Chained

Practical ther-appy. Reframing, removing the old, clinging emotions. Scrub tech with no listening skills at all, above learning, contemptuous, condescending little shit, that I beat my head against in vain. All my useless, snide, snippy comments expressed in safe confidence, and then, the big one, "You're killing my patient!" Oh, my, that is Dr. Evil's retort when something didn't go as he wanted, in his twisted little head. No, I will not be that. But, I laughed. And struggled through the can't's, to - 'using my whiteboard.'

Surgeon refers to this scrub as "speedbump." No getting around him, and he slows everything down. Not just me, in other words. I much prefer to make my scrubs look good, take the blame, keep the room happy. But this one doesn't get it, and will no longer be under my protection. I will write up on the board various preparations and requests, so if he doesn't listen to me, I can silently point to the board, and everyone in the room will plainly see that I did my part, and he did not do his. Draining my own disproportionate emotional response, assuming he is one of those young men who cannot hear women, I will communicate non-verbally. Leave him there by himself, chained to fate.

I will continue to do everything possible to support and make any scrub tech doing their job, to look good. Take any blame in the eyes of the surgeon. That's my responsibility, my room, my job.

I will also treasure when I am listened to, focus on those moments. Fellow who took my restaurant recommendation, and made sure to thank me after. Oh, wow.

My sherpa puts my Raggedy Ann in my place, and gets me out of harms way. I feel a pang of guilt, but I let her take the heat for me. Know what is my job, and what is not. Generally prefer not to draw the line too emphatically, but for some people, I need to.

Part of me would like to forget all of this, but then how would I know where the sink-holes were? How could I fix this, heal this, if I didn't even remember why I overreact this way? Pain is information.

Mostly, I'm grieving, sad, for my small self. And that is the right feeling, because it is sad. It's also funny. And instructive.

Oh, gods, I'm glad I had enough sense not to have children. I only wish my parents had.



Got a bag of 30 (glow-in-the-dark)bags of cheetos to give out on Thursday. Since we probably won't get that many kids, and I was feeling odd about giving out candy. This really isn't much better, but at least it's a little different.

Carved

The jack-o-lantern carved and frightening.



Cats a'napping.

Me, I need to clean this house, find the energy. I want to have it dusted and tidy, able to find things, and that is not the case at the moment.



Instead, I droop and overheat. Or the other way round. Not sure which way round I am. The time change on the weekend leers at me threateningly.

Still, better adrift. Better to understand we are all rootless, floating, making it up as we go along. Absolute certainty is a false floor with a trap door, and the rope is slipping.

Whole

It is not our job to remain whole.
We came to lose our leaves
Like the trees, and be born again,
Drawing up from the great roots.
- Robert Bly

From the wealth that is whiskey river.


I've grown wary, weary, of too many words. A clear truth can be swallowed up in excess talk. Philosophy has often held back scientific inquiry, distracting and diverting the flow of thought from actually getting it's hands dirty. Psychobabble keeps us away from our plain emotions. The wrong word can irritate us away from the path through.

I think this is why I like haiku, and not much other poetry. Words work best as clues and pointers, less well as deities to be adored, books to be worshipped. Exactly the correct number of words, the essential words, then silence.

Swell

My halloween 'costume' for next week. Have to keep it minimal, and free of fibers that could detach in the OR. So, bone beads.

And one side of my face is swollen, parotid gland, almost certainly viral. Lovely. Might, not explain exactly, but indicate the reason behind my very sore neck lately. It's been brewing a while. Too much crying because of the ther-appy, as well, perhaps. Feeling fine, otherwise. Just worn from the week.

Fix one thing, and another thing breaks. Always the way.


Cats continue to accept each other. Well, Moby accepting Eleanor. Eleanor has always thought Moby rather wonderful. She's also been sleeping on me a lot at night, a warm lump at my knees.

Coat

I had a long coat when in 6th grade. Nothing like this. Oh, gaaaahhhhh….




I also collected TV Guide covers, for reasons I could not explain even at the time. Felt a lot of pressure at school to 'have a hobby." Whatever that meant. It was a sort of passionless collection, and I eventually threw them all out, without a qualm.

End of a long week, I may well have overtime. Today, got a scrub out for lunch. Good open case, passed instruments with a bit of the old skill, very satisfying. Wave of heat hit me, and, afraid I might go all woozy, I cast about for a way to cool myself. And I thought, "well, the floor is nice and cold." Looked over to the nurse and said "You don't see this" and slipped off my shoes.

Nice dry case, and me a step back from the field anyway, although with one of the tallest surgeons we have, then the tallest Fellow, I felt very short indeed. And it helped. Really not considered acceptable dress, and most of the time, really not safe, but gotta do what I gotta do. At least I always wear socks.

Overwrite

Glad to have a break from therappy this week. Figuring out new ways to overwrite the old messages on my own today.

I was given a canopy bed as a child. One of those Sears specials, white and gold. My mother sewed the canopy and spread herself, light blue ruffles for the skirt, pale pink, yellow and blue flower pattern for the quilted nylon top. I appreciated her work and intention, grateful, no question. And I knew enough to hide the bitter disappointment that what I'd so wanted was not at all what I got, save in the most general of form. Like wanting a dog and getting a stuffed goat. Four legs, tail, furry, aren't you happy? Yes, yes, of course I am, thank you ever so much.

What I dreamed of, though, was not white, nor gold, had no plastic at all, and contained none of the colors, nor textures, of the shiny new spread.

What I dreamed of was dark wood, or wrought iron, curling with vines. Drapes of pieced together fabric in dark purples, greys, blacks, bits of silk and velvet, wool and tulle. Curtaining down from the flat canopy, surrounding me, a fall of fabric. Not a ruffle, not a pastel anywhere.

What I've added, is a solid bedside stand, with books and a tipless cup, pens and paper. On the headboard, a small lamp to set the space aglow. A good, hard mattress. And it's all soundproofed from the rest of the house. I get to this semi-magical place when my father is screaming, and I'm safe. Sherpa has put Raggedy Ann in my place in front of him, and my parents do not notice. I feel a little bad about having her take the abuse, but sherpa says,

"Do you hurt her, when you are angry, and throw her down the stairs? Of course not, you know this is fine, to express your pain on her, she cannot feel this pain. She doesn't care if she's screamed at, either. Let her do her job."

And I snuggle in for a good book, in my dark and colorful cave, with company to reassure me. Maybe I'll take her to this garden sometimes. Maybe when my mother picks at how I wear my hair, or clothing, or how I wipe a table. Stopped by for compost today, and could barely make myself leave. Not a show garden, but a business, and utterly compelling. Balm for the weary soul. Even in autumn, in faded pyjamas, yawning, toddling off to bed.

Mantis

Cat in his autumn garden.




And a rare visitor in these parts.

Centipede

Little skittery
movement on the kitchen floor.
"Let Centipede be!"


I nearly squashed wee bugge, thinking it an ant or beetle. When I saw the waving antennae and legs, I stepped back. These are the predators that eat the flies and termites, roaches and ants & moths. Voracious, and useful, and we are not to their taste. So, friends, of a sort.

Eleanor continues to wear down Moby's resistance and crankiness. She likes him, sits as close as he will allow. Woke up to both of them leaning against my leg, Moby at my knee, her at my feet. D reports being shoved off the bed, not realizing both were there at the same time. When Moby gets bored, he's started to seek her out, chase around for fun. She hares off, and he slowly stalks after her, putting on speed only when he feels like it. Then she bops him, and he runs while she chases. Some of this we can only surmise based on the thumping galloping noises on the wood floors, Moby's hisses when he feels hard done by, a sore loser in the game. But he never seems truly upset. Using his words? She sat half on D, half on me, with Moby beside me. He whinegrowlhissed, but eventually calmed down, and she edged just a little closer, nose toward him, chin flat on my knee. He sighed, and mirrored her posture, noses a foot apart.

Pas de chat.

Curse

I was ten, a few months shy of eleven, when my period started. Unwarned (save being told too little, too soon, out of context and with a weight of embarrassment that silenced questions) I was bewildered. It happened twice, lightly, so that I could manage with tissues. The third time, forced to ask for help. I had no clue. Neither had my mother, who got me the belt and tie on pads - even less effective than it sounds, and much less comfortable. Then sent away for the big pink box. I bled all over nightgowns and sheets, sick and resentful. More, I was afraid my father would find out, and dreaded his 'teasing' me about it.

Having no other recourse, when the box came, I learned by reading all the booklets. After perhaps a year of this, I used my own meager allowance and went to the corner store. And the elderly woman who I'd grown up buying milk and candy from. With enormous shame, bought tampons. At least I got some sleep after that.

The 'maturation' class for 'just the girls', came much too late for me. When the teacher had those of us who had already started raise our hands, I remember a number of shocked looks when I put my hand up as well. Too late for maybe a quarter of us.

When I got the job at the library, with the three Barbaras*, I was very uncomfortable with their openness talking about such things. Barbara, especially, since she was in the midst of baby-fever, so I knew every shift in her period, and when she and her husband 'tried.' Not that I clearly knew what that meant, even at 17. Barbara, on the other hand, would announce when she was not to be messed with, because she was "passing clots." Now, I think that is terribly funny. Then, I wanted to crawl into a little hole and whimper.

Found books on the subject, The Curse: A Cultural History of Menstruation, by Janice Delaney for one, there were others. And less specifically, Sex in History by Reay Tannahill. Amazed me that women wrote about this, and I sought out any detail. Thank you Mary Roach, for Bonk. If I'd only had the internet...

Eventually, I got jaded about the subject. When drill sergeants told us to use tampons for our elbows for rifle practice, I suppressed giggles just like everyone else. He meant napkin/pads, but who was going to correct him? We had to show that we had a ziplock baggie with sanitary supplies, left cargo pocket, at all times. Thankfully, my periods stopped during Basic, others bled the whole two months. In other barracks in further training, I could get a tampon in, by my bunk, without being obvious, just tucking in my shirt maybe. Lived in my skin.

Then, there was nursing school. In a computer lab, one of the assigned videos was the excision of a bartholins cyst. Huge close up. Labia for days. Taken aback, but knew I had better deal, I watched. And my fellow students and I made nervous jokes about the impact of those images, in public, when unexpected. We all had to adjust. By the time I scrubbed in on gyn surgeries, no big deal.

My job is to handle all the socially unacceptable circumstances of illness and injury. Matter-of-factly and reassuringly. I've removed pessaries and tampons from women, after anesthesia has hit. I wipe bums and snotty noses and mop up vomit. Once put a foley catheter in a man who was going into urinary retention, while he was standing. (Long story, but it was the best way.) Because those times are when we most need to be accepted, seen as human, worthy of dignity, guarded from those who would scorn our vulnerability. When we can't keep ourselves clean, we need someone to help, to be competent, have warm water,soap and a towel ready.

Worked with a guy, surgical tech, often talked about his daughters. Mother long gone, and for the best. He'd had a plan, for when they started their periods. He went to the store, got one of just about everything. Put them in the bathroom. Told them, "keep the packages of whatever you want to use, and I'll get more." They would talk to him about their discomforts, go to him for help. He didn't pry, let them tell him or not. Told this to a room full of older women, and we all thought his daughters terribly fortunate. He was a good guy, and his story was entirely consistent with his work and how he treated everyone.


And at this end of my fertile life, I am who I needed when I was ten. Without going into gory detail, or dumping it on the naive, I mention the state of my hormones with the import of a headache. Freely to the people I work with - they all are used to the messiness of the human body as well. And to the tiny bit of the public that stops by here. Thanks, by the way.

I can take care of my own human leaks, now. I've learned to appreciate that those damn ovaries have protected my connective tissue and cardiovascular health. Not quite so useless, after all, even to me. And that is what I would tell myself, at ten. That it's not just for having babies. And that mosquitos won't bother me so much once the hormones kick in.

Just for that, I think I could have been more stoic as a kid, fewer itchy red bites all summer. Never made the connection, then.






*Barbara Fox, Oas and Williams.

Fulminant

Hot, hot, hot. Oh, man, the soles of my feet and the palms of my hands go hot, turn red. I could strip paint with 'em*. The rest of me is variations on; warm, too warm, and way too warm. Every one to two hours. For the last five days. Overnight, kept waking up, throwing the covers off, falling back to sleep. Then waking up freezing and pulling blankets back over me. Over and over and over again. Sometimes with a cat at my knee.

One hot flash - interesting to mildly irritating. But very damn couple of fucking hours, for a bloody week, getting really old. Trying some soy milk and sage tea, to start. Will not do HRT. I really think all the emotional stuff is related to this uptick in hormonal activity, though. Which may well be feeding back into my stress hormones, and making this all worse. This boil is fulminant. Damn, blast and radiation damage.

D being very solicitous and kind to me, as usual.

Cats continue to play, fight, and ignore each other. It's pretty funny. Seems mutual, balanced. They know the other cat is not a threat, and move accordingly.


Construction on the house across the street involves a digger backing up a lot, with accompanying beeps, this afternoon.

More when my brain is feeling less fried, possibly poached.






*Yes, I will try to use them on the overpainted doors.

Flashes

Better, stronger. Brought up the worst story of my father with the therapist. What I thought, on the scale of abuse, was not that bad, she dignified as being rather horrible. Hard to hear, correct, but I have to realize I was perhaps in more peril than I let myself believe. At the time, for the sake of survival. Later, to "stay on good terms" with my family. Then out of habit, I suppose.

Reading with deep feeling the O controversy. D says this is why he thinks we do, as a society, need religion. These people who cannot conceive of being decent people without a god demanding it of them, or of morality without coercion, need religion to be passable humans. I think this is perhaps a bit cynical, and probably accurate. I'll stick to agnostic atheism.

Took Moby out when I got home. He stopped at the porch, crouched to stare at the mass of birds on the lawn and sunflower remains, up in the hedge. They scattered up, to his disappointment, but intense attention.


The purple flowers, not sure what they are, doing their bit, among the dry flax.



Next year, more flowers, more peppers - all sorts. Will try pumpkins.

Three days of hot flashes, riding the waves. Feel like I could strip paint with my hands when it hits. Taking them as a weirdness, without judgement. Even at night, I wake up, then the heat sweeps over me, and I think "whoah, that was somethin'." Like waves in the ocean, I feel levitated, engulfed, momentarily off my (hot) feet, powerless, waiting to touch down again. What a long, strange trip.



Oh, and this from Futility Closet,

Two or three of them got round me and begged me for the twentieth time to tell them the name of my country. Then, as they could not pronounce it satisfactorily, they insisted that I was deceiving them, and that it was a name of my own invention. One funny old man, who bore a ludicrous resemblance to a friend of mine at home, was almost indignant. ‘Ung-lung!’ said he, ‘who ever heard of such a name? — ang-lang — anger-lang — that can’t be the name of your country; you are playing with us.’ Then he tried to give a convincing illustration. ‘My country is Wanumbai — anybody can say Wanumbai. I’m an ‘orang-Wanumbai; but, N-glung! who ever heard of such a name? Do tell us the real name of your country, and then when you are gone we shall know how to talk about you.’

– Alfred Russel Wallace, “The Aru Islands,” The Malay Archipelago, 1869

Lima

Lima is for L. As in Lima, Peru.

Lima, Ohio.

Lima, Montana.


Not as in lima beans.



Or, indeed, limes.


Or limestone.

L lives in a liminal lull of language, lingual and literal. Sometimes littoral*.

Llamas and lamas, mole amarillo.



Lick up the llls with languid lips, make it last, linger, lisp.



*When hearing anyone use literal meaning figurative, I'm going to assume they actually said, littoral, and are referring to a lake zone. Also wrong, but wrong enough to be funny.

Tricks

Domestic Abuse.

When in the army, I took a predisposition to eat fast, and turned pro. Attempts to simply slow down failed completely, until I took up chopsticks. Which worked well, until I got good with them. Still, there was a net decrease in my hasty food ingestion. Have not really eaten with them much over the past couple of years, not sure why. Although I still think eating fried rice with anything but chopsticks just doesn't taste right.

In describing Eleanor as a flying cat, I mentioned winged cats.


Probably, it's a soft tissue condition, rare. Still, one can always imagine them flying.



Enjoying - if that is the right word, the comics of Natalie Dee.

Thinking about this sculpture at the DIA, Ernest Barlach - The Avenger. One that always drew me in, always saw the figure as an old woman, sometimes serene, sometimes driven, static speed, vulnerable power. Not, perhaps, what the artist intended, given the title. I always saw something else, more complex, more wonderful.




Must get the outside painting substantially done today, before it gets too cold, too long wet.

Fighting against my rational self's objections to the therapy. After all, I've done a lot of work, made a lot of progress, by rationalizing, understanding. But now, I'm getting down to the earliest damage, before I could be rational, inflicted by a confused, malicious, and unreasonable bully. Foxed by my own urge to think through this, where I must feel my way, dream it out, trick the snake brain, stop the error messages from the disused system.

My father always said, of everything "there is a trick to it." In this case, yeah, probably there actually is. Must use an other-than-rational solution.

Tape

Getting to the soft spot, the abscess, the break down deep. Through the skews, the waves turned by the shoal beneath. On my maps, but how to clear it, avoid it? I'm not afraid of facing it all, tired of it, worn through by it, but I want to stomp through and sweep it all away.

Apparently, according to my guide, I need a different approach. Re-imagining the worst tearings-down, with a champion, that I am calling my sherpa-guide, who gives me what I needed at each early stage. Shows that I am, at core, too self destructive, I feel bad about using a word that, although taking on the meaning of a guide up a mountain, is the proper name of a tribal group. I mean no disrespect, though. And I am not romanticizing the Mysterious East, either. Eastern philosophies, without their cultural and religious trappings, absolutely helped me through my spiritual hegira. My own culture's philosophies too tainted, too fraught. But I'm not converting, and all religion is culture bound. I'm not a believer. I am fucking eclectic, though.

So, I have this sherpa image, in buddhist robes, shaved head, androgynous and wise. Knowledgeable and respectful of the intelligent ignorance of a child. Who can stop time, to give me a little time, to think, to breathe, when my father is shouting and my mother is shaming and undermining. Sherpa will watch, without intrusion, will explain, even when I don't understand, will make me laugh, when I feel most helpless and hopeless in my tiny, beaten-down, little child self. Will give me an escape, when the bully is bearing down on me.

While tapping myself, both sides, confusing my poor old brain, allowing me a little forgetfulness, laminating over with new memories. It's a patch, but then, after a certain age, it's all patch, patch, patch.

Duck tape for the soul.

Push

Never full of friends,
When most needful, one or two
Smile and push me on.

Inch

Went out for an errand, came back to see this. D hands me the camera.



"As long as she's not touching me."

"I'm not touching you."

"At least she has the good taste to like me."



"Harummph, and oh, what the hell."

The magic of sheepies.


And not too much later... contact.




This is what we hoped for. Even if tomorrow, they are back to avoiding each other. A moment of perfect peace, kind comfort, there. It's going to be ok.

Glucosamine

Got home from grocery shopping yesterday, to find two cats sharing the sofa. Earlier, she'd been sitting next to me, and Moby sat nearby on the rug, that upright sit, stared at me, looked at her, looked at me, and sighed. "Look, she's on MY sheepie, make her leave."

This morning, Moby hopped to the top of his tree, and Eleanor decided to follow him right up there. He batted her down, but she kept going back, even nipping at his tail. We're throwing her ping-pong balls, to drain off some of the energy. Old guy is not up to a one-on-one, full bore wrestle with Sparky. Yeah, she's Eleanor when languorously being petted, Sparky when she's bopping about. Tire her out some first, and then they can both enjoy a chaseabout.

Still, Moby is in better shape, fur all grown back, eating more. He'd started to decline a bit, subtle stuff, clear to us. He still sleeps more, plays less, grumps a bit. The glucosamine/chondroitin (lick off gel) really does seem to have reduced the amount of grunting and groaning. Best to look at actual results, and ignore the complaints that things just aren't the same.

Uh, oh, she's coming back around...

Good-night

When we visited cousins in Massachusetts, at the end of an evening, the two young daughters made the rounds of perhaps a dozen family and a few friends. Gave each of us a hug and kiss goodnight, which struck D as odd, although he took it kindly. Hit me as both familiar and bizarre at the same moment.

As a small child, I too, had to hug and kiss everyone present when I headed off to bed. With my mother's family, I actually enjoyed the ritual. With my father's family, it varied. With people new to me, I felt very coerced. Had to do the same thing at home just with brothers and parents, each one got a good-night hug and kiss, never given as optional. Eventually, stopping it, as a teenager, took some stubbornness, and willingness to endure the recriminations.

Is this something that happens in other families? None of our friends' kids do this. Is it a French thing? I seem to recall this hinted at in some French movies. Is it Canadian? Irish? Typical of just my kin?


Reminds me of the ends of sports games, when teams line up and slap each other's hands. I loved doing that at the ends of roller derby, as both teams rolled past the spectators, hands out for a mass high five.

How weird is this?

Kneaded

Despite a few days being spooked by this, she has finally decided it's actually rather nice. Moby knew it was his immediately.

Essentials

Horrible story, or link to stories, over at neatorama, of items a respectable "MAN" should have. Perhaps a generation ago, a businessman in the middle and upper classes, needed a bar set, dress shoes in black AND brown, a flask and a watch. But today? With so many different professions? Ridiculous. A contractor or anyone working in a shop won't wear a ring. Doctors should never wear cologne, I could argue no one, who people have to get close to, should wear any scent. Vinyl records? Decent bottle of booze? A RIFLE!!! What are these list-makers smoking? Not that there is anything wrong with having any of these individual items (even the rifle under very specific circumstances) but to consider them in any way essential to being male and respectable, is laughable.

So, here is my list of what I often didn't have when rootless and scrambling for adulthood, that may well be good for a lot of people. Ok, ok, it is snappier to say "what every man needs." But I strive for accuracy and fairness.

Real bookshelves.

Not boards on breeze blocks - but something constructed. Which implies further that books are needed, owned, oft-read, preferably with a few hardbacks. Should include at least one book with philosophical underpinnings, at least one dictionary (or other word-reference) and some non-fiction. A shelf with only paperback science fiction is not sufficient.

Good linens.

Which means buying a few of the best one can afford of: sheets, socks, underwear, towels. They can be old, getting worn a bit, but still good. The items closest to the skin in decent shape, not for show, not novelty items, disposable or cheap. I personally love good beach towels, big, colorful and soft, and at the end of the summer, on sale.

Wedding/funeral/interview/church clothes.

A set of clothes that can be worn to show respect, nothing showy, but dignified and formal. Highly variable depending on individual circumstances. I've never been any good at this, and am often uncomfortable with not having appropriate clothes, especially for summer. I can manage winter events, though.


Tool set.

This is the one item from those other lists. Everyone should have a kit with an array of small hand tools. Hammer, pliers, screwdrivers, needle, thread, scissors, add or subtract items to taste and usage.

Kitchen.

Making a meal for two, and sometimes four, requires a certain set of cooking tools, with plates and cups/glasses. Stainless steel pot and iron skillet are good, but different styles will require different basics. A kettle, not just a saucepan to boil water for tea. (Astonishing number of people here do not understand this.) Gadgets do not count toward pots and pans, although they are fine in addition. Enough dishes for everyone to have their own plate, or bowl, or served such that eating out of a communal dish is easy. Fork, knife and spoon, or chopsticks. Nothing needs to match, as long as none of it is manky old plastic, but some kind of pottery, glass, or impermeable metal. Takes more skill & a sense of humor and safe food handling if lacking the material items.

Seating.

If you invite people around, there should be enough comfortable seating. (If others just show up, then they can be contented with the floor.) No one should have to wobble on a broken folding chair, the elderly relative shouldn't have to take the beanbag on the papasan, no one over the age of two should have to sit in someone else's lap. Good new furniture is expensive, but solid chairs can be had at yard sales. Over the years, enough can be accumulated, with added pads, to make "make yourself comfortable" not seem like sarcasm.


Art.

Whether an original Van Gogh oil, or a tacked up Picasso poster, everyone should have some bit of beauty that speaks to them. Self made or found object, as long as it has no utilitarian purpose, not even hiding that stain on the wall. Anyone visiting should glean a sense of who that person is, for good or ill, and respond accordingly.

Animal.

Everyone should have an animal close to them, even if it's just greeting the neighbor's dog every day, or feeding the birds. Species doesn't matter, although cats and dogs are best adapted for living with us. We all need to live in the world, which is mostly not human people.



I think I may well have done this in reverse order of importance. Maybe not in any order at all. I do love having a comfortable bed, on a real frame, but that has more to do with getting older and accumulating injuries and aches. I want a real mug, and decent tea, so I pack those and an immersion heater when I leave home. D loves his slippers and robe. He considers his guitars non-negotiable, and I agree. I need a watch, but most folks combine that with a phone/camera/address book/map thingamabob, and consider a watch to be decorative. I feel bare without my ring, earrings and necklace, D wears no jewelry at all, but has pins on his bag.

Creativity and some intention, acquired skills and a place to settle enough.

Peripheral

Cats taking care of me. Eleanor sleeps on me as I go to bed, Moby is on me in the morning.

Moby on my lap this evening, watching her. Loves the new sheepskin. D needed new slippers, no sense getting cheap, he wears them all the time. And I found this fluffy white thing, and D, well, he takes care of me, offers me comfort.



She had to get to the window, then had to get back in.



Coming over to see if Moby will play. Jumped up near him, he sighed at her, I nudged her down. Then he jumped down and they took it in turns to chase each other a little.



Struggling with the day. Dreamed of my father last night, the first since moving into our house. And very unlike previous ones, still in his house, facing him, anxious, angry, creepy. This one involved beautiful mountain roads, dark forests below, bright blue sea, and I was behind him, he couldn't face me, nor notice the glorious scenes. Neutral emotions about him, no revulsion, still not liking him, but I had his back, somehow responsible for him, neither of us driving. Even so, the hole remains, for now. Worse, as is often the case when starting to heal. Bad stammering, prickly impatience with glitches, distractible.

Overly amused with a misspelling on the schedule. Perrifieral neuropathy. General typing errors, even adventurous spelling, in casual writing, really doesn't bother me too much. But when someone is paid specifically to produce accurate documents that other staff rely on that information, should at bare minimum SPELL correctly. Spell check, dictionaries, really, c'mon, peripheral. Odd, yes, but not uncommon.

Woulda

Sandblasted, but on firmer ground.

Realizing, I would not have hurt my father, no matter what. Still don't want to actually hurt him. Just stop him hurting me. I feel sorry for the little boy he was, and whatever caused him to turn mean I would take from his damaged heart. Leave him to fate, yes, but add to the hurt? No. I will not be him, am not him, despite the impulse to avenge myself. His abuse of me was all about him. Nothing to do with me. Which could only have come from his own catastrophic damage. Raised by older brothers, mostly. The eldest, the un-spoken-of-one, perhaps the worst.

Sad thing is, he was a good neighbor, good worker, steady, loyal. Terrible father, of course. From my POV, an awful spouse. If only he'd been kind, loving, he would have been quite lovable. A dofus, clumsy, inept, doing his best, but good to his friends and family, loved by kids and dogs. Thing is, he couldn't do any of that either, because of the vicious streak, the addiction to rage. All sad and past, now.


Just collateral damage.

Raw and tired. Softening with beer.

When I got home this morning from the session, Moby still on the bed, where he was when I left. Beside him, a mere inches away, Eleanor in a mirroring position. Moby awake. I kissed his head and said, "well, this is sweet." Got the camera, as soon as I aimed it, Moby got up and left. "No, no photographic evidence!" Yeah, we progress. Even if I can't prove it.

Had another case of being a cat-share. Eleanor as I fell asleep, Moby as I woke up. They are taking care of me. As is D.

Weather coming in like a very long freight train, slowly, but with a lot of mass behind it. A long, long train, a turning.

Resources

Clocks, locks, shoelaces,
Guardian angel smirking,
"Hit him on the nose!"

Eager

Eager to get to therapy tomorrow morning, feeling worn in that same damn spot.

Thinking about my father getting tired of my not knowing how to tell time on the clock, and another time, tying my shoes. So, each time, took me into my bedroom, and shouted at me until I'd learned. A miniature torture session, entirely self justified for him, past time for me to learn and irritating him, so there. Learning under pressure, with dire consequences. I learned, no question. Probably would have gotten those concepts within the year, but that wasn't his time-line. Impatient bully.

I've often been a prickly annoyance when trying to learn an important skill quickly. Never connected the two experiences before this morning.

D made a lovely goulash, which is to say a spicy stew that isn't exactly chili. Improved my mood markedly. Beer to defuse the forming clouds. Avoiding the news this week, too many trigger points.



I have a hole in my mind. I can't fill it, and I keep tripping into it. Eleanor slept on my ankles as I fell asleep. Moby curled up there as I woke. I have caring cats, tending me, defending me from night demons. Although I feel a bit like a time-share.


E from work understands this, he has one cat now, but used to have two. Got him laughing about the cat politics in the house.