Simply another manner of torture.

I happened to be in someone’s car the other day and their preferred listening is NPR. Before I could change the station, I heard this phrase that I’ve replayed many times in my head this past weekend….”It’s hard to forget (about the crime) when the crime scene is your own body.”

Man, that’s a statement, isn’t? It was attributed to an artist, a woman who purportedly physically abused (or at last was “mean to”) her male child as some kind of repeat of her own childhood. That saddens me greatly. I have never once wished to visit my childhood upon my children or on anyone’s children for that matter. In fact, if I prayed, it would be that this never happen again, ever, to any child and why does typing these words make me cry even now???

The interviewee was commenting on his own book, while referring to this woman artist, and said that she had often made the remark that she could “still hear” her abuser’s voice in her head. Until I heard that statement, I’d never thought of it that way. Never named the devil, so to speak. But I understood immediately. I also replay the words in my head, rewind, hear it again, like some form of torture, trying to decipher at what point, and who decided, that it should be me who was to be tortured.

Life is so fucked up. The things I want to forget, I can’t. Not the smell of the pool water when I tried to save my son. Not those words of ‘sex’ close in my ear. But the things I wish I could remember are gone, whispered into the wind so faintly that I can’t even fathom in what context I might have heard them. My grandmother’s many words over the years, the way my lover’s mouth felt on the last time she made love to me, the hundreds upon hundreds of photographs I never took, would never need or so I thought, and look at me now with barely any memories, a ton of forever questions, and scarcely any photos to soothe my aching heart with.

Simply another manner of torture.

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977 STEPS AND COUNTING!

http://fightcf.cff.org/site/TR/Climb/11_Carolinas_Raleigh?px=2143672&pg=personal&fr_id=2820

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I am working out for two hours every day now, trying to make myself stronger!  I even added two 5-pound weights to my bathroom, so I can lift weights while I potty.  (Is that weird?)  Anyway, keep me in mind on September 27th and send me positive vibes, if nothing else!

Inspiring blogger…hmmm….

THANK YOU!  http://alesbianspeaks.wordpress.com/

Nominate other amazing blogs and comment on their posts to let them know they’ve been nominated.
So here are my seven facts…
Next year, I am walking the Appalachian Trail, come hell or high water.
This year, I am climbing 28 floors for my grandson, and the Cystic Fibrosis Foundation.
I am madly in love with a woman.
I have been an alcoholic since the 7th grade. (They say once you are, you always are, although I personally DO NOT consider myself an alcoholic any longer and haven’t drank in…wow, more than four years now.
I first did drugs in 4th grade, and regularly from 7th grade on. My constant rapist was a great free source. I quit drugs for real and for sure in February of 2008.
I am a workaholic, working even now at 7:30 AM on Labor Day, a fact I found a wee bit disturbing.
And number seven…I believe GOD stands for Good Orderly Direction and that’s a good thing.

BLOGGERS:  Go ahead now, inspire others!

http://krisalex333.wordpress.com/

http://balfourthrb.wordpress.com/

AND I AM CERTAIN, QUITE CERTAIN, THERE ARE OTHERS WHO INSPIRE ME BUT IF YOU HAVEN’T COMMENTED LATELY, OR IF YOU DO NOT HAVE A POST IN THE ‘RECENT POST’ SECTION, I’M AFRAID THAT I AM DEFICIENT IN FINDING YOU.  UGH.  I AM COMPUTER ILLITERATE, YES.

SOOOO, THEREFORE, IF YOU FEEL YOU ARE INSPIRATIONAL, FEEL FREE TO WRITE IN AND TAG ME, CAUSE I WOULD LOVE TO READ EACH AND EVERY ONE OF YOUR POSTS!

Where there is life, there is hope.

Well, the tests are done. It’s all a waiting game now. Waiting to see if the mass was really there or merely ‘artifact’ on the film, waiting to see what the options are, waiting to see what the risks are, waiting to see if I have cervical cancer, waiting to see what happens next.

So today I’ve been listening to Tim McGraw singing “I went skydiving – I went Rocky Mountain climbing – I went two point seven seconds on a bull named Fu Man Chu – And I loved deeper – And I spoke sweeter – And I gave forgiveness I’d been denyin’ – And he said some day I hope you get the chance – To live like you were dyin’….” and I’ve been thinking about all the things I want to do in the next year, even if it’s just living.

Which brings me to the rant that I didn’t write last week, at least not in here. I did write it on my Facebook page and it made me very unpopular with half of my friends and well supported by the other half. Two words, one action – Robin Williams. Suicide. Okay, I’m going to go out on a limb here and say – Hey, I’m not for that. Not for any fucking reason you can dream up.

One friend said, “But he was depressed.” Oh hell, who isn’t? I know I am! Half of my friends are on medications for it; some of them even see the doctor on a regular basis. I choose to cry alone, fight with my emotions, and sometimes almost physically force my ass up when all in the world I want to do is sleep, sleep, sleeezzzzzzp or lie in the road and wait for a semi – but I don’t. I get up, go to work, and cry, alone and come in here and whine to you guys sometimes.

One friend said “he had the onset of Parkinson’s”. Okay. Michael J. Fox told us he had that, when, in the 1980s? Still hasn’t killed himself once. Millions of people suffer from depression and probably another million have Parkinson’s. (Yes, I totally made those numbers up.) But the point is – everybody doesn’t kill themselves. He had children, for God’s sake! What the hell? You don’t just hang yourself when you have kids! Grow the fuck up. Get a pair of balls. Get some help! So life’s hard. Big hairy deal.

ANYWAY. So one of my supportive friends said, I wonder if he’d had cancer, would he have waited? I know if I have it, I will be fighting with my last breath and I for sure won’t end my own life.

WHERE THERE IS LIFE, THERE IS HOPE.

Let’s not forget that. Life – hope. Key words right there. Anyway, goal for next summer – walk the Appalachian Trail. I want to do the whole thing. Time being a factor in terms of the weather means I may not get to do the whole thing but I am going on it, I am going to walk just as far as I possibly can before I either give up or become bear food. But I won’t become a statistic; I won’t come up with a pathetic excuse to end my own life. You want me, God? Fight me then! Where there is life, there is hope.

Fluidity.

flu·id·i·ty

 [floo-id-i-tee] noun

1.  The quality or state of being fluid.
2.   Physics)   The ability of a substance to flow.

 

So does anybody else think making love is like water?

You know, fluid like, and without sharp edges – smooth and seamless – one move flowing into the next move, this fingertip sliding over that curve, the tip of this tongue dipping into that shallow, just motion into motion, without pause until the last drop has fallen.

Or is it just me?

Two weeks…

Okay, so I’ll probably be missing for two weeks.  No sense in sending up smoke signals.  No search and rescue dogs.  I’m fine.  But the grandsons come on Monday, my birthday coincidentally, and I’m positive I will not be available on the internet. 

We will go to a science museum, zoo and aquarium.  We will visit a few Roadside America attractions, because resisting a 25 foot rocking chair or a robot made out of car mufflers is damn near impossible.  Last year I saw the world’s largest frying pan.  I mean, hello.  I was making plans for whitewater rafting but I saw photos this morning, that Mom and Dad beat me to it!  Those snakes!  😛  But the boys look like they are having a blast, and that’s the goal.  So now I’m thinking definitely zip-lining will be our big adventure.  And of course the lemur center because, hey, we can’t forget to visit our kin, the animals. 

We’ll also be making a bench out of pallets, and making our own Camp Grandma tee shirts, as well as numerous other craft projects.  I haven’t found my camera yet, but hopefully there will be photographs, lots and lots of them.

Two weeks of nonstop action, nonstop laughter and hugs and love, unconditional love.  If I don’t survive, at least you’ll know – I went out smiling.Image

Good for the Soul…

Confession is good for the soul, and, deep breath, here goes…

I just called my son-in-law and told him I put $50 in his bank account just now.  Well, in his joint account with my daughter.  I didn’t have to tell him why but I did and he understood because he’s a great guy.  And I told him to make sure she understood that this was important for me to do.

In 2006, I stole $500 from my daughter’s bank account.  It was so simple really.  The bank knew me; I’m a flirt, what can I say?  So when I walked in and pretended I could not remember the account number, they said, “No problem” and it was really no problem.  I did intend to redeposit it in a few days when I got paid but my ex-girlfriend stole my paycheck and spent it on drugs, which was what the $500 was for in the first place; really I can’t place the blame at her door for I am an adult and guilty as well.  Yes, I know.  I’m a royal piece of crap, or I was then.  I’m an entirely different person now. 

Needless to say, my daughter did not speak to me for…well, at least four years, although it felt like a much longer time.  In lesbian years, that’s actually about 17 years, I think.  These days we talk at least once a week, sometimes more, and she is bringing me my grandsons on my birthday, June 30th and I get them for 12 whole days and I couldn’t be happier. 

Why this act of conscience now?  Well, suddenly I’m not so sick anymore and I’m making more money, being productive, and this seemed like a good time to give back.  And $50 every few weeks will mean a lot to my self-esteem, and to them as they struggle to recover financially from first a flood in their house and then to my daughter’s accident in January. 

So, dear friends, that’s the deep dark truth.  And I cry as I type because I can not change the past.  I can only accept my personal responsibility for it.  Go on, throw feces at me like the other monkeys would if I were in the zoo; it’s really no more and no less than what I deserve.  I feel so stupid sometimes, ashamed really, and not at all perfect like I was going for.