…and even less time than that if you consider the fact that the ROM will be one week before the Actual Day, on 23rd Jan 2010. (Really neat way for Mr. Panda to remember our anniversary: 0123. And if he misses that, he can still catch 30/1 which is likely to be his payday. If he doesn’t remember it, I am sure to.)

 We just spent a long weekend lazing about watching movie after movie. In between those islands of peace, I’ve had the occasional breakdown (two to be exact) thanks to my propensity to having panic attacks & my mother’s propensity to leaving everything to the last minute. Mr. Panda’s incurable, persistent ‘bochap-ness’ doesn’t help Bridezilla’s mental stability.

Guy only has ONE thing to manage which is to order & pay for his wedding band. Thanks to his giant finger size, he couldn’t get a wedding ring off the rack. We hounded about six different stores, and my giant furry friend whinged the entire time. (I’m rethinking the family plan. Who needs more kids when I’m already married to an oversized one?) The general reaction from the sales-people: “Hah! So big ah?! Where got ring so big one??” My general reaction to that general reaction is to snap ”Use more gold lah!” while La Panda hangs his big head in shame and hides the offending finger in his pocket.

Now Mr. Panda has his heart set on the Tiffany & Co. bezet band in yellow gold. The biggest size they go up to is US 13 which would be about Size 28 (Singapore). He is convinced he needs a Size 30 (Singapore) because he’s not used to wearing rings and wants maximum comfort (I suspect, the comfort that comes from having a too-loose ring slip off & disappear into the great wide unknown. Or so he thinks. He doesn’t know it yet but if he loses his ring, he’s going to have to get one tattooed onto his finger ) Now a size 30 Singapore would be about a US size 15. Wonderful. That means he can share it with the dog the next time she loses her collar.

To complicate matters, the Bezet is only 2.6 mm wide. That’s a ‘girl’ width. But he fancies it. So we’re talking about a really thin-looking ring with a really wide circumference. I must admit it looks really elegant on. But with a ring so thin & stretched such a distance on a finger the size of a sausage (the German variety), we really are risking some pretty serious wear & tear. Breakage, weird dints & bends, scratches, you name it. It still looks better than it would’ve had it been a thick, fat, wide band though. Those would make him look like ’Ah Long’  loan shark from Chinatown, especially if he decides to throw in a gold chain and grow his pinky fingernail.  *takes a moment to fight nausea over thoughts of revolting overgrown pinky nail*

 But anyway back to the Bezet. It takes 8 weeks to order the Size 13 from the US. That’s two months. And that means we are in danger of not having a wedding ring for the groom, come D-Day. 

When I found out, my entire face must’ve turned various interesting shades of purple before I inched my way to a couch so I could do a classic Victorian faint.

My penitent prospective panda-groom has now been advised that if he doesn’t want a little temporary barb-wire ringlet on his finger on that day, we will have to hit a few more stores in order to find him a jeweler who can be bribed, persuaded or scared into custom-making a proper wedding band in time for the wedding. No luck so far, everyone says ‘Two months mee-nee-mum!”

WHAT are we going to do??!

My own custom-made band should be ready by mid-December. It’s a curved/notched band (made to sit flush against my vintage engagement ring) with diamonds going all around it, and millgrain edging for that antique look I fancy. I tried to talk the makers of my band, Fairy’s Inc, into customizing one for Mr. Panda but sadly they said no. ” Two months mee-nee-mum.” (Actually Sandra doesn’t talk like that; she’s quite a good speaker, I must admit. But I love the uniquely Singaporean tang in the ‘mee-nee-mum’.)

 So now my choices are:

1. Order the Tiffany band anyway & hope it arrives before D-Day;

2. Continue my search for a jeweler who can do up his ring in 4 weeks instead of 8;

3. Put Mr. Panda’s finger on a diet;

4. Look in the tool-box for any nut or bolt that would fit his finger, at least as a stop-gap measure till his real ring gets here;

5. Modify the ring ceremony by tying a slim gold ribbon on his finger in lieu of the actual ring. And he can do the same for me! We’ll have the rings blest together later on and exchange them after the wedding. A bit of imperfection in the ceremony should add some charm & interest!

But what about my beautiful birds’ nest ring pillow I so painstakingly DIYed?? Haizzz.  

The moral of the story is this: Never send a man to do a Bridezilla-worthy job.

The subject of emotions and feelings is one that can be very frightening and often misunderstood.  My personal experiences with the subject have taken quite a few turns and have grown a lot in the last few years. 

First off it is often true of those of us that grew up in a highly dysfunctional home learned several unhealthy coping mechanisms that stifled our feelings or directed them in harmful ways.  Second, many of us never had anyone who really knew how to model healthy ways to deal with emotions.  And third, some of us were taught some misinterpreted scripture references to deal with emotions.

In his book “A Gift to Myself” the workbook for the Best Selling “Healing the Child Within” Dr. Charles L. Whitfield points out how important it is for us to properly name feelings.  Instead of using words such as “depression”, “anxiety”,” resentment”, “high” instead call them “ sadness”, “fear”, “anger”, “joy”.  He further goes on to point out that we can heal and grow by using feelings.  By recognizing the feeling, feeling it – go ahead and be angry or sad etc. Name the feeling and then express it and finally use it constructively. 

I have seen the power in using this technique lately.  In the last few years alone I have gone through the challenges of being laid off, a church split, a failed business, a divorce, being let down by longtime friends, estrangement from family, fatal car accident, unemployment, bankruptcy, foreclosure, and my U of A Wildcats are still the only football team in the PAC-10 to have never gone to the Rose Bowl……

It is easy to say – I am depressed, anxious, and or resentful about this stuff – In fact I am depressed just writing out that list…

But the more truthful statements are:  “I am sad about the things that have happened.”  “I am fearful that I will be considered a failure by my children and friends who I have hurt or let down over the last several years.”   I have had to force myself to dig deep and say those things out loud to myself, to God, and to guys in the support group I attend. 

The more I say it the more I can decide what to do about those feelings.  I have learned that those feelings are reasonable in some cases.  In some cases those feelings are not based in reality.  I am not a failure just because I feel like a failure.  In fact I am not a failure at all. 

I remember being taught by someone studying the bible with me years ago that when Jesus says “you must deny yourself” in order to follow him he not only meant materially but that you must deny your emotions too.  For someone who already knew how to suppress his emotions due in large part to the dysfunction he grew up in it was easy for me to buy that reasoning.  I mean, emotions were just scary and dark anyway right….  What I failed to understand is that the black and white approach that had worked so well for me in my life up that point was exactly what I did NOT need in order to understand how vital emotions were to Christianity.  Take for instance David in the Psalms – He asks God to ‘smash the teeth of his enemy”, He pleads for God to “put an end” to his enemies.  He goes on to sing and dance and rejoice and tell God how incredible he is.  He also tells God how discouraged and hopeless he feels.

The Apostle Paul – in Galatians he tells those that believe in circumcision to go and “emasculate” themselves.  He opposed Peter to his face.  He mocks the church in Corinth for their behavior and the reasons he has to defend his ministry.   And then there is Jesus himself – making a whip out of cord and clearing the temple.  Weeping at the death of a friend named Lazarus and calling the Pharisees whitewashed tombs and a brood of vipers.  Each account shows us how real and normal emotions are. 

Emotions are real.  There are no good or bad emotions.  In the moment whatever we are feeling is absolutely true for us.   Growing in awareness and learning to process the emotions in a healthy way is what is important.  Whether you work on how to process your emotions in therapy or a support group does not matter.   It is just important to begin to work on this important aspect of your life in a setting that will help sort out what to do with each emotion and model healthy options.

Take Care,

A

News broke last night that the Crystal Palace players (and their manager) are not going to get paid on time.

The story was broken by the Daily Mail but written by Sami Mokbel.

Apparently the players were told after the Watford result that they must wait around ten days before they will be paid. While it’s true that most professionals footballer earn a decent living, Palace players are far from superstars on superstar money. A delay in their wages is going to be a real pain in the backside frankly especially given the time of year.

Neil Warnock claims that he is in the same situation and has told the players that they will simply have to make use of their overdraft facilities. Assuming of course that they have such facilities or haven’t already used them up. This is 2009 and banks aren’t as accommodating as they used to be. Getting an overdraft extension isn’t as easy as it used to be.

What was not mentioned was how this affects the non-footballing staff who presumably will be on considerably lower wages and may not have quite do understanding bank managers.

As for the broader implications… well it’s all horribly reminiscent of the dark days of administration. At present it is hard not to be pessimistic. Perhaps it would be best to keep the speculation down to a minimum and hope that the Advertiser starts asking some pertinent questions pretty soon. Here’s hoping for the best on and off the pitch.

I’ve always found being busy to be both a positive and a negative thing for me.  It’s one of those things where I really enjoy myself or I really don’t.  And right now I’m almost at the hyperventilate-panic-mode on the ‘don’t’ side.

Generally speaking, I prefer to be busy.  I like having something to do and somewhere to be.  I like waking up and knowing ‘I’m doing this with myself today’ and going on and doing it.  Most of the time I like working at my retail part time job.  And when I say most of the time, it’s probably about 98% of the time in the year that I’ve been working there.  It’s enjoyable for me to be there, amongst people– even if they aren’t always the nicest– and working.  Projects for school/photography don’t really bother me either.  I like shooting for them.  I like creating designs and layouts and things to accompany them.   Honestly I think the main thing is that these things relax me and I don’t have to think about what I’m going to do next.  I know what I’m doing and I do it.  The moving forward notion is a comfort, I guess.

And then there’s the times I do not like being busy, like right now.  These times are when things are moving too fast.  I have too much going on, too many things I’m supposed to be working on, and not enough time or energy to do it all… at least not the way I want to do it.  I had all of this week off for Thanksgiving break.  Monday I had a paying photoshoot that I was at for three hours.  It was about an hour away.  Straight from there, I went to school to work on my final projects and barely made a dent in them.  Tuesday I woke up, got some things together and was at school by 11 am.  I stayed there, printing for finals and my portfolio review and then working on my movie final, until about 4:30.  Wednesday I decided to take a step back.  It was too much; I was too tired.  Thursday was Thanksgiving, so I relaxed then, too.  Friday I worked from 9 until after 4.  By the time I got home, I was aching and tired.  Rest was a priority.  And that brings me to today.  I worked this morning, had coffee with friends I hadn’t seen in over a month, and then got to work.   I managed to cross off one of my projects due next week off my list.  One out of six major ‘finals’ is done.  That leaves five more to go.

Let’s write this out to help me think of what I’m doing and when I have to do it by.  What’s due each day is listed.  Parenthesis note if it’s done or what’s left and when I’m working on it.

Monday– rough draft of research paper (DONE);  6 composites printed, mounted and ready for critique (mounting tomorrow).

Tuesday– photo essay layout due (DONE; and 6 pages if I may add!), audio slideshow on street (shoot morning, shoot night, gather audio, edit together in i-movie.  nowhere close to being done.  working on it sunday, monday)

Wednesday– final draft of research paper; one minute movie burned and ready to show by 10am (editing monday, getting software from Sarah if I need to take the project home);  DVD cover design for one minute movie (Sat. night – Sunday)

Thursday– three of my best nature shots mounted and ready for critique (1 printed, none mounted; Tues-Wednesday);  portfolio review (update & remove photos; print more.  Wednesday)

That’s hours of work… but I can do it.  It just gets overwhelming every now and then when I remember all of what is due and the fact that I have so little done.  It’s not like I haven’t been working, though, it’s just not been coming together for me for some reason.  Oh well.  This entire quarter at school has been ridiculous– tuition went up $800/qtr, my favorite instructor quit suddenly after an incident, one of my other fav. instructors was on maternity leave until 1/2 way through the quarter so my classes were weird… Anyway.

I’m looking forward to Christmas break.  One week! One week! One week! I can do it.

On a completely different note, my friend John entered a songwriting contest this month and I’ve been meaning to mention it on here and just never updated at all.  He’s winning so far, and the song is really, really good.  So if you see this and feel so inclined, please go vote for him.  Click HERE, hit the “Vote for Out the Door” button, register an account (takes less than 2 minutes), go back to the page and click the “Vote for Out the Door” button again.  That’s it! Super easy.  And you can vote every day until December 1st, so please help him out.  He gets some really neat stuff if he wins… I don’t know exactly what, but from what I’ve read, it’s good stuff.  Thanks in advance!

We deal with a multitude of doubts this time of year.  Does Santa exist; will there be enough money; reviewing end of year failures/regrets/losses; were we good enough to our spouses; friends, and family; what will next year bring; we could have done better on our diets; we didn’t balance our time; should we use facebook vs. myspace?

“Our doubts are traitors and make us lose the good we oft might win, by fearing to attempt” William Shakespeare

What has your doubt cost you?  I have a friend that is my “saner voice”.  She is the person I call when I’m about to run off half cocked; the one who talks me down off the fence as it where.  Yet, she is also someone who encourages poking the bear at any given opportunity.  To rattle the cage of status quo to see if the lock will fall off.  It’s rare to get the devil and the angel in one person, but she achieves it nicely.  You see, when there is doubt, you must listen to both sides, then totally disregard them both and do exactly what you gut tells you to do.  Seriously.  Great debates are for the UN (just kidding, we know that never happens), not for real life.

I know, you’ve seen the movies, read the books…the greatest heroes are tormented by doubts, wracked with secret guilt.  Oh, crap.  That’s great for daytime dramas but not real life.  No one is blackmailing you; so that your sixth wife doesn’t find out, she’s your second cousin’s baby one removed, that you actually kidnapped at birth.  Get over yourself and get on with it!

“If we are ever in doubt about what to do, it is a good rule to ask ourselves what we shall wish on the morrow that we had done.” John Lubbock

Do you know what doubts turn in to?  Regrets.  Regrets suck.  We all have could’ve/would’ve/should’ve stories, those are mere inconveniences compared to genuine regrets brought on by that little seed of doubt that you allowed to creep into your psyche and paralyze you.  The nasty, little whisper in your ear that makes you hesitate, thereby losing_________.   Go ahead, fill in the blank.  I’ll wait.  It’s not going to be good, whatever it is.

Mind you, I’m not talking about the time you hesitated for an extra moment at the stop sign and just missed being hit by a speeding mack truck.  I refer to the bone chilling, nauseating feeling when you know he got the girl or she got your dream job, all because you didn’t make a move.

How do I know, you ask?  That’s the trick, you DON’T.  But ask yourself this, if what your considering doesn’t happen, how will you look back on it?  Will it be the biggest loss of your year?  Decade?  Life? If you can’t image not having that something or someone in your life, then it’s bigger than any doubt, worth any risk.

“Doubts and mistrust are the mere panic of timid imagination, which the steadfast heart will conquer, and the large mind transcend.” Helen Keller

Doubts, mistrust, panic, and timid.  Hmmmm.  Imagination, steadfast, conquer, transcend.  Grouped together, it’s clear.  Negative thoughts breed fear; positive faith brings strength.  Doubt cannot live long where there is faith.  For me, my faith rests in a loving God and his Son.  For you it may be a different source of strength.  Regardless, faith puts out doubt, like a sanitation engineer (garbage men, for those of you not living in NYC) puts out the trash.

“The only limit to our realization of tomorrow will be our doubts of today.” Franklin D. Roosevelt

As we enter the final stretch of 2009, what price will you pay for your doubt? What 2009 fears will limit your 2010?  Will you continue to show up each day to a job you loathe?  Will you spend another evening alone; when you have someone special whose company you’d like to share?  Will you fear answering the phone one more day or let your children go without your total commitment for another year?  What will doubt make you sacrifice?

I’m guilty, you know.  I have a special goal in mind, career wise.  I have made efforts to achieve it, but not pushed the real boundaries, I must admit, out of fear.  You know if you bang on the door hard enough, eventually someone has to answer, but the fear is they answer in the negative.  Am I afraid to get the no?  I guess I am.  However, the “no” may be my only chance to get their attention long enough to have a conversation and within that conversation, I may be able to swing the opinion my way.  I’ve been known to do that a time or two (read the bio on Linkedin).  So without the “no”, I have zero chance of accomplishing my goal.  Do I have to suck it up, quit making excuses and bang down the door?

Without a doubt.

“Isn’t it the moment of most profound doubt that gives birth to new certainties?  Perhaps hopelessness is the very soil that nourishes human hope; perhaps one could never find sense in life without first experiencing its absurdity…” Vaclav Havel

URL : http://www.flashgame-girl.com/Puzzle-board/Powerpuff-Girls-Pipeline-Panic.html

Game description :

Help the professor build the pipeline before the ingredients spill onto the floor!

Game controls :

Arrow keys- To move.
Space bar- To build.

Some last-minute business travel popped up and I found myself needing to renew my passport in less than two weeks.  I scrambled to figure out what to do.  According to the State Department’s website, I could expedite the renewal process for an extra fee (total of $135 plus postage) which would get me the passport back in two to three weeks.

Well, shit.  That wasn’t fast enough.

Then I was told I could get it done much faster if I went in to a passport agency office.  There aren’t many of these offices in the US, but Denver does have one.  I called to make an appointment; the earliest I could get was one week before I was scheduled to travel.  That had me worried, but apparently I didn’t need to: if necessary, they can whip out a new passport in four hours.

On the appointed day, I showed up with all the necessary forms and proof of ID.  The passport agency in Denver is on the 6th floor of a commercial building.  Stepping from the elevator, I was greeted with a security desk, an x-ray machine, and a metal detector.

What the fuck is this about?  Why do I have to go through airport-style security screening after I’m already in the building AND on the 6th floor?!  What fucking genius came up with this plan?

I dutifully emptied my pockets and put all my paperwork on the x-ray conveyor belt, then I stepped through the metal detector.

BEEEEP!

“Sir, please step back, remove your shoes, and place them on the x-ray machine.”

“Uh, there’s no metal in my shoes, so I don’t think that will help.”

“Just follow my instructions, sir.”

Shrugging, I pulled off my shoes and sent them through to be irradiated.  When I stepped through the metal detector again, it beeped.  I took great delight in giving the guard an I-told-you-so look.

The guard, in turn, took great delight in thoroughly giving me the once-over with the hand-held detector (which, I am convinced, doesn’t really work — there’s just a button near the handle that the guards can push when they want it to beep).  Bastard thought it was hilarious to make it beep at random spots and make me pull up my sleeves, pant legs, etc, to show that there’s nothing there.  I almost made the snide offer to just take off all my clothes, but I think he would have smiled and pulled out a box of rubber gloves.

I shuffled over to the bullet-proof, Plexiglas window and passed my forms through while simultaneously trying to put my shoes back on.  I was given a number and told to wait to be called.  It looked like only two of the ten windows were manned, but there was hardly anyone else there.

They had a TV playing a children’s movie for entertainment, but it was far more interesting to eavesdrop on the other people at the windows.  One young family was not allowed on their flight to Mexico this morning because, on the advice of a postal worker, got their daughter a passport card rather than an actual passport.  Why anyone would take the advice of a postal clerk on something concerning international travel is beyond me…  but it was highly entertaining to listen to the woman demand a refund for the useless passport card, then, failing that, asking whether she should call the police and file a report on the misguided postal worker.

I’ll give the woman credit, though, she never once lost her composure or yelled at the clerk behind the window.

That family was followed by an older woman who, again, missed her flight that morning.  Her entire family (and from the sounds of it, it was everyone – brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles, cousins…) went on ahead without her.  This one simply couldn’t find her passport; the only one she could find was an old one from 1967.

You know, the pay is probably shit, but being a clerk here the passport office has to be one of the more interesting jobs around.  I bet they hear some wild-ass stories from people.

My turn finally came and I took care of business in just a few minutes.  I couldn’t tell if the clerk was disappointed or relieved that I didn’t have a sob-story about how I needed my passport ASAP.  Maybe I should have made something up…  Nah.  That crack security team they have over there manning the metal detector would probably jump me if they suspected I was telling a lie just get my passport faster.

I pick up my passport in a few days — three days before I travel.  I think I’ll put some quarters in my underwear just to fuck with the security guys.

Back about the time when Sam and his posse had been in the cave, Matthew had been back in Bedlam defying the urge to sleep. Since it was a Saturday night, he’d allowed himself to stay up a bit later than usual. His wife and his boy had gone on to bed without him.  To stay awake and keep warm, he’d kept himself busy by tending to the fire in their stove. It was blazing away at full strength, and it lit up the room fairly well. This enabled Matt to take to the task of cleaning his rifle. He’d planned on going hunting the next morning, but the storm had caused him to reconsider that idea. He dearly wished it would move on.

There was also something else rummaging about in the back of Matt’s mind, and that was Sam and his posse. In his estimation, he didn’t think they’d be back that night, but he couldn’t be resolutely sure. That made him a shade anxious, and he’d been peering out his windows on and off all evening long. It was simply a nervous reaction. For sure, he was hoping they would catch the murderer eventually. If there was to be another hanging in Bedlam, he didn’t want to miss it for anything. He’d only seen one since they’d lived there, but that was from afar. He thought he’d like to have a close-up view someday, just so he could brag about having had the experience. All the better, too, if the hanging involved this particular killer. Someday the man would be famous, for it was such a vicious crime. The story would be told for years to come. Matt certainly wished to be a party to it’s history. In that respect, he was a voyeuristic storyteller. He didn’t see himself as a fearmonger. He told his tales for the express purpose of entertaining others, not because he wished to scare people away.

By the time that Matt had finished the readying of his rifle, the stove had cooled off, and it’s light had grown dim. He decided to get the fire going one last time, and then he’d hit the hay. On the way to his back door, he once again looked out his window in the direction of the graveyard, but he couldn’t see very well because of the rain. Matt owned the last house on the left as you made your way south out of Bedlam. The hanging tree stood on the other side of the street. It was a block or so further on down the road from his place. Matt didn’t believe the tree was haunted, nor did he believe in ghosts. Nevertheless, he kept an eye out for them, especially at night. In this regard, he was like most people. If there were such a thing as ghosts, then for sure he’d like to have seen one. Not up close, mind you, but a ways away, a very safe distance away.

Matt bundled up in his coat, put on his hat, and grabbed his gloves before going out the back door. Much worse was this storm from what he had previously forecast. He’d been expecting snow, rather than rain under those freezing conditions. Earlier that afternoon he’d covered his stack of logs with a large piece of cowhide, in order to keep the wood good and dry. By this time, a thin sheet of ice lay atop the cover. Matt pulled up a corner, and grabbed as much as he could hold, before covering it back up. As he began his return back to the cozy comforts of home, he looked around at the few remaining occupied houses. They were emitting no light. He thought, “This town is dead.” Matt was longing for the good ol’ days when Saturday nights used to bring a change of pace, and a little excitement. He badly wanted to move to the new town because that’s where good things were happening, except for last night, of course, but he figured that was a once in a lifetime event, and everything would soon be back to normal up there.

Matt was halfway to the door when he heard his old hound dog howling inside the house. “Damn dog!” he thought. “He’s going to wake everyone up.” As if the dog could hear him, he spoke out loud, “There’s no one out here but me, ya stupid dog.” Matt was wrong, for just as soon as he’d finished speaking, the silent night brought him a surprise. It was a sound so startling that he dropped his armload of firewood to the ground, and froze in his steps. This unmistakable sound was the high-pitched whinny of a horse expressing it’s fear, and it was coming from the direction of the graveyard. Matt shuddered in his tracks, and felt his heart begin to race. “Who’s that?” he thought quietly to himself. Then he broke his own rule for a change, and let his curiosity get the best of him. Instead of picking up the firewood, he left it there to lay in the rain, and crept his way towards the back of house. “It must be Sam and his men,” he thought. “At least…oh, God, I hope it is,” he said to himself after considering the alternatives. “But, why the heck are they back so soon? They couldn’t have caught him already. Could they?”

In order for Matt to be able to see the graveyard, he had to look around the corner on the east side of his house. With his left hand gripping the edge, and his right palm against the wall, he braced himself, and leaned his head out to take a look. As soon as he had a complete view of the tree and the graveyard, he stopped moving, and held his ground. As far as he could tell, no one was there. He was sure of what he’d heard, so he paused and waited. He didn’t have to wait long. Suddenly, as if out of nowhere, and coming from the far-side of the graveyard, Matt caught sight of a mysteriously slow moving object. It was a vague, sinister-looking shadowy figure on a tall, dark horse. Matt waited in alarm for another figure, or two, to appear from behind, but none were forthcoming. There was only one, single rider. That dreadful fact alone had Matt quaking in his boots, and it gave him the willies just to think about who it might be. The freezing rain continued to fall from the blackened sky, and the cold wind was causing shivers to run up and down his spine. He stood spellbound in disbelief as the horse coursed around each encountered tombstone, and continued to carry it’s master through the foreboding graveyard.

Their indistinct shapes were beginning to take form as they neared the hanging tree. The old oak seemed to be cloaked in gloom on that night, or so it appeared to Matt. Once they were under the furthermost reaches of it’s branches, the horse brought it’s rider to an abrupt halt. It reared up off the ground, and voiced another neigh. Upon landing, it shook it’s head and mane, and snorted loudly in a show of disgust. Small clouds of hot, steamy breathe came rolling out of it’s nostrils. The wisps of warmed air rose up into the cold night sky, and quickly vanished. Matt couldn’t believe what he was seeing. It bore an awfully close resemblance to the ominous scene he’d pictured the day before on his ride back home. The man got off his horse, and led it by the reins until they were under the lowest limb. A moment later, Matt remembered that Sam had dropped a rope on the ground at that very spot. From the looks of it, the man was dressed in black from head to toe. By then, Matt was able to see the man was wearing a wide-brimmed hat, and it reminded him of the description Luke gave of the dangerous, wanted murderer. That memory was enough to arouse his worst fears. It was more than enough to frighten Matt into a mode of panic, an excruciating emotion which, to him, had hitherto been unknown. Never before had he felt so terrified. Never before had he been scared stiff, and it took his breathe away.

This has been an insanely busy week. My girlfriend got married yesterday – she was the most beautiful bride anyone ever saw. Seriously. It was an awesome wedding. But because of the wedding, and helping her with preparations and trying to run my own life at the same time I got next to nothing done in the house this week.

This morning I woke at 5.45 (my usual time, after falling asleep at 3 am) and had my coffee, wrote my weekly email to friends and family, and started to think about all I needed to do today to get ready for Shabbat. Then my son told me he was out of white shirts and needed me to do a wash before Shabbat (I had been planning on doing laundry on Sunday). And then I started to panic.

“How am I going to get everything done? There are 5 loads of laundry to do (once I am doing one, I may as well do the rest), the bathrooms need cleaning, my bedroom is flying, the kitchen needs to be cleaned, I need to cook up the regular storm for Shabbat – and get the kids off to school and I have to sew buttons onto the HockeyFan’s suit jacket, and have more coffee”. I was convinced that there was no way on God’s green earth that I would ever be able to accomplish anything today. I had a mini tantrum, the tears were rolling down my face, I bemoaned the lack of paid help in the house (a luxury I would love to be able to afford), I hugged the kids fiercely and explained I was overwhelmed, not mad at them. Of course, them being the delicious boys that they are, they offered to stay home from school and help me (didn’t happen), or to help me when they get home from school. They all cleaned their bedrooms before they left for school, which was a big help.

All the while I was panicking I kept hearing the KoD’s voice in my head. “You will get everything done, you always do, take it one thing at a time” – you think he knows me yet?!! Of course he is right, he usually is. Thank you Dude….always there when I need you.

Here it is now 8:15 a.m. and I have two loads of laundry going in the washer and drier, one waiting to be folded, the chicken soup is bubbling on the stove, my bed is made, and inroads have started to be made on the mess in my room, the dining room and living room are neatened up, the dishes from yesterday have finally been washed, the kitchen has been swept. It’s too late or too much to bake challah today, but I am forgiving myself for that.

I will do all I need to do, and I will do it without this panicked feeling in my chest. I am going to chalk that up to overexcitement and lack of sleep.

Remind me next time I am totally overwhelmed, that I can do it all. I know I can, just sometimes I guess I doubt myself.

Have an awesome weekend – I am off to clean some toilets. Such a glamorous life I lead!

If you have spent any time in a recovery program you have probably heard how important it is to develop a gratitude list.  I completely agree that it is one of the most powerful things that can be done to change perspective and overcome many issues.

But instead of providing a bunch of supporting evidence and such I want to just jump right into listing what I am grateful for.  I want to point out that I am not going to name specific people in my list but rather initials and descriptions and qualities.  I don’t want to name names for personal reasons.

This list is not all-inclusive but the best I can do right now.

God, Jesus, and Spirit – I need all of you.

The Bible

Prayer – you mean to tell me God wants to hear from me?  Wow!

The “struggle” – it has made me appreciate the blessings more…

Air to breath

Food to eat

Health

A roof over my head

Clothes

My children – you mean the entire world to me and I am so proud of each one of you.  Each of you has so many incredible qualities that show me that God loves me.  A father could not have imagined a greater gift than what each of you is to me.

DW – I am amazed that we share so many incredible things from our past and our present.  You are so encouraging. I feel how much you believe in me. I love hiking with you. I love talking over coffee with you. I love working on our recovery together.  I love learning more about each other together.  You are beautiful inside and out.  I love how much you love God.  I love your kids and see how much they love you.  You have done an incredible job raising them by yourself.  And thank you for reminding me that I love to write!  I had completely forgotten until you helped me to remember that….

KF – you accept me, listen to me, you are one of the most safe people I have ever met, you have stood up for me and stood next to me in my defeats and victories, you’re my biggest fan and encourager, we eat together, go to concerts together, and share the deepest fears and challenges with each other. The challenges I have faced the last several years were more bearable because of your friendship!

DT – thanks for helping me to get my job, thanks for not judging me, thanks for being a light to the rest of the office.

My country – warts and all!

The men in my Celebrate Recovery small group.  You make CR the best place to be on a Friday night!

Celebrate Recovery – I have grown so much from this program.

Reconnecting with so many old friends on Facebook.  This has shown me how blessed I have been in my life.  To think people I have not spoken with or have seen in over 20 years actually care about me and my life is truly a blessing

My job.  I am grateful that I am not among the many unemployed at this time in my life.

San Diego. I have been blessed in my life to visit many different countries and cities.  San Diego is the most beautiful city in the world.

The ocean. Specifically watching the tide come in.

Coffee – nectar from God

The Living Room Coffee Shop in La Jolla

My therapist.  Thank you for your wise counsel this past year.

UA Basketball and Football.  I love the Wildcats!!!

March Madness – the best sporting event ever created!

The Office – I need to laugh and that show never fails.

Law and Order – all the different versions..

Cable News – sorry liberals – I do mean Fox News when I say that..

Liberals – because every protagonist needs an antagonist…

“Sir, I think you booked the wrong tickets.”

Without a shadow of a doubt, this goes down as one of my biggest boo-boos. I couldn’t believe that I committed a mistake of this simplicity. The crazy thing about it was that none of the four people I had sent my itinerary to spotted it as well. The dates on my E-ticket read 28 Nov Fri to 28 Dec Mon (!!! – I know). On hindsight, thank God there was no promotional fare this time – the more expensive flexi-saver ticket I purchased allowed for a n0-fee flight change.

To help you understand the severity of the situation, on the line was 40kg of fish meat, a $919 SQ air ticket and another $90 paid for excess baggage. It was midnight and my sister (who kindly sent me to the airport) had already reached home. The current flight was fully booked and so were the next two flights at 7am and 10am. The frozen fish meat only had a lifespan of 10 hours without refrigeration.

To say I was panicking is an understatement. But a part of me really enjoyed the impending adventure. Suddenly I was captured in a cinematic moment. Strangely, I was at peace but also in a flurry.

Check-in for the flight closes at 12:35am. The plane takes off at 1:15am.

T-30 minutes @ 12:05am:
After confirming this major mistake, the check-in officer informed me that 12 people have not turned up for this flight. And there were already two passengers on the waiting list. I was third on the list. If nine passengers turned up, it’d be game over for Joey. My uncle and I dismissed paying for Business Class (DANG!) and were hoping for the no-show of these 12 people.

T-20 minutes @ 12:15am:
After putting down the phone with HY for the third time – I needed an anxiety-venting outlet – I was informed by the same officer that there were only 5 seats left. Calmly, he said, “Sir, maybe this is your lucky day”.

His colleague added, “But honestly Sir, based on my experience, I think your chances are really low.”

T-10 minutes @ 12:25am:
I told HY that I couldn’t be on the phone anymore because I was in such a state of peaceful flurry (!). I hung up, looked towards the counter and established eye contact with the same officer. He didn’t give me a thumbs up, but gestured “3” instead. I remembered the two already on the waiting list and my negotiations with God reached a new level of extraordinary wagers. I think I must have really tickled God.

D-day H-hour @ 12:35am:
“Sir, please proceed to the opposite counter to pay for your excess baggage after you check-in. Please watch your time as the gate closes at 1:05am. Have a good flight.”

This was the first time I was the last person on the plane. And this miracle really made me look forward to my short 3-day 2-night hiatus in Shanghai.

Tomorrow, find out why I got zero rest on the plane in Shanghai Tan Part 2 – Sleepless on SQ.

Nobody can bring order to such chaos.

There is a circle of hell reserved for the most evil Asperger sufferers. Those who rape nuns, abuse animals and devour human flesh.

It is called supermarket shopping.

Woebetide those who enter this arena.

Few make it out alive.

This uncertainty with C is doing my head in. I spent this afternoon looking online and through Yellow Pages for private clinical psychologists in my area and found the sum total of two such half-decent practitioners, one of whom I’ve already seen (!). I then tried to work out if I could even afford weekly private therapy whilst unemployed – it can be done, in the most literal of senses, but it’ll take about half my monthly earnings to finance it.

Maybe I am overreacting and maybe C has no intention of ending this herapy in January, unless there is some miracle (and if there is some miracle then it is obviously fine to finish in January – but of course there will not be). But the mixed messages from him are sublimely frustrating – “don’t worry, we will never just suddenly end things” and “we will get there” versus “you know this is a finite process on the NHS,” yadda yadda yadda.

Partly the annoyance is with him and partly it is with this stupid bloody system. Sometimes I think we’d be better off with private healthcare after all.

On the one hand, C is the person that makes the immediate decisions on how long he sees his clients (as far as I can tell, anyway), so he could just say to me, “let’s keep on meeting for the next six months,” or whatever. He refuses to lay down any long term plans, ostensibly as he feels it is important to work to short-term-ish goals. I disagree, but at least he has a rationale, and in any event I am no psychologist. However, if therapy is coming to an end in about five weeks then what is the rationale for that when I am clearly still a nutjob?

On the other hand, C is constrained by all the financial bullshit of the NHS, not to mention the ludicrousness of the service’s inherent bureaucracy. No doubt he has targets and timeframes, must palm off the stupid mental within a few months cos the trust can’t (won’t) pay for the stupid mental any further than that and if he hasn’t cured the stupid mental in that time then he is an evident failure, don’t you know. Targets, man, targets!

The problem with this is that it will end up costing the health service much more in the long-run, and perhaps in more ways than one.

Let me break it down.

1. I am 26. I have been utilising mental health services on the NHS since I was 13. Had I seen a proper therapist for a proper length of time then, how much money could they potentially have saved themselves? Instead, as this post attests, six different public sector salaries were funded, some of the resources of which were devoted to me. Epic fail. (Of course my own money was spent on three other therapists because of the NHS inadequacies. Epic fail again). The point is, one way or another, I will end up back at the GP’s or psychiatrist’s office begging for help yet again, and we’ll be back to square one. Why not just agree a sensible timeframe with someone I know and trust – and clear things up to whatever extent that is achievable – now?!
2. I am so mentally and – yes – emotionally fragile as things stand that if therapy ends in the near future I am convinced I will end up in the bin. One hour of C’s time per week versus 24 hour care by several RMNs, psychiatrists and auxiliaries. Which one sounds cheaper to you?
3. A third possibility, and this may be seen as a threat which it is not intended to be, is that I finally can’t cope and do myself in. When my mother and A instigate litigation against the NHS, as they inevitably would were this possibility realised, even if the NHS won hands down, they would be forking out a fortune to fund their fuckhead solicitors. I used to work for litigation solicitors specialising in the public sector. I know what they charge; even for minor cases that are easily contested and won, it is a bloody fortune. That’s not even including barristers’ fees if it came to court, or out-of-court settlements.

Other points to consider are the following:

1. Dr C is constantly reminding me that psychotherapy is the “mainstay” of my treatment (rather than medicine), yet it seems to be her intention to see me long-term, albeit hopefully only for monitoring purposes once a suitable cocktail of drugs is found. How can therapy be the mainstay of my treatment if I am only seeing her, who only deals with the medicinal and organic sides of things?
2. I know I’ve ranted about this before, but it so utterly and completely fills me with disgust and contempt that I have worked in both full- and part-time capacities since I was 14, and given 11% of my salary to the health service since I was 16. I had two major breakdowns, including this one, during that time – but it still amounts to, I think, eight years of work. When you think about it, is it really that different from US health insurance? Maybe the percentage figure is lower, but then my employers had to pay a percentage of my salary for my insurance also. So why would I get medium- long-term therapy in America, but I can’t here?
3. I am familiar with people in other NHS trusts that have been guaranteed therapy of at least a year and a half on the health service. Now, one person I can think of has a lot more issues than I do, and so that’s fair enough – however, that individual is one of five people I can think of off the top of my head. I would hasten an educated guess that I have much more psychological baggage than each of those other four, but if not, certainly two or three of them anyway. Why, then, is it OK to fuck me about? (Incidentally, I noticed none of them had any trouble seeing psychiatrists either, so maybe my trust is just shit. Now it sounds like I’m playing a teenage game of “but they’re allowed it, so why am I not” – but I hope I’m not. I’m just genuinely mystified as to why my case is different).
4. As stated yesterday, I have been mental for many years. I received my first diagnosis (clinical depression) 13 years ago or so, but as I have discussed here at other junctures, I was mental well before that. Normal children don’t try to amputate their limbs. Normal children don’t hallucinate. Normal children aren’t obsessively paranoid. Normal children don’t deliberately coop themselves up in the house, listen to Bach, read Grey’s Anatomy and seek out the company of the elderly for intellectual discourse. They go outside and play with their friends. So when I said ‘13 years’ yesterday, I probably really meant 23, to be honest. Point being, how can two decades of madness be alleviated in less than a year? It’s fucking preposterous.
5. If I had a physical ailment, the NHS would treat me until it was cured, or, were it chronic, then indefinitely. I am not asking for indefinite treatment for my psychological difficulties, make no mistake. But the striking inequalities between the health service for physical health and the health service for mental health disgust me.

In any case, I cannot see why C has to keep reminding me that the psychotherapeutic process is finite. Of course it is fucking finite, I am not stupid – and I certainly don’t want to be in need of it indefinitely as I want to be able to manage my conditions by myself. However, for the NHS’ sake as well as my own, surely that finity (if that’s a word) ought to be directly correlated with the progress of the patient? Surely it is the height of irresponsibility to discharge someone that is clearly still fucked up and only going to, at best, waste more resources?

Fuck it all to hell. I feel like emigrating.

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Name that tune and you won’t win a prize, but you’ll get to feel superior – at least musically. A hint, it was not released within the last 20 years. Yes, I’m old. Get over it.

Guess what I forgot? The next chapter of Risk. No worries, it’s up over here now.  We’re more than halfway there and if you’re not reading, you should be.

This is what I’ve been reading.

Two 500+ page books to read, an 800 page flashcard/study guide and a skinny 300 page book of nothing but Cisco commands. Yeah, I’m a fun date.

Oh, look what a difference the flash (and a cat) makes.

Cool, what's this?

Cisco ain't for pussies

I’m on a standby list to take the ICND2 class (again)  next week – hopefully someone won’t show up and I’ll get a seat.  Or I could just get TRC to explain the intricacies of routing protocols to me.

But in the meantime I’m going to enjoy Thanksgiving tomorrow and try not to gain 40 lbs. Which ain’t easy to do if you’ve ever had MoC’s dressing. Or poppyseed bread. Yum.

I’ve decided there’s really no point in working myself up over the CCNA stuff anymore. I’m either going to pass or fail. I’ll study hard and learn as much as I can and then go for it. If I fail, the school pays for me to take it again and if I do fail, then I will know what to expect the next time.

And what if I don’t fail the exam? What if I don’t fail to find a decent job? What if I don’t fail to finish my degree? What if I don’t fail to succeed? HA. Think about that for a while.

I’ve been in panic mode for a while now (I’m sure you haven’t noticed). It’s boring. There is a bright side to everything. And despite the panic and fear, I do know this is all going to work out. If  I didn’t, I’d be back in insurance. It’s the middle part – after the decision to change something but before the actual change – that always tries to pull me under.  I’m a good swimmer, though. Well, probably not as good as I used to be, but guess what? … blubber floats. 

Eboi just released a new track called “Panic” and it’s his own version of the group Far och Son’s track “Panik” from last year. The release is a collaboration between Respect My Hustle and Hybris and is available as a free download on My Best Friend is My Grind.

I’m really looking forward to hearing more stuff from Eboi. It’s definitely time that he gets some shine!

Thursday was fucking traumatic, a state of affairs of which you are probably aware given my citation of the disturbing imagery of Metallica’s Until It Sleeps that evening. You’ll have seen on that post that my iPod was reading my mind again in playing it – and other songs on similarly dark themes – but what is most interesting about this is that this strange form of electronic ESP took place as I was driving home from an utterly pointless dissociative trip to a coastal town about 20 miles from home.

My first proper awareness of going to said town was when I realised I was in the centre of it. I do have a very vague recollection of noticing my normal turn off and thinking that the traffic was heavy, but at no time did I think, “why the fuck are you not in that heavy traffic?” I don’t remember deciding to drive on, and I don’t remember the journey. Another small-scale fugue-like episode. Sweet.

I had been quite good on the self-harm front of late, but the good spell has been broken. ‘Bitch’ and ‘grief’ are the latest, though I don’t remember doing the former (it must have bled like fuck though as I had seemingly used a towel to stem the bloodflow). Grief. Am I grieving for myself, or for what I should have been? If so, is that good? Presumably one is meant to say, “well, the self-harm bit isn’t good,” but you know me folks – not really one to listen to that sort of argument. A is raging with C; in A’s eyes, it is C’s fault that I have taken to cutting myself again. But it isn’t. It really isn’t. All C has done is facilitate triggering discussions, and been someone to whom I am hopelessly attached, which is hardly his fault. We can’t avoid matters of this importance simply because there is a risk it may act as a trigger; the entire psychotherapeutic process would then be pointless, and I’d be left as mental as I ever was.

I’m unsure as to what exactly this entry will amount to, as I remember surprisingly little of the session – perhaps unsurprisingly. But let’s start at the very beginning and see what happens.

C pointed out that he’d been looking through his diary and saw that our current contract was due to end shortly (he thought there were two sessions remaining after Thursday; I thought one, but as it turns out it will not matter). This was something of which I was horribly well aware. Having only begun to open up to C properly in the last few weeks, I was convinced that he’d see me as a manipulative bitch – it looked, to my cynical mind, like I was trying to wrangle more time out of him by leaving the avalanche of confessions until this point. Given that my primary diagnosis is borderline personality disorder, it reasonably follows (in my eyes) that he could believe me to be manipulative, as the psychiatric establishment still seems to think that about those who have BPD more than any other psychiatric problem.

Of course, he didn’t like either the idea that he would find me manipulative, nor in particular that he would think this because I have BPD – that fixates on labels, don’t you know. Actually, it doesn’t, because it’s what I think he should think anyway – the fact that BPD is the only psychiatric diagnosis to still be treated with open contempt by mental health professionals just reinforces that point – though to be fair, I have not experienced that disdain personally, thank God.

I honestly don’t think I was being manipulative – not consciously, anyhow – but it did look like it, and that had been my worry all week. Of course, C refused to concede that this was the case in his eyes. Did he point blank deny it? I think he may well have done, but I don’t remember clearly enough to say for certain. What he was willing to admit to was that I may, consciously or otherwise, fear the end of the relationship, and act accordingly to preserve it. Which is apparently not manipulative. Hmm.

The issue of the end of therapy raised its ugly head a couple of times during the meeting. What he said at this juncture was that we should “…continue seeing each other until Christmas, at which point [he'll] be off for a fortnight, and then we’ll review the situation in January.”

Review the situation in January. You can take a wild guess as to what I think about that. He is going to throw me out with the dirty water in cunting January. Just over a month away, after the most stressful time of the year for me (ah yes, I’m sure you’ll be treated to a delicious rant about fucking Christmas in the near future, dearest readers). A tells me that this is not what C meant; apparently, he literally meant that we shall review the situation, and if further therapy is required (as if it won’t be), then that is what the case shall be. Well, Ms Rationality of course says, “yeah, right” to that. He is going to abandon me.

I honesty don’t remember how I reacted in session to the comment about ‘reviewing things in January’. I think I simply agreed and didn’t voice the aforementioned rejection worries, but I wouldn’t swear to it. As I said, it did indeed come up again, but I don’t remember under what circumstances. I can and do appreciate that the relationship can’t be permanent – in the most rational of ways, I don’t want it to be. I want to live an independent life, free of a need for a surrogate daddy. But can C realistically expect to change 13+ years of misery and being fucked about by the NHS in seven-ish months, particularly when I have such a strong neurotic attachment to him? Trying to be objective about it, I cannot honestly fathom that as reasonable, except in especially productive scenarios (which are about as applicable to me as…um…er…something that is very un-applicable to me). This is a personality disorder. It is ingrained into every metaphorical fibre of my self, the conscious, the unconscious, whatever – and it is causing me to self-destruct. Can something of such enormity and longevity honestly be treated adequately in just over half a year?

In any case, eventually the discussion – predictably enough – returned to the eminently delightful subject matter of the preceeding week. Eugh. It was me that raised it, though not exactly through choice; we were talking about something else (no idea what now) which triggered some sort of memory – it’s a shame I’ve forgotten what that subject was, as it would be useful to know these triggers, especially in cases where there is no obvious correlation, as I think the case was in this instance.

I became rather agitated and told C that I wasn’t “going there”. I hid.

Despite my telling him to leave it, he continued to probe me – but gently and quite subtly, to be fair. I eventually admitted that I was thinking about the Pandora’s Box.

My memory is even more fragmented from here on in, though some things do stick out in my mind very clearly. I was very, very careful not to verbally articulate much at all; at one point I desperately begged, “look, don’t you see where I’m going with this?” But it appears that he believes that I need to say the words. I still have not used the word ‘rape’, and strictly speaking he could still be under the impression that it was something other than rape – but he’s not that stupid.

He must have asked what was so troubling about verbalising this material, because I remember then telling him that I am fairly tolerant of articulating the gruesome information on this blog.

“Which is odd,” I mused, “given that it is all the more real when it is written down, even more so than if I verbally discuss it. It’s there, on the blog, in black and white.” (See here, for example).

I went on to postulate the idea that perhaps it is easier to deal with in writing because I can rationalise everything; life events become something that is seen in the third person, by a narrator, an observer with at least a modicum of theoretical knowledge of that about which she writes. If I have to talk about it, I have to feel it. I am there, in the midst of it, with the rawness, the vileness, the trauma of it all.

He agreed. He didn’t say so, but a sense that he wants me to feel that repressed pain was very palpable. Maybe that is why he was such a cock when I put this, and other shit, in writing for him – in fact, I’m certain it is. What kind of profession capitalises on other people’s grief? If I asked him why he became a clinical psychologist, I’m sure he’d respond along the lines of that old cliché, “I want to help people.” What, by making them relive their darkest memories, by making them suffer through them all again? Does that not take a special kind of sadism?

I am, of course, being a little facetious; I don’t believe C to be a sadist in the least, and I do believe he is in his job for the right reasons. But the human mind, and the sciences that arise therefrom, are odd things indeed. It strikes me as strange that it is an apparent psychological necessity to directly face that which you most revile in your past, before you can heal from the wounds it inflicted.

But this is not a post about the curious concept of psychology as an academic discipline, nor is it a post about the mindsets of those practising this form of figurative alchemy; it is a post about a session I had with my therapist. So…was it at this point that I lost it? I’m not sure, but anyway, in my next clear memory, all I could see in my head was the INCIDENT, or more specifically, the moments during which I was pushed to the floor of the outhouse in which it took place and served up as tasty piece of young meat for the delectation of my uncle. I recall very strongly that (in C’s office, not in my mind) I had my head in my lap and was pelting my skull with both fists with as much strength as I could muster. I have never done anything of this ilk in C’s company before.

And so he too did something that he has never done before; he raised his voice to me. He didn’t shout, but he did raise his voice just enough to try and penetrate through the mentalism that had tenaciously gripped my mind.

“SI!” he called. Well, he didn’t of course – perhaps it will surprise some of you to learn that I have a name, a normal, very ordinary name, and he used that instead – but you know what I mean. One thing I’ll not forget about this session was that he actually used my name three times, and at one point I used his too – these things are unheard of in the whole time we’ve known each other. Does it mean something? Why do I attach such importance to something so apparently normal and trivial? Is it because using names is personal, and that I want to see him as a person, not a canvas? Who knows. I certainly don’t, but I do know that that memory sticks with me.

I think he must have somehow brought me back from this mental place, but I don’t remember the specifics. The next part of the conversation that I recall was when he asked me how I felt about myself and that I told him that I felt like a “dirty, fetid little slut.” I then rationalised things for a bit, proclaiming that I am in actuality not a slut. Unfortunately, I still felt (feel) like one.

Then I lost it again. “I’m a filthy whore,” I spat, hiding from him again with my hands.

I think he actually went as far as to tell me that I am not a whore, but that could be a phantom memory. I mean, how the fuck would he know? I could have sold sex in 28 European capitals for all he knows. One thing he definitely did do was try and help me regain my composure. I sat up and pretended to be fine, sticking out my hand to measure how much it was shaking. I have used an incident when I was about 15 as a yardstick to measure anxiety; the day after I found out about an incredibly twisted lie from my first real boyfriend (a long story that I will have to detail some day), I went into school and, in English, happened to notice how much my hand was shaking. That denotes severe anxiety and/or anger. If the shaking is less than that, things could be worse.

I told C about this. However, a brief reference to the lying cunt of an ex must have touched on the self-disgust I was already feeling over my own lying to C about the INCIDENT (when we first met I told him it was ‘mere’ touching, but that was only part of it, obviously. More on this shortly). I told him this – still without using that word – and went into a major self-invective of utter disgust and abhorrence. It was filled with ranting about how much of a shameful, lying, grotesque, hateful slag I am, lying to the one person that might be able to bring me back a little hope in this sorry mental battle, and about how guilty and sorry I am, blah blah de blah.

When I took a second to draw breath, he jumped in to try and (a) reassure me that I had nothing to feel guilty about and (b) establish exactly what it was that I felt I’d lied about.

I answered (b) first, at least to the best of my recollection. He’d specifically asked in our initial assessment sessions what form the sexual abuse took. As is my wont, I had avoided articulating myself properly, and instead managed to answer the question merely by his probing. I think, though I am not certain, that he asked if I was raped, and that I said ‘no’. I am sure that when he asked if it was inappropriate touching that I said ‘yes’, and that I led him to believe that that was all. In my defence – and I told him this in the session to which this post refers – I have dissociated a lot of the INCIDENT. I remember ghastly, loathsome pieces of it in fleeting glimpses, like looking at still pictures in an album or, sometimes, short video clips. I remember the sensations of pain and terror in these moments too. I am grateful that the memories are so brief, but also resentful of it too, as it feels like it removes my power to understand the INCIDENT and my reactions to it. Furthermore, obviously part of me does remember it, and that part is mentally fucked – perhaps it would be easier to address were it all consciously there at the front of my mind.

Anyhow, I then proceeded to respond C’s (a) point. “I lied to you,” I said simply. “Aren’t you angry with me?”

“No, of course I’m not angry with you.”

“Why not? You should be.”

He sort of laughed (he mustn’t have realised I was serious), but seeing the look on my face, he desisted from doing so abruptly.

“SI,” he said again, firmly, looking straight at me. “Do you seriously think that I should be angry with you?” His tone was a more compassionate version of ‘incredulous’.

“Yes,” I began, “fucking dirty, lying, grotesque little bitch, fucking…”

“One,” he interrupted, rather dramatically, leaning forward and counting on his fingers as he did. “We had only just met and you can’t honestly have expected yourself to deeply discuss such sensitive matters with someone you didn’t know. Two, you didn’t lie, you omitted some information…”

“But then that’s a lie of omission…” I began.

“Three!” he went on, raising his eyebrow in a surprisingly authoritative fashion, signaling that I was to let him finish, “three, this is hard for you to talk about, so it is not surprising you withheld it. What is there to be angry with?! I am not angry with you, and neither should I be.”

Well, that was me told, then. I was quite taken aback by the forcefulness of his tone. Actually, ‘forcefulness’ is a horrid word to use as it has negative connotations – let’s say ‘emphatic’ instead. He was incredibly emphatic. I gaped at him in a sort of stupefied disorientation for a minute or two.

He sat back in his chair, recovered his blank canvas and either asked me how I felt, or signalled for me to speak.

“Um…” I muddled. “That’s reassuring. I do feel reassured. But it also confuses me; you have a completely different attitude to it from me.”

He seemed to understand that in fairness, which not an awful lot of people would. He was able to see the black-and-white chain of logic that I was following in believing that he ought to be angry, but luckily for C things in his world do not seem to be as black and white as they are in mine.

I don’t remember how things ended. I know that I was battered and bruised psychologically (and physically to boot what with punching my head). At no point had I been tearful, but one does not need to weep to mentally suffer. I went and sat in the car and phoned A for catharsis and reorientation purposes. Although the trauma of reliving the INCIDENT had been the most awful aspect of the session, the fact that I fixatedly whined to A that C ‘wants to abandon me’ before I even touched on the rest of things is very telling.

In later discussions A urged me to tell C about this abject fear. What’s the point? C already knows I’m terrified of him abandoning me. Perhaps the real question is ‘is my attachment to him healthy?’ There have been mixed views on this from the readership of this blog. cbtish, for example, thinks it puts me in an intolerable position (cbtish is a therapist). Vanessa from eTransference, a clinical psychologist in training who has a particular interest in the phenomenon of transference, thinks it ought to be encouraged in many ways. Others undergoing therapy – bourach and thesamesky (who’s also a counsellor) for example – have their own struggles with the therapeutic dyad (bourach in particular will understand why I thought C should be angry with me, given this post of her’s).

I don’t know what the answer is; just that the attachment is very real. Just that I feel guilty for withholding information and for lying (though he wants me to stop that – and I’ve just remembered that the session ended with him asking me, again, to try and not post-mortem things in therapy. Oops. He was also worried, after what happened with VCB’s SHO in September, that his actions or words could have a…er…detrimental effect on me. Double oops. All I can say is that I think our current dialogue is progress, regardless of any self-harm that follows). And at least I am far from alone in withholding, and even lying.

But it’s still all a bit of a quagmire, yes?

You would look like this too (well not really)

Ok…so while I was working on a cd cover for a friend of mine (SHOUT OUT NEVAHURD…The future is looking friendly my dude! LOL)…I stumbled upon this SICK SHOW (and I know don’t mean ebonics ’sick’..lol)

There is nothing nasty about the show…but man, the things that they do JUST to get a laugh…I wonder if stuff like this will end up on North American Television.

So the premise, the show is called ‘PANIC FACE KING’…the show is about real situations (for example: this scene is about a dude that is about to see all of his friends get SNIPERED…Yes, getting gunned down except for him).

I’m not gonna lie, I was in a state of shock..but still had to laugh at the dude’s face…PRICELESS…but JUST WRONG..lol

Take a gander <CLICK HERE>

Holla!

-Ryan

(Video Courtesy of Break.Com)

As a person endeavoring to be healthier (emotionally, spiritually, and physically) so that I can live my life well and love those around me more.  I have seen the importance of looking back at the issues in my life that have shaped me and influenced me.  I have also learned that not only is it important to “understand where I have come from” but it is also very important to grieve over some of those things in a healthy way.

Let me first provide my definition of grieving for the sake of this article: to mourn or have sorrow for an event or a loss that has hurt you or those you have a close relationship with.

For some it may mean a divorce, a loss of a loved one, a loss of innocence, a major life disappointment ( in some cases you may look back and think the loss was insignificant but the pain was never grieved), abuse that was committed against you.  These are just a few examples.

Grieving can be a scary thing for most of us.  It can be seen as a sort of “slippery slope” to self pity, despair, and depression.  That fear is largely due to our misunderstanding of grief and its power and benefits.

Grieving is a process that consists of stages or phases:

Stages of grieving:

• Shock and denial

• Pain and guilt

• Anger Frustration and Bitterness

• Acceptance and Resolution

Some of these phases will come and go at different times of the process and not always in exactly the correct order.  Just remember that they are all part of the process.

Be careful that neither you nor anyone else  put time limits on this process.  It will pass but everyone grieves in different ways at different paces…  How long will it take?  It will take as long as it takes.  And honestly sometimes the reason it takes so long is because we try to skip over some of these steps and move towards acceptance and resolution without experiencing the anger and frustration in a healthy way.

If you have never done an exercise in which you recall or consider the events of your life that have not been grieved in a healthy way, I would recommend seeing a trained counselor or support group or safe friend to work on this in your own recovery.

I have used several methods to grieve in my recovery.  The first was an exercise I learned in a book called “Wild at Heart” by John Eldredge.  I wrote down every event that wounded me in a significant way that I could remember from childhood to present day.  I wrote why I believed I was wounded and how I felt about it.  It was amazing how many things came bubbling up once I started writing.  I was then able to talk with a very safe friend of mine and discussed the list and how to best seek resolution on the issues where that was appropriate.

The second method is something that MUST be done with a trained therapist.  It is called Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing (EMDR).  I will not get into the specifics of this method.  However, I will say that it is extremely powerful in dealing with major stress and trauma’s from your past.

The third method I have used is the Step Study at Celebrate Recovery.  Specifically Step 4 which deals with the events that have hurt you, what your part or responsibility in the event was, and your response or reaction to the event.  This step is best done with a sponsor who can help you with perspective and balance in your perspective.

Next I will write about the importance of emotions.

If you enjoy these blog topics please comment, share them with others, and/or subscribe by clicking the links provided.

Thank you very much for visiting and reading!

A

I pitched a story to someone.

It hasn’t even been read yet, never mind commissioned, but I actually jumped a huge invisible hurdle there. It’s silly and costly of course that I researched a half-page pitch for 2 weeks, but such are inexplicable emotional hurdles. Before I wrote it, I wrote a panic letter to myself, turned away several tempting dates, read a book, went on an emergency Starbuck mission, did a yoga class, wrote letters to two people, felt nauseous, had a bath, did the laundry, made soup and made sure there was absolutely nothing interesting anywhere on facebook or the rest of the internet.

God, I hope I never put myself through that again. It’s amazing how hard we try not to do what we really want to do sometimes. I’m exhausted. Tomorrow – I’m going to pitch two stories.

Some days I see things with vivid clarity. Knowing I am powerless to fix what I cannot, there are still actions I can take to not make a bad situation worse and to lessen the stress that is already abundant.

God grant me the serenity 
to accept the things I cannot change; 
courage to change the things I can;
and wisdom to know the difference. ~ Reinhold Niebuhr

I am slowly accepting those things I can’t change, but am having a hell of a time figuring out what I can. There are days when acceptance and understanding are such foreign concepts, I don’t think I will ever reach that plateau.

What I am coming to recognize is that fine line between a gentle push when tough love is necessary and crossing that line over with a harsh pummeling. I used to pummel, not so much any more.

There is no secret that my teenage son is dealing with several thought disorders. He has been diagnosed with ADHD, OCD (obsessive compulsive disorder) and panic/anxiety disorder, among other things. There are behaviors that, without knowing where his actions are coming from, could be seen as intentionally disruptive, disrepectful, or downright lazy.

It’s not a matter of him just doing whatever task has stressed him out, or stopping his compulsions. He can’t and sometimes the harder he tries, the worse the episode becomes.

That means if carrying around a die cast car, even running it over the top of a restaurant table, offers him some level of comfort or diversion, I let him. He’s not making car noises or racing the car over the backs of other diners chairs, sometimes simply having the car in his line of sight is all it takes.

It means that when he tells me he can’t go outside, or leave his chosen chair in the living room, it means he can’t do it. I prod, looking for that fine line, and back off when I can tell he is inching toward a full blown panic attack. That he is still in school is huge. He may not finish, may not graduate with his class, but he is trying as hard as he can. And, for that I am grateful.

WK is home this week for Thanksgiving holidays. We went shopping today. It was a struggle for him to leave the house. He wanted to come home after we left the first store. He couldn’t make himself stay inside the second one and went to sit in the car. He asked to go to the book store, I took that as a good sign, and shortly after he helped me pick out yarn for a gift for his sister. By lunch time I knew we weren’t long from home.

But he was trying, and that was all I could hope for.

Valve, you’ve surpassed yourselves this time, rushing out a sequel to a game, and doing a pretty good job of it if I’m completely honest. But why, for the love of all that is holy, would you make a game where all your advanced features make the game a wobbly mess of doody. DOODY TO YOU SIR!! Multicore rendering, if you cant make it work, then DON’T INCLUDE IT. Anyway, other people are probably wondering what I’m going on about, so I’ll put it in simpler terms; if you bought a game, you’d expect it to work right? You wouldn’t expect it to freeze after you’ve been playing it for 30 minutes and force your face into contorted asian rage such as this?

NYAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

Didn’t think so. Well that’s what this game is doing to me. All you smug console players are all “Oh there’s no problem for me na na na” but you can’t search google for inappropriate things on your little gamebox, whereas I can!! HA!

Oh yeah, the game is Left 4 Dead 2; I just realised I hadn’t actually mentioned the game’s name.

In other not so geeky news I had my first ever bad turbulence experience on an aeroplane last night. I was convinced I was going to die and even started to severely panic! I had to tell the old (and perfectly calm I might add) couple in the seats beside me that it was my first time fly (which you bet your ass it ISN’T) because I was so embarrassed of how badly I panicked! I feel that this adorable cat’s face best resembles my expression from the plane last night:

FUCKING FUCK OF ALL FUCKS!!!

Peace out bro’s and ho’s, I’m gona make me some Pasta n Sauce!