Little Voices in My Head

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.

I’ve always said that I would have made a crappy lesbian. I applaud women who are, for they are better women than me. Let’s face it, attraction to women just makes sense. We’re pretty. We (to make a gross generalization) smell nice. We’re great to cuddle with, and to top it off, we have the boobs, and therefore, the power. Not only can we conquer nations, we can rebuild them with a smile. Men? Not so much. Men have the tendency to lean towards that funk smell. (yeah, man funk can be sexy, it’s full of pheromones and stuff, but not so pleasant most days) They’re great to cuddle with when you’re cold cuz hey, human furnaces. But what use is that in August? They do have that certain appendage that makes life worth livin’. *WINK* However, men, for all their faults, have one thing up on women that keeps me batting for the hetro team. Men (another gross generalization commin’ your way) for the most part, are not big balls o’ crazy.   

Not to belittle my gender, and yes, I’m lumping myself squarely in there with the rest of them. Women can be absolutely INSANE. I’ve seen women do some of the most conniving, underhanded, shiesty, sneaky, downright cruel things to others all over some misguided notion of ‘love’ or (in most cases) blind lust. Most of them don’t even know they’re doing it. Some do it deliberately. For instance, I have a girlfriend who, when in a supposed “monogamous” relationship, found her lover in a certain compromising position with another gal pal, (I think the exact position is on page 178 of the Karma Sutra, for those who want to look it up) didn’t break up with her lover. She allowed him to remain in her life and in her bed, simply for the express purpose of punishing him later. She bided her time, waited for the moment he relaxed into the relationship again…then shredded his clothes, dumped them on the lawn, melted his CDs and DVDs in the garage with a propane torch, (actually made an impressive art peice) and repainted his car with bright green house paint. On one hand, I have to applaud her actions, but I seriously disrespect her timing. The moment for that kind of revenge was the moment of discovery, not a year later.

 A guy friend of mine is having issues with a girl who keeps jerking him back and forth over the ‘relationship’ coals. This guy is almost perfect boyfriend material. He’s honest, charming, treats her like gold, takes care of her, (and yes, he’s hot) not to mention he is emotionally open and ready for a committed relationship with her. Yet, she keeps raking him because she just can’t get it through her skull that he’s not going to put up with her back and forth emotional ping-pong forever. Then she wants to cry about it. Boo freakin hoo.

I myself, cannot take compliment graciously to save my freaking life. Yet heaven forbid my boys or my sweetie don’t notice I’ve lost another 10lbs. I simply MUST point it out and wait for them to tell me to go buy more clothes, because it makes me feel good. If they tell me I look pretty, I tell them the bullshit is getting deep, but them telling me to go buy pants that don’t fall off my ass makes me feel good. Totally crazy. And totally female.  

Have you ever looked at a gal pal and wondered, “Why don’t you just grow a pair, put on your big girl-panties, and get over it?!”. Well, they don’t, because women are prone to insanity. Hence the reason I applaud lesbians. Putting ONE woman in a relationship is trouble enough, mixing two in there? Now THAT’S certifiable. Or heroic. You decide.

I’ve spent the last two days off work, at home, taking care of Pammie. I’ve really enjoyed the time with her, yet my heart is breaking. Pammie is dying. God, even typing that sentence makes me weep. I suppose I shouldn’t focus on that. She has Alzheimer’s. It’s been called the silent killer. It’s a slow, malicious, thief that robs families of their loved ones a few simple things at a time. The cruelest part is that Pammie’s case is so much more complicated because of who she was born to be. She was already afflicted with enough pain in her life. She was born with Down’s Syndrome. That always made her unique, wholly her own blessed angel. Sweet, pure, yet…simple. She’s never had the ability to retain a lot of information. So now, the information being stolen from her seems doubly heinous. Watching her forget what happened yesterday, or that tomorrow will eventually come, shatters my heart. Having to remove the knobs from the stove so she can’t play with the burners, or put extra locks on the doors so she can’t wander off makes me want to sit down and bawl for what we’ve lost with her. This is a woman who, when I was a child, used to cook me hot dogs and macaroni and cheese, and take me to school each morning. Who dried my tears when I fell off my bicycle, taught me how to use a latch-hook to make a rug, always found that last elusive word in the find-a-word puzzle books. Now Pammie cries for reasons known only to her, can’t match the colours in a paint by number, and circles the same letters over and over in her puzzle books. It’s the little things you miss.