Nothing interesting had happened in the past four days and it seems rather ominous to me. Just when other people, at age 16, are doing meaningful things out there during their holidays, I am increasing my body mass at a steady rate in the mean time. And at a glance, wk 49/52 of the year had passed in the blink of an eye. Doing the same things everyday sure made time fly away at an unbelievable rate. We have to move on, even if that’s the case.

Thinking about it, 2009 has really been a dramatic year. Being able to witness many things in life at both surface and crust level has certainly changed my views and perceptions that I once had. Be it those rifts that kids tend to get themselves into, or the occasional embraces that we give each other, and even the punishments that we have to face together, they are just pieces of a jigsaw puzzle which at the end of the day when put together, giving you a wonderful picture of how life should be. The feeling of being able to come out of all these ‘nonsense’, with many lessons learnt, is wonderful.

2009 can be deem as the turning point of my life, be it in studies or inter-relationships wise. The 2008 Sean was living in an own world of his, unsure of what he wants and he just lives life like it is everyday, not giving a damn to anything, even if it concerns him. To me, I think that was a reflecting period. To be a 15 year old that has been labeled a ‘jerk’ is definitely an issue worth to reflect on. Having to accept that a relationship had ended was a tough blow to me. Maybe the thing about ‘Time will heal all wounds’ is right. Unknowingly 825 days have passed, and still counting, I am able to say that I am a happy person now, if not happier.

Life is indeed a journey filled with ups and downs. I’ve definitely had both of them in my pockets. How about you? Go out there and enjoy yourselves people. I’m diminished. And with that, a long sigh to end this post, and an even longer sigh to say goodbye and proceed to a good night sleep. I’d hope so.

New moon tmr al-rightttt.

I initially wrote a quick blog about the many irritations I deal with on a daily basis by simply being a South African living in my “home country”.

As I continued to add more and more content, I found the blog turning out to be something of a labour of love/hate.

I didn’t want to just spew out a few luda-WHAT statements about my annoyances that would garner a knee jerk reaction by those who are proudly South African, an oxymoron in itself I’m sure, but I actually wanted to give factual (if not totally opinionated) examples of day to day living.

This has led me to delay the posting of this blog until I was completely satisfied with it. As each day came and went I felt the need grow to make this blog post something special to me.

I am not a proud South African. I have given my blood sweat and tears to this country, and i have been rewarded with crime, loss, dehumanization and so many more factor which I will address.

Below are the top 5 factors that lead to my absolute hate of the country and its people. In each case, I have no doubt there will be exceptions to my thoughts, but I also don’t care, I’m far too judgmental to be bothered to separate people, so I’ll rather just lump everyone together under one banner and label you all.

So, if you are offended easily then a) stop reading right here b)grow a pair and accept that you are part of the problem c) help contribute to my NYC fund and help get rid of someone who is constantly negative about the country.

You will see many references to words such as “accountability” and “responsibility”, which is expected, since it’s the common thread in this post, and quite possible a reason on its own.

Still here? Ok…well then….let’s begin.

5) The non existence of service delivery

I’ve previously blogged about quality control on products in SA , but my hatred for this runs so much deeper than a simple typo on a DVD cover or incorrect packaging. There is a distinct lack of accountability on products and service & support in this country.

If you’ve ever gone to a customer service section of a chain store, such as a Game, or Pick n Pay or Hyperama, you will immediately have a distinct memory of a frustration (or in fact a belittling attitude) you have had to deal with.

Firstly getting acknowledged by the employee on the other side of the counter is an effort. A simple hello, or smile really does not cost a thing (much like J-lo’s love), and goes a long way to setting the tone for the rest of the complaint/query.

I’m the first one to understand that I am just one of hundreds of customers dealt with on a weekly basis, but quite honestly I don’t give a damn. If you are working in a customer services division, you have a job to do. Love it or Leave it. You should treat each and every customer with personal attention. It’s a simple code your store should live by.

As an English speaking person, I also expect all communications about me or regarding my query to be relayed in English. Side conversations to a supervisor or section manger in an African language I don’t speak are not only disrespectful to me as a client, but also result in a broken telephone translation of what I am actually asking assistance on. – This results in further frustration.

This apathy to doing a job starts at petrol pump attendant level and goes right to the top to government.

Have you ever called a customer service helpline? Has the person on the other end ever actually understood what you are asking?

Trust me, Ive been on the other side too, it takes a certain kind of person to offer support. I did it for 8 years, and I was damn good at it, even though I hated it.

In this day and age, how can so many people be so ungrateful that they have a job to the extent where they couldn’t be bothered if they do it properly?

The country has promised so much job creation to its people, I just never realized that they pick jobs out of hat for each person.

What ever happened to the right person for the right job approach?
What about municipal governments contribution? how many time have you not have water? electricity? not had your garbage collection? This is a weekly concern. I pay rates and taxes on time, and the exact amounts im billed for (well…there was that one time…for a few months)…I dont ask for much…just to be treated like a human being by my own government. we don’t get explanations as to why these things occur…if we lucky, someone catches them out on a lie, THEN we get some sort of explanation.

Next week I’m going to try being a doctor. Hey at least it’s a job….

4) The Youth

You’ve heard your parents say it in some variation or another “kids today!”…well I’m sorry to say …they are right.

The youth of today is nothing short of embarrassing. Perhaps this is more personal one since I lost my childhood through circumstance and never got to experience the “youth gone wild”…But even kids of my age where never this bad.

Now, I understand each generation has their catch phrases and habits…but have you ever had a conversation with anyone below the age of 16? I have… many times (bless those internet chat rooms….I joke I joke). It’s almost impossible to actually have an English conversation with them. Seriously, it’s like trying to decipher the Da Vinci code.

They can’t even be bothered to spell correctly anymore. They abbreviate the word “the”!!!!…these are habits that wont get broken. When students inevitably get to write exams via cellphones, I’m sure we will get the following:
Question: What brought on the downfall of Obama’s presidency?
Answer: Pd. Obama, s0ught 2 rule 2 much. Causing cuntries 2 ask “WYD”.

Ok ok, see I can’t do it LOL.

I’m sure this is something that a global problem, especially with things like the internet and mobile phones around to influence them, but my point is there is a distinct dumbing down of the youth, and what’s worse is there is an increase apathy about being a good decent person.

We see kids go to school and kill their schoolmate with knives, guns, samurai swords.
We see kids accused of rape.
We see kids torturing animals.
All on the increase. With no remorse.
And we see these things, because the youth are thoughtful enough to record it on their camera phones and send to us via Bluetooth.

Kids are more interested in going to a friends house when the parents are away and indulging in alcohol, smoking and irresponsible sex. Then of course tagging each other on Facebook.

Didn’t there used to be rules in society that protected families from these sort of influences?

I happen to have the TV on often, and can’t help but watch the train wreck that is Youth TV. South African kids presenters are a ridiculous showcase for the “cool and hip”
White guys try to be gangsta black
Black guys try to be American black.
Girls well…girls will be girls.

The South African youth has lost their identity. They follow US trends and try to duplicate them – to embarrassing proportions. Are you not diverse enough as it is? Can you not find some common ground to be something that is a true representation of South Africa?

We have an ANC “youth leader” that is nothing short of a moron. He is preaching idiotic ways and means that to an easily influenced youth will hold water. So where is the hope for our future? Probably passed out drunk.

Strange that I’m attracted to 17 yr old school girls then? Naaaa…as says…”that’s what I love about these schoolgirls man. I get older…they stay they same age”…”yes they do….”

3) LifeStyles of the Rich and The Famous

That little speech about kids presenters reminds me of a joke I once heard…

A former Miss South Africa, A cricket player, A radio DJ and a Soapie star walk into a room, the next day, a headline reads “The biggest celebrity of the Event”.

Hahaha LOVE that joke…ok sure I just made it up right now, and its not really a joke, it’s a way of thinking here.

You know, its sad that a celebrity starved culture such as South Africa is so eager for someone to put on a pedestal that we don’t acknowledge those hard working actors and musicians that slave away at gigs, auditions and small roles, but instead we will rather show heaps of praise onto our radio DJs, soapie stars, beauty queens and sports stars who just happen to attend the opening of an envelope.

They simply have a good agent who gets them invited to a movie premiere (which is generally attended by Joe Average too).

We try label them as SA’s Posh & Becks or SA’s JayZ & Beyonce…

Our papers, magazines, entertainment shows shove the same faces down our throat and try make us believe they are celebrities. What’s perhaps worse is these individuals try and ACT like celebs too.

Newsflash. You are NOTHING more than a personality who has a fun interesting job. (until you get fired for a) speaking your mind or b) getting too old)

Then as if that weren’t enough, we had a reality show host that ends up host every show on TV, MCing every corporate function in town and trying to release her own single.

Give me a breeeeeeaaaaak.

Then we have to two kinds of celebrity followers. Those who are friends with personalities and try parading their friendships across all means of communications, Twitter, Facebook etc….you can keep your conversations private…why must we all see that you are going out that night to a club? Is it a public announcement? Are we to be impressed? Oooh look they’ve got a pic with themselves with a celeb, man I wish I had the same pic 1 million other fans had.

I’ve worked for a celebrity gossip magazine, so I know how these things work.

Type number 2 is they pseudo celeb. He’s the guy who was featured in a segment on a TV show, or had her name or face in the paper. They of course also try shameless promotion to try convince the rest of us that they are famous. My friends, you have hit the big time!

Sad.
By the way, my big movie SlamBang comes out on DVD next week…Order yours now here.

You know what’s my favourite thing about SA celebs? When they “fall from grace”
Wow…someone did something wrong…but thankfully we are there to cover it 24/7.
You know what? I just banged your wife and we did coke of a small child’s back while watching illegal DVDs…

*cricket noises*…

mmm… no paparazzi….

——-
Top 2 reasons coming soon

(Longwood Gardens.  December 2007)

I have to go to the past to dig up some holiday decorations for the blog.  I’m sure we’ll get out and about somewhere at sometime where there will be decorations and I’ll take some photos but in the meantime, enjoy the look back.

I am pausing my 365 photo challenge for now.  I may pick it up again sometime after the first of the year.  We’ll see.

November was a very busy month for me, with a really busy college schedule, but managed to try out a few games including: Little Big Planet, Animal Kingdom: Wildlife Expedition, Left 4 Dead 2, Phantasy Star Zero, and Let’s Tap. I really enjoyed Little Big Planet on the PSP, as well as Phantasy Star Zero.

November had a lot of big sales (Black Friday and Cyber Monday), and I ended up buying some items on Amazon.com (Tales of Vesperia for $14.99) and Borders (Tiesto’s In Search of Sunrise Vol. I & II CD’s, totaling $20.)

Let’s take a look at the blog stats:

Blog Stats

Best Day In Views: 262 (11/3)

Monthly Views: 2,731

Comments: 11

Posts: 30

This post contains potentially triggering content regarding rape and molestation.  Please take care when reading it.

Let me start by saying that we did not remember a lot of the abuse until just these past few years.  We did start having some recall in 2005 but when we look back now, those memories were fairly sketchy compared to some of the very vivid, down-to-the-details memories we’ve had in the past 2.75-ish years.  Not that all of the memories are so very clear, mind you.  Some are pretty vague, even simply a sense of something that happened.  We remember some parts of a day or incident in what we think is its entirety and then are blown away when a key detail makes itself known.  And that is what happened with The Most Wonderful Christmas That Really Wasn’t.  And I don’t think Christmas will ever be quite the same…

I remember a certain Christmas quite well, the year I was 12 years old and in the 6th grade.  For years I’ve had distinct memories of that Christmas, far more than nearly any other Christmas.  I always wondered why that year stuck out for me so much more and always thought it was because of the way I was remembering it.

Christmas Eve 1980 was thrilling to me.  Three gifts I received that night were particularly fantastic: pink footied blanket sleeper jammies, a soft sleeping bag, and my very own clock radio.  There were other gifts that night, of course, but these have always stood out in my mind.  When other family went home and it was time for us kids to go to bed, I was so excited.  I can see it as clear as a photograph in my head: being in my new jammies, snuggled in the sleeping bag on the floor, clock radio near my pillow tuned to a station that was playing all Christmas music.  I remember being so excited about Santa gifts in the morning, even though I knew it was really The Father and his wife putting them out–I even listened to them get them out of the den, which was right next to my room.  It was all just so exciting, and life felt happy.

That is what I remembered until earlier this year.  The memory stopped with the night being happy and exciting.  Then one day this year, I was hit by a ton of bricks.  The night didn’t end with me being happy and excited, drifting off to sleep in my neat new jammies on the floor in my sleeping bag, listening to Christmas carols.  The night continued with The Father’s wife going to bed (downstairs and all the way across the house from my room).  The night continued with The Father coming into the room.  Thinking about it now, I don’t believe I thought he’d come in that night.  Everything was so nice and wonderful, and it was late, and everyone would be up early in the morning to see what Santa had brought…

But he did come in.  He came into my room and closed the door behind him like he always did.  He asked me if I liked my presents.  No more excitement, no more joy, no more happiness, only the terror of knowing what would happen.  Knowing that the neat pink jammies would be, at the least, unzipped and his hands would be in places where they had no business being.  Which is what did happen, of course.  The pajamas were unzipped, the pajamas were removed.  The sleeping bag was zipped open.  Zip, zip, zip, I can hear the sounds of the different zippers.  Pajama zipper, sleeping bag zipper, his jeans zipper.  The pajamas made me look cute but covered too much, were too restricting for him.

And then the inevitable taking of me.  The taking of the joy and excitement of the night.  The taking of the wonderful novelty of such neat pajamas.  The taking of the fun of having a sleeping bag and being able to “camp out” on the floor.  The taking of the coolness of having my own clock radio to listen to and make me more grown up.  The taking of Christmas.  The taking of faith–how could something like this happen on the birthday of the one who loved everyone so much and supposedly made the world so much better?

The past 18 months or so have been filled with redefining.  Redefining daily life.  Redefining family.  Redefining my birthday.  Redefining who I am and figuring out who this system is made up of.  Redefining pretty much every aspect of my life.  And this year there will be even further redefining of Christmas.  There are more memories to consider–but there are also more victories.  And I–we–continue to work out the kinks in life and make it all work for us, so we can finally have The Most Wonderful Christmas That Really Was.
~Michelle (with help from Gloria and Cait)

What I think I learned the past year…

• I might feel like I am going to die but I probably will not
• I cannot read my journals
• Relationships are choices
• Sleep is over-rated
• I eventually am going to die
• Touch is suppose to be a choice
• It is ok to let people in
• Google is awesome
• I can be nice to myself
• Getting better does not feel good
• There is reasons for almost everything
• People watching is fun
• Therapy does not just happen with my therapists
• I do not have to be a statistic
• Therapists cannot read minds
• 4 days is the most I can go without sleep
• Staying out of the hospital is not a contest with my family
• Money does not mean anything
• Shoes laces are awesome
• It is ok to have friends
• I can become who ever I want
• I cannot ignore my insiders as it only makes everything worse
• Insurance companies are assholes
• I am human
• I do have people who support me
• I do not have to grow up
• It is ok to be scared
• There is no “normal”
• Not everyone is who I thought they were
• I am allowed to feel
• I am different
• If I sleep for exactly 3 hours I do not dream
• No one can tell me the answers
• I do not have to be perfect
• Everyone’s family is complicated
• Isolating is not fun
• The truth scares people sometimes
• DID is not an excuse for anything
• I do have friends
• Everyone will not hurt me
• Self-harm is a coping mechanism
• I live vicariously through song lyrics
• I cannot change the past
• Chap stick is awesome
• I do not have to remember everything to heal
• I can find ways around everything
• Writing myself notes is helpful
• I like making lists
• Numbers do not matter
• I like organization
• I despise change
• Art is important to everyone inside
• I do not have to believe in god
• The truth hurts
• I am a very tactile person
• One of my insiders is color blind
• I generalize all touch as bad
• Soy milk is dairy free
• I do not have to forgive
• My family dynamic scares me
• I like animals a lot
• I can read this list when I feel bad
• Taking breaks are necessary
• Denial is easier
• Not everyone does what they are supposed to
• It is easier to live one hour at a time
• DID is an adaptation
• My insiders did and still do help me
• I do not have to do everything alone
• If I cannot think of 365 things for this list it is ok

Everyone has flashbacks. A baby’s hands touch your face and you feel that sweet tug in your chest. A sip of green tea and tears come to my eyes as I re-experience my first felt kindnesses. Or maybe the scent of diesel fuel wafts by, and for no remembered reason a wash of hot hatred or burning anger follows. Flashbacks reflect important learning moments of our past and they function deep below the logical level of our brains; it’s part of how we learn.

Some psychologists are trying to understand flashbacks, but what is there to measure? Most people don’t even know what’s happening until it’s over, and nobody can rationalize a flashback, it’s buried so deep in the history of our own brain. It’s why I don’t watch TV, or only very selectively. To protect myself from the hate-filled, war-based flashbacks that our culture is trying to implant in us and in our victims. It’s why I won’t give money to any cause, no matter how good, if they try to pry it out of me with hatred or fear. Or as a lady in the library confirmed the other day: “Don’t give away your power.”

And it’s why I keep watch, every day, for beautiful moments to photograph. The good ones I can hang on my wall; the very best ones are stored in my memory, because they are impossible to photograph — sometimes because, like the green tea, they live deeper than either words or images — other times they flash by too fast or we don’t really see what happened until it’s over. That’s when a story is worth 1000 pictures. This one happened in a supermarket.

My friend was buying baby food (as it happened, for a parrot). He surveyed the racks, carefully selecting the sorts of things that are best for baby parrots and occasionally dropping one or two little round jars of baby food into a bag. You know the kind, a reusable cloth shopping bag. For the most part these shopping bags are a good idea to cut down on plastic or paper bags that end in the trash, but I don’t use them in-store for fear someone will think I’m shoplifting, and that is just what happened. Not the store patrol, but a lady down the aisle, who had been watching my friend selecting, as she thought, food for his baby, and hiding it away in the shopping bag. What would you do if you saw this happening? What she did was to very quietly come up beside my friend, gently put a hand on his arm, and offer to buy food for his baby.

I know it ruins the story to tell you the moral, but as I think about the problem-solving skills of our primary culture (win or lose, no other options) I wonder how many different ways you can imagine this woman could have reacted to the perceived theft. In addition to the win/lose call-the-cops solution I can think of about five other things she could have done to soothe her conscience and try to right the perceived wrong. I can not think of any that are better than the one she chose — a win/win/win/win solution.

Of course it could have blown up in her face if my friend had not responded in kind. But what’s a win without a risk?

For many, the subject of memory remains a mystery.

As a writer, I’m particularly interested in memory. I’m working on two psychological thrillers, both dealing with recollections of past events. The second novel contains a number of flashbacks prompted by triggers, such as a particular sound or a certain smell. For a long time, I assumed that the strongest memories are the most accurate, but about a couple of years ago I heard otherwise.

Apparently, memories get muddled. When a person remembers an event from long ago, they’re really remembering a memory of that event. In some instances, people reinvent memories after a particularly traumatic event.. I’ve even heard that criminal lawyers dread dealing with witnesses who claim to have vivid memories of a crime, as so often the opposing lawyer manages to cast doubt on the witness account.

However, I still think the strongest memories are generally the most accurate. Recently, I got to see a class photograph taken at primary school. I hadn’t met any of the pupils or teachers for years and had moved location many times since the taking of the photograph. Children tend to remember grown ups as being “old”. As an adult looking back, I was expecting the teacher and headmaster to look much younger in the school photograph. But they didn’t. They looked exactly how I remembered them from years ago – a couple of rather austere grown ups. The hair, the facial features, the expressions all matched.

So what does this mean for me? It means that I’ll trust my memories and intuitions in future.

I remember my last death.  Quite an opening sentence, isn’t it? 

Seriously, though, I am a firm believer in reincarnation and have been doing a bit of studying to figure out these pesky little memories I’ve been having.  The memories are very vivid, and they come from a time several decades before I was born into this lifetime.  These images kept showing up in my dreams, and I’ve subconsciously doodled similar scenes over and over throughout this life.  Odd.

A few months ago, though, something set off a long chain of memories that felt like mine but not mine.  I typically put this off as DID– at one point, *many* of my memories felt foreign.  This was different, though, so I consulted my Guides.  As it turns out, the part of my mind that remains connected to the otherworld, elsewhere, or whatever term one chooses to use, was remembering its last ending.  I’m not quite sure where to go from here, but at least I know, now, why these images have been playing back in my mind.  I truly do believe in reincarnation, and I embrace this past self coming into my present life.  Maybe I’ll learn something from her, and maybe she’ll find what she needs to rest peacefully in her own time.

Someone recently made mention on my Facebook wall about having to take the senior test at 7:30 AM on a Saturday morning up at Truman State University. This brought back painful flashbacks of my experience with the PRAXIS exam, at the same time a year prior.

Well aware of the test that Saturday morning, I did what any college student would do in the same circumstances: get hammered the night before. I was soused, topsy turvy drunk. The test didn’t really have any bearing on our degree, and in my efforts to have as much fun up at school as physically possible, drinking was a safe option. I don’t recall the occasion, or whom I even drank with, but I think it is safe to assume it was a very dumb idea, and wrecklessly irresponsible.

At 6:30 AM the next morning I woke to my alarm, in the living room of my house, still fully clothed from the night prior. I just got up and walked to Violet Hall, where the testing was taking place. As I stepped foot in the school building it occurred to me that I was still very much so intoxicated, as was dually noted by some of my classmates that came within a few feet of me. Poor form, Peter.. Poor form. I made it to my designated classroom and began the test in blissful oblivion, questions about the process of painting in the 16th century and random ceramic terminology, this was going to be a breeze.

Cue hangover.

Oh no. Oh God, no. The cold sweats started. The delirium tremors made filling in bubbles with my number 2 pencil harder than answering the questions themselves. I could feel hot vomit bubbling up my esophagus. I gathered my dignity and strength and shuffled to the front of the room. “May I please use the restroom?” “Sure, but we can only let one person out of the room at a time, you’ll have to wait until the other student comes back.” Son of a bitch. I know that hangover-sickness comes in waves, so I focused my attention on my test. The wave approached again, and the cold sweats were my sign to go to the bathroom. I got up and shuffled to the front again. “Can I go now?” Oh no, sorry, someone else already left to go. You’ll have to wait again..” Well, this is it. I was going to vomit all over this very quiet sterile classroom where people were intently focused on a test that determined their future as a teacher. Since I had no intention of becoming a teacher this test meant nothing to me other than experiencing a painful hangover the likes I would normally have slept through.

Then the door opened. I made a beeline to the bathroom before I had even reached my desk again. Halfway down the lobby towards the restroom I vomited in my mouth. Not just a little regurgitation, but a full blown chunky vomitus that I somehow contained in my mouth. As I drop kicked the door open, I let fly a projectile spew into the nearest receptacle, which just so happened to be the paper towel trash can. I couldn’t even make it to the toilet. I just unloaded in that little metal trash can like I had the bubonic plague foaming out of my face. Sweet relief.

As I stumbled back into the classroom reeking of disgorged beer and whiskey, I took a seat and lay my head down. I was abruptly woken by my classmate kicking me, pointing to her test and then to the clock. It would seem that I passed out for over an hour, snoring and burping. This left me a paltry 20 minutes to complete a test I had barely made a dent in. I finished my test just in time to hand in my answer sheet then rush back to the bathroom to vomit, in a toilet this time. The bathroom was now full of test takers who hushedly giggled at my retching. As I emerged from the stall wiping my mouth, people looked at me witha mixture of disgust and amusement.

“Tough test, wasn’t it?” I muttered. This roused more disgusted looks and a few laughs.

The beauty of this whole scenario was not only did I finish, despite my hangover and vomiting, but I passed with flying colors. I did very well, and others in my class didn’t pass at all. Truman gave me the the tools I needed to become one of the school’s most functional alcoholics.

Inspirerad av allrabästa J:s tilltag kollade vi in visningslägenheten på Lindhagensterassen. Det var nytt och fint trots att homestylingen kändes stel och opersonlig och kontorslokalerna längst Lindhagensgatan hade världens insyn i sovrummet. Jag gillar inte insyn. Jag tycker det är en människas rättighet att gå klädd hur man vill [eller inte] i sin egen lägenhet. Vi kommer inte att intresseanmäla.

Det känns hursomhelst väldigt moget och förutseende att redan börja tänka på att vi inte kan bo kvar i den här lägenheten i all evighet. Eftersom vi inte har någon panik är det alldeles utmärkt framförhållet [men ovanligt] om vi börjar kolla runt nu så vi har aningens bättre koll än när vi köpte vår nuvarande bostad.

När vi fick reda på att jag var med unge hade jag bott mindre än ett halvår i min första riktigt egna bostad i Stockholm. En pyttig etta vid Sveaplan, men att skriva sitt eget namn på ett innerstadsförstahandskontrakt är ju stort. Hönspappan hade en något större bostadsrätt vid Skanstull som han aktivt inte ville att jag skulle flytta in i [eftersom han trodde den var för lite att bo i och förbli sams].

Kommer ihåg en solig söndag på våren, vi hade lånat bil och rekat ihop ett körschema på 10 visningar. Jag var som mest illamående just då men satt tappert med karta i ena handen och spypåse i andra medan jag lotsade oss igenom visningsschemat. 2 dagar senare hade vi köpt 74 kvadratmeter för 2,7 miljoner. Den avgrundsdjupa ångest jag kände inför kontraktsskrivning vill jag aldrig någonsin uppleva igen. Samtidigt led jag grav separationsångest av att ge upp mitt förstahandskontrakt. Min dåvarande erfarenhet fullkomligt skrek att förstahandskontrakt är både värdefullare och mer beständiga än förhållanden.

Nu treochetthalvt år senare kan man ju konstatera att det var ett ganska lyckosamt [om än nödvändigt eftersom vi inte ville bli särboende föräldrar] impulsköp men att köpa en lägenhet för flera miljoner som jag har varit inne i ett par minuter är inget jag någonsin vill göra om.

Well, past one and a half year or so has been quite a learning and strange phase of my life. This starts from the last semester of university life. I have written a lot about FSc days on my diary. But after that I have not maintained any record. Anywayz I ll just give a quick flash back of past one and a half year. It will be just an overview, not detailed analysis.

Before the last semester, university life was good and with out tensions. Didn’t even know about practical life tensions. Considered life as a bed of roses:)..But realized about the thorns in the way in last semester..It was the time when every body start worrying about his future in general and career in particular. I too started worrying about future as environment was like that. Most people started applying for jobs and every one was in race of getting the best paid job. Before I had never given though about job competition. I always wanted to go for research and teaching side. But seeing others dying for highly paid jobs, I too started aiming for it. It was the time of confusion for me. Man has a problem that it sometimes follows what all the people are doing around him. So did I, without thinking. So, I too applied at many jobs. The tension was that I have always been a topper and good student, so I should get a highly paid job. If not,then what is the advantage of  studying so much in life. Rather, seeing my fellows who never studied, getting great jobs, was not easy to digest. So, last few months of university life was in this tension. Also, listening about HEC scholarships and current financial situation of country, there seemed no hope about teaching and research side. Here, I must say that there is absolutely no counselling in Pakistan for youngsters. Seriously, If I have been given proper counselling, i would not have passed through that phase. Anywayz, I couldn’t get a highly paid job after few interviews. But the fact was, I never wanted to go that side. My aim was always teaching and research. So, I myself felt that I don’t want from my heart to get successful in an interview for those jobs. So time passed, degree finished. And I got a job at a university for teaching. Then the aim was to get some scholarship or take admission and go abroad for higher studies. The whole one year, I have been searching for scholarships and with my searching and trying here and there, I learned many things about scholarships, on how to applyand where I can get etc..But still I feel that If I was properly guided I would have been studying at a very good university by now on a scholarship. Anywayz I am happy with what I am at present. Allah knows when to reward a person with something. Currently, I am waiting for a very important result in next 20 to 24 days. May allah bless me with success.ameen

So finally I have started blogging…Been ages I have been trying to start blogging but due to my laziness, I couldn’t spend time on it…Its after a long time I have taken up writing. I used to maintain a diary in my F.Sc days but then the busy routine at university and then job along with focus on future career, couldn’t find any time. But now I feel that I should write again, probably need to spend time with my self and writing is one of the ways it could be done. Also, it is one of good pass times..So hope I can write consistently enough from now onwards..

I was there when my mother dragged me down the street by my hair because I forgot my report card in the classroom.

I was there when she slammed my four year old body into the hard, unforgiving furniture soon after I had back surgery.

I was there when she extinguished cigarettes on my thighs.

I was there when she didn’t give me the amoxicillin during the week to cure one of my many childhood illnesses.

I was there when she neglected to feed me because she was anorexic, self-consumed, and otherwise mentally ill (NOS!).

I was there when I got the chicken pox and she went to the beach instead of caring for me.

I was there when she alternated beatings when I was 12 between the tv remote and telephone.

I was there when my 2 year old half-brother weighed a pound more than I did at 7 years old.

I was there when I blocked my faced when she beat me with objects and she told my grandparents I was hitting her.

**********

I could go on forever and a day on things that I was physically and emotionally “there for” when my mother had custody of me from birth to 8, and then again at 12 that are much darker and more painful in all ways than above. While I do have feelings about what she did, I don’t have feelings about her as an abuser. I seem to either have magically forgiven her or have dissociated away enough of the feelings to have an actual relationship with her.

She denies everything. She has conjured up lies to cover up what she did, why she lost custody, etc. “My father had more money”, “He had a better lawyer”, “They told so many lies”. “I went to boarding school,” seems to be her favorite excuse as to why I was not around during middle and high school. She’s not sorry. She honestly doesn’t think she did anything wrong. Every therapist and psychiatrist has excused her behavior because she “was under a lot of stress”, “was physically unwell”, “was molested by her two female cousins”, “my father was abusive to her” (they divorced when I was two), I could go on and on. If they saw her enough times, and/or diagnosed her with borderline personality disorder and/or held her accountable for her actions she would discontinue seeing them.

And yet, here I am in Las Vegas sitting beside her visiting her for 2 weeks. I am 27 years old and I have essentially ignored my mother’s abuse. I am aware of the reason I even allow her in my life. I know that she loves me. She came back into my life about a decade ago; when I no longer needed parenting (for the most part), of course. It was easier for her then. Perhaps she was never meant to be a parent. Some people are not. She was 28 years old when she gave birth, and therefore, the same age as me when she became pregnant with me. She had no maternal instinct. The hospital wouldn’t even release my full-term 2lb. 11oz. self to her when I was born. I was in the NICU for the first month of my life despite the fact that I was 37 weeks. I was that weight because she apparently thought that maintaining her figure was more important than the life in her belly, and therefore gained only 11lbs. during her pregnancy.

For some reason when she was ready to return to my life as a parent, I welcomed her with timid, but relatively open arms. I suppose it is because I would welcome any nurturing, as I had tried to do my entire childhood (and part of my adulthood!) from any adult who would give it. My mom was thoughtful, honest, and became my confidante. She believes what my grandfather and father did to me; and wishes she could take away my pain. She blames herself for not protecting me, and that is the one thing she holds herself accountable for. I needed a mother for almost two decades, but I was willing to take what I could get. When it came to safe, nurturing, parental love: I was NOT willing to look a gift horse in the mouth.

]]> http://daquietone.wordpress.com/2009/11/19/omg-my-neck/ Thu, 19 Nov 2009 21:44:04 +0000 daquietone http://daquietone.wordpress.com/2009/11/19/omg-my-neck/

i seriously am a wacko.  could not get any sleep last night.  so went out at 3:30 in the morning to grocery shop… how freakin wacko is that!!!!!!!!!!!!!!??????  then i fell to sleep by about 6 for about an hour and woke in a cold sweat shaking and the WORST STIFF KINKED neck i haver had.  it hurts soooooooooooo bad i can hardly move.  God, why cant i just live normally.  sleep normally.  i am ALWAYS sick.  ALWAYS in pain.  i have percocet and i can take them but refrain from them because they are disgusting.  but i need one now.  so now taking one is going to make me feel ill.  God im so so tired of this sh*t. 

Oh and a sidenote… my hubby is being the most insensative person on earth!!!

Author: Mitch Albom

Title: The Five People You Meet in Heaven

Genre: Inspirational

Publication Date: 2003

Number of Pages: 198

Geographical Setting: United States, Amusement Park

Time Period: Present

Series: No

Plot Summary: The story begins at the end, with Eddie, an old man, dying. We are then taken with Eddie into “Heaven” to meet five different people, who have had an impact on his life, or he has had an impact on their life. They are not the five people that he imagines, and we learn how all of the people and Eddie are interconnected. Through Eddie, we appreciate our own lives and the people who are in it, even if we do not know why they are. This book shows us what truly matters in life, and how each one of our lives are intertwined with others.

Subject Headings: Life after death, Heaven, Death, Secrets, Memories, Accident victims, Senior men, Repairers, Veterans, Octogenarians, Amusement parks, Amusement park rides, Psychological fiction

Appeal: compelling, deliberate, unhurried, insightful, inspiring, thought-provoking, flashbacks, classic, engaging, thoughtful, vivid, melancholy, hopeful

3 Terms that Best Describe this Book: hopeful, inspiring, classic

3 Relevant Non-Fiction Works:

90 Minutes in Heaven: A True Story of Death and Life by Don Piper (Baptist minister dies and recounts the sights of Heaven, when he is brought back to life.)

Realityland: True-Life Adventures at Walt Disney World by David Koenig (insight into creation of amusement parks, as well as what happens when it doesn’t go according to plan.)

Spook: Science Tackles the Afterlife by Mary Roach (scientific explanations as to what happens after we die.)

3 Relevant Fiction Works:

I Never Saw Paris: A Novel of the Afterlife by Harry I. Freund (a pedestrian who is hit by a car and killed finds himself traveling to heaven with a group of people and they share their life stories.)

Rules for Old Men Waiting by Peter R. Pouncey (a retired old man creates a list as to how he will live out his final days.)

The Ten Best Days of My Life by Adena Halpern (29 year old woman arrives in Heaven with her dog, and discovers that in order to stay at the highest level must prove herself.)

Name: Kathryn

I love being with my Ahna and caring for her and doing all the things we do together.  But I look at her like today… and it is overwhelming to me… I cannot stop it… she is 12 1/2 yrs old and so innocent because of her autism and mental disability and age.  But physically she is a young beautiful teen.  One someone could very easily take advantage of.  I was that age getting raped over and over.  HER AGE!!  I get dizzy and nauseas when those realizations hit and they are hitting hard.  On one hand I am having flashbacks knowing what happened to me at her age… I was pregnant at age 13!!!! She is almost there.  On the other hand, I would do absolutely everything in my power if ever anyone were to try to hurt her in any way.  I would rip them to shreads.

I guess the bottom line is I am seeing myself… I am seeing part of us in Ahna… and it hurts… its just more realizations.  But also It makes me want to protect my girl with anything and everything possible.  I can never be a mommy but Ahna is my girl… has been all her life.

My Sweet Ahna 3yrs Old...

When I first realized I was abused as a child I did not tell anyone. I kept it secret from my family, friends and myself. I thought that maybe if I just do not acknowledge the idea that it will just go away. I tried that for while, I did everything left my house, distracted myself, self-harm and then finally suicide. This is when I ended up at a general psych unit for the first time.

I was having bad nightmares, flashbacks about it at first. I had no idea what they were, but everyone else around me knew. I worked with a MSW individually while on the unit, because I would not talk to anyone.

After a few days the therapist said, “Do you see how bad something wants to come out, just let it out, it’s ok”.

Sometimes words just cannot explain. I did not actually verbalize the words “I was abused” but I just said mangled words that somehow formed a sentence. After that, treatment team said that I should tell my parents. I trusted the therapists’ words so I said okay. The day before the meeting with my parents, I felt like I was being backed into a corner. I freaked out.

 After I woke up from my IM induced nap, I was on 1:1. I told the MSW that I could not tell them. She asked me if she could tell them without me in the room, and I said okay.  

The next time I saw my parents they acted like everything was perfect, there was no talking about anything. I was so hurt by that, they just learned I was abused and they acted, as it was never said. That is when I knew that nothing was okay.

My family says that they did not like the way in which I told my secret to them. They said I told them the “wrong way” because it did not come out of my mouth. My mother said that I could have picked a more “mature” way to tell them.

For a long time, I felt bad about having the MSW tell them. However, I do not think any way I could have chosen would have been the “right way” in their eyes. I told them the only way I could. I could not even tell myself so how could I tell anyone else.

I think that telling my secret has changed my life. Nevertheless, I know it changed my families’ life. I was no longer following the rules. I was now the black sheep.

Black is a good color on me