The weekend started with...
an email from my lawyer on Friday, saying that IFKALP wanted to visit. Actually, I knew this as the Sun told me a few days back, and I'd emailed lawyer first so we could start setting it up. The email I got was actually a reply and a confirmation that IFKALP had been in touch. I'd said to lawyer, right after the last IFKALP visit, that from now on I needed everything nailed down before IFKALP came to town because it's too hard to negotiate changes.
I was aware of my blood pressure rising as soon as I saw lawyer's reply that notification had come from IFKALP.... and that IFKALP now has a new lawyer. This has been going on for so long now--this fight, that I should be over it. And I am, as long as I don't actually have to deal with him. The minute he enters my realm of existence, the blood pressure shoots up. Ah, PTSD.
In addition, my fights with the Sun to call his dad are getting more heated. But with running around and Karate and late nights, the Sun hadn't spoken to his dad in 2 nights. When the Alec Baldwin thing broke, I wrote about what it's like to actually get those messages. And I wrote that I haven't had voicemail in about 2 years precisely because I was tired of those messages.
I forget to check voicemail cuz a.) there's no blinking light and b.) I'm not in the habit, but the dotted dial tone reminded me I had some and so I checked it this morning.
You would think that after all this time, a simple message would be left for The Sun to call his dad. Nope! "Congratulations" the voice snarled, "you finally have an answering machine. I've been trying to reach (The Sun) for two days. Have him turn on his phone, since I'm paying for it". Etc. I wish I could figure out how to get the message so that the tone could be heard. And then maybe people would understand. In the end, though, it doesn't matter so it's not worth bothering about. And it's probably illegal/not in my best interest to post it here anyhow. But I understand why Kim let Alec's message get out.
In the meantime, that thing I'm trying to claim that doesn't belong to me--I wonder if it's worth claiming. I wonder if it's worth the effort. I decided within myself over the last couple of weeks what it is that I really want. The problem is that I don't think I'm ever going to get it--particularly not this thing I'm trying to claim (although--what the fuck. What do I have to lose?). This has brought up a bunch of issues with me... probably the two biggest that define my whole existence:
1.) I'm not a patient bitch. Never have been. I'm obsessive and determined if it's something that I really want, but that's not the same as being patient. Patience is being able to wait, and to be calm while doing so. I hate to wait. I think it's why I'm late all the time. Because at least whenever I finally get there I can hit the ground running but there is NOTHING worse for me than sitting around waiting--for people, for things to happen if I expect them to be happening right now. I don't really think I've realized until now how impatient I actually am. But it explains a lot to myself about the shit I get myself into. I can hold back and hold off on a decision for ever by simply mulling it over ad infinitum, but once I make it and I define what it is I want, I try to make it happen instantly. And of course, this isn't always possible. My father told me a proverb once, a long time ago:"Nothing exists before the word". He said it within the context of an entirely different subject, but I remember being about 6 or 7 (cuz we hadn't been evicted yet and that happened when I was 8), and pondering about all the ramifications of what this meant. So I realize that I am hesitant to name or define something, because once I do, once I put words to it, it exists for me. Or I need to make it exist. Right Now. And now that I've identified needs and wants within myself, and I know they cannot exist-- probably won't exist without an *awful* lot of work and patience, it's extremely frustrating to me.
2.) I really do think people suck. But I really don't want to believe it. Or maybe I don't think people suck; maybe I do believe in good but I'm afraid to be disappointed. This is sis' theory (the second one), and since she's the book-smart therapist who specializes in cognitive behaviour (which is just too funny cuz nobody had it pegged that way in the beginning of our lives) there could be some validity to it.
Except that when I was 8, and we got evicted from our house in Jamaica, we went to stay with someone who had once been the family dentist. He was well-known in Jamaica, and had this HUGE house up in the mountains that he didn't stay in that often. The day we got evicted, my sister and I were sitting on top of a pile of all our stuff that was out on the sidewalk. In Jamaica, most houses have hedges and gates, so that each house is sort of like a walled fort. When the marshalls came and took our stuff out--and I do mean all, they put it outside the gate for all the world to see. I'm sure my parents were mortified, but I was more in a state of shock. The lady who had been our housekeeper happened to come along; she had taken to us, and was worried about us and had just come to see how were were doing. I vaguely remember her wailing in that uniquely Jamaican way "Lawda musy, de poor pickney dem" and she took us back with her to her little bungalow in the tenement yard she lived in.
I think we stayed there that night and the parents stayed in a hotel, and it was probably the first time ever we were away from the parents. I remember not being able to breathe; the stress of the day and a new environment made my asthma flare up. The parents came to get us the next morning and either that day or the next took us up to Papine to the house where the dentist lived.
The first night we were there, I think the dentist was there as well and the housekeeper made tripe and lima beans and it was kind of like a party. The following day my sister and I hiked around the gardens of his house. It was beautiful with all sorts of flowers and I remember that it was cooler up there in the mountains than it was in Kingston where we had been living. But a day or so later, I remember waking up and seeing my mother crying; apparently we'd overstayed our welcome and the dentist let us know it by wrapping the refrigerator with a chain, secured by a padlock.
From that point on the whole year, 1975, was a series of us bouncing around Jamaica, looking for places to stay. Some people were kind. Others were not. At the end of that year we ended up in Bull Bay, 8 miles east of Kingston. The pictures on the link might be from a little further up the coast, but it pretty much looks like what I remember-wild. Two years later, as things got tight again and our family was being threatened with deportation (imagine being deported from Jamaica? Well, that's our claim to fame.) I remember walking up to "9Mile" with the family so that my mother could use the one pay phone outside the police station to call Chicago to tell my grandmother that we were coming. And I remember seeing her crying because my grandmother didn't seem to want us to.
So I guess I started getting jaded from that point on. And I stopped letting people "in". People have to work hard to get inside. Sometimes, I think I recognize something in someone and they sort of get in by default. But as time went on I figured out that what I actually recognized was mental distress and not much of anything else so I've gotten a little better about weeding out the crazies, but not much better. And once someone is "in", it is *extremely* hard for me to kick them "out" no matter how crazy they are.
People have said to me that they think I have it nailed down, that I'm "fierce" or bossy (sis' favorite word for me) or determined, and a lot of strong words. When the narcissistic voices are talking, they can make me believe that I am those things but a decent portion of the time, I don't feel that way at all. A decent portion of the time I feel like I am completely out of my league and falling way behind, and that I am NOT nailed down or fierce or bossy. A decent portion of the time, if I let myself, I'd be this giant, gaping need. And sis would argue that I should allow myself to feel needy and to ask for help. But again... I'm not patient. And I think people suck. So to sit around to wait in the hope that someone will help me is just far more than I can handle, which is why I fight like hell to do it myself.
Except I'm getting fucking tired. And things are falling through the cracks, and I'm losing a handle on a whole lot of stuff. But I can't afford to wait for someone to help; I just don't have that luxury.
It's taken guts for me to admit recently that I'm tired of being a single parent--that I'm tired of being alone and doing this shit by myself. Because it means I've had to admit to "need". What's worse, I've actually admitted it to a few people, and so by the way I work that need should be filled immediately. But even I know it's not possible. And that really kind of sucks.
And speaking of not being patient... the two things that are killing me (well three, but one I *know* isn't going to happen and I really should accept the "What Is" and move on) are... a.) I'm freaking sick of the sofa that I STILL can't get rid of... nor can I afford to replace it anyhow with exactly the kind I *do* want, and b.) I couldn't afford my tattoo this weekend. Blimey.
So the weekend ended with the voices having a discussion about my future this morning, but I can't really remember what it was. I could actually begin to identify the different voices this time, because I was thinking in terms of writing it down. I could begin to see who was who, as opposed to the usual cacophony of jumbled voices talking over each other. One is a small child with a lot of hope--a girl. One is a very old and bitter man. And there's another one that is sort of an older woman, and one is me. I did a good job of defending myself today, against the old man in particular, so I think I might be OK for the next few days.
I was aware of my blood pressure rising as soon as I saw lawyer's reply that notification had come from IFKALP.... and that IFKALP now has a new lawyer. This has been going on for so long now--this fight, that I should be over it. And I am, as long as I don't actually have to deal with him. The minute he enters my realm of existence, the blood pressure shoots up. Ah, PTSD.
In addition, my fights with the Sun to call his dad are getting more heated. But with running around and Karate and late nights, the Sun hadn't spoken to his dad in 2 nights. When the Alec Baldwin thing broke, I wrote about what it's like to actually get those messages. And I wrote that I haven't had voicemail in about 2 years precisely because I was tired of those messages.
I forget to check voicemail cuz a.) there's no blinking light and b.) I'm not in the habit, but the dotted dial tone reminded me I had some and so I checked it this morning.
You would think that after all this time, a simple message would be left for The Sun to call his dad. Nope! "Congratulations" the voice snarled, "you finally have an answering machine. I've been trying to reach (The Sun) for two days. Have him turn on his phone, since I'm paying for it". Etc. I wish I could figure out how to get the message so that the tone could be heard. And then maybe people would understand. In the end, though, it doesn't matter so it's not worth bothering about. And it's probably illegal/not in my best interest to post it here anyhow. But I understand why Kim let Alec's message get out.
In the meantime, that thing I'm trying to claim that doesn't belong to me--I wonder if it's worth claiming. I wonder if it's worth the effort. I decided within myself over the last couple of weeks what it is that I really want. The problem is that I don't think I'm ever going to get it--particularly not this thing I'm trying to claim (although--what the fuck. What do I have to lose?). This has brought up a bunch of issues with me... probably the two biggest that define my whole existence:
1.) I'm not a patient bitch. Never have been. I'm obsessive and determined if it's something that I really want, but that's not the same as being patient. Patience is being able to wait, and to be calm while doing so. I hate to wait. I think it's why I'm late all the time. Because at least whenever I finally get there I can hit the ground running but there is NOTHING worse for me than sitting around waiting--for people, for things to happen if I expect them to be happening right now. I don't really think I've realized until now how impatient I actually am. But it explains a lot to myself about the shit I get myself into. I can hold back and hold off on a decision for ever by simply mulling it over ad infinitum, but once I make it and I define what it is I want, I try to make it happen instantly. And of course, this isn't always possible. My father told me a proverb once, a long time ago:"Nothing exists before the word". He said it within the context of an entirely different subject, but I remember being about 6 or 7 (cuz we hadn't been evicted yet and that happened when I was 8), and pondering about all the ramifications of what this meant. So I realize that I am hesitant to name or define something, because once I do, once I put words to it, it exists for me. Or I need to make it exist. Right Now. And now that I've identified needs and wants within myself, and I know they cannot exist-- probably won't exist without an *awful* lot of work and patience, it's extremely frustrating to me.
2.) I really do think people suck. But I really don't want to believe it. Or maybe I don't think people suck; maybe I do believe in good but I'm afraid to be disappointed. This is sis' theory (the second one), and since she's the book-smart therapist who specializes in cognitive behaviour (which is just too funny cuz nobody had it pegged that way in the beginning of our lives) there could be some validity to it.
Except that when I was 8, and we got evicted from our house in Jamaica, we went to stay with someone who had once been the family dentist. He was well-known in Jamaica, and had this HUGE house up in the mountains that he didn't stay in that often. The day we got evicted, my sister and I were sitting on top of a pile of all our stuff that was out on the sidewalk. In Jamaica, most houses have hedges and gates, so that each house is sort of like a walled fort. When the marshalls came and took our stuff out--and I do mean all, they put it outside the gate for all the world to see. I'm sure my parents were mortified, but I was more in a state of shock. The lady who had been our housekeeper happened to come along; she had taken to us, and was worried about us and had just come to see how were were doing. I vaguely remember her wailing in that uniquely Jamaican way "Lawda musy, de poor pickney dem" and she took us back with her to her little bungalow in the tenement yard she lived in.
I think we stayed there that night and the parents stayed in a hotel, and it was probably the first time ever we were away from the parents. I remember not being able to breathe; the stress of the day and a new environment made my asthma flare up. The parents came to get us the next morning and either that day or the next took us up to Papine to the house where the dentist lived.
The first night we were there, I think the dentist was there as well and the housekeeper made tripe and lima beans and it was kind of like a party. The following day my sister and I hiked around the gardens of his house. It was beautiful with all sorts of flowers and I remember that it was cooler up there in the mountains than it was in Kingston where we had been living. But a day or so later, I remember waking up and seeing my mother crying; apparently we'd overstayed our welcome and the dentist let us know it by wrapping the refrigerator with a chain, secured by a padlock.
From that point on the whole year, 1975, was a series of us bouncing around Jamaica, looking for places to stay. Some people were kind. Others were not. At the end of that year we ended up in Bull Bay, 8 miles east of Kingston. The pictures on the link might be from a little further up the coast, but it pretty much looks like what I remember-wild. Two years later, as things got tight again and our family was being threatened with deportation (imagine being deported from Jamaica? Well, that's our claim to fame.) I remember walking up to "9Mile" with the family so that my mother could use the one pay phone outside the police station to call Chicago to tell my grandmother that we were coming. And I remember seeing her crying because my grandmother didn't seem to want us to.
So I guess I started getting jaded from that point on. And I stopped letting people "in". People have to work hard to get inside. Sometimes, I think I recognize something in someone and they sort of get in by default. But as time went on I figured out that what I actually recognized was mental distress and not much of anything else so I've gotten a little better about weeding out the crazies, but not much better. And once someone is "in", it is *extremely* hard for me to kick them "out" no matter how crazy they are.
People have said to me that they think I have it nailed down, that I'm "fierce" or bossy (sis' favorite word for me) or determined, and a lot of strong words. When the narcissistic voices are talking, they can make me believe that I am those things but a decent portion of the time, I don't feel that way at all. A decent portion of the time I feel like I am completely out of my league and falling way behind, and that I am NOT nailed down or fierce or bossy. A decent portion of the time, if I let myself, I'd be this giant, gaping need. And sis would argue that I should allow myself to feel needy and to ask for help. But again... I'm not patient. And I think people suck. So to sit around to wait in the hope that someone will help me is just far more than I can handle, which is why I fight like hell to do it myself.
Except I'm getting fucking tired. And things are falling through the cracks, and I'm losing a handle on a whole lot of stuff. But I can't afford to wait for someone to help; I just don't have that luxury.
It's taken guts for me to admit recently that I'm tired of being a single parent--that I'm tired of being alone and doing this shit by myself. Because it means I've had to admit to "need". What's worse, I've actually admitted it to a few people, and so by the way I work that need should be filled immediately. But even I know it's not possible. And that really kind of sucks.
And speaking of not being patient... the two things that are killing me (well three, but one I *know* isn't going to happen and I really should accept the "What Is" and move on) are... a.) I'm freaking sick of the sofa that I STILL can't get rid of... nor can I afford to replace it anyhow with exactly the kind I *do* want, and b.) I couldn't afford my tattoo this weekend. Blimey.
So the weekend ended with the voices having a discussion about my future this morning, but I can't really remember what it was. I could actually begin to identify the different voices this time, because I was thinking in terms of writing it down. I could begin to see who was who, as opposed to the usual cacophony of jumbled voices talking over each other. One is a small child with a lot of hope--a girl. One is a very old and bitter man. And there's another one that is sort of an older woman, and one is me. I did a good job of defending myself today, against the old man in particular, so I think I might be OK for the next few days.
Comments
You know the whole reason I was a freakin' wreck all spring was that I'd let Dork in, let him all the way in and then he broke up with me. Which would prove your point that people suck-- except. Except that Dork & I got even closer in some ways after the breakup, and I let him stay "in" because I couldn't stop needing him in my life. Not that I wanted him to know that, but FatLady convinced me to let Dork come with me when I had the cancer surgery. I was gonna do it alone, being invincible, but she said I should let myself need him. It's scary as shit these days, but I think I've found a sane middle ground and it feels pretty good. I hope you can find it too.