Creative fantasy was never my strong point, weirdly, since I loved reading it. And the therappy for ptsd is all about that, imagining a different situation to halt the whirly thoughts. Giving myself permission to fictionalize reality, especially once I've exhausted the problem solving.
After waking before 0400, unable to quiet the endless explanations and potential strategies, I finally saw, imagined, manager taken away* in handcuffs.
What did she do? Cops tell me, "Ongoing investigation, we can't talk about it. Don't worry, we got this." One of them winks at me, comfortingly.
That strange little scene has kept me from skidding into the wall all day. Still in a rather dark and subdued mood, D thinks my unaccustomed four straight days at work is part of that. Difficulty forming words, listlessly avoiding work, abandoning what tasks I manage to begin.
But then the book came, and I'm reading Ngaio March's Clutch of Constables - although it took several tries before I could stick through a sentence.
The black irises were snapped off sometime last night. All the buds as well. Very sad, I'm rationalizing that they were taken by a kid, or a local looney. Removing malice makes it easier for me to deal with. If it was a damn thief, even then, they have to live with their own sorry selves, and I'll plant more in the fall, and next year put up a cage. Got a cage in the works for the catnip. If I could get some established, it would withstand feline druggies, but right now it's chewed to bits. I certainly don't mind dealing for the local cats, but if they kill the plant, it's just gone, dude.
Monday holiday a comfort. The rest of next week will likely be very full. Soon, the new residents will appear, and our times will stretch out soon after.
*I'd imagined her murdered before that, which didn't help somehow. Blame that scenario on reading too many murder mysteries lately.
6 comments:
How thoughtless (to say the least) of anyone to destroy your irises. I'm sorry that happened, Zhoen.
I showed my daughter the images of the iris this past week. Told her I wanted to get the name of those because I would like to plant some in my yard. I've never seen anything quite so beautiful. Irises are among by favorite flowers, and your black ones were unbelievably pretty.
Crow,
I'm sad, quashing the urge to anger. Determined to plant a lot more of these in the fall. Wish I could remember exactly what they were called.
And, well, I got photos. And flowers are ephemeral.
Oh crap, I am sorry about the irises. It's hard not to take stuff like that as a personal attack, especially when other specimens of humanity are getting to you as well. Take care and plant more, they are extraordinary beauties.
I recently read these words of bell hooks and felt better---I am not alone. This is the short, to-the-point version:
"My irrational impulse to want to kill people ... has to do with an exaggerated response to situations where I feel powerless."
_______________________
And this is the more complex and compelling longer quote:
"At the conference, I confessed that I have really violent impulses that sometimes listening to some panels I had wanted to come out and shoot people.
The audience laughed, but I wasn’t being funny, and I wasn’t saying it to be cute or exhibitionist. I was acknowledging that the violent impulses don’t just exist out there in black youth or in the underclass, but that they reside in people like myself as well—people who have our PhD’s and our good jobs.
But that doesn’t mean that my life is not tormented by rageful or irrational, violent impulses. It does mean that instead of shooting people, I go home and write a critique.
My irrational impulse to want to kill people who bore me or whose ideas are not very complex, clearly has to do with an exaggerated response to situations where I feel powerless. I think black people, across class, have many moments in our lives when we feel utterly powerless to change the direction of situations. And we don’t deal with this collectively, because we’re so in denial about it."
http://bombmagazine.org/article/1789/bell-hooks
P.S. I guess I didn't say, of course I meant I sympathize with your feelings toward the fuckedup manager who has the power to hurt you (but not vice versa).
I'm mostly useless at creating fantasy too. Funny, that. Growing up loving novels, I thought that's what I'd write, but I have almost no real impulse or talent in that direction.
Fresca,
I appreciate that, and I'm sure people laughed because they have exactly the same urges. To want to permanently silence those who have too much power over us. I often imagined my father dead in graphic and meaningful ways. Crossbow bolt through the mouth being perennial.
But ultimately, the fantasy that helped, was when I could imagine him as vulnerable, and could finally make him listen, and treat him as I wanted him to treat me, with kindness and understanding. THAT was the breakthrough, for me. To genuinely not feel anger, only pity, only compassion.
Took fifty years and a lot of guidance to get to that point with him. And I still backslide.
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