-eight. My mentrual cycle had never been normal, but I didn’t know it was so dangerously abnormal. I had an abnormally heavy flow from the very beginning, but just dealt with it…barely. I left stains everywhere, was embarrassed constantly and had severe cramps. The cycle would last for five days, then six or seven days, then by the time I was in my late thirties it was so heavy that it looked as though a homicide had occurred. It was miserable. I decided that I came into this world with those body parts, and I was going to leave with them. Until the day I wound up on my butt in the grass outside a friend’s apartment, and couldn’t understand how I’d gotten there; I had been standing upright and talking calmly a moment before that. I got admitted to the hospital for that, and they kept me for three days. I was totally freaked out, because I had never been a hospital patient before. The doctors said I had fainted because my hemoglobin was around 4, and should have been somehere around 13. They couldn’t understand how I’d been walking around normally up to that point. People with a hemoglogin of 4 don’t usually function very well. THe story was that it had been a gradual decline, and my body had compensated for it until it couldn’t any longer. I got four units of blood, and I was flabberghasted.

Being in the hospital was a bizarre experience, especially when one of the nurses tried to hang the last unit of blood and somehow didn’t load it into the machine correctly…and almost half of the bag’s contents wound up on the floor. It looked as though one of us had killed somebody in that room…and she just sort of stared at it blankly, silently, as if to say, “Wow. Look at that.”. She tried to mop it up with some paper towels, but that was largely ineffective, and some poort nurse’s aide came in there later to mop and clean it up. I swore that nurse was either over fatigued, or under the influence, because she was just a little too calm and her affect was almost entirely flat. Despite having thought earlier in the day that I could get used to being looked after in that way for a while, I was seriously ready to go after that blood bath. That was the last unit I had to get, and they discharged me a day later. Thanks very much, but see y’all. After brief discussions with my gynecologist, I had surgery less than 20 days later, after being injected with a synthetic hormone that dried up the never-ending menstrual cycle that had caused this episode and my hemoglonin had risen to 11. There’s much more to that story, but I will save that for another day. Suffice it to say, however, that when I woke up after surgery, and realized that everything had gone well, I felt like I had gotten my life back…no more menstrual periods, so more cramps, let the good times roll! I have NOT looked back.

So I don’t count my uterus as something missing. I do, however, count normal hormones as missing. Or I don’t know if it’s all hormones, or what, but I’ve never felt like I got the whole “girl” thing. I do NOT feel gender dysphoric at all…but I don’t feel like I understand what I’m supposed to do. I never have. I don’t know how to have healthy attractions or relationships, sexual or otherwise. If I could, I would eliminate the sexual component to all my relationships and be satisfied if I didn’t have any sexual attraction. That screws up everything. I get excited by stimulating conversation and debate and spirutal discourse and planning meaningful action. Doing work. Being creative. That’s where I’m at my best. The problem alsways comes in when that 1-on-1 phase gets diluted by my friend wanting, or maybe already has, other friends. Lovers. Partners. What do you mean you have plans??? No, that’s not part of my script! That brings about some traumatic feeling of abandonment, and I don’t seem to be able to control it. So…now I have to hate you, I guess. I’m way too old for this. Way. Too. Old.

So, what’s missing isn’t a life partner or a relationship or a spouse, what’s missing is the feeling of well-being and knowing … where I start and stop and where other people start and stop, and that nothing lasts forever. That even if it doesn’t last forever, it doesn’t mean the experience of affection and love and friendship was false, was a lie. It seems that my experience with relationships came to a halt when I was about 12, and my world fell apart. It seemed that everyone left, either physically or emotionally, and so did my sense of security, my sense that I was valued no matter what. My father left us for someone else. My grandmother died. My mother left…in retaliation for a world that wasn’t doing her right. They all left me. So my ability to love and relate and partner is on the level of a 12-year-old, but unfortunately, I’m a 12-year-old with a checkbook, a large truck, a small dog, and a couple of credit cards. When I’m hurt, I can do some damage. I suppose I relive those years of abandonment over and over and over again, and while the faces and the names change, they are all my mother, my father, my grandmother. And the outcome is always the same…I’m left holding the bag, alone, watching people walk away. *sigh*

I don’t quite know what to do about any of that. Part of me says the ideal solution is just to keep my distance and stay the fuck away from everybody. In some respects, that is exactly what I am doing. But, unfortunately, I am more or less human and so I form attachments and bonds and sometimes it works out, but sometimes it gets stupid. When my dysfunction meets up with someone else’s dysfunction, sparks fly, and somewhere close there’s a therapist writing another entry for the next edition of the DSM. When the next edition comes out, I want my picture in there. Perhaps that will be my 15 minutes of fame, to have a mental health condition attributed to me. There’s an aspiration for ya.

So, that’s what is missing…not wealth, not companionship (although I must admit that sometimes I get lonely), not big cars or fancy clothes and jewelry, not even celebrity. Just the feeling that I’m OK, that the sky is not falling, that I haven’t ruined everything. That I’m OK. I don’t know if there is anything that can really be done about that, truthfully. It’s like talent…if you don’t have it, and never had it, you can’t manufacture it. I can’t draw, not even stick figures, and that’s not going to change. I can take all the art classes I want, I can hire a private art teacher, and I’m never going to be able to draw anything of note. I can play a few notes of a few insutrments, and I can’t say I did anything to attain that ability. If I practice, I can improve, but how I look at a fretboard or a keyboard is translated by my brain differently than someone who doesn’t play. I didn’t do a thing to earn that. It’s just part of how my cells fit together, I suppose. I don’t feel a loss at not having children, but I would feel a tremendous loss if I couldn’t play music any longer, even at my dangerously mediocre level. I feel a loss over the death of my parents, but I can’t get them back on this plane of existence, so I’m at peace with that. I feel a loss at not being competent and in control of my circumstances at this point in my life, and that’s a really tough one. I feel as though 5th graders are more competent at living than I am, and that doesn’t feel warm and fuzzy. Can that change? I suppose, but have to admit that I don’t see change as likely. We’ll see. Until then…I’m just gonna keep “getting in touch” with all of these nooks and crannies hidden away in my brain…like an English muffin. I suppose it will be OK. That’s about as good as it gets…OK.

Posted on FaceBook earlier today, sans picture:

Confirmation hearings for Judge Merrick Garland, nominee for Attorney General, are expected to begin this week. Garland, of course, was President Obama’s nominee for Supreme Court, but Mitch McConnell refused to bring it before the Senate for action. This confirmation was also delayed for a bit, again courtesy of McConnell, who negotiated that when bargaining for concessions on the COVID relief bill logistics and … other things. A news report I read this morning said that Garland should expect to be questioned about several things, such as his position on hate crimes and how the DOJ will be free from White House interference. I can only hope that Garland will employ some of recent Supreme Court nominee Amy Coney Barrett’s tactics, basically refusing to answer questions on the basis that she would not render a legal opinion on a hypothetical scenario. She was able to successfully dance around nearly every question put to her concerning her personal leaning on things like abortion, rule of law, and hate crimes. If it’s good enough for her in that circumstance, it should be good enough for him with the Senate.Finally, the report I read, and other news sources, have speculated that Garland might face questions about Hunter Biden. I’m wondering what the HELL the President’s son has to do with confirming a nominee for Attorney General. Are GOP members still driving toward “digging up dirt” on the President? What could possibly be the purpose of dredging up anything to do with Hunter BIden at this point. If Hunter is guilty of breaking any U.S. laws, or financial regulations, there are processes already in place to handle that. WTF does it have to do with the Attorney General, and what answer could he possibly give that would assure the inquisition of his impartiality?Through insurrection, deaths, breach of their own office building, the GOP has apparently learned nothing from recent events. There are reports there’s “split” in the party, brought on by the former POTUS’ refusal to stand aside, instead demanding a prominent place in their future. That’s fine – unfortunate as I see it, but nobody asked for my opinion. Regardless, though, it’s up to them, and it’s partisan politics. The confirmation of Merrick Garland as Attorey General has nothing to do with any of that. Come on, GOP…it’s not too late to do the right thing and start using a new playbook. The old plan is…old. This is a new day, whether anyone wants to admit that or not…Congress now has to deal with pandemic response, new faces in its seats, and a modified balance of power. It would seem common sense to jettison the old strategic plan, since the entire landscape and many of the players has changed. So, let’s face it…if we’re honest…the old GOP plan sucked. It only worked as well as it did because they had the majority to force it through. That’s no longer the case. I’m sure they will do their best to gridlock the incoming administration, as they did with the Obama administration, but with the current dynamics at play in the House and the Senate, I’m not sure that will be effective any longer. Play nice, y’all. If you don’t, the nation will stay welded into a place that no longer serves it. If you don’t like this President’s solutions, by all means come up with something else, something better, i would hope. and enough with the stolen election. if you want some of us to get over slavery and Jim Crow, y’all can get over one election that didn’t go your way but still left you pretty much in power. Move. On.LikeCommentShare

OK, so yesterday I was supposed to be talking about what might be missing from my life, and I said that I was missing. Well, that’s a pretty broad topic, especially if I keep eating Rice Krispies treats all day, but regardless…not sure if I really came to a graceful end of that topic. What’s missing from my life, did I ever have it or did I have it and lost it? Is it something I feel is necessary to get me to what I want, where I want to be?

I said that I feel like I am missing because I feel that so much of my life has been about obligations, doing what other people – society, even – expects me to do. I am not even sure society in general cares what I do, up to the point of breaking laws or something, but I will admit that it’s probably my belief in what society demands of me. There has always been a conflict in me about that…a strong tendency to do what is right, what is correct, what good people do. But there’s always been another part of me that says screw all that, I’m going to do what I want to do, or even more oddly, I’m going to do what bad people do. I always wanted to be a bad girl…always wanted to have those cool after-school special kinds of problems.

I wanted bad girl attention, felt like it would make me cool somehow, but…i was pretty cowardly. And sheltered. There were just some things I was too afraid to do, like run away. I thought about it, even planned it several times, but was so unsure that I could make it that I pulled back each time. I felt like I didn’t have any place to go, first of all, and second of all I was really too scared that I couldn’t survive living on the street. I was specifically petrified of being sexually assaulted when I contemplated the prospect of having to go to sleep outdoors, or in some partk or bus station, with no protection. I understood that I would be at the mercy of whoever happened by, and I was petrified of being raped or “messed with”.

At one point, I really wanted to be in the roller derby. I guess I was about 13 or 14, and roller derby came on television every Saturday afternoon. I was mesmerized b y it, because it was a place where strong, tough, take-no-shit women could be found. I knew all of the players, and was an official fan. I got magazines from them, and found out all kinds of personal details, family life, all kinds of stuff. I felt like they were my family. I researched how old you had to be in order to join a team…and the minimum age was 16. I started to keep a calendar of the time remaining until I was 16…when I could run away to California or Minnesota, where my favorite teams were located. I was ready. I was going to be one of …them. And nobody was going to stop me.

I had only one problem…kind of a big one, but I figured I could resolve it in the time I had left before I ran away. I didn’t know how to skate. It just wasn’t something I seemed to be able to learn, either – kids my age would have skate parties at local rinks, or the mall, and I went to a couple. I put on the skates, and careened shakily to the railing of the rink numerous times, where I clung for most of the time I was there. Sometimes, other people would say just go ahead, let go of the rail, you’ll see how to do it and you’ll be fine. After painting the floor with my face or the back of my head enough times, I gave up. Who wants to do that, anyway…it’s really stupid. So, I never learned to skate, and my aspirations to become a roller derby queen bit the dust. Not right away, but I kind of knew that dream wasn’t going anywhere.

The long and short of the roller derby story is…I felt trapped, and that experience is one of the earliest where I consciously felt that I couldn’t get what I wanted, anywhere, anyhow, anytime. I sank into myself a little, I think. I was really attached to my roller derby dream, but I could see that it just couldn’t be. So, I saw “San Francisco Bomber” with Raquel Welch several times, pinned up my fan pictures, and soon began to distance from all of it. I was still trapped, I still had no place to go, and I was saying goodbye to a goofy adolescent dream of escape. I was 14, I think, and I was already unhappily accepting the fact that getting what you wanted was not a given. I could see that whatever “it” was that enabled you to get what you want is something I didn’t have. And nobody could give it to me. Nobody.

I think a little part of me gave up at that point, gave up on life, gave up at least on happiness. This was going to be something I had to just get through, this life thing. Just get through it, no enjoy it or shape it or be happy about it. I knew that I wasn’t happy, but it never occurred to me that happiness was part of the deal. I didn’t think you had any choice about things like that, and what I saw of others’ circumstances seemed far and away better than what I had, by thousands of exponents. Everything seemed like hard work, everything seemed like effort. I was confused a lot of the time, confused about why something I said on Friday got no reaction, or may have seen as funny, or cute, but if I said the same thing on Sunday, I got smacked and berated for not knowing my place, for being sassy, for being stupid. *sigh* I just never knew with my mother, could never quite get wise to the pattern of who she’d be on any given day. Was Saturday and Sunday nice mommy, or was it Sunday and maybe Thursday? Seemed like it changed every week, actually, so I just rolled with it. It was all about compliance, with a set of rules that seemed to vary with the weather or some arbitrary condition. I can’t say it was never about doing what I wanted to do, but frequently what I wanted to do was chosen because it would grant me favor, or because I felt it was expected. Some of the things I wanted to do, liked doing, were looked down upon by my mother, like playing football with the neighbor kids, or eating sweets until they were expelled from just about every orifice that i had. She didn’t like that last one much at all. So, obligation, living up to other people’s expectations, that was how you played the game, how you got through your life. OK, got it. Or maybe it had me.

So, what was missing…was me in so many ways. Looking back on it, it seems as though I was already a bit numb, as an adolescent. After my grandmother died is when I most remember that feeling, that drudgery of doing the same thing every day, because that’s what you were told to do. That’s when I first remember feeling like “whatever” in response to just about everything. You father is going to leave. Whatever. The car is wrecked. Whatever. You didn’t do well on this test. Whatever. Please don’t interrupt me whil I’m ignoring everything…I need full concentration for that, otherwise I might feel something. Somewhere in there, I stopped being numb and began to be mad as hell. Enraged, acctually. And that rage didn’t dissipated until I was in my late 30s. It propelled me through a lot of things, but I threw out quite a lot of exhaust fumes.

In summary, then, I guess what was missing – what is still missing – is a sense of security, a sense of well-being on a level where I feel that I am in the right place, or at least that it’s not a fluke that I’m here. I am somewhat of a slow learner, and it takes me a couple of minutes sometimes to get in touch with the absolute unacceptability of a situation in which I find myself. I frequently see the abuse in hindsight, and in a way I suppose that’s not a bad thing. If I was triggered and cognizant in real time, in some situations I might not be responsible for my reaction. The down side to that, however, is that I feel like such an incredible fool when I realize what has happened. I sometimes wish I didn’t have a conscience so that I could repay an abuser or a user in kind. But, I have a conscience, or maybe it’s just that I prefer the passive aggressive reproach of denying their existence, ignoring them entirely, denying that I even see them. It doesn’t really work all that well anymore, but it’s kind of all I’ve got right now. If I engaged, on even a perfunctory level, it would probably not be pretty, and I’m really too old and spoiled to go to jail. It is what it is.

I do feel like I’m missing, because I don’t know exactly what I’ve lost. I know what I don’t have, only because I imagine it or see it in other people or read about it…but I don’t think I ever had it. It’s like there are dead zones in my spirit where there is simply…nothing. I don’t know if I know how to love anyone, only to be infatuated and obssessed. I don’t know if I ever really do anything that is truly altruistic, or if I see an opening to be a hero. I don’t know what it feels like to love someone and feel that I want nothing in return, only want them to be happy even if their happiness doesn’t include me. Or worse yet, even if their happiness purposely excludes me. I don’t know if I’m that big a person. Am I lying ALL the time? I don’t know sometimes, but on the flip side, I know that I’m no longer actively trying to punish the entire world for what I don’t have. I tend to think that’s a good thing, even though I hate alliteration but am too weary to go back and reword this sentence to remove all the “t” characters at the beginning.

Regardless, there are some things that are unfair, and I have a great sensitivity to that for other folks…not so much for myself. I figure it’s just kind of the way it goes. I get more enraged at myself for making mistakes, for not seeing the red flags and warning signs, even when others warn me. I want to believe. I don’t want to have to always be looking over my shoulder, waiting for the blow. I don’t know if that’s how life is supposed to go, although it does go like that for some people. It makes me really angry to feel like I’ve been had, like I’ve been played, like someone has knowingly and intentionally tried to make a fool of me, taken advantage of my generosity, my good will. I do have good will toward people, but if I find they’ve used that and thrown it back on me…we’re done. And we stay done. Overdone. Burnt to a crisp done. It isn’t ever the same, and I really can’t get it back. I can’t get it back, because I know that I can’t trust them ever again. Moderation is not in my vocabulary; I’m a 1-in-10 kind of girl. Abstinence is a really great policy for many things. I’m all in, until I’m all out, and then I got…nothin’.

I was just reading something about how to fulfill your dreams, or at least manifest your plans (two entirely different things, in my book), and the question asked was “What’s missing?”. Hmmm. Interesting question. What IS missing that leaves me unfulfilled and incomplete. Truth be told, I’m not sure I’m incomplete, but I feel like that’s a different issues so won’t deal with it now. But what leaves me feeling unfulfilled, like I can’t get what I want out of this life, like I consistently fail to manifest what I desire, what I picture in my mind’s eye? What is that all about?

The simple answer that most people offer to my question is that I don’t feel worthy. Well, that’s too simple for me. What is worth? Worth what, and worthY of what? I am worth breathing, I am worth eating and drinking, I am worth things necessary to continue my physical life. Am I worth happiness, and does that translate to deserving happiness? There, I am not so sure. I sometimes feel as though I deserve nothing, from the standpoint of feeling the world owes me something. I’ve had circumstances and people chip away at my soul, my spirit, but I’m still standing. Even my mother said I had it hard, whatever that means, but one cannot be compensated for that. There is ultimately no recompense for abuse, and it can’t be remediated or litigated or undone. So. What do I deserve? And is “deserve” the same as “worth”? I’m really not sure about that.

There’s a saying in recovery that “if we got what we deserved, some of us would be recipients of jails, institutions, or death”. So, in many cases, it works to my advantage to not get what I deserve. I get that. Now whether or not I’m worthy to be a full participant in that brand of universal and karmic justice is unknown. Worthiness seems to be a much stickier wicket than “deserving”. Worthiness brings up all kinds of moral and character judgements, at least for me it does. For instance, I just Googled “worthiness”, and the definition returned was “the quality of being good enough; suitability”. Good enough? What is good enough, and who sets the scale? To me, the scale is entirely subjective and as such, relative. I’m good enough to be treated with respect, or am I? I suppose what feels like a better fit is that I’m good enough to be treated with respect if/when I am good enough to treat others with respect. That feels a bit more balanced than a quality that is subjectively defined as “good enough”.

To further exhaust the argument of “good enough” vs. “worthy”, I return to another popular recovery axiom – “you build esteem by doing esteemable acts”. That makes sense to me, in an energetic and vibrational kind of way. If I define myself as a thief, and steal from other people and institutions, the energy I’m throwing out is that of a thief, that of taking what does not belong to me. That seems to be a discconnect, unless I’m a sociopath and have no conscience about it…but that’s not me. If anything, my conscience is ambuilatory and self-aware, ocasionally clobbering me with waves of guilt about having done inestimable things 40 years ago. Whatever. Back to defining oneself as a thief…if that is the energy and vibration I’m throwing out, I will probably get that or better in return. I’m going to lose things in an unfair manner, I’m going to have negative consequences (the least of which are legal) come to me. I get very frustrated when it appears that people are stealing, or cheating, and accruing no consequences. I have to believe there are consequences that are just not apparent from a distance…on closer examination, these people seem bitter, unhappy, tight, tense, not anyone with whom I’d want to share a cup of coffee. Maybe that’s just rationalization on my part, but it seems to hold true. I just read an article about Ghislaine Maxwell, who was somehow involved in the Jeffrey Epstein sex trafficking ring. She’s still in a NY jail, and losing her hair and losing weight and the computer she is allowed to use is “inadequate”. Whether convicted or not, this is someone who stole trust from a number of people. She’s not having a good time at the moment, so I suppose this is the consequential phase of her behavior.

I dunno, though…I know someone who is in prison at the moment, for a crime she says that she did not commit. It was a murder, of an intimate partner. She maintains her innocence, but the system did not agree. Since there is an overwhelmingly negative consequence for her, does that mean she did SOMETHING wrong to “deserve” that? Does she “deserve” that outcome? Our justice system asserts that she does, having been found guilty – despite her protestations. I’m a little troubled by my apparent slide into that puritanical eye-for-an-eye sort of dynamic, and I have to think about that. Perhaps this is how I am continually don’t get what I want, what I feel is “due” me…that I deserve. Oh, my. This is as sticky as worthiness. I am not pleased with that, but I’ll need to delve further.

Deserve. Worthy. Guilt. Innocence. Good enough, not good enough. Those are all subjective iterations. There are gradients inherent in all of them, continuums. If someone does take the life of another, our law says that it matters little if you meant to do it or not. If you didn’t mean to do it, you may be accused of manslaughter or negligent homicide or something, but if you meant to do it you’ll probably be accused of homicide. If you meant to do it and PLANNED to do it, the charge will definitely be homicide and if it’s ugly enough, it will be capital murder. That’s only the legal constrictions. I’m more concerned with esoteric function. I suppose that is how I will get some distance from the frustration of observing that some people seem to have no consequence for doing bad things…I need to separate the human legal and societal constructs from the Universal and esoteric laws. I suppose, as I have said many times, Karma is a bitch, and she takes no prisoners. There has to be Justice in the Universe overall, else we might still be space dust.

One final argument on this, on deserving and on justice…a squirrel or rabbit may be prey for a hawk or an owl. Does the squirrel or the rabbit deserve to die a somewhat brutal death, torn apart and eaten while still alive? They scream, and seem to die horribly, but everyone agrees this is simply natural order. Nothing personal, just business…quite literally. There is no judgement about worthiness, or about deserving, or about good qualities. There is no scorekeeper to determine that owls across the territory have eaten enough squirrels for the month, so the next few squirrels will be spared to maintain the owl-squirrel ratio in the territory because, well, it’s only fair. That is not natural law, that is not Universal law. That philosophy is human law, and applies only to human-human interaction. It certainly doesn’t apply to human-animal interaction, so a human might kill a squirrel or a rabbit in much the same way as an owl might, intentionally. There are no consequences for us in so doing, because after all, we’re the apex of the food chain, of the animal kingdom. So, there’s yet another glitch in the process…we’re only concerned with worthiness and deservedness concerning ourselves. I’m interested by my thoughts about the spiiritual toll that implies…do we not have responsibility to mete out justice on smaller-brained life forms as we would have it doled out on ourselves? By that, I’m not asserting that we should go on trial for killing squirrels and rabbits, but…our intentions should be more spiritually conscious. Killing a lesser life form in order to eat is not, in itself, a spiritual non sequitur. The larger question, though, is do we “deserve” to eat more than a squirrel “deserves” to live? Is a human life worth more than a squirrel’s? It may depend on who you ask.

I’m not entirely sure why I romped off on this journey into the bowels of ethics and worthiness. I have long been really perplexed by not getting what I want, even when not getting the desired result was actually more beneifical in the long run. But…I want what I want. I want to feel like things are working out for me, like the winds of fate are on my side. I want to feel like I’m winning. Maybe it’s all randomly cyclical, maybe it’s what people have always said – you win some, you lose some. Maybe observing the apparent success of others is delusional at best…or maybe it’s just about what seems to be the high esteem that successful people are afforded, regardless of their character of being “good enough”.

That high esteem is what makes 8-year-old boys emulate football stars who physically assault their girlfriends, or who engage in dog-fighting rings. They are not judging the bad behavior, only the end-game, the celebrity and the wealth and the attitude that says “I can do whatever I want and I’m still famous and rich and screw you anyway”. This is the same attractiveness that President 45 had – he could say the most outrageous and hurtful things, and still got to sit in the Oval Office and still had people doing his bidding and cheering for every insult that he uttered. This is also what has so many intolerant people decrying “political correctness”, claiming it simply causes us to lie to each other, to not say what we mean, to not tell the truth.

I have thought some of the same thing, that we don’t say what we mean, that we lie creatively to avoid conflict, that we gloss over the truth so as not to engage, that we hide in our seeming politeness. I don’t think that’s a function of political correctness, however; I think that’s due to the root cause of lying and hiding behind our truths, of being afraid of healthy conflict. If I really don’t like white people, and I have to work with them, should I not comply with the code of conduct that says don’t call people names, don’t insult people, don’t alienate people, do whatever you have to do to keep focus on the work and ignore the personal feelings. Well, if I don’t acknowledge, if I’m not honest, at least to myself, that I really don’t like these people, I’ll probably do stupid passive aggressive things, and when caught, start my defense with “But I have no problem with white people. I was raised to believe that people were just people.” , and there we go.

I’m going to be sneering on the inside every time I say the “right” things, and I may very much want to escalate my anti-white people behaviors outside of the work place. Because I can. Because I am so fucking angry that I have to be nice to “them”. That I am so fucking angrey that I have to work with “them”. That I am so fucking enraged that I have no choice about any of it. And there it is…again. I feel that I have no choice. That can make a person want to kill. Or climb up on the roof of the U.S. Capitol with a confederate flag and then go inside and poop on the floor. That’s rage. That’s “screw you, you ain’t NOTHIN’, and you ain’t more than me” kind of rage. It’s the rage that says I’m gonna walk off with your official podium over my shoulder and put my feet on your desk, just to show you that I don’t think you’re worthy of MY respect. That’s depravity, and it’s real, and it’s feral. Nobody can reach these people, and I think we should stop trying and accept the fact that they’re lost to us.

Some of this makes sense only to me, which is fine. I so wrestle with things like this, like is my life worth anything to anyone but me, is my life worth more than a squirrel’s, or an owl, or a hawk. I started with pondering what’s missing in my life, that allos me to go unfulfilled. The question of worthiness is legitimate in that discussion. Not sure about the squirrels, but that’s OK. Perhaps my concept of worthiness involves other people, such that I’m worthy because someone else believes me to be worthy. I never thought my father particularly thought I was worthy, but I don’t think he considered himself worthy, either. However, he got what he wanted. I believe my mother thought I was worthy, but I’m not sure if she thought I was worthy of my life as opposed to hers, or her version of my life. I suppose the work before me, then, is to find out if I beileve myself to be worthy of my own life, and go from there. Right now, however, I am going to have more coffee and then take my medications and (shhhhh!) take the dog out.

I believe I’ve contemplated the definition of work before. It’s something you do with your energy, to … do something. Move something. Shift something. Right now I do not have work that produces a monetary income, so that’s a bit of a pain in the arse. I do not miss the deadlines, the conformity, the refimentation, the rules. My disgust, however, had very little to do with the tasks I was trained and hired to do. I looked upon those as existing to help people, to help people use a technology they were required to use in a helpful way. Sometimes, even the recipients, saw that quite differently. The coporation had weaponized the work I did, so that it could be used to terminate you if you didn’t conform, if you didn’t fit into the mold well enough. Get your hands and arms back inside the car until the ride has come to a complete stop. You are not allowed to enjoy this, nor control your relalationship to it. If the widgets are going to move, everyone has to march toward them in lock step. There are metrics and all. Metrics rule us, but we rule you, so get to steppin’.

Um, no. There simply came a time when not only did I no longer want to march in step, I couldn’t. My rhythm was off, my legs didn’t work, my feet didn’t lift. The army discharged me, saying that I was unfit for duty. Incompetent was their exact word, I believe. I have never been defined as incompetent, and that was a bitter and large pill for me to swallow. It took a minute. This label was affixed by people who could not write an intelligent sentence, had never mastered the art of punctuation or, heaven forbid, logical thought process. All they had was power in the system, and a script. They followed the rules, and their paychecks depended on weeding out dead weight, outliers, malcontents, nonconformists. That would be me, reporting for duty, thank you very much. Y’all are NOT gonna break my spirit. But, they nearly did, and I will never forget that. Never. But I had a part in it.

I should have left that job a while ago. It had ceased to be fun, ceased to feed my spirit, ceased to provide fertile ground to enhance growth. This was corporate share-cropping. Yes, I got a paycheck, with an alleged stake in profit sharing, but all of the financial reward distinctly undervalued effort. Yes, there were health benefits, which provided a great coercive factor, but at what point did I surrender my dignity for that? I should have left there, but I didn’t. I lasted nearly 20 years, although I must say all 20 years weren’t quite so deadening. The last eight or so were particularly bad, courtesy of a takeover by a less than respectable corporate culture. Why didn’t I leave? I pretty much know why…I thought I could wait it out. Thought I’ll show them, they are not going to break me. Thought…I have to survive. That is what I do. I survive. Not live, just survive. There’s a huge difference between living and surviving, and I knew that, but I did what I always do by default. I survived.

They damaged me, but told me I shouldn’t look at it that way. Everyone was treated exactly the same way. I did not have the confidence, nor language, to convince them systems like theirs were the problem, that their system was oppressive. Their response would have likely been “Maybe this isn’t the place for you, then.”. And they would have been right, but … and I’m now realizing how big a part of the confidence problem this is for me…I did not believe I had anywhere to go. I felt trapped. The cage door was open, but I was too afraid to walk through it and smeel the air outside. If you’re going to sleep with the devil, it’s better if it’s the devil you know. At least that was my thought process. There’s a saying in recovery, “My best thinking got me HERE.” And that was certainly true of my tenure, and end, in corporate America. My best thinking got me there. Cue the applause.

I am told no experience is wasted, so on that level I did not waste 20 years there. But it feels rather like that. This moment, as I am writing this, I wonder why the hell I didn’t think more of myself and my skills to tell those idiots, summarily, you are NOT going to treat me this way, as inhuman, with the only value you see in me being what I can do for you. I don’t have to take that. I SHOULDN’T have taken that. But I did, because I felt trapped, as I usually do when I am faced with something unacceptable. I had choices, but could not see them. I had power, but could not use it. I set up a false dichotomy between power over and power with; I believed they had power over me. I did not have power WITH me. That’s my part in the whole unpleasant experience. I have to own that.

Sitting here writing about this, and more importantly writing at all, tells me that I am much happier doing this than I ever was working in corporate technology. I get paid nothing, but I have my self-respect, sitting here in sweat pants and socks and a stupid t-shirt. This one has a slightly frowny-face on it, and says “Despite the look on my face, you’re still talking.”. Exactly. I sometimes have that look on my face, when people are making no sense whatsoever, and they keep talking. What goes on in my head, silently, is a forceful dialogue about how little sense they are making, how my dog could make more sense, and please stop talking. But I usually let them go on and on and on, because, well…you know…people have a right to say what they want to say, no matter how stupid. So, I’ll just go someplace inside my head, and escape.

That’s the key word, I suppose…escape. When a person feels trapped, they dream of escape, dream of being free. I guess I don’t often feel free, and I’m caught between believing that I can change that, and that I just need to accept that. The serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, the wisdom to know the difference. Sometimes I am coming up with a goose egg on all three – no serenity, no courage, no wisdom. *sigh* Fortunately, that’s not every day any more, but some days seem longer than others. Progress not perfection, the recovery mantra screams at me. OK, yeah, that’s fine, but damn…how much imperfection can be tolerated, especially when progress seems a bit elusive.

So, now I am brought to the concept of progress. I listened to a Brene’ Brown podcast a couple of months ago, about success vs. mastery. That rang true, as she and her gues – a Ph.D. who has written books about creativity within the confines of structured disciplines, like architecture. They discussed at length the notion that repeated failure is a necessary element in mastery of a craft, while success may be more or less an element. Mastery is the more desirable outcome, since it demonstrates an integration of the craftsperson with the craft. As the oft-use adage states: BE the change you want to see. This discussion has left me to wrestle with my attachment to success, and how much I equate success with approval. I equate success with respect, with glory, with celebrity (not that I’ve ever achieved full celebrity, but just having members of the ‘system’ give me a thumbs-up can be good enough). I equate success with all of the material rewards of the capitalist system – if you are good at what you do, you wil be financially compensated, and you can capitalize on the compensation to buy…things. Those things convince others of your success…and there you are at the beginning of the cycle. The problem with that cycle, at least for me, is what I have to give up in order to stay in. In this last experience, I had to give up my personal ethics concerning what a good job looked like, what completion looked like, and boundaries on things like truthfulness. Yes, this task CAN be done but I won’t do it for you because…the policy says I can’t. That kind of – no, it DOES – suck in my book. That horrible sucking sound I heard all day was not the swamp being drained or the dirty dishwater running out, it was the sound of my brain matter drying up. Nope. Not this girl. Y’all just go on, ya hear? Actually, they told ME to just go on, and I heard just fine, but maybe they did me the biggest favor ever. Like I said, it’s taken a minute, but I do not miss one second of my time there. Not one. I thought I couldn’t live without it, but fortunately, that’s a lie. I can make it without being bled dry on a daily basis. There’s no paycheck big enough to compensate you for living life anemically. None.

Because I live in a capitalist regime, I have to make some kind of income at some point, so I suppose I’m working up to that. I don’t think I want to go back to technology, although it would still beat flipping burgers at McDonald’s. But not by much, if I have to do it in a corporate environment. I definitely need to work from home, at something that allows me to freely negotiate solutions to issues or problems. Something that allows me to leverage things like my writing ability, and my penchant for research (a.k.a. surfing the web). Something that allows me to learn, and grow, and approach mastery of a craft. Most importantly, I need a job where I’m treated like a human being, spoken to as an adult, and led by people who are competent and not on a power-trip. Authority is one thing, but power-trip is different, and not a good thing. I am too old to be fooling with that mess any longer, and too old to be biting my tongue all day. Part-time would be good, or at least working at my own pace, able to set my own schedule. I am enjoying some of the activities I’m becoming involved with, the social justice and spiritual work, the stuff that feeds me on the esoteric level. I am enjoying spending time with my dog (although this morning the little cur almost went out the 3rd floor window, without benefit of a parachute). What good is it to work outside the home for 8-10 hours per day, at someone else’s behest, and come home to be too fatigued to enjoy the stuff your paycheck allows you to acquire? That is bass ackwards, at best. I don’t want that anymore. No. More. Enough. We’re done.

Sometimes there aren’t words adequate to communicate one’s feelings, sentiment, reaction. For instance, “fuck” is sometimes the only appropriate response that encompasses the passionate feeling that needs both a sound and emotion. “Oh, no!” just doesn’t even begin to capture the feeling of “no, no way, are you kidding me, or you serious, that can NOT be reality, unacceptable, totally UNACCEPTABLE, unbelievable, cannot be happening, really unwanted, disappointment, disgust, need a do-over, retract, reject, nuh-uh, sorry-but-not-happening, or simply added emphasis to any other adjective. Saying “That’s gross” is amplified by saying “That’s FUCKING gross”. Saying “It’s too high a price” is amplified by saying “That is too FUCKING high a price”. So, hopefully, now the listener understands at least some of the intensity of emotion that is felt. One would hope, but some of us are not too bright. Some of us are FUCKING dense, or FUCKING not listening.

Half the state of Texas is frozen. Literally frozen. People are doing their best to survive in their homes with no heat, no water, no sewage disposal (they have asked many to not flush their toilets), and temperatures in the single digits or less at nigiht. This is apparently the result of a privatized effort to manage the electrical grid, not for purposes of lowering cost, and not for purposes of more efficient management and maintenance. It seems the primary motivation to privatize the grid was so they wouldn’t be interconnected with any other grids, other states. They didn’t want to be forced to share in times of emergency, so now that emergency is on THEIR plates, nobody can chip in to help. And they can’t seem to find a solution with both hands and a flashlight. So people are suffering, and they are resorting to “rolling black outs” to attempt to manage the disaster. That means your power might be working for an hour, then *click* it goes off, for some undetermined period, then *click* it might return. Or not. You have no idea. If you’re on oxygen, or medical equipment that requires power to operate, you’re gonna have a really long day, and night, and next day, and next night, for goodness knows how long. This is nuts. Even more laughable, if it wasn’t so FUCKING ridiculous, people are already getting power bills more than triple their normal price. So, they have to actually pay EXTRA for the mismanagement of their service. What a great solution! They apparently a) didn’t pay attention to weather forecasts for the area, and b) didn’t have sufficient capacity to compensate for an extraordinary peak in usage, whicch this is. Are they offering amnesty for unusually high bills through all of this? No. Are they offering even an apology for the inconvenience? No. Are they offering ANY solution to prevent this from happening again? Um, no. Three strikes, and they have no penalty. That’s a fumble, an interception, and an incomplete pass simultaneously. And they have no penalty, or loss of yardage, or points scored against them. Nothing. I am hoping this ain’t over until the fat lady sings, and I have no intention of breaking into song anytime soon.

Anyway, I find quite often that white supremacy attempts to dictate cultural norms. I cuss. I cuss a lot. Sometimes, when I’m excited about something – a concept, an idea, a conversation – I speak loudly. I’m not angry, although when I AM angry, I will speak loudly. When I’m with other women of color, there’s not a problem, not even an eyebrow raised. Even when the loud volume is due to frustration or anger, it’s met head on. And then we get past it. No big deal, unless you talk about my mama, my spouse, or my children. We just drive on. There’s a way of expressing frustration without getting personal, and we get that. Mere utterance of “foul” words and invectives does not constitute a “foul” conversation, or inappropriateness. When I deal with groups of white women, I frequently find myself under the control of the “tone police”. I take it as correction, and that does NOT go over well with me. I’m a grown damned woman, and you can disagree, but you do NOT need to correct me. I may be wrong, but there’s a way to say that you have a different understanding of something, or maybe disagree, than saying “I noticed you used the word “dyke” when you were speaking of LESBIANS, and that’s a pejorative.” I’ve been using the word “dyke” for longer than some woman-loving-women have been alive, so leave me alone with it. I was called a dyke, and not in a good way, for many years so yeah, it’s reclaiming the power of that invective.

To get even more down to it, don’t tone police anyone in the middle of an emotional outburst. I had a minister who used to say, “Say what you need to say, and we’ll pretty it up later.” That is gold to me, especially as a woman, especially as a woman with non-dominant cultural identies, plural, who feels that I have a right to my feelings and opinions. It’s far more important for me to get stuff out than it is to make someone else feel comfortable. We are sometimes numb as we try to navigate the perilous landscape of our world, soif I have emotion, that is NOT a bad thing. I once had an unfortunate outburst in the presence of a dear friend, and it was not pretty. It involved racial epithets and invective and ugly words and feelings. It involved anger and tears and nearly a break down on my part. My friend let me go, without trying to stop me. When things were calmer, she and I talked about it, and I began with “OK, let me have it. I know that was way over the line.”. She said, and I will never forget this, ever…she said, “Ann, who am I to let you have ANYTHING?” She did not make me feel like a monster, she did not make me feel so totally “wrong” that I could not recover. She did not shame me. We are close friends today, and I would trust her with my life. This is what ‘sisterhood’ feels like to me.

So, I have just spit out a flurry of words and some feelings and the sparks have died down on my keyboard, but that’s how I was feeling this morning, in the cold and drearieness of this day. So, *whomp dere it is*.