I got some Thanks to give!
I dont want to go all ooshy on yer asses, so I'll leave out some details.
But , hear this much : Without my friends , being there , giving a shit, listening to me bitch and moan , over the past year, I'm not sure I would be here now.
And that would be a shame , because I am enjoying here, and I am enjoying now. As much as ever.
What can I do for you, my good friends?
Anything you ask.
Anything you need.
I promise , I'll be there to do it.
I love you all SO much!
Thursday, November 29, 2012
Saturday, November 10, 2012
Tuesday, October 23, 2012
Like I said< No one wants to hear about pedophilia
Apparently, not even Sister Mary Catherine.
I looked up my abuser's name on the internet. (I will not say that I "googled" him, because the thought results in dry heaves.
My abuser is a very important man.
He lives in Portland. He owns a business. His pals are mayors and governors.
He is well-to-do.
He serves on commissions.
He donates his money and time to civic good works.
He is the salt of the earth.
He is a pedophile.
He is a predator.
He is an important donor and volunteer with the Franciscan Academy of Very Young and Innocent Children. (Not the school's real name .....maybe later.)
I sent the academy an email. I named this man,talked of my reason for knowing he is a predator, and begged them to keep him away from children.
They said that Sister Mary Catherine would contact me by phone,on that very day,after 5pm.
What a relief. They HEARD me!
But, Lord! I was nervous.
I was an 8 year old girl, waiting to talk about exactly how and when, and where I'd been touched by a bad man. I'm still 8 years old.
Though I was alone, at home, I spiked my hair, I wore rattlesnake rattles, and studs, and spikes, and bones, and black, black, black...........Not for Sister Mary Catherine, but for myself, to remind myself that I am NOT any longer, a pliant 8 year old..
I
am
anger!
The nun never called.
I went to bed wearing snakes and spikes.
Maybe she was very very busy interviewing children and parents about contact with that guy.
Or maybe, like said in last blog post, NO ONE wants to hear about pedophilia.
He is a big donor to the school. Perhaps they rely on that income.
It continues.
Protect your children.
Teach them to protect themselves.
I looked up my abuser's name on the internet. (I will not say that I "googled" him, because the thought results in dry heaves.
My abuser is a very important man.
He lives in Portland. He owns a business. His pals are mayors and governors.
He is well-to-do.
He serves on commissions.
He donates his money and time to civic good works.
He is the salt of the earth.
He is a pedophile.
He is a predator.
He is an important donor and volunteer with the Franciscan Academy of Very Young and Innocent Children. (Not the school's real name .....maybe later.)
I sent the academy an email. I named this man,talked of my reason for knowing he is a predator, and begged them to keep him away from children.
They said that Sister Mary Catherine would contact me by phone,on that very day,after 5pm.
What a relief. They HEARD me!
But, Lord! I was nervous.
I was an 8 year old girl, waiting to talk about exactly how and when, and where I'd been touched by a bad man. I'm still 8 years old.
Though I was alone, at home, I spiked my hair, I wore rattlesnake rattles, and studs, and spikes, and bones, and black, black, black...........Not for Sister Mary Catherine, but for myself, to remind myself that I am NOT any longer, a pliant 8 year old..
I
am
anger!
The nun never called.
I went to bed wearing snakes and spikes.
Maybe she was very very busy interviewing children and parents about contact with that guy.
Or maybe, like said in last blog post, NO ONE wants to hear about pedophilia.
He is a big donor to the school. Perhaps they rely on that income.
It continues.
Protect your children.
Teach them to protect themselves.
Friday, October 19, 2012
Pedophilia
I'm sure no one wants to hear about THAT.
No one ever wanted to hear about it.
I tried to tell, but it was too horrible for anyone to hear.
So the kid shuts up.
The kid is ashamed.
I've always thought it was halfway my fault.
Years go by.Decades.
It wouldnt have happened if she was'nt such a rotten kid.
This does not happen to nice girls.
Yet, I dont think she was a bad girl. How could she have been. She was only 8 years old.
She might have drank orange juice, or milk from the carton, when no one was looking, and she would absolutely steal sweets.But I dont think she was really bad.
8 years old, maybe younger, as far as I can figure, based on where she lived.
I know exactly WHERE it happened. The hall, outside her pink-painted bedroom with the teddy bears in it , and the dollies..
And I know it was a Thursday. Thursdays were when the sitter came.
I cant remember dates. I dont even know how many times. But it was more than once.
I cant prove it.
I cant prove any of it. No dates . No times.
But I can see and feel every detail like it happened yesterday.
She didnt like it.
I did not like it.
I am middle -aged now. I identify as lesbian.
Would I so identify if I hadnt been "molested"? I do not know. That is a heck of a thing not to know.
I dont know if I'm a real lesbian.
I dont know if I'm a real anything, except I am a REAL bonifide, "Dont fucking TOUCH me!"
(They call it "molested", which means ' bothered')
They should call it more honestly.
Fucked.
That asshole fucked an 8 year old.
That asshole FUCKED an 8 year old!
She didnt know what "fuck" meant.
He gave her a stick of gum and told her not to tell.
...and I didnt, for a while, because I was a good girl.
When I learned about fuck at age 10, ..............I thought I was going to have a baby.
But I didnt tell.
I waited for it to come out. At night.Out of my hairless little girl vulva.
But it never did, because I had not menstruated. But That was a detail I was not aware.of.
I'm 56, and I've figured out finally, there aint no baby in there.
On October 17 2012, A court order forced the release of old files long held in secret by the Boy Scouts of America, going back to the early 1960's. The release of these files stemmed from old cases and cover-ups of child sexual abuse by Boy Scout leaders, in and around Portland, Oregon from the early 1960s.
http://news.yahoo.com/boy-scouts-america-perversion-files-made-available-public-183000544.html
I read the files. There were names there I knew.
There were lies.
There are STILLl lies.
There were a lot of victims.
The victims werent all boys.
No one ever wanted to hear about it.
I tried to tell, but it was too horrible for anyone to hear.
So the kid shuts up.
The kid is ashamed.
I've always thought it was halfway my fault.
Years go by.Decades.
It wouldnt have happened if she was'nt such a rotten kid.
This does not happen to nice girls.
Yet, I dont think she was a bad girl. How could she have been. She was only 8 years old.
She might have drank orange juice, or milk from the carton, when no one was looking, and she would absolutely steal sweets.But I dont think she was really bad.
8 years old, maybe younger, as far as I can figure, based on where she lived.
I know exactly WHERE it happened. The hall, outside her pink-painted bedroom with the teddy bears in it , and the dollies..
And I know it was a Thursday. Thursdays were when the sitter came.
I cant remember dates. I dont even know how many times. But it was more than once.
I cant prove it.
I cant prove any of it. No dates . No times.
But I can see and feel every detail like it happened yesterday.
She didnt like it.
I did not like it.
I am middle -aged now. I identify as lesbian.
Would I so identify if I hadnt been "molested"? I do not know. That is a heck of a thing not to know.
I dont know if I'm a real lesbian.
I dont know if I'm a real anything, except I am a REAL bonifide, "Dont fucking TOUCH me!"
(They call it "molested", which means ' bothered')
They should call it more honestly.
Fucked.
That asshole fucked an 8 year old.
That asshole FUCKED an 8 year old!
She didnt know what "fuck" meant.
He gave her a stick of gum and told her not to tell.
...and I didnt, for a while, because I was a good girl.
When I learned about fuck at age 10, ..............I thought I was going to have a baby.
But I didnt tell.
I waited for it to come out. At night.Out of my hairless little girl vulva.
But it never did, because I had not menstruated. But That was a detail I was not aware.of.
I'm 56, and I've figured out finally, there aint no baby in there.
On October 17 2012, A court order forced the release of old files long held in secret by the Boy Scouts of America, going back to the early 1960's. The release of these files stemmed from old cases and cover-ups of child sexual abuse by Boy Scout leaders, in and around Portland, Oregon from the early 1960s.
http://news.yahoo.com/boy-scouts-america-perversion-files-made-available-public-183000544.html
I read the files. There were names there I knew.
There were lies.
There are STILLl lies.
There were a lot of victims.
The victims werent all boys.
Monday, September 17, 2012
I'm NOT crazy!
I'm not the crazy one.
OMFG!
I
am
not
the
crazy
one
!
Oh my stars! What a relief. What a fucking load off my recently troubled psyche.
All this acting crazy is taking a lot of energy. And time. It takes so much time.
and it disturbs people.
Totally unnecessary!
Hallelujah....or however you say that in the language of snakes .....(Yeah. I am very odd....but I AM NOT THE CRAZY ONE!)
So I'm done acting crazy , except in the service of FUN.
I believe I'll yet retain the habit of dressing in spikes and snakes, strange colors and adolescent outcast wear, because .....it serves the purpose of fun, and black is slimming.
Stick a fork in this depression.
Its done.
OMFG!
I
am
not
the
crazy
one
!
Oh my stars! What a relief. What a fucking load off my recently troubled psyche.
All this acting crazy is taking a lot of energy. And time. It takes so much time.
and it disturbs people.
Totally unnecessary!
Hallelujah....or however you say that in the language of snakes .....(Yeah. I am very odd....but I AM NOT THE CRAZY ONE!)
So I'm done acting crazy , except in the service of FUN.
I believe I'll yet retain the habit of dressing in spikes and snakes, strange colors and adolescent outcast wear, because .....it serves the purpose of fun, and black is slimming.
Stick a fork in this depression.
Its done.
Friday, September 14, 2012
Schism
alienation
breach,
break,
cleft,
crack,
difference,
disaffection,
disagreement
discord,
disharmony,
dissension,
disunity,
division
discontinuity,
disjunction
estrangement
falling-out,
fissure,
fracture,
gap,
gash,
hole,
opening,
parting of the ways,
quarrel,
rent,
rift,
rupture,
secession,
separation,
severance,
split,
strife,
tear,
variance,
withdrawal,
`
`
I heard about a Labrador retriever running in blind foaming panic with a dog house leashed to his collar, clattering after him, down a highway. . The doghouse chased the frightened dog for miles. It chased him out of sight. I don't know what happened to the dog. I hope he eventually stopped,and some kind person freed him from his terrifying burden.
Me , I finally undid my own leash , and the funniest thing....
There was no doghouse hooked to me at all . I'd lost it miles ago.
Its in a pile, broken and splintered. Its been back there all the while.
Thursday, August 30, 2012
BlockHead
Right place. Exactly the right time.
I just returned from a 4-day intensive Japanese woodblock print-making workshop.
....and now everything looks just a tad different. A little bit of Kitagawa Utamaro's floating world informs my brand new retinas.
I like what my head does when I carve my block of Linden wood.
When I ink the block and rub the paper, I am surprised to see the picture emerge from inside my head , through the wood , by way of the ink, into the material world.
This is fantastic!
The paper I'm using is made of mulberry fibers soaked for hours in a cool stream, by old women in a tiny village in Hokkaido.
When I moisten the paper to prepare it for the ink, I can hear them gossiping.
I made prints of a raven, an owl, a snake, and scarlet runner beans..
I'll see if I can scan them in to share here.
I just returned from a 4-day intensive Japanese woodblock print-making workshop.
....and now everything looks just a tad different. A little bit of Kitagawa Utamaro's floating world informs my brand new retinas.
I like what my head does when I carve my block of Linden wood.
When I ink the block and rub the paper, I am surprised to see the picture emerge from inside my head , through the wood , by way of the ink, into the material world.
This is fantastic!
The paper I'm using is made of mulberry fibers soaked for hours in a cool stream, by old women in a tiny village in Hokkaido.
When I moisten the paper to prepare it for the ink, I can hear them gossiping.
I made prints of a raven, an owl, a snake, and scarlet runner beans..
I'll see if I can scan them in to share here.
Saturday, August 18, 2012
Shameless
My body sags.
In the mornings I am stiff.
I am not ashamed.
Sometimes I shit my pants.
Pee also.
I am not ashamed.
My armpits smell.
I have a pimple.
I eat roadkills.
I am not ashamed.
I have lumps wrinkles and scars.
I cant read without glasses.
I keep birds without a permit.
I am not ashamed.
I dumpster dive.
I have broken teeth.
I dont own a lawn mower.
I lost my virginity years before I knew what "fuck" meant.
I am not ashamed.
I am drinking a beer.
I am not ashamed.
My bones are growing back.
I've got my posture again.
Saturday, August 11, 2012
Closure
A good story absolutely requires closure.
Every " It was the best of times, it was the worst of times"... NEEDS a " Its a far far better thing that I do......", at the end. *
But thats stories. Real life is not so well crafted.
Are we owed closure?
Sometimes we luck out. Heres an example.
About a year ago, while I was away from home at sheepdog trials, my aged Rook dog wandered away from his caretaker, and went missing. I called friends who worked together and quickly found Rook at the Canyon County animal shelter, covered with some stink he'd gotten into, and very ready to come home. My friends bailed Rook out, cleaned him up, and we all, every one of us lived happily ever after.......Well, except Rook. Rook is no longer with us, but he lived happily for months after, and then died peacefully. A good life for a good dog. A good death for a good dog.
As he deserved.
...and all is right with the world . The space-time continuum remains rock steady , and God's justice falls like rain upon the fertile soil.
In stories, closure is determined by who ever controls the narrative. Sometimes in life too.
I've made a few vain, and thoughtless attempts at seizing on "the narrative" for what threw me into my present depression. Sorry if it was alarming or unpleasant. That was just me trying to make closure. This writing right now is an attempt at some sort of closure. Perhaps it is less reckless than other efforts.
When one is at the end of one's rope, one can do some pretty ugly grasping, but understand, it is to keep from drowning.
Drowning?
Yes.
Drowning in this:
The notion that what happened , happened because I deserve it. Because, If I deserve it, then I am the biggest bag of shit , not worthy of life.
Indeed , At the very nadir of my depression, I woke up one morning with the strong notion that God did not want me to live, and that my continuing efforts to draw breath went against the will of God.
(Dont worry. I have since fired that God and am looking to hire another one. Taking Applications now!)
This is why it is vitally, (VITALLY!) important to apologize when we have caused someone suffering, . The apologizer offers a narrative that the sufferer may not wholly deserve her suffering. The sufferer still incurs the usual slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, but receives the closure of knowing that its not because she's a bag of shit not deserving of life.
I can live with a sad ending. I just cant live with the idea that I deserve it.
Why WOULDNT you apologize?
Scared?
Weak?
That would make you pitiful , or...
Maybe you really do think I deserve this.
That would make you an asshole.
Thats my story and I'm sticking to it.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
*Literature cited:
Opening lines from A Tale of Two Cities, by Dickens:
"It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to heaven, we were all going direct the other way - in short, the period was so far like the present period, that some of its noisiest authorities insisted on its being received, for good or for evil, in the superlative degree of comparison only."
Closing line from Tale of Two Cities:
"It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done; it is a far, far better rest that I go to, than I have ever known. "
Its a great story. Recommended. The ending, while not 100% happy , yields robust closure.
Sunday, August 5, 2012
Saturday, June 30, 2012
Expectations
Better! Decidedly!
I'm even giddy with it.
Jeez, I hope I'm not going Manic.
Operate Scheduled Mood Inventory. Check
Check for Grandiosity?
No.
Narcissism?
Less than usual, and its not the malignant kind.
So I think we're okay.
I have exactly NO expectations.
The expectations I used to have were not doing me any good
I believe they are gone now.
If I should encounter them again, I will politely and firmly ask them to leave.
I have tried and tried to understand what happened.
I dont understand. I dont think I ever will.
What makes other people do what other people do, doesnt matter.
This is freedom.
I dont have to answer to my expectations.
I sure as hell dont have to answer to the expectations of anyone else....or God, either.
Maybe I'll have the words, "Fuck all" tattooed on my forehead.
I dont yet consider my short held sobriety a gift.
But I'll put off that next beer till some other day.
I'm actually enjoying O'Douls non-alcoholic "premium malt beverage".
I can slam 4 with breakfast and not lose my day.
Its a good day. I can see everything. Future, present, and past.....(Note to self : Schedule another Mood inventory.real damn soon)
When its a bad day, I cant see beyond it. I cant realistically see a present or future.
There will certainly be other bad days. I will write my depressed self a note from my giddy self .
Dear Sad girl, Keep breathing. The color will come back, and it wont be chiding you , accusing you. and if it is, tell it to fuck itself. Love Giddy Girl.
I'm having a fight with God.
Doesnt matter because I'm ditching that asshole, and will be looking for a new one. Its going to be great!
http://darkergods.blogspot.com/
I'm even giddy with it.
Jeez, I hope I'm not going Manic.
Operate Scheduled Mood Inventory. Check
Check for Grandiosity?
No.
Narcissism?
Less than usual, and its not the malignant kind.
So I think we're okay.
I have exactly NO expectations.
The expectations I used to have were not doing me any good
I believe they are gone now.
If I should encounter them again, I will politely and firmly ask them to leave.
I have tried and tried to understand what happened.
I dont understand. I dont think I ever will.
What makes other people do what other people do, doesnt matter.
This is freedom.
I dont have to answer to my expectations.
I sure as hell dont have to answer to the expectations of anyone else....or God, either.
Maybe I'll have the words, "Fuck all" tattooed on my forehead.
I dont yet consider my short held sobriety a gift.
But I'll put off that next beer till some other day.
I'm actually enjoying O'Douls non-alcoholic "premium malt beverage".
I can slam 4 with breakfast and not lose my day.
Its a good day. I can see everything. Future, present, and past.....(Note to self : Schedule another Mood inventory.real damn soon)
When its a bad day, I cant see beyond it. I cant realistically see a present or future.
There will certainly be other bad days. I will write my depressed self a note from my giddy self .
Dear Sad girl, Keep breathing. The color will come back, and it wont be chiding you , accusing you. and if it is, tell it to fuck itself. Love Giddy Girl.
I'm having a fight with God.
Doesnt matter because I'm ditching that asshole, and will be looking for a new one. Its going to be great!
http://darkergods.blogspot.com/
Monday, June 11, 2012
This blog will serve as a chronicle or biography of my DEPRESSION.
Those of you who have been repelled by my darker Facebook, posts, Go no further. Turn back now. You wont like this any better.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.Okay then. Don't say I didn't warn you.
You can still turn back .
Very well then.
It may be in every life, that there is something out there that can make one ToTaLlY LoSe One'S ShiT.
I hope it never happens to you. I think life is better lived without having to totally lose one's shit.
When it does happen, you will not recognize yourself. You will fight and flail,and God will discard you.
Everything will change,
or maybe nothing has changed at all. Maybe it has been this way all along.......... Could it be ,I've sucked the whole time?
..My DEPRESSION was born in September 2011.
Oh sure I've had depression before. Its commonplace. It runs in the family. We're artists. We're damned odd, the lot of us. Depression is part of the landscape for an artist. Theres also the gay thing. What gay person doesn't feel at times alienated and a bit of a stranger to the mainstream?
But its been cool. .No big deal. No surprise. Depression is a natural part of the territory.
My previous depressions have been short-lived and easily tamed with fairly low doses of pleasant pharmaceuticals.
Not this time, Bucko.
This DEPRESSION was born large and strong, and kicking , when something, some one thing, happened which made me sad.
A sad happenstance.
For crying out loud, sad shit happens to everybody. Its part of the human condition. We learn to be willows. We bend. Buck up. Carry on. Good God! Stop crying!
Not this time.
This one is intruding on all my waking moments, and many of my sleeping moments as well.
This one , I can feel. spiky, like a buzz saw. This one, I can taste. Bitter, bilious.
This one is dry heaves
Its ruining my posture.
I swear, sometimes I can feel it dissolving my bones.
It separates me from human-kind.
It fragments my thoughts.
It changed my pleasures, and made them vexing.
I DID NOT USED TO BE THIS WAY.
I would kind of like to come back.
Although I do not expect my life to be just like it was before.
I'm going to try to take this thing on.
I will endeavor to record some of my thoughts and experiences here as time goes by.
You are welcome to watch.
Heres a song from Green Day. (Play it loud)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MN_j-l1zLeQ
Those of you who have been repelled by my darker Facebook, posts, Go no further. Turn back now. You wont like this any better.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.Okay then. Don't say I didn't warn you.
You can still turn back .
Very well then.
It may be in every life, that there is something out there that can make one ToTaLlY LoSe One'S ShiT.
I hope it never happens to you. I think life is better lived without having to totally lose one's shit.
When it does happen, you will not recognize yourself. You will fight and flail,and God will discard you.
Everything will change,
or maybe nothing has changed at all. Maybe it has been this way all along.......... Could it be ,I've sucked the whole time?
..My DEPRESSION was born in September 2011.
Oh sure I've had depression before. Its commonplace. It runs in the family. We're artists. We're damned odd, the lot of us. Depression is part of the landscape for an artist. Theres also the gay thing. What gay person doesn't feel at times alienated and a bit of a stranger to the mainstream?
But its been cool. .No big deal. No surprise. Depression is a natural part of the territory.
My previous depressions have been short-lived and easily tamed with fairly low doses of pleasant pharmaceuticals.
Not this time, Bucko.
This DEPRESSION was born large and strong, and kicking , when something, some one thing, happened which made me sad.
A sad happenstance.
For crying out loud, sad shit happens to everybody. Its part of the human condition. We learn to be willows. We bend. Buck up. Carry on. Good God! Stop crying!
Not this time.
This one is intruding on all my waking moments, and many of my sleeping moments as well.
This one , I can feel. spiky, like a buzz saw. This one, I can taste. Bitter, bilious.
This one is dry heaves
Its ruining my posture.
I swear, sometimes I can feel it dissolving my bones.
It separates me from human-kind.
It fragments my thoughts.
It changed my pleasures, and made them vexing.
I DID NOT USED TO BE THIS WAY.
I would kind of like to come back.
Although I do not expect my life to be just like it was before.
I'm going to try to take this thing on.
I will endeavor to record some of my thoughts and experiences here as time goes by.
You are welcome to watch.
Heres a song from Green Day. (Play it loud)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MN_j-l1zLeQ
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