Archive for the ‘I don’t know shit’ category

NONONONONO!

March 7, 2009
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This is how I feel when we speak on the phone.

I am not sure if what is happening is a search gone bad kind of thing or a simple personality clash, irrelevant of the search. I imagine the relationship/non-relationship must be a large part of this clash. I can’t manage to get a sentence out without being interrupted with some sort of challenge, as if I am uttering some untruth. I can say “it’s raining” and get “NO, it’s not” in that sort of jumping (as in, on me), snappy tone, as if I have been caught in some lie.

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I cannot even handle a phone call these days. I want to scream NO, I am NOT lying, it IS raining here.

Everything I say is suspect. Most often the challenge comes as a result of misunderstanding or not listening to what I am saying. As in, “the mailman, who is a friend of Jane, told her that he has a pink poodle…” which is then interrupted with “WHY would the mailman tell YOU he has a pink poodle? There is NO SUCH THING as a pink poodle.” She comes at me with all caps, bold and italic, accusatory and loaded with contempt. Everything begins with NO…  NO, it is not raining. NO, that is not how your ____ is, NO, you did not do that, and so on. NONONONONO. It’s a tiresome refrain. (more…)

A Convoluted Badge of Something

January 8, 2009

A Greek Tragedy for a Convolute?

ist2_1085349-snow-globeThe psychic looks at my left palm; the one which depicts where I have been, which bears little resemblance to my right palm, which is where I am, and am going.  He says, “Can I be frank?” I nod in an of course manner and consciously decline to utilize the obvious, “I thought your name was Henry?” joke, because I do not much ROFL over recycled humor. Cerebral humor is more my style; a mind-chuckle being more enjoyable than the mind [rhymes-with-part-of-the-word-chuck(le)] that was my childhood.

He says, “Your childhood was really convoluted.” Finally! The most succinct poetic ode to my childhood. A tidy one word summary. It is such the perfect word. I still have it. And it works. And, as long as we are being succint, if I had to sum myself up in one word I’d say I was an italic. And that my life has been in constant pursuit of the appropriate life-saving em dash. Maybe I am a Convolute.

I sometimes hesitantly suspect that I might be a dangling particle. But in reality, I am not entirely positive just what a dangling participle is and cannot immediately identify one. I mean I know, but I am not 100% certain, therefor I am one, because that would explain my confusion about who I am, in a metaphorically grammatical way.

ist2_5290011-who-s-that-manI think about such things all the time because I am very confused. I was raised by one family; I have another family now and I am getting to know them. But I wonder how much they are getting to know me. I don’t think either family really knows me. I think both families have tried to shape me. Why are we not all merely seen for who we are and not for what me might be? My bmom does not listen. I can hear her thinking of what she is going to say next rather than simply listening. Mostly in our conversations I just listen. I hear. I don’t really think much that she hears what I am saying but rather, hears what she wants. Hence The Guilt Trip.

I keep thinking of the whole journey as akin to the myth of Pandora’s Box, which was really a jar and only became known as a box due to a mistranslation of the Greek Pithos for “jar”, which became “box” when translated into Latin.  Pithos sounds like pathos, and is one of the three modes of persuasion, in Aristotle’s philosophies in rhetoric so it’s all Greek to me, and all tied together and convoluted.

ist2_3223613-entrance-hall-of-brussels-courthouseEvents of Pathos, or, Pathetic events, in a plot “are also not to be confused with tragic events. In a tragedy, the character brings about his or her own demise, whereas those invoking pathos often occur to innocent characters, invoking unmerited grief.” – wikipedia

Interesting, that jar/box thing – a mistranslation or mis-communication that changes the meaning of a thing forever. Pandora opened that jar out of curiosity and when she saw what was in it (more…)

The Good, The Bad, and the Ugly

December 16, 2008

ist2_5417047-in-the-shadowWARNING: THIS GETS REALLY UGLY AS IT GOES ON. PROCEED WITH THIS IN MIND.

I realize that most of my posts lately seem like whining. I don’t know how to tell my story without telling the bad. Because the bad parts are bad. The parts about meeting and getting to know my birth mother are good, yet overwhelming. I had to get over that; that I had actually done this, and am still am getting over it. The residual conflicted feelings I have about myself are the ugly. The pain killers for my disease do not override that ugly pain. Nor does the Valium for the anxiety and muscle spasming. None of it. I tried Prozac but it made me so nauseous I could not function sufficiently to brush my teeth. I had to weigh possibly squashing my demons against treating my physical condition. But they do affect each other. My spine perhaps cannot bear the weight of the demons on my back. Before I got so sick, I tried to wash away my demons with alcohol but grew tired of that. There is no perfect medication.

I read other blogs about people meeting their birth family and having a nice relationship for years and then it falls apart and away. That scares me.

ist2_6493772-adolescent-in-problemsI called my birth mother yesterday and she was upset that I hadn’t called the day before when I said I might come over. I tried to explain that I was so physically wrecked that I spent the day in bed and was in a place of dizzy, swirling pain and could not even make a phone call. How it felt like I was in a pool of molasses and was desperately trying to swim to the surface and just could not. She was still somewhat less cordial than usual, so it seemed to me. I realize that I am still shaky from my life and that I will always be over-sensitive and will still resort to gifts and backflips to win approval. I will always be on guest manners perhaps. I called this morning and she did not answer.

But I know from her – from yesterday’s phone call –  that she is home. I called my stepfather at work to ask an unrelated question but the receptionist said he did not answer his page. This is coincidental and circumstantial but it does not alleviate the paranoia. I fear I will be banished again.

ist2_2986655-fairy-godmotherI am glad I have therapy today. I know intellectually that there is probably a logical reason for her not answering but still, these things throw me into a tizzy as if I am a child at the carnival and have lost my parents and cannot find them. I am always waiting for a stranger to notice that I am lost and take my hand and help me find my conceptual adoring parents who will take care of me and let me borrow a few cans of soup and some toilet paper if I need. But because of the underlying constant paranoia, I think maybe they do not actually exist, because concepts are just that. I cannot help but wonder. I am glad to have this anonymous place to dump these thoughts.

Growing up we were told repeatedly that our parents had gone before a judge in state X who denied them adoption rights because my mother’s health was so very bad. So they packed up and moved to state Y where another judge gave them the green light. They impressed upon us that they went to such lengths to get us and it mainly served to reinforce to us that our family and shelter was almost not available to us but for their sacrifices and this made us insecure. I could not show enough required gratitude; I could not possibly afford the gratitude fee on my 25 cent weekly allowance. And when I’d play rambunctiously or loudly I was told to be quite, in a tone of voice as if I had done something horribly bad, and it was always accompanied by, “Your mother is really sick…”. Well, telling kids that makes them constantly fearful of death and guilty for innocently making noise. We were too young to make conscious decisions about playing quietly. We were the 3-gabled house of Sympathy, Guilt and Gratitude. We were hanging precariously by a few threads.

After my brother, the nice one; the one I call here BeautifulConflictedPoet, killed himself at 22, I drove the nearly 3 hours with the other brother – the one who would appropriate my inheritance years later – to clean out BCP’s apartment. (more…)

Yak Trainer/Stock Photographyical Artist/Basket Case

December 9, 2008

When my life is not tragic and excruciatingly painful it is hilarious. My therapist and I have a code word that I have promised to use if I ever have those thoughts and at that point we will send me away. I have already picked 0ut the place, it’s a little farther away than the nearby place. I don’t want to run into anyone I know. I have not packed for this trip. I am not one of those people who agonizes over packing for trips. I bring 2 pairs of jeans, 2 t-shirts, 2 long-sleeved shirts and a sweater. Oh, and clean underwear and socks. And cleanser and moisturizer. I always use the toothpaste in my host’s bathroom and I always need to buy a toothbrush.
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But then sometimes my life is really great and most times it’s downright hilarious. But I don’t think I am bipolar; I think my life is. Whatever works to smooth over the lingerings of childhood. I missed not having a womb with a view to start this life journey and the experts say this is important so that explains a lot.

I have this thing for stock photography… (more…)

What’s in a name? (sounds like “tissues”)

December 5, 2008

ist2_5845368-sherlock-holmes-seriesToday I found out my birth father’s full name. His name is Kilgore Trout so if you see him… Kidding!

But really, immediately I sold my car and hired a private investigator.

Kidding again! I held off doing my search for years once I had the initial inclination because I was so afraid of disrupting someone’s life. But I do want to see a picture of him. he lives nearby but I’d never go find him. I am only interested in what he looks like.

It wasn’t the sort of name I had expected I guess, or perhaps it’s not what I had in mind. For we all have something in mind when we go looking; it’s the adoptee way so it seems. So it seems – like so many ‘seems’ – from all of the blogs I read. Maybe it’s simply a ‘human’ way, her we are all human first. People envision potential ideal partners so why would we not envision potential ideal families? And in both cases can we say with absolute certainty that we are not perhaps looking to be saved somehow?

ist2_4250579-street-urchinSo today I realized that somehow this angst and anxiety and scorched and fallen souffle of a mind  (mine, I mean. I will not judge you) that is the whole adoption mess might actually have a beneficial aspect in a twistedly way; I am sure my sense of humor and capacity for empathy must have come from some sort of desperate survival thing or defense mechanism. Or super overeager need to please; a desperate need to be accepted for who I am and not what I should have been or might have been molded into. Maybe I am defensively defending me from myself.

“Funny, but I find the disinspiring totems (?) to be more uplifting, because… Why? They’re true, and therefore liberating… Released from being suppressed… Laughter inducing…”

And then I started collecting random quotes from the day’s emails from friends, from conversations and ponderings, and simultaneously together and out of context they assured me that maybe the mess and the pain and the all that is just a different sort of mess than I’d have if I hadn’t gone through all this.

“To some degree it’s probably everybody’s purpose in life to serve as a warning to others.”Maybe I’d be the cliche I so adamantly rebelled against and have a house with vinyl siding and a leased luxury edition Jeep just to drive to the mall and the supermarket; maybe I’d only wear clothes with labels and tell people that I only wear such labels. Maybe I’d have a middle-management job that I hate, and a mean boss voodoo doll, and an accessorized life with essence of superficiality. Or maybe I am just making myself feel better for this raggedy alternative life I envisioned having since I first saw Flashdance in the 80s, but really beginning at age 5. Maybe I’d exhibit consistent understanding and use of punctuation. But at least I realized my dream. I am just a different cliche. ;-) (more…)