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

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.

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’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.

The Show

Blush, mascara, concealer, powder
must apply them all so thickly
to hide the lines, the dark circles
of life
Put on the face to face the audience

Review the script
run the blocking, hit the marks in your mind
memorize the inflection of each word
get the tone and tenor-just so-
so that the crowd falls into the farce

Stitch the skirt, press the shirt
cinch the belt tight, contain the bulge
so the flaws don’t show
shove feet into shoes that leave no prints on the stage

Time to give the crowd
what they crave
Start the show again
Show them all of the you that they want to see
never never let them see
what’s behind the painted smile

Let them clap
collect the roses
bow to the “brava!”s and “bravisimo!”s

Alone in your dressing room
when the throngs have gone
may you strip bare and cry
mourn for the one you hide each day
as you give the world all they ask of you.

After divorcing the worst spouse…EVER, the only thing the LVs and I could fathom to do to celebrate was, naturally, (everyone say it together now!) Paaaaaarrrrrrr-Tay! Of course, we all disagreed as to what KIND of party to throw. Leroy was in favor of beer, strippers, and lots of violence on the TV. Muffy wanted something more ‘no guys allowed, slumber party with the gals’, and Yenta, well…she was voting for a nice, civilized observance of the day. Something like a nice meal with candles, wine, and lots of chocolate. So I split the difference.

I invited My Boys, (Ian and Robbie) The Slappahoes,(Heather and Alex, and their hubbies, Chris and Josh, respectively) and of course, The Sweetie, out to Fisher’s Landing for an evening of drinking, s’mores, and one HUGE bonfire.

The evening did not go exactly as planned, but I do have to mention, that this is not exactly a bad thing. The evening was even better. We had all planned to meet at 8, but life got in the way, and all the players didn’t arrive until 9. Oh well, that gave those of us that were there at 8 a chance to wander around a bit and scope out some driftwood for the fire…and get started on the drinking. Ok, if I’m going to be honest about it, it gave ME a chance to get started on MY drinking. This will come back to play later in the story. At nine, THE BOYS finally arrive and the party gets into full swing.

Chris and Josh build the bonfire up with the quickness and we all make a round of toasts along the lines of “Ding Dong, the Douche Be Gone”.  Those of you who are easily grossed out by ‘romancey type’ stuff, skip down to the **. I have to share one toast with you. The sweetest thing I’ve ever heard came outta my Sweetie’s mouth that night. (Other than the “I love you” thing, DUH) He said “Here’s to the best revenge ever. He doesn’t have her anymore.” I nearly melted on the spot. Total puddle o’ happy sappy goo. Naturally, my immediate reaction was to drink heavily because I don’t do ‘emo’ time well, but, oh yeah, he got thanked later. Lots.

**End of ‘Skip Point’.  As the night progressed, I began dragging out all those little remainders of my ‘marriage’ that had been left in my house. Wedding/old photos, a copy of my marriage license, (can’t burn the original, dangnabbit) my old journal, and some other odds and ends. Needless to say, we all had a grand laugh at some of the stories behind the old photos, and destroying some of the odds and ends was…therapeutic to say the least.  

Then came the part of the party that I had to be told about the next day because I just don’t remember much of it. You see, I had been drinking these really great mixed drinks that The Boys had made. I don’t know what was in them, but let’s just say that they were a BIT stronger than I’m used to, and they made a ‘repeat appearance’, twice, on the ground at my feet during that time. Apparently I revealed quite a bit about my marriage that I wasn’t expecting to reveal! Thank god I had this party amongst friends I know and love and can trust with my very life. Trusting them with a few secrets is no big feat.

After waking up the next morning at the Sweetie’s pad, (and no, I did NOT drive. No one leaves a party I’m throwing without a Designated Driver. Drinking and driving is a big ball of stupid. There is no such thing as ‘hey, I only had a few, I’m good.’ One is too many.) my stomach decided to abandon ship AGAIN, and I promptly decided that I am cured. Freedom tastes a bit like ass, but ya know what? It also tastes a bit like heaven.

Writing at 3am is always the best time. Almost no one dares bug you. However, the telemarketer from Pakistan who called me in the middle of this opus whom I yelled at in French, um…sorry dude, you didn’t deserve to be called the son of a **** ******* *****. That was just Leroy talking. He gets moody. On with the show!

The Eyes Have It

I’ve seen a hurricane
blow fierce and passionate
only to die a sudden death
as the eye passes over
a calm
so still
pins don’t seem to drop
at all
but pause
midair
waiting
as if dead
the ferryman not paid to carry them
Then the winds pick up again suddenly with hate filled fury so strong no mortal dare stand in their wake

I’ve seen the sun warm frost laden fields
of clover
coaxing blooms to
unfurl
only to burn them to ash
by noon
with her zealous rays

I swam the span of a lake
once
so clear
I could see the log-littered bottom
fifty meters below my toes
yet when I plunged just ten feet down
a current took me so swift
it stole the breath from my lungs
and felt as if it would
wrench
my soul
from my heart

I knew a man so handsome
enchanted frogs gave up the kissing game on sight
He knew his lines
delivered them well
and kept up the façade
yet when the scenery crumbled
and the costumes and makeup
washed away
the monster
appeared in his place
at center stage
and blow by bloody blow
he decimated the princess
without conscious thought

Yet I’ve seen the weak
rise
to help those thought strong.
I’ve seen the meek
shout
to defend the helpless.
I’ve witnessed the arrogant
cowed
by the most humble.

The squall, the sun, the lake, the man;
they are wilds
that cannot be tamed.

The weak, the meek, the humble…

My hope.