Little Voices in My Head

The following is a continuance of something from the past.  

I wrote a similar ‘essay’ years ago for an assignment. Tonight, I had the good fortune to be reminded of all the reasons behind it. I decided to share an updated version with all of you, because to understand ME, you must understand the influences behind me. And for me to understand my true self, I had to get this out.

     I don’t believe in miracles. I do believe that rational science, logic, even math, can not explain. However, the concept that something miraculous may happen to my life is just beyond my scope of belief. I do believe in the unexplained. For instance, there is no rational explanation for Pammie.
     Pammie is my sister. She is also my Aunt. She is also…unexplainable. Upon her birth, my Grandmother was told to give up on her. To put her into a home for the mentally disabled. Thankfully, my Grandmother did not listen, and took her home instead. Despite every doctor telling her that Pammie wouldn’t live to see 21, this year will mark her 57th birthday. Pammie has defied so many odds in her life, that longevity holds no mystery to her. 
     Simple everyday tasks now hold mystery to her.  Although she was born with Down’s Syndrome, a trisomy of one of her chromosomes that severely stunted her mental acuity, that is not  what has defined her. Her heart has. Pammie has an amazing capacity for love. No matter the circumstance, Pammie has always managed to love unquestioningly throughout her life.
     When I was a child, Pammie came to live with my family after the death of her mother. My parents adopted her, even though she was an adult, and made her my sister. I was 3 at the time. Throughout my life, Pammie has been a constant source of frustration, amusement, and unfailing love to me. As a grade schooler, my other sister, Gwen, tried to ‘teach’ Pammie to read. As children, Gwen and I did not grasp the concept of mental disability, and didn’t understand that no matter the effort, Pammie would never have that ability. So after my mother explained to us, at the ages of 5 and 6, we decided that it was our job to read to Pammie. To share all the wonderful stories we were learning in books. This habit continues today.
     In High School, after a particularly grueling day battling budding actors and stubborn equations, I would often come home so downtrodden that it showed in my every expression. No matter how hard I faked it, and even concealed it from the rest of my family, Pammie always knew the truth. She would pat the cushions of the couch next to her, and say, “Sissy, do you need a hug? Come here an’ hug me.”, and I would. Somehow just the simple act of sitting next to her calmed the day down. Due to Pammie’s remarkable physiology, she has shortened stature, a flattened face, mongoloid eye-folds, and the worlds pointiest chin! Since I have been five foot ten inches tall since I was 13, her little body only reaches my sternum. When sitting, she barely reaches my neck. So to sit with her, reading a book to her, or even just watching TV, she rests her pointy little chin on my shoulder. Yes, it can hurt, but it’s a pain I welcome because it makes her so happy to snuggle in.
     Now the ravages of time are wrecking havoc with Pammie’s mind. As she ages, her brain is now being stolen from her by Alzheimer’s Disease. Tonight, when reading to her a story full of her favorite things, unicorns, family, and a happy ending, she became so distracted by staring at her own hand that the story mattered not to her. She asked me why her hands were so little, and mine so large. I had no easy answer for her, so I told her that was simply the way God made her. Pammie does not grasp the concept of a divine being ruling the universe, but she has been taught that God loves her, and made her perfect as she is.
     I happen to agree with THAT statement. Miracles? No. But I’m going to spend every chance I have with her, and I’m really going to miss this one when she is gone.

For a few years now, I’ve been having a reoccurring nightmare. Almost every night. The few nights, at least lately, that I DON’T have this dream, have been when too exhausted to do more than fall flat in my face into bed and snore for a few hours. After many hours of debate, both internal and external, with the Voices, and “REAL” people…I’ve decided to let public opinion interpret this one for me. Because I’m just clueless as to what I can do about it.  There are some things you need to know BEFORE giving your opinion though. Yes, I can tell while IN the dream, that I am in fact dreaming. I know I am. Yet I still cannot control the dream. It continues. I’ve tried altering the dream by playing restful music, water fountains *just made me wanna pee all damn night* and positive imagery before bed. Aside from those tactics, I welcome your opinions and any tips and tricks you might have for a restful night. The dream is as follows:

A simple picnic is laid out in front of me on blue checkered blanket. I’m in a meadow about forty feet in diameter bordered on the left side by a swift moving creek. To the right of the meadow is peaceful woodland, birds chirping, small mammals skittering through the underbrush. In front of me rises a cliff face that is the foot of a mountain so high I dare not look up for fear of making myself dizzy. Behind me, and I know this without turning around, is a scary forest. Blackened forms that vaguely resemble redwoods, but the branches reach all the way to the ground. Boulders block almost every trail forcing the footpaths to double and triple back. Anything living in this devastation is as twisted and ugly as the predominant form of vegetation. Holly bushes. Thousands of them crowd the undergrowth. They’re not green though. They’re a dark, sharp burgundy. Almost the same colour as a very dark red wine.

Affronted, annoyed, antagonized, bitter, chafed, choleric, convulsed, cross, displeased, enraged, exacerbated, exasperated, ferocious, fierce, fiery, fuming, furious, galled, hateful, heated, hot, huffy, ill-tempered, impassioned, incensed, indignant, inflamed, infuriated, irascible, irate, ireful, irritable, irritated, maddened, nettled, offended, outraged, piqued, provoked, raging, resentful, riled, sore, splenetic, storming, sulky, sullen, tumultuous, turbulent, uptight, vexed, wrathful…All results from thesaurus.com to attempt to explain JUST how ANGRY I am at this moment.

The true problem is that I am not angry at an entity outside myself, I am angry at my…self.

Tonight, during what should have been a happy moment, I had a flashback. (Think Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, without the singular event or ‘trauma’ that inflicts said disorder. More like years of psychological abuse.) It scared me so much that I actually thought I was going to piss myself, and I had to come home to spend yet another night awake and crying. The event that triggered the flashback was me falling. Or rather, someone unintentionally rolling me out of a bed, and I fell. (no, I’m not injured, thanks for asking) Just my ego and my self-worth are bruised.

You see, it’s been almost two years since EED (El ExDouchebag) has been out of my life, and yet I still fear. For just a few seconds tonight, I had no control of my own body weight, my center of gravity or my equilibrium. (a roller-coaster, bungee jumping, hell, even swings I LOVE, but being out of control in that weightless moment scares the shit out of me) The only thing holding me up was my rapid response of putting a leg on the floor. The EED knew I hated being lifted up, or falling, and he would often exploit that fear when I displeased him. Often lifting me up only to deliberately let me fall. Tonight, when I fell out of the bed, I flashed back to a particularly heinous night when I woke up because I was being kicked (literally) out of bed by the EED and landed on the floor. I had bruises and abrasions for over a week, he kicked me so hard, and I landed on a very unforgiving nightstand.

I know, in my rational brain, that one of my Boys didn’t MEAN to make me fall. He was just answering his phone…which happened to be more out of reach than he thought. I even knew while having the flashback that it wasn’t happening now and that I was safe. Yet…my stupid, fearful self couldn’t disengage from the prior events. And THAT makes me angry. I’m not angry at the EED for causing this…ugly little head trauma. I’m angry at myself for allowing it to happen. I’m sitting here now almost two years after the split with him, and I can still feel bile rising to the back of my throat, and my heart rate is over 130bpm. All because I’m still scared of him. I should be stronger than that. I’m still afraid to go to a movie theatre alone. I shouldn’t have to avoid Reese’s Peanut Butter cups like the plague because they smell like him. I shouldn’t refuse to play RummyKube with my family because I’m too busy thinking about all the times he told me I was stupid for not winning, or getting angry at me because I DID. I shouldn’t be afraid to tell someone “I love you” now, because HIS reply was often “Fuck off”. I shouldn’t jump, scared out of my wits when blond men with a crew cut and moustache walk by. I shouldn’t have to be afraid of him killing me, or hurting my family, like he always said he would, simply because I finally got the balls to divorce him. I shouldn’t scream at my mother “DON’T TELL ME HOW TO HANG MY PANTS!” because I’m thinking about how many hours of ‘instruction’ I received in how to do his laundry…and the days he would ignore me afterwards for doing it wrong. I should be STRONGER than the fear. My own reactions ANGER me.

It’s taken almost two years, some support group visits, and a LOAD of self examining to say I was a victim of abuse. It was rarely physical, and somehow, I feel…less worthy to say so because so many have suffered SO much more. I never had a broken bone, a single cut, never even a black eye caused by his hands. The thought that I was still so beaten down, so…worthless…angers me even more. I know I am a better person than he ever thought I could be. I know that even if I did fall tonight, completely on my ass, it would have been OK, because it wasn’t done on purpose or out of anger. I KNOW without a doubt that someday, I’ll eat a Reese’s and not even think about him. I’m just pissed off because that day isn’t today, and I can’t MAKE it be today.

Carissa the Enraged

Normally, I shy away from commenting on politics in public. Quite frankly, it’s no one’s business what my views are, as I’m going to vote as I choose, not as you ‘convince me’. I feel you should do the same.

However, I saw something so…far afield of importance, so full of idiocy, so…rampantly diversionary, that it made my head spin.

The lead story on not only the 11 o’clock news, but my Yahoo! home page, my AIM dashboard, and even my Embarq updater, was about the Obamas getting a dog.

ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?!

I am fully in support of the President elect (sigh, it makes my brain hurt to say that) and his family getting a dog. Go for it. Get 20. It’s a big damn house and it’s not like YOU’RE going to be doing the pooper-scooper duty. However, does the lead story really have to be a debate over wither or not they get a rescue dog or one from a shop or breeder? There are even ‘Presidential Puppy Watch’ sites. There are petitions and letters being sent to him in DROVES to get a rescue, or this breed or that.

Are we THAT stupid as Americans that we have to ALL debate on this? Seriously?! It’s a DOG. I’m a dog lover, I love my dog. My home has had a dog in it since I was a child. I can’t imagine life without one…but if the President gets a dog…well…that’s not going to impact my life…AT ALL.

I would rather the news today have been about his economic policy, or lack thereof, or his cabinet choices, or hell, the price of tea in China because that can determine the price of tea for me here. ANYTHING but about the ‘potential First-Dog’.

*huge sigh* I probably shouldn’t expect any better of the ‘general public’. After all, people are sheep, they’re probably very concerned over who’s (potentially) nipping at the ankles of the flock…

Leroy
Muffy
Yenta

For those who are first time visitors, you may be unfamiliar with how I represent Leroy, Muffy, and Yenta in written form. I simply change font representation. As referenced above, Leroy is bold, Muffy underlined, and Yenta italicized. They had some things to say, and wouldn’t be silenced without their due time. You see, it’s been quite a week, and a rant was due.
Quite a week? That’s one way of putting it. Another way would be to say you fucked up big, girlie.
Thanks Leroy, that’s putting it all rather bluntly.
You shudda punched the shit outta that bitch at work. That’s all I’m sayin. No one calls us racist and gets away with it.
For those in the viewing audience–a coworker called me racist this week because it’s rather obvious I have absolutely no liking for her. We have a professional, working relationship. We do not share gab sessions over coffee. Leroy is right, I could have hit her and chose not to. Damn conscious.
Fucking a-right girlie. Got all up in your grill and she’s still walkin straight. Back in the day you’d a set her teeth on the floor. What happened to you?
Hey! It’s not like she could just lay the girl out at work. They have, like, med stuff there. And rules. And wouldn’t C’rissa like, get in trouble?
The little bubble headed one is right. Dey havva rules against violence in da workplace. Bubbie did da right ting. She walk away. Bubbie make stupid girl at da hospital look even more stupid. Serve her right.
The bottom line is that I DID walk away, and I’m kinda proud of myself for doing so. Leroy has a point. Back in my younger days, I would have laid her OUT for even thinking such a thing about me. I was practically raised in two homes. One white, one black. For Pete’s sake, LEROY is a large black man, and he lives in my head!
Fo’ real girlie. And I ain’t too happy about that fact.
Well Leroy, you have the power to leave. Up to you. Simple shut down command and your ass is grass, so how about you quit your bellyaching?
I’m just sayin…
Yeah, you’re always ‘just saying’.
And I’m just saying that this was total…like…ugh! Still think you should of hit her.
Muffy, can we move on, please? A lot has happened this week, that was only a ‘low’ point. The HIGH point would be the good news about work!
Bout time someone recognized all that ass bustin you all been doin’.
Yes, my Bubbie work hard. She work with lot of people dat work hard. Dey all deserve a little show of support.
What we’re talking about is a raise. Almost all of us got one, *mine was wonderful!* because they’re performance based. My evaluation was evidently pretty darn wonderful…
And it should be! You work so hard, Bubbie. And it tru you didn’t punch dat girl.
Yeah, like how many asses can we WASH in a day? Ya know, I really hate those little pink bins now…so grody.
For the love of all things holy! Muffy! Must you degrade a simple bed bath? Even if all I do that day is help people feel a bit cleaner, I’ve done my job. It makes a difference.
The female has it nailed. Making those patients feel better IS important. Shit, we hold so many damn hands a day that I’m beginning to wonder what it’s like to NOT be attached to someone.
At least none of you are corporeal. Remember, YOU’RE NOT REAL. I am. Me. Carissa. At least the four of you can hide in your little corners when a patient curses me out for taking too long, or waking them up, or not knowing where the doctor is. Heaven forbid I can’t get them drugs fast enough. I can’t even HANDLE the drugs! I have to go grab a nurse.
But da nurses, dey all so nice.
Couple a asses there I wouldn’t mind tappin.
LEROY! That’s just…wrong. You don’t play in the company pool. And enough about tapping asses. That’s derogatroy.
I’m just…never mind.
That’s what I thought.
Um…C’rissa…the Amazon is shaking the bars again.
Shit.
Who’s she angry at this time?
I have no freaking clue. C’rissa?
Yes Muffy?
Who’s she angry at this time?
I don’t want to talk about it. She’s angry, but solidly secured in her cage. No worries.
Are you sure? Cuz like, she’s shaking those things HARD…
Muffy, Leroy, chill. She’s secure.
She better be. Another fucking female loose in here we do NOT need.
That’s it, all of you, off for the night. I gotta get some sleep, and you three…well…four, are NOT helping.
Shit female, where do you think we go when you sleep?!
Well, I’m kinda hoping that when I sleep, you sleep. You certainly don’t help with the dreamin’, that’s for sure.
Bubbie, we can not make da dream go away. You havva da…what you tell Angry Black man? Da shut up command.
Fuck all if I know what it is. Let’s just ALL go to bed now. Separate corners, all of you. G’dnight.

I’m about to do something I don’t think I’ve ever done before.

Give unsolicited advice.

When a friend once asked me what he should do about the woman he was pseudo-dating at the time whom he thought he lost, I was at a loss of what to tell him. I was married at the time, so my opinion of relationships in general was…dismal, to say the least. But this wasn’t about me, it was about two people who were so lost, and hurt, and confused, that one of them solicited advice from me. Me. The only person whom knew not only the whole story, but how each party felt. I know this friend rather well…or I did…at the time. I knew what pain he was in, and what he felt/still feels for her. So when he asked my unfiltered advice, I took a deep breath, and asked him, “Why are you hurting?” He replied that he couldn’t imagine a full and happy life without her in it. That he wanted her in his life because she WAS the thing in his life that made him complete. I asked, “What does she feel?”. He replied that he wasn’t sure what she wanted, but that he wanted to give to her whatever it was. As I already knew what she wanted, and now knew what he wanted, I was able to advise him with honesty. I said three things. 1. “Pull your head out of your ass, and apologize. Then apologize again. Then when she says you don’t owe her an apology…apologize again.” (he was at fault in the situation, and was being a bit of a dick about it) 2. “Accept that she may not take you back. Deal with that pain right now, because you can’t let it get in your way.” (another fear of his –rejection.) 3. “Fight. Fight whatever is in your way. Including yourself.” (I love him dearly, but the dude was clueless about the effort required to keep a gal like her feeling appreciated) You see, he was at fault, but didn’t see it that way. *dude brain* I told him to apologize for the FEELINGS caused, not the event. He didn’t want to risk the pain of rejection, so I told him to accept that it may come, no matter what he did to prevent it. And this girl…kinda high maintenance…needed to see some serious effort on his part. (I understand that theoretically some women are like that. I don’t get it, but that’s just my own little dude brain talking.) I wish I could tell you everything worked out for my friend and his lady…but that would be filtered truth, and as the title suggests, this particular blog is anything but filtered. They did return to each other, for a short time, and were happy. However, she eventually got too weary of his game playing, and couldn’t put with it anymore. He made the choice to continue his asinine behaviour that drove her away in the first place. There was no rebirth.

So this past month, when NOT called upon for advice from a friend in a similar situation, I started thinking about this previous conversation. I also can’t help drawing parallels to my own life. I wish I could tell my girlfriend that she’ll be OK, and that yes, if she so chose, she could apply this situation to hers. Maybe show HER own assinine guy that little list, (as she is emotionally high maintenance herself) for him to know what it’s going to take to get his wife back. Should he choose to do so.

The story does have a semi happy ending. Both of the original players eventually found their happiness elsewhere. It’s not the same for either of them, and it’s not nearly as complete as it could have been. Although the guy and I are not friends any longer, (as his asinine behaviour got weary to me too) I do wish he had taken the advice to heart. I’m not saying I’m a guru and that everything would have been just swimmy if he had…but I wonder.

And I wonder what will become of my girlfriend and her guy in the similar situation now. I wonder constantly what will become of me and…mine. All three situations are similar, and all three- suck beyond the telling.

So maybe I’m poking my nose where it doesn’t belong. Maybe I’m thinking too hard about my own situation to see hers clearly. All I know is that I wish too much, and hope too much. For both of us. Yet, I know that last night was the best night of my week, possibly longer, and that feeling, can’t be wrong. So I’m going to take my own advice.

I’m sorry. I accept that it may never be the same again, but that’s not going to stop me from feeling what I feel, and fighting like hell that ‘not the same’ is Even Better.

Carissa the Weary.

This weekend was phenomenally refreshing. I am so sore, I think my blisters have bruises, but it was worth it.

Terribly sorry I haven’t written in awhile…ok, that’s complete bull. I’m not sorry. I simply haven’t had anything of my usual emotional vehemence to say.

“Fake it ’till you make it!”This was said to me this morning by one of my many well-meaning family members, and it infurriated me. More on that in a moment.

I am so humbled I could crawl. So dumbfounded I could drool at a moment’s notice. So…ego boosted I may explode! Let me backtrack.