book marked.

I'm posting this partially for a friend, and partially so that I can remember to think about this when I consider art. When I consider writing. Most of all when I go about my business at work and at home. Makes me wonder how much of my business I'm going about, and how much of it is my male counterparts' business, which I seem to take up without question.

I've never much been interested in becoming a feminist. It's such a complex title to give oneself. I mean on one hand, I enjoy taking care of things like cooking and cleaning; on the other there are so many things I could do otherwise. I'm not sure I can even stop myself from liking them. In Psych class I learned about certain activities becoming culturally "embrained," in humans. So not only have I been somehow culturally coerced into liking these activities, I'm actually very, very good at them. Already I am confused about whether I am a victim of misogyny, or just a person who really likes taking care of things around the house. I mean, I love our house and I don't like dirt. But when my boyfriend's working on a project and the shit needs to get done, am I taking the wrong stance by doing it? 

Do I think he's a misogynist--no. For the record, I'm just exploring these ideas. The man pulls his weight. And honestly, I have no desire to perform activities that require heavy lifting and power tools. My max weight lifting limit is about 50 pounds on a good day. Putting things together makes me impatient. So that's his job, as un-feminist as it sounds. 

Still, I found this morning two interesting things on the internet. (Perhaps the WWW should be called the interestingnet?)

One is a zine project by feminists and for the rest of the world. The other was an article by Joyce Maynard about J.D. Salinger, which reminded me of someone and reminded me to think about the things I do and why. Her article can be accessed by clicking her name at the bottom of the quote. 


http://itscomplicatedproject.tumblr.com/post/61341010070/to-a-stunning-degree-for-a-period-of-over-half-a
 

a curse and a blessing, blessing and a curse

Said by the boyfriend tonight, after a long hard day. "You have a lethal combination. You have big balls, and a big heart."

I could be filled with doubt and modesty, but I know this is true. I know because my father has the same problem. I've seen him cut down and chewed up because his big mouth, attached (loosely) to his big heart, drew too much attention. And what it all boils down to, is that sometimes when you mean well, and you have the guts to put yourself out there, people want to hate your guts. Not because you're a terrible person, but because they see things through your eyes, and sometimes it just ain't pretty. If you have a big heart, too, be prepared to be hurt. To be sad. To feel unfulfilled. To feel mortally wounded, even though you're still alive.

I'm not on a sinking ship. However, if I were, I'd be the bearer of bad news who goes down with the crew and passengers. All of whom are pissed at me for telling them we're on the sinking ship.

Where does this leave me today? Well, I've had a good few cries. O.K., outright sobs. I don't feel sorry for me. My heart will mend. It always does.

Comes with the territory.

5:30 a.m.

I have a good mind for procrastinating. Unfortunately, I have a good mind to get some shit done, and said mind has woken me up at 4:45 in the morning. I have five papers due in eight days. One is halfway done.

A few months ago, I didn't feel like going to school. The opportunity is the chance of a lifetime. Instead of not deciding, or waiting for determination to take hold, I just applied. Then I got in. Yet, I still didn't feel like it. I've learned one thing in my nearly 40 years on the planet--sometimes listening to your feelings isn't the only way to make a decision. Now, not only do I feel like it, but I'm for the most part enjoying it. The feeling of getting a decent if not excellent grade makes me look forward to the next assignment. The feeling of developing my critical thinking skills and putting them to task is better than I could have guessed. Spring semester is almost over, and luckily summer sessions are just around the corner. So going to school; not so bad. I had always hoped it would happen sooner than this, but if I do what I think I can do, I'll be done in five years.

I stumbled into a wonderful article about mental "illness," yesterday. It raised the question: why do doctors want to keep us sick? Ethically, they are a mess. Our country and its views about mental illness are a mess. We are capable of so much more than just "managing" our anxiety, our anger, our control issues, our trust issues...the list of our issues is never ending. The list of issues is human nature, declared an illness. It also made me question my approach, which right now is medication in (very) small doses. I haven't determined that it's a good idea not to have a little bit of synthetic, but effective help. I don't judge myself in that way. No one should. However, I don't want my emotional and probably biological glitches to become a life sentence. My life goals should not be to manage my anxiety. If that were the case, I would avoid stressful situations. I wouldn't strive to do well at work. I wouldn't go to school. I wouldn't have bought a house. But I also don't want to enjoy those things in the context of managing the stress they inflict. I need to enjoy them. This is required therapy.

I recently took a Mindfulness course, and I got more out of that than I could have imagined. The mindful way of living is better than the manageable way of living. I was already doing much of it. Practicing more made it that much better. Made me more present. I don't do the dishes on autopilot anymore. I feel the warm water, the soapy sponge, the clean of rinsing the soap off of the shiny smooth surfaces of our coffee cups. O.K., so maybe that sounds crazy. But it brings me into the present, into my life, rather than into the abyss of doing most of what I do every day while thinking about the rest of my life. It immerses me in the rest of my life, which is right now. After all, hearing my breath right now means I'm alive. When I don't hear it, I'm not sure where I'll be or what I'm doing. And then bam, there's the panic.

As of today, I have seven days to write four and a half papers. Half of one day is band practice. The remainder of that day is a birthday celebration (dinner) for my sister's birthday. The day after my papers are due is our housewarming party. Plus work. Plus six days of cooking dinner and yes, doing dishes. Yet, I'm not particularly anxious. Not that it matters if I were.

I still have better things to do than sit around and manage my anxiety.

gifted.

This week has been full of mixed emotion. It's amazing how much you can learn if you just be still and listen to people, to your own heart, to the cyclone that makes up your thoughts every minute of every day. To your gut.

I owe an apology of sorts to the insurance company. Seriously. What I thought was a nasty game to keep my father ill, is really a nasty game that my father's illness plays, and almost always and every day, wins. There were pieces of very important that he, that my own mother, left out. Why? Because I think they are both terrified of his sobriety. Generally, I'm able to put pieces together fairly quickly. However, if the pieces aren't all there, I jump to conclusions too quickly to consider that there may be something going on that I'm missing, or that doesn't present itself openly at first glance. And the pieces that were missing were the pieces that would have landed him in first, 30 days of rehab at a place for which he and my mother decided he was too good, and then six months in a sober house, which by default he--they and all of us--lost. So again we have lost him. 

Fortunately, I've learned how and when to set boundaries for myself. I had to. Years of therapy is proving its worth every minute of every day. Not only can I face my demons, the guilt, the sense of hopelessness, but shrink their ugly little heads at first glance like it's been my life's work and learning. I feel good about this. I only wish everyone knew how very much going to therapy and learning some new approaches can benefit them and everyone they encounter. It's not a sentence of permanent mental illness. It's freedom. It's self-awareness. It's hope. 

We are all perfectly flawed. I depend on this and our differences to keep me alive. I relish every connection and hang on every word. Some this week were more important than others. Forgiveness. Self-control. Understanding. Awareness. Friendship.

I had to speak in front of a group of coworkers this week. A feeling of dread overcame me.I did the only thing that could save me. I made a joke. They all laughed. And then I let loose. We were there to share, so I did. It may have been as uncomfortable for everyone else as it was for me. But I felt like a weight had lifted, and walked away with my back perfectly straight and my head held high past some of them without a word, beaming from the inside out. Mainly because I knew I'd given it my all both for me, but more importantly to them.

So I am thankful for the gift of communication this week. That when I had a message to give, it was received with gratitude. That connections, however small were made that I can cherish for a long time. This can only happen with courage and compassion. I'm thankful that my own messages can only be received because of the beautiful people that exemplify both. I knew you all had it in you, and for doubting this ever, I am sorry.

between me and the lamp post.

As happy as I am, I still sometimes feel angry. I don't like it, but at least I'm not bitter. It's a healthy anger, in that there are so many things about which I should be angry. Not personal things, like who cleans more in my house, or why I have to work in an isolated office entirely alone for most of my work week. No, those things don't matter a whole lot. They won't kill me, and more importantly they won't cause harm to anyone else. Right? I mean why not minimize the importance of one person's pain? Why should I feel I deserve any better when people are starving in Africa?

As I wrote this, I began with the thought there are so many people worse off than I. After all, isn't that the sort of person we are supposed to want to be? The kind that doesn't become absorbed in their own life trials. Someone who is unselfish, and considers what other people are going through in spite of and sometimes in lieu of their own needs. That's when I realized I was writing a blog about who I think I would like to be, only it was based on the kind of person whom I've been told is more likeable. The kind of person who thinks Phillip Seymour Hoffman's death deserves less attention simply because he was famous. The kind of person who believes other people's needs are always, without question, more important than mine. All of which is probably the opposite of what I need to be to be a truly decent person. And I wondered, what makes my struggle matter?

There are things with which I struggle every day. And that struggle is largely ignored, if not exacerbated by unnecessary rudeness, criticism, or even unintentional ignorance. Not far into the first paragraph, I thought, "It begins with one." We learn to ignore the problems and plight of one person whose issues make us uncomfortable, under the guise that we care more for the starving people in Africa. I am willing to bet a decent wager that at least 50 percent of people who berate a "friend" for thinking too much about their own struggle, when, after all, they could be worrying about an entire population that can't get the medical treatments to delay the onset of AIDS do little or nothing to try to solve either problem. And by ignoring and berating the problems of one person at a time, we learn also to ignore the problems of the majority of our fellow humans fairly regularly. 

I didn't feel like writing today. I don't even know if any of this makes any sense. I'm so out of practice. Mainly because when I think about writing, I think about sorrow. I think about painful times. I think my voice will not only be heard, but criticized. Not because my voice is incapable of saying anything important or useful, but because it is mine. I am trying to change how I think about this. I am trying to say more. I am celebrating music. I am celebrating my own voice, along with the voices of others. I am enjoying renewed friendships. I am not, however, trying to matter. I just do. 

(So do you). 

swim, swim

This year has been a whirlwind of activity. Most good, some bad. I feel like I've been under water; water that is sometimes calm and peaceful, and other times turbulent and crushing. My new year will begin with a forceful current--pulling me into my first college course ever. Better late than never, right? So I am coming up for a full, deep breath of air, and off I will go for two-and-a-half weeks of what will be either an intriguing and thought provoking experience, or sheer torture. Maybe both.

Buying a house this year has us reeling. I am mostly filled with joy. There is something to be said for feeling rooted. I couldn't have imagined the relief that I live somewhere that has the potential to be so permanent. And then there is the weight that it is almost permanent, and anything that could go wrong is our responsibility to avoid, and if it does go wrong, we are in complete charge.  That said, it still feels good that our room is, in fact, our room. I'll concede that at the closing table I realized that we are really borrowing the house from the bank for 30 years. At which point I will be (with any luck), 68. Aye.

But home is where we will celebrate Christmas, with both of our families, and I couldn't be happier. Filling our house with the people who love us most, and making new memories here is exactly what the doctor ordered. Well, that and 15 mg of Paxil a day. But I feel good. Almost normal, but not in the boring, over-medicated way. Just right for a change.

We are considering adding a kitten to our pack. Because I'm still not convinced this old body can manage to pop out a child before it reaches 40. For the record, we aren't pursuing it. At least not now.

So much to think about, so little time.A deep breath, and under I go. My only hope for the first month of the new year is that I pass my course. One. Thing. At. A. Time.

Thanks, Hank. Take two.

It's been a long time since I wrote this, but once again, ol' Hank has given me the gift of inspiration. And yet another reminder that I do write. That it's part of me. I'm proud of the piece I wrote and submitted to a lovely little blog called, Bukowski On Wry. It looks like the start of a great page. I hope it's the start of a new chapter for me. Do check it out. I'm really excited that my poem was selected.

 http://bukowskionwry.wordpress.com/2013/10/02/i-love-you-an-alternate-ending-bukowski-erasure-poem-by-keyna-thomas/