What is it that men want? As far as I can tell, if they like women, they want women who will be available to them if and when it is convenient for them regardless of the convenience of the women involved.
Just to be clear about my feelings on this issue, this is not fun for the women involved. I hate waiting by the phone. I hate not knowing what a man expects of me. And I hate it that often when I voice this concern he never calls again.
I am very tired of this whole scenario. At the moment I would like to curl up and die. I am utterly defeated and puzzled and pissed. And so very, very tired.
Wednesday, May 4, 2011
Monday, April 25, 2011
The Pleasure of Walking
As a little kid, I walked the farthest to school any kid was allowed to walk. Everyday it was a mile to school and a mile from school. A lot can happen to an unsupervised kid in a mile, but times were different then. There was a whole neighborhood full of kids, and we all walked together. We bundled up in our snowsuits, boots, scarves, hats, mittens, with our little backpacks and lunches, and that was how we went to school. We never worried about strangers; the worst thing that ever happened to us were the bigger older kids that sometimes followed us home from school. Walking was simply part of our existence, like breathing and ice cream on hot days. It's what we did in the morning. I slept so well then. Kids in general do, but the exercise calmed me as well and I slept like a log.
As I got older, the walks actually got shorter, but I hated the walking more because I had to do the roundtrip twice, once for school, and then again for theater in the evening. The worse things got at home, though, the more things I found to occupy my time away from the house, so the walking continued. It was a little piece of heaven not to be around cigarette smoke, fighting and being talked at. I walked out of necessity, not pleasure.
When I moved to Boston in the early 90s, I discovered a city that you could really navigate on foot. The T (tranit system) was simple, but slow. As a friend put it, her boyfriend's apartment was an hour and a half on foot, by T three quarters of an hour, but by bike it was ten minutes. So to save time and money I got a bike. But I was noticing I was spending so much time securing my bike, looking for a place to put my bike, walking my bike across weird intersections (for which Boston is famous), the biking really wasn't very good. Plus the drivers were nuts. So I took up walking as a means of transportation.
This continued even after I got a car. Keep in mind, I love to drive. I learned to drive in the craziest city in the world, and I am to this day a great driver because of that experience. If there had been a car rodeo, I would have come in first place place, even ahead of the cabbies. I could parallel park like a demon and get my car to fit into spaces not fit for a motorcycle. But driving was not Zen. It was like the anti-Zen. It was exciting, but everywhere I went I ended up with a parking ticket. So walking became a luxury. It was stress-free, I went out, saw places, saw people, saw things. And when I got home, I might be blistered and sunburned, but I was calmer and happier than if I had driven.
Walking here is not the same way. In Boston the neighborhoods are close together. You can take a walk through many neighborhoods, and it is almost like visiting different eras of your life.
Although I have spent much more time here, the vividness of the memories has long since faded, except the red, raw scars left after too much bad healing and festering infection. I walk here, and the sky is at once unbearably oppresive and endless; it shrivels the soul, pounds it into numb, everlasting, ongoing submission, the clouds warring and tumbling across the sky, the swan song of my ambition ringing in my ears. Night is a welcome relief, especially in winter, a respite from gray light, respite from the unplumbable depths of my own failures. In short walking outside has become unbearable here.
I miss feeling my muscles move and work under my skin, the differences in the textures of the streets, the feeling of hot pavement through my shoes, the way my shorts fit just that much better because of how walking changed my body, the freedom, and the faith that it took to claim it... stress and fear and age and time and responsibility and injury and memory, conspire to rob me of a favorite activity I once did all day. I wonder if I will ever be able to reclaim the pleasure of walking.
As I got older, the walks actually got shorter, but I hated the walking more because I had to do the roundtrip twice, once for school, and then again for theater in the evening. The worse things got at home, though, the more things I found to occupy my time away from the house, so the walking continued. It was a little piece of heaven not to be around cigarette smoke, fighting and being talked at. I walked out of necessity, not pleasure.
When I moved to Boston in the early 90s, I discovered a city that you could really navigate on foot. The T (tranit system) was simple, but slow. As a friend put it, her boyfriend's apartment was an hour and a half on foot, by T three quarters of an hour, but by bike it was ten minutes. So to save time and money I got a bike. But I was noticing I was spending so much time securing my bike, looking for a place to put my bike, walking my bike across weird intersections (for which Boston is famous), the biking really wasn't very good. Plus the drivers were nuts. So I took up walking as a means of transportation.
This continued even after I got a car. Keep in mind, I love to drive. I learned to drive in the craziest city in the world, and I am to this day a great driver because of that experience. If there had been a car rodeo, I would have come in first place place, even ahead of the cabbies. I could parallel park like a demon and get my car to fit into spaces not fit for a motorcycle. But driving was not Zen. It was like the anti-Zen. It was exciting, but everywhere I went I ended up with a parking ticket. So walking became a luxury. It was stress-free, I went out, saw places, saw people, saw things. And when I got home, I might be blistered and sunburned, but I was calmer and happier than if I had driven.
Walking here is not the same way. In Boston the neighborhoods are close together. You can take a walk through many neighborhoods, and it is almost like visiting different eras of your life.
Although I have spent much more time here, the vividness of the memories has long since faded, except the red, raw scars left after too much bad healing and festering infection. I walk here, and the sky is at once unbearably oppresive and endless; it shrivels the soul, pounds it into numb, everlasting, ongoing submission, the clouds warring and tumbling across the sky, the swan song of my ambition ringing in my ears. Night is a welcome relief, especially in winter, a respite from gray light, respite from the unplumbable depths of my own failures. In short walking outside has become unbearable here.
I miss feeling my muscles move and work under my skin, the differences in the textures of the streets, the feeling of hot pavement through my shoes, the way my shorts fit just that much better because of how walking changed my body, the freedom, and the faith that it took to claim it... stress and fear and age and time and responsibility and injury and memory, conspire to rob me of a favorite activity I once did all day. I wonder if I will ever be able to reclaim the pleasure of walking.
Sunday, April 24, 2011
Easter and Alone
Easter holds no particular signifigance for me. As I kid, I got Easter baskets full of colorful chicks, cute bunnies and candy. It was an excuse to get together with family and friends. But it was a purely secular experience.
This year, I found out that the season of Lent and Easter Day are much holier than Christmas, which is much more widely celebrated here. I was surprised, and felt embarrassed that I had not known. However, I came by it honestly. As I am fond of saying, my father didn't find Jesus until I was almost fourteen, so I was raised in essentially an atheistic home.
When my father did find Jesus, let me say he went looking with a vengance. This is the same man who got angry if other people wanted me to go to church with their families because I had spent Saturday night with them and it was easier for them to drop me off after church. He didn't care. No one was going, covertly, to educate me religiously, which is what he thought was going on.
My curiosity was then piqued as to what my friends spent their Sundays doing. And thus, my search for God began, but it turned out my search would bring me to a much different understanding of a higher power than my father's beard in the sky. As a result, I am once again alone on Easter with time to think about the existence and nature of God.
I don't believe in a vengeful or magnanimous God. I believe God is much more the rules of physics and common sense than a sapient being that created all. Whatever God there may be is one of our creation, rather than the other way around. There are many that would regard this as sacriledge, but it is not intended to be. It is just my belief, and is not intended to influence or disparage anyone.
One person who has been very influential in my thinking about Gods, and their rise and fall, is Terry Pratchett. Gods in his books are centers for belief that take on a life of their own only once we give it to them. Gods are very real, but not creators, per se. That seems logical to me. The universe is, as often, carefully ordered as chaotic. Gods bring reason to the chaos, and for that reason are helpful, and for this we owe them a great deal regardless of whether they are our own construction or not.
Often people who think differently are alone. It is our cross to bear, so to speak. So, here I sit, with that which makes me different, once again alone on Easter. Whoopie for me.
This year, I found out that the season of Lent and Easter Day are much holier than Christmas, which is much more widely celebrated here. I was surprised, and felt embarrassed that I had not known. However, I came by it honestly. As I am fond of saying, my father didn't find Jesus until I was almost fourteen, so I was raised in essentially an atheistic home.
When my father did find Jesus, let me say he went looking with a vengance. This is the same man who got angry if other people wanted me to go to church with their families because I had spent Saturday night with them and it was easier for them to drop me off after church. He didn't care. No one was going, covertly, to educate me religiously, which is what he thought was going on.
My curiosity was then piqued as to what my friends spent their Sundays doing. And thus, my search for God began, but it turned out my search would bring me to a much different understanding of a higher power than my father's beard in the sky. As a result, I am once again alone on Easter with time to think about the existence and nature of God.
I don't believe in a vengeful or magnanimous God. I believe God is much more the rules of physics and common sense than a sapient being that created all. Whatever God there may be is one of our creation, rather than the other way around. There are many that would regard this as sacriledge, but it is not intended to be. It is just my belief, and is not intended to influence or disparage anyone.
One person who has been very influential in my thinking about Gods, and their rise and fall, is Terry Pratchett. Gods in his books are centers for belief that take on a life of their own only once we give it to them. Gods are very real, but not creators, per se. That seems logical to me. The universe is, as often, carefully ordered as chaotic. Gods bring reason to the chaos, and for that reason are helpful, and for this we owe them a great deal regardless of whether they are our own construction or not.
Often people who think differently are alone. It is our cross to bear, so to speak. So, here I sit, with that which makes me different, once again alone on Easter. Whoopie for me.
Saturday, April 23, 2011
Marking the Day
When I was 29 my mother died. I was in a period of intense self-evaluation, and a very fragile state of mind. I am fond of saying that had been broke and broken. Once my mother died I was beyond broken; I was inconsolable.
Every year it has been the same: my mother's birthday, followed by my divorced parents anniversary, the date of my mother's death, and then Mother's Day, all within a five-week period. I used to call it "the season".
Then, long about year seven, all of sudden it got easier. I don't know what made the difference, but I remember where I was and what I was doing when I realized I had changed. My step mother and I were having lunch at a chain restaurant in the mall with a friend of hers. We were talking about our parents. I was describing the events, and I realized it was actually the seventh anniversary of my mother's death, and unlike all of the previous anniversaries, I hadn't remembered it. It was the only time that I have actually been happy about not remembering something of great personal signifigance.
I had another similar milestone this year; I didn't remember the anniversary of my mother's death until the next day. It wasn't until someone told me Mother's Day was coming up that I realized I had weathered the season nearly pain-free.
I used to ask my mom about my grandfather who died the year I was born. I asked her why she could talk about him without crying. She said, "The pain is still there, it's just no longer a new fact." I never thought that I would be thinking this about the person who taught me that, but time really does heal all wounds, and my mother's death has ceased to be a new fact.
Every year it has been the same: my mother's birthday, followed by my divorced parents anniversary, the date of my mother's death, and then Mother's Day, all within a five-week period. I used to call it "the season".
Then, long about year seven, all of sudden it got easier. I don't know what made the difference, but I remember where I was and what I was doing when I realized I had changed. My step mother and I were having lunch at a chain restaurant in the mall with a friend of hers. We were talking about our parents. I was describing the events, and I realized it was actually the seventh anniversary of my mother's death, and unlike all of the previous anniversaries, I hadn't remembered it. It was the only time that I have actually been happy about not remembering something of great personal signifigance.
I had another similar milestone this year; I didn't remember the anniversary of my mother's death until the next day. It wasn't until someone told me Mother's Day was coming up that I realized I had weathered the season nearly pain-free.
I used to ask my mom about my grandfather who died the year I was born. I asked her why she could talk about him without crying. She said, "The pain is still there, it's just no longer a new fact." I never thought that I would be thinking this about the person who taught me that, but time really does heal all wounds, and my mother's death has ceased to be a new fact.
Thursday, April 21, 2011
Going in the Wrong Direction
Some days I wake up with a feeling of going in the wrong direction, and this feeling persists all day regardless of what I do thoughout the course of the day. I don't know why this is, but it is harder to figure out what to do when I can't rely on my feelings to tell me what are good things to do.
Today, I woke up with a feeling of optimism and hope until I looked outside and it was snowing. It is no longer snowing, but now the feeling of optimism with which I greeted the morning is gone. So, sometimes right after I wake up the feeling comes over me.
Sometimes I don't get the feeling until I am up and doing things. For example, if I know certain chores must get done, and get up and do them right away, I may have feelings of well-being that last most of the day. However, if I put one foot wrong, then the feeling comes back. I can make the feeling go away by thinking about several courses of action. I do which ever one provokes the least negative feelings.
I guess it's dread that I feel, fear of an unknown enemy, fear of success, fear of failure, fear of being so afraid I do nothing and waste my whole life. My life would me so different if I were incapable of feeling fear. I read an article about people who are incapable of fear, and they do not invariably act irrationally or erratically. Most of them just get on with living, and are usually very effective people.
I wish I were effective people, but often I am paralysed by fear. Fear of leaving the house is the worst one for me. Oddly enough, I almost never have the going in the wrong direction feeling when I am out. Whether it is being out that quashes that feeling, or whether I wouldn't be able to get out if I were feeling that feeling, is unclear. Some days I want so badly to leave the house, but am unable to achieve escape velocity. Longing to be free of my prison of inside, and pets, and too much stuff and screaming birds... I long for the Sun and the open sky and to be alone, in all of my glory, outside.
The courage this takes is often beyond me, as it is right now. There are so many steps to get though before I can go out: the proper attire, keys, bag, phone all must be found and assembled... or perhaps these are self-inflicted barriers I put up in order to stay safe inside.
I will get out today. And tomorrow, perhaps I will get out tomorrow. All that out is frightening and exhilarating, and a reason to wake up tomorrow with optimism, and with any luck no dread.
Today, I woke up with a feeling of optimism and hope until I looked outside and it was snowing. It is no longer snowing, but now the feeling of optimism with which I greeted the morning is gone. So, sometimes right after I wake up the feeling comes over me.
Sometimes I don't get the feeling until I am up and doing things. For example, if I know certain chores must get done, and get up and do them right away, I may have feelings of well-being that last most of the day. However, if I put one foot wrong, then the feeling comes back. I can make the feeling go away by thinking about several courses of action. I do which ever one provokes the least negative feelings.
I guess it's dread that I feel, fear of an unknown enemy, fear of success, fear of failure, fear of being so afraid I do nothing and waste my whole life. My life would me so different if I were incapable of feeling fear. I read an article about people who are incapable of fear, and they do not invariably act irrationally or erratically. Most of them just get on with living, and are usually very effective people.
I wish I were effective people, but often I am paralysed by fear. Fear of leaving the house is the worst one for me. Oddly enough, I almost never have the going in the wrong direction feeling when I am out. Whether it is being out that quashes that feeling, or whether I wouldn't be able to get out if I were feeling that feeling, is unclear. Some days I want so badly to leave the house, but am unable to achieve escape velocity. Longing to be free of my prison of inside, and pets, and too much stuff and screaming birds... I long for the Sun and the open sky and to be alone, in all of my glory, outside.
The courage this takes is often beyond me, as it is right now. There are so many steps to get though before I can go out: the proper attire, keys, bag, phone all must be found and assembled... or perhaps these are self-inflicted barriers I put up in order to stay safe inside.
I will get out today. And tomorrow, perhaps I will get out tomorrow. All that out is frightening and exhilarating, and a reason to wake up tomorrow with optimism, and with any luck no dread.
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
Like a Healthy Animal
For years I have been too warm all of the time. By too warm, I mean the only person too warm in a crowded room at standard room temperature. No lie, I used to set the thermostat at 64 and was comfortable in a t-shirt and jeans, no socks and sitting still for hours.
Then I got thyroid disease, and was pleased (for a while) to be able to get cold. It took a long time for the novelty to wear off, but it did one day mid-winter. It was minus ten out, and I was bundled under a sheet and two comforters, wearing long underwear, a t-shirt, shorts, long sleeved t-shirt, long pants and socks, and I was still shivering. I felt stuggish and tired and awful.
After being treated for an underactive thyroid, I don't get unpleasantly warm, at least not yet, and most times I am comfortable, but I find my back gets cold. This is so strange to me. Part of it is my new shorter haircut, but part of it is a vestage of the havoc auto-immune disease is wreaking on my body.
I don't want this. I don't want to be sick anymore. I want to be well, feel well, be normal, a regular person just like everyone else. I don't want to sink down inside my body anymore, lacking energy, ambition, drive because I am still here, damnit. And for the first time in a long time, I felt pleasantly cold again. I felt well, I felt whole, I felt normal. It was magificent.
I had worked out at the gym. I am a big advocate of Planet Fitness. I find it to be a non-punitive place for people to work on their bodies, develop personalized routines and goals based on giving their bodies what their bodies need. Even when I had stopped all other non-essential spending, I kept my gym membership in the hopes that I would go back. And I have started again.
So, I had worked out. Sweating is a now a sublime experience for me. I have a funny relationship with water. When my bloodsugar was too high, I couldn't get enough of water, and sweated horribly, uncontrollably. Now I sweat, but when I do it means something: that I have worked hard and done a good job. It being a glorious day, I left partway though my workout so that I could finish the walking portion outside.
For the first time since being sick, I walked outside in shorts, even though my skin was wet. Walking kept me just warm enough not to need long pants, but allowed me to feel invigorated by the cold, like a healthy animal playing outside in the spring.
I feel happy and enthusiastic and whole.
Then I got thyroid disease, and was pleased (for a while) to be able to get cold. It took a long time for the novelty to wear off, but it did one day mid-winter. It was minus ten out, and I was bundled under a sheet and two comforters, wearing long underwear, a t-shirt, shorts, long sleeved t-shirt, long pants and socks, and I was still shivering. I felt stuggish and tired and awful.
After being treated for an underactive thyroid, I don't get unpleasantly warm, at least not yet, and most times I am comfortable, but I find my back gets cold. This is so strange to me. Part of it is my new shorter haircut, but part of it is a vestage of the havoc auto-immune disease is wreaking on my body.
I don't want this. I don't want to be sick anymore. I want to be well, feel well, be normal, a regular person just like everyone else. I don't want to sink down inside my body anymore, lacking energy, ambition, drive because I am still here, damnit. And for the first time in a long time, I felt pleasantly cold again. I felt well, I felt whole, I felt normal. It was magificent.
I had worked out at the gym. I am a big advocate of Planet Fitness. I find it to be a non-punitive place for people to work on their bodies, develop personalized routines and goals based on giving their bodies what their bodies need. Even when I had stopped all other non-essential spending, I kept my gym membership in the hopes that I would go back. And I have started again.
So, I had worked out. Sweating is a now a sublime experience for me. I have a funny relationship with water. When my bloodsugar was too high, I couldn't get enough of water, and sweated horribly, uncontrollably. Now I sweat, but when I do it means something: that I have worked hard and done a good job. It being a glorious day, I left partway though my workout so that I could finish the walking portion outside.
For the first time since being sick, I walked outside in shorts, even though my skin was wet. Walking kept me just warm enough not to need long pants, but allowed me to feel invigorated by the cold, like a healthy animal playing outside in the spring.
I feel happy and enthusiastic and whole.
The Domino Effect
Since the last time that I wrote a new year, disease, pets, deaths, students, and household rearrangement have come to pass.
I got really sick last fall and didn't know that I was sick, however it had a profound affect on my life and the lives of those that relied on me. When my thyroid quit it was a quick, twenty-pound trip back to high blood sugar and pressure, so tired I couldn't leave the house, or even my room most days, let alone work, prepare proper meals or work out. I neither called my friends nor engaged with the world. And I didn't miss it. I didn't have the energy to care.
While I was sick, my senior rabbit, Blue, got sick. I was too tired to notice. There was nothing that I felt I could do for him without money, and I couldn't make money because I had no energy. So I turned a blind eye to his suffering.
Miraculously, the thyroid problem came to light, treatment began, and the struggle to regain control over my life began anew. However, Blue was too far gone. He died last night. I am left with the sure and certain knowledge that I did not do the best that I could.
I don't believe in euthanasia, but in his case I made an exception. He was unable to move his feet. The doctor said that there was a 50/50 chance that he was in excruciating pain from the underlying neurological cause, which may or may not have been a broken back. I had seen him do something, which once described, the vet said could have caused this condition, so it was not out of the question.
Secondarily, he had an abscess in his jaw. There had been a foul discharge from his nose which I had taken to be a sinus infection, however this was probably pus from the infected jaw seeping into his throat. That would have been very painful as well.
His prognosis was poor on both fronts. Outcomes would be limited in their efficacy at best and at worst either procedure/course of treatment could kill him. Worse, the treatments and recoveries would be painful and he would have been in pain until both problems were cured. Worst, most likely either or both were incurable, in which case his suffering would have been all for naught.
How could I put a rabbit, one that had always been gentle with me, who was calm, tolerant and patient with children and other pets, despite the pain, foul odor and taste and the times when I would try in vain to keep his nose clean, how could I subject him to this? What had he ever done that I should hurt him so?
We said our good-byes. He was barely responsive, but I patted him for a while on his forehead. As a healthier rabbit, when I patted his cheeks, his ears would spring up. They didn't, and that was how I knew that while the body may have been minimally functional, that life was well and truly over.
I loved him. He was a wonderful companion, an unconditionally loving, accepting animal. I hope that he is easy now, as peaceful in death as he was in life. Rest easy, little guy; I will not forget you.
I got really sick last fall and didn't know that I was sick, however it had a profound affect on my life and the lives of those that relied on me. When my thyroid quit it was a quick, twenty-pound trip back to high blood sugar and pressure, so tired I couldn't leave the house, or even my room most days, let alone work, prepare proper meals or work out. I neither called my friends nor engaged with the world. And I didn't miss it. I didn't have the energy to care.
While I was sick, my senior rabbit, Blue, got sick. I was too tired to notice. There was nothing that I felt I could do for him without money, and I couldn't make money because I had no energy. So I turned a blind eye to his suffering.
Miraculously, the thyroid problem came to light, treatment began, and the struggle to regain control over my life began anew. However, Blue was too far gone. He died last night. I am left with the sure and certain knowledge that I did not do the best that I could.
I don't believe in euthanasia, but in his case I made an exception. He was unable to move his feet. The doctor said that there was a 50/50 chance that he was in excruciating pain from the underlying neurological cause, which may or may not have been a broken back. I had seen him do something, which once described, the vet said could have caused this condition, so it was not out of the question.
Secondarily, he had an abscess in his jaw. There had been a foul discharge from his nose which I had taken to be a sinus infection, however this was probably pus from the infected jaw seeping into his throat. That would have been very painful as well.
His prognosis was poor on both fronts. Outcomes would be limited in their efficacy at best and at worst either procedure/course of treatment could kill him. Worse, the treatments and recoveries would be painful and he would have been in pain until both problems were cured. Worst, most likely either or both were incurable, in which case his suffering would have been all for naught.
How could I put a rabbit, one that had always been gentle with me, who was calm, tolerant and patient with children and other pets, despite the pain, foul odor and taste and the times when I would try in vain to keep his nose clean, how could I subject him to this? What had he ever done that I should hurt him so?
We said our good-byes. He was barely responsive, but I patted him for a while on his forehead. As a healthier rabbit, when I patted his cheeks, his ears would spring up. They didn't, and that was how I knew that while the body may have been minimally functional, that life was well and truly over.
I loved him. He was a wonderful companion, an unconditionally loving, accepting animal. I hope that he is easy now, as peaceful in death as he was in life. Rest easy, little guy; I will not forget you.
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
The Power of a Calm, Clear "No!"
Dear All,
It has been 157 days since my last confession. It's been a long time because frankly I haven't had anything to say that I wasn't required to say elsewhere. Today, I have something I can't say elsewhere; there is nowhere safe or private enough. And that is the problem.
For starters, I have taken apart everything in my life and put it all back together differently, possibly better. I feel an overwhelming sense of loss, loss of the familiar, loss of friendships, loss of family, loss of love.
There is also wonderment at how things have changed. I went from being hopelessly unable to balance my books to being increasingly able to do so. I have health insurance in my own name for the first time as an adult. I have a car, one which works perfectly, for the first time in twenty years. In short, I have a plan about how to get myself out of the mess I got myself into. I'm not out of it yet, but it's only a matter of time.
It all happened because I was absolutely unable to say no to anyone when I really really needed to say no. I was a doormat. Whatever my husband wanted, I couldn't stand for him not to have it. I never asked myself what I wanted. I didn't want to have to pay for both of us all of the time, and so I was angry all of the time. My friends treated me as if I existed for their convenience. I had no control over my time; this was annoying but I never thought that it was dangerous.
Then, I landed in the hospital, and I told everyone who was asking too much to leave me alone. And my life got better. The power of saying no is extraordinary, and liberating, especially to someone not allowed to say the word.
It's funny that the very people who are and were so adept at using that word were the ones who were the angriest when I said it to them. This was something that I had no anticipated, but it made me think.
One of my housemates has turned into a right, royal pain in the ass. And I could see myself falling back into the old patterns. There is something that he does that strikes me as extremely wasteful, and since I am the one who pays that bill, I called him on it. He tried not leaving me alone until I had agreed that he could do whatever he wanted. This was after complaining repeatedly about other people not doing a variety of things the way that he wanted them done.
So, I used that all as ammunition; I said to him that I had done everything that he had asked me to do- and that this was something about which I was serious (it is one of a few possible issues that I could pick, however it was the highest priority). He explained to me over and over his reasons for doing things the way he liked (no new reasons after the first time). I told him that I rejected his reasoning as faulty, that I thought he was being unreasonable, that it was my house and as long as I paid the bill, this was not optional, told him we were not going to convince each other, and that we had to agree to disagree, and for that reason I was going to go and do something else. AND THEN I CLOSED THE DOOR.
I was high as a kite after that meeting. I was excited to be me for the first time in a long time. I felt a little unsettled, but mostly relieved; I had weathered the storm and had expressed myself clearly without apology, had defended myself well, and hadn't back down.
It remains to be seen how he will react, although it is interesting to note that he has not paid his rent. It was due yesterday. Although the other housemates agree that the wasteful thing he is doing is silly as well as wasteful, I was the only one in the position to say anything about it because it was skin off of my nose. I don't think that it will have the intended effect, but it might yet. Anyway, I no longer feel like a basketcase, and all due to being able to say, "No!"
Signed,
B
It has been 157 days since my last confession. It's been a long time because frankly I haven't had anything to say that I wasn't required to say elsewhere. Today, I have something I can't say elsewhere; there is nowhere safe or private enough. And that is the problem.
For starters, I have taken apart everything in my life and put it all back together differently, possibly better. I feel an overwhelming sense of loss, loss of the familiar, loss of friendships, loss of family, loss of love.
There is also wonderment at how things have changed. I went from being hopelessly unable to balance my books to being increasingly able to do so. I have health insurance in my own name for the first time as an adult. I have a car, one which works perfectly, for the first time in twenty years. In short, I have a plan about how to get myself out of the mess I got myself into. I'm not out of it yet, but it's only a matter of time.
It all happened because I was absolutely unable to say no to anyone when I really really needed to say no. I was a doormat. Whatever my husband wanted, I couldn't stand for him not to have it. I never asked myself what I wanted. I didn't want to have to pay for both of us all of the time, and so I was angry all of the time. My friends treated me as if I existed for their convenience. I had no control over my time; this was annoying but I never thought that it was dangerous.
Then, I landed in the hospital, and I told everyone who was asking too much to leave me alone. And my life got better. The power of saying no is extraordinary, and liberating, especially to someone not allowed to say the word.
It's funny that the very people who are and were so adept at using that word were the ones who were the angriest when I said it to them. This was something that I had no anticipated, but it made me think.
One of my housemates has turned into a right, royal pain in the ass. And I could see myself falling back into the old patterns. There is something that he does that strikes me as extremely wasteful, and since I am the one who pays that bill, I called him on it. He tried not leaving me alone until I had agreed that he could do whatever he wanted. This was after complaining repeatedly about other people not doing a variety of things the way that he wanted them done.
So, I used that all as ammunition; I said to him that I had done everything that he had asked me to do- and that this was something about which I was serious (it is one of a few possible issues that I could pick, however it was the highest priority). He explained to me over and over his reasons for doing things the way he liked (no new reasons after the first time). I told him that I rejected his reasoning as faulty, that I thought he was being unreasonable, that it was my house and as long as I paid the bill, this was not optional, told him we were not going to convince each other, and that we had to agree to disagree, and for that reason I was going to go and do something else. AND THEN I CLOSED THE DOOR.
I was high as a kite after that meeting. I was excited to be me for the first time in a long time. I felt a little unsettled, but mostly relieved; I had weathered the storm and had expressed myself clearly without apology, had defended myself well, and hadn't back down.
It remains to be seen how he will react, although it is interesting to note that he has not paid his rent. It was due yesterday. Although the other housemates agree that the wasteful thing he is doing is silly as well as wasteful, I was the only one in the position to say anything about it because it was skin off of my nose. I don't think that it will have the intended effect, but it might yet. Anyway, I no longer feel like a basketcase, and all due to being able to say, "No!"
Signed,
B
Thursday, February 18, 2010
The Dishes Are Calling
Dear All,
When I look at a sink full of dirty dishes, I see a series of steps that I have not undertaken, but which I must, invariably, undertake.
I don't mind sweeping or mopping, there's just something about dirty dishes that seem very formidable. Perhaps I fear that I cannot get them clean enough. Perhaps I feel that there's something wrong with me that I let them accumulate. Perhaps I feel outraged at the sheer number of utensils, cooking vessels, storage containers, and serving implements it takes just to make one meal for two people. Worst of all, perhaps it reminds me of the fridge, which as far as I am concerned could be in another time zone.
Organization is not something that you can buy in a store. Trust me, I've tried. It is an act, a process. I hate the action of this process.
Hate isn't the entire story, though. Some days, cleaning is simply out of the question. My body is like lead and I can't think at all. I call these my dead-end-one-way-street days.
Some days I look at something that I need to organize, and I can't see how to do it. Other days I can see how to do it, but I don't have the energy. These two situations coincide about 40% of the time, thus I am not generally considered a neat person. I call these my red light days.
Sometimes I have a lot of energy, and through sheer determination, even though I can't see how to organize something, by doing one thing, and another and another, I can get things pretty clean. I would say this is happening more and more often, currently at a rate of about 25% of the time. These are very satisfying, but the results are unpredictable. I call these my yellow light days.
Sometimes though, everything seems very clear to me and I am able to whip through all of my tasks. I enjoy cleaning then. These are my green light days. They really aren't happening that often these days, but usually they happen once a week or so.
So saying that I hate cleaning (dish washing) is only an approximate truth. I hate failing at solving the puzzle of what to do first when there's a big job; to me dishes always seem like a big job.
When I look at a sink full of dirty dishes, I see a series of steps that I have not undertaken, but which I must, invariably, undertake.
I don't mind sweeping or mopping, there's just something about dirty dishes that seem very formidable. Perhaps I fear that I cannot get them clean enough. Perhaps I feel that there's something wrong with me that I let them accumulate. Perhaps I feel outraged at the sheer number of utensils, cooking vessels, storage containers, and serving implements it takes just to make one meal for two people. Worst of all, perhaps it reminds me of the fridge, which as far as I am concerned could be in another time zone.
Organization is not something that you can buy in a store. Trust me, I've tried. It is an act, a process. I hate the action of this process.
Hate isn't the entire story, though. Some days, cleaning is simply out of the question. My body is like lead and I can't think at all. I call these my dead-end-one-way-street days.
Some days I look at something that I need to organize, and I can't see how to do it. Other days I can see how to do it, but I don't have the energy. These two situations coincide about 40% of the time, thus I am not generally considered a neat person. I call these my red light days.
Sometimes I have a lot of energy, and through sheer determination, even though I can't see how to organize something, by doing one thing, and another and another, I can get things pretty clean. I would say this is happening more and more often, currently at a rate of about 25% of the time. These are very satisfying, but the results are unpredictable. I call these my yellow light days.
Sometimes though, everything seems very clear to me and I am able to whip through all of my tasks. I enjoy cleaning then. These are my green light days. They really aren't happening that often these days, but usually they happen once a week or so.
So saying that I hate cleaning (dish washing) is only an approximate truth. I hate failing at solving the puzzle of what to do first when there's a big job; to me dishes always seem like a big job.
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Diabetes and Moderation: Too Little, Too Late
Dear All,
Well, it has finally come to pass. I now have full-blown Diabetes to add to my list of illnesses. Getting rid of the T.V. was good, taking care of the Depression was better, trying to lose some weight, was all very well.
All of this was too little, too late. My body had already taken years of abuse, and its reaction was to become diabetic, and inceasingly depressed. There is a huge co-morbidity between Depression and Diabetes. Diabetes makes Depression worse, and Depression makes Diabetes worse. The brain chemistry is the link between the two. Just like alcoholics can "pickle" their brains with alcohol, a brain steeping in sugar is not an effective brain.
When I began to lose weight, I was thrilled. I thought that it was the ADD medication. Many symptoms of Diabetes are masked by Psychiatric meds. Plus- I didn't want to know. So, I had thought that I was doing better until I landed in the hospital with unbearable stomach pain and my blood sugar was found to be 490, dangerously high. Normal blood sugar is about 100 (80-120). While the stomach pain was probably unrelated, it, let us just say, was a clarion call. I associate the pain with eating badly, and this has been a great motivator to eat well, take my meds and exercise.
So- I have made some changes. Despite the fact that I like carbohydrates, they are my drug of choice, I have cut out 90% of the carbs and 98% of the sugar that I had been eating. I take my meds. These have helped me to get my blood sugar under control. I go to the gym three to five times per week where I can I walk and monitor my heart rate. I love Planet Fitness. It's cheap and people are very friendly and accepting. I have lost many inches, and probably many pounds, but because of the eating disorder (compulsive overeating) I don't weigh myself. Everyday is a new day, a clean slate. If screw up today, I start tomorrow with a fresh mind. If I screwed up yesterday, that was yesterday. Today's a different day. And so, slowly I learn and make progress. These have been the effects.
General sharpness: I am very troubled by some of the changes in myself. I feel a lot sharper. I actually finish my sentences now. I can remember things, and am much more aware of when I have gotten things wrong, or when I am truely confused, or when I myself am being confusing. My clients have been taking advantage of this, and getting me to do things for them because I never objected. I have put a stop to these stressful intrusions on my time.
Stress levels: On-going stress makes bloodsugar go up. Think about it: it's the fight or flight response. Releasing sugar into the blood stream provides quick energy. I try to moderate my stress with exercise and dealing with problems head on if I can bear it. There are drugs to control anxiety, however, they are a last resort for me because they are addictive.
Detailed clarity: I can multi-task, and things seem simpler to me now. Finances, work, editing, going to the gym, driving- these things are all simple and routine. I can work out complex daily tasks and schedules- and can keep things in mind, for example remembering to write down when I have appointments in one place. My sessions are faster, and probably more effective. I can be the rock for my students that they need, especially the struggling ones.
Visual acuity: I can see better, too. It is really frightening to me that I was driving in my condition. I see now why they take peoples' driver licenses away who have uncontrolled high blood sugar. It is very hard to think, react and make good decisions because there is this complete lack of input and processing power. When I drive now, I can drive a bit faster, and I believe more safely because I can see and process information. I always drove about five to ten miles per hour lower than the speed limit because I couldn't see, unless I was late someplace, and then I was a lead-foot. That was really dangerous.
Level of energy: I have some now. Period. I can get out of bed and go places and do things. I take care of myself. As a direct result of increased energy:
Courage: I have the courage to take an honest look at my situation because I have the energy to solve the problems that have been coming up repeatedly for me.
Constant motion: One way that Depression worsens Diabetes is the sedentary nature of those who are depressed. It doesn't have to be running a marathon. Just getting up and walking around is really useful in controlling blood sugar. Since I move more often, it has become easier to lower my blood sugar.
If you or anyone you know has these symptoms: fatigue, extreme thirst, extreme hunger yet weight loss of muscle mass (looks like: very thin limbs but a heavy torso), problems with memory and concentration, heart disease, shortness of breath (due to Asthma, or poor circulation), carbohydrate cravings or Depression you might be saving his or her live by suggesting a trip to the doctor for a blood sugar stick. If you or the person of whom you are thinking do any of these things, these behaviors may be indications that there is a problem: driving really slowly, forgetting appointments, squinting, breaking off speaking in the middle of sentences, losing things or trouble with organization or overindulging in sweets, again, a trip to the doctor for a blood sugar stick might be a really good idea.
Thanks for listening.
Sincerely,
Betsy
Well, it has finally come to pass. I now have full-blown Diabetes to add to my list of illnesses. Getting rid of the T.V. was good, taking care of the Depression was better, trying to lose some weight, was all very well.
All of this was too little, too late. My body had already taken years of abuse, and its reaction was to become diabetic, and inceasingly depressed. There is a huge co-morbidity between Depression and Diabetes. Diabetes makes Depression worse, and Depression makes Diabetes worse. The brain chemistry is the link between the two. Just like alcoholics can "pickle" their brains with alcohol, a brain steeping in sugar is not an effective brain.
When I began to lose weight, I was thrilled. I thought that it was the ADD medication. Many symptoms of Diabetes are masked by Psychiatric meds. Plus- I didn't want to know. So, I had thought that I was doing better until I landed in the hospital with unbearable stomach pain and my blood sugar was found to be 490, dangerously high. Normal blood sugar is about 100 (80-120). While the stomach pain was probably unrelated, it, let us just say, was a clarion call. I associate the pain with eating badly, and this has been a great motivator to eat well, take my meds and exercise.
So- I have made some changes. Despite the fact that I like carbohydrates, they are my drug of choice, I have cut out 90% of the carbs and 98% of the sugar that I had been eating. I take my meds. These have helped me to get my blood sugar under control. I go to the gym three to five times per week where I can I walk and monitor my heart rate. I love Planet Fitness. It's cheap and people are very friendly and accepting. I have lost many inches, and probably many pounds, but because of the eating disorder (compulsive overeating) I don't weigh myself. Everyday is a new day, a clean slate. If screw up today, I start tomorrow with a fresh mind. If I screwed up yesterday, that was yesterday. Today's a different day. And so, slowly I learn and make progress. These have been the effects.
General sharpness: I am very troubled by some of the changes in myself. I feel a lot sharper. I actually finish my sentences now. I can remember things, and am much more aware of when I have gotten things wrong, or when I am truely confused, or when I myself am being confusing. My clients have been taking advantage of this, and getting me to do things for them because I never objected. I have put a stop to these stressful intrusions on my time.
Stress levels: On-going stress makes bloodsugar go up. Think about it: it's the fight or flight response. Releasing sugar into the blood stream provides quick energy. I try to moderate my stress with exercise and dealing with problems head on if I can bear it. There are drugs to control anxiety, however, they are a last resort for me because they are addictive.
Detailed clarity: I can multi-task, and things seem simpler to me now. Finances, work, editing, going to the gym, driving- these things are all simple and routine. I can work out complex daily tasks and schedules- and can keep things in mind, for example remembering to write down when I have appointments in one place. My sessions are faster, and probably more effective. I can be the rock for my students that they need, especially the struggling ones.
Visual acuity: I can see better, too. It is really frightening to me that I was driving in my condition. I see now why they take peoples' driver licenses away who have uncontrolled high blood sugar. It is very hard to think, react and make good decisions because there is this complete lack of input and processing power. When I drive now, I can drive a bit faster, and I believe more safely because I can see and process information. I always drove about five to ten miles per hour lower than the speed limit because I couldn't see, unless I was late someplace, and then I was a lead-foot. That was really dangerous.
Level of energy: I have some now. Period. I can get out of bed and go places and do things. I take care of myself. As a direct result of increased energy:
Courage: I have the courage to take an honest look at my situation because I have the energy to solve the problems that have been coming up repeatedly for me.
Constant motion: One way that Depression worsens Diabetes is the sedentary nature of those who are depressed. It doesn't have to be running a marathon. Just getting up and walking around is really useful in controlling blood sugar. Since I move more often, it has become easier to lower my blood sugar.
If you or anyone you know has these symptoms: fatigue, extreme thirst, extreme hunger yet weight loss of muscle mass (looks like: very thin limbs but a heavy torso), problems with memory and concentration, heart disease, shortness of breath (due to Asthma, or poor circulation), carbohydrate cravings or Depression you might be saving his or her live by suggesting a trip to the doctor for a blood sugar stick. If you or the person of whom you are thinking do any of these things, these behaviors may be indications that there is a problem: driving really slowly, forgetting appointments, squinting, breaking off speaking in the middle of sentences, losing things or trouble with organization or overindulging in sweets, again, a trip to the doctor for a blood sugar stick might be a really good idea.
Thanks for listening.
Sincerely,
Betsy
Monday, August 10, 2009
When Things Seem Hopeless
There are times when I get very down because plans that I think are solid turn out to be less ironclad than I had hoped.
When I decided to get married I needed something to be reliable, to have an honest connection with another person. To a large extent I have that. However, when my husband is feeling depressed, although I have known that he got depressed from the very start, his sadness sets me off, and I begin to have trouble coping with even my minimal lot of responsibilities.
Today's trigger is that someone stole one of my husband's personalized license plates which is a very expensive problem in the state where we live. First, you have to get the plates. Then, if one or both are stolen you have to turn in the remaining plate, and register the car again. Whether or not you want another personalized plate, you have to pay about $50.00; there is an additional fee to keep the old license plate number.
I don't think that it's fair; it's not like he begged someone to steal his plate. He's the victim, and has to pay and pay and pay. Most likely it was stolen off of his car at work. As a result of the intricate web of fees, he is unable to have his previous license plate number. He is not even allowed to keep his remaining plate (a word of great personal significance to him) as a souvenir. Last- he had to take off time from work to take care of this. It's just a last little kick in the ass.
Dealing with all of this for a well person, with a well wife would be difficult. My husband, however, is now upstairs in bed, for lack of a better word napping. We don't have the money to register the car. He wants to take Obama's buyout plan because his car is ten years old. I don't think that it is a good plan because in taking the deal, the old cars are wrecked- perfectly good cars are destroyed. It never occurred to me that this would be the outcome of the buyout plan. I figured that many of the cars wouldn't run, or that they might be sold for their parts enabling more buyouts. So- I said I wouldn't get involved in such a wasteful endeavor.
Note: since I wrote this last part, I have discovered that the reason for destroying the engines is to prevent unscrupulous car dealers from reselling the cars. First of all, the cars wouldn't actually be off of the road and would still be guzzling gas. Second, by taking the $4500, dealers agreed to sell the clunkers for scrap and salvage. It has come to light that some of the dealers are actually reselling the cars as vehicles anyway. Sigh. I hate being right but for the wrong reason. It makes me sound both ignorant and cynical. Bring it on.
Anyway- so my husband and I disagree about this and about many other financial matters. These are large issues, not small ones, and they don't go away. He keeps his job because it pays for our benefits although they pay him a quarter of what an employer in San Francisco, New York or Boston would pay him. So, he can't afford a new registration, let alone a new car. He's angry, and I am upset. And so the fight is ongoing. I am so sick of fighting.
I married him because there was something so lovable and comfortable, so familiar about him. Neither of us likes fighting, neither of us likes being poor- but we are both too sick to do anything about it. We are trapped in a weave of each others' depression and bad habits.
Thus, the downward spiral to deep, dark, doomed, damned if we do, damned if we don't depression. I don't know how other people deal with this type of thing. Perhaps it just doesn't happen to them. Some people are just able to get paid what they are worth and like dealing with this sort of thing. I hate money- it causes nothing but trouble.
Whatever.
When I decided to get married I needed something to be reliable, to have an honest connection with another person. To a large extent I have that. However, when my husband is feeling depressed, although I have known that he got depressed from the very start, his sadness sets me off, and I begin to have trouble coping with even my minimal lot of responsibilities.
Today's trigger is that someone stole one of my husband's personalized license plates which is a very expensive problem in the state where we live. First, you have to get the plates. Then, if one or both are stolen you have to turn in the remaining plate, and register the car again. Whether or not you want another personalized plate, you have to pay about $50.00; there is an additional fee to keep the old license plate number.
I don't think that it's fair; it's not like he begged someone to steal his plate. He's the victim, and has to pay and pay and pay. Most likely it was stolen off of his car at work. As a result of the intricate web of fees, he is unable to have his previous license plate number. He is not even allowed to keep his remaining plate (a word of great personal significance to him) as a souvenir. Last- he had to take off time from work to take care of this. It's just a last little kick in the ass.
Dealing with all of this for a well person, with a well wife would be difficult. My husband, however, is now upstairs in bed, for lack of a better word napping. We don't have the money to register the car. He wants to take Obama's buyout plan because his car is ten years old. I don't think that it is a good plan because in taking the deal, the old cars are wrecked- perfectly good cars are destroyed. It never occurred to me that this would be the outcome of the buyout plan. I figured that many of the cars wouldn't run, or that they might be sold for their parts enabling more buyouts. So- I said I wouldn't get involved in such a wasteful endeavor.
Note: since I wrote this last part, I have discovered that the reason for destroying the engines is to prevent unscrupulous car dealers from reselling the cars. First of all, the cars wouldn't actually be off of the road and would still be guzzling gas. Second, by taking the $4500, dealers agreed to sell the clunkers for scrap and salvage. It has come to light that some of the dealers are actually reselling the cars as vehicles anyway. Sigh. I hate being right but for the wrong reason. It makes me sound both ignorant and cynical. Bring it on.
Anyway- so my husband and I disagree about this and about many other financial matters. These are large issues, not small ones, and they don't go away. He keeps his job because it pays for our benefits although they pay him a quarter of what an employer in San Francisco, New York or Boston would pay him. So, he can't afford a new registration, let alone a new car. He's angry, and I am upset. And so the fight is ongoing. I am so sick of fighting.
I married him because there was something so lovable and comfortable, so familiar about him. Neither of us likes fighting, neither of us likes being poor- but we are both too sick to do anything about it. We are trapped in a weave of each others' depression and bad habits.
Thus, the downward spiral to deep, dark, doomed, damned if we do, damned if we don't depression. I don't know how other people deal with this type of thing. Perhaps it just doesn't happen to them. Some people are just able to get paid what they are worth and like dealing with this sort of thing. I hate money- it causes nothing but trouble.
Whatever.
Saturday, August 1, 2009
How We Think About Language
One of my greatest joys is when I have been trying to explain something to a student and all of a sudden, the student understands. Right now I have two students who just don't understand a word that comes out of my mouth. I have been reprimanded by both of their guardians due to the lack of progress that their charges are making. These two cases are very different from one another, but they are equally as frustrating to me, and perhaps to my students as well.
In the first case, I think that there is something wrong in this family. There is a child who is a very dreamy kind of child. The mother yells at him to get his attention because the attention wanders so readily. I find him infuriating to work with because I'll be in the middle of trying to get his attention- and he'll be gone again. I am so angry at him. I told him, using gestures, where he needs to be looking in order to undestand me. He looks, but it's as if he looks but he doesn't see. I don't know what to do for him. I am not going to yell at him. To me, yelling is for emergencies, for example "Oh my God, your pants are on fire!" Also- yelling has progressively less power the more that you do it, and then when there is a real emergency, there is nothing to resort to doing. Plus- I just hate yelling. Further, this child retains nothing that I say- and proceeds to correct me. This has largely stopped, and has been replaced with the above mentioned complete lack of attention. This was after I told him that I am a native English speaker, and through no fault of his- I know more than he does about English. He has been very impatient with me when he is paying attention, using phrases like, "Okay- okay go on". I think that he is very rude, and that he has learned this from his parents.
The other case is totally different. In this case I might be at fault. There is a child that is in the U.S. for six weeks. Normally in these cases I come up with a plan ahead of time. In this case, I employed two workbooks. My hope was to get half way though the two of them. We are four weeks through his stay in the U.S. and his mother (through his aunt) has told me that my tactics are in appropriate. She didn't want him to be learning grammar. The aunt told me that kids his age aren't supposed to be learning grammar. I said that in the U.S. kids are required to start learning grammar at his age. It occured to me that he will not actually be going to school in the U.S. Maybe what I was teaching his was a) unnecessary, and b) frustrating to him (and to me). He's the nicest kid that I have worked with in a long time. I don't want to make his life harder, yet, I have no idea what to do for him. He didn't know when to capitalize, basic punctuation or basic sentence structure when we started. He knows those things now. These things were learned through learning grammar.
If I had to tie these two situations together, they would have two main similarities. One is that they are both frustrating, but the guardians are unwilling to allow their charges to deal with their frustration. I think that this is a mistake because feeling frustration helps kids to be motivated to learn. Second, both guardians have dictated what the curriculum will be, and have micromanaged me to the point where I have no disgression about how to teach the kids at all. The only disgression that I have had is which workbooks to use. I couldn't find the ones I wanted, so I had to make due with the ones that I could find. The parents own meddling has cost us time, money, and added to our frustration.
I can't escape the fact that it is too late for one kid. I will continue to try my best, but it may have been too late from the start. I have to fight the tides of my own depression in the other situation, if I have any hope of helping him. I can't allow myself to slip under the surface because then he will be left to his own self-defeating devices.
In the first case, I think that there is something wrong in this family. There is a child who is a very dreamy kind of child. The mother yells at him to get his attention because the attention wanders so readily. I find him infuriating to work with because I'll be in the middle of trying to get his attention- and he'll be gone again. I am so angry at him. I told him, using gestures, where he needs to be looking in order to undestand me. He looks, but it's as if he looks but he doesn't see. I don't know what to do for him. I am not going to yell at him. To me, yelling is for emergencies, for example "Oh my God, your pants are on fire!" Also- yelling has progressively less power the more that you do it, and then when there is a real emergency, there is nothing to resort to doing. Plus- I just hate yelling. Further, this child retains nothing that I say- and proceeds to correct me. This has largely stopped, and has been replaced with the above mentioned complete lack of attention. This was after I told him that I am a native English speaker, and through no fault of his- I know more than he does about English. He has been very impatient with me when he is paying attention, using phrases like, "Okay- okay go on". I think that he is very rude, and that he has learned this from his parents.
The other case is totally different. In this case I might be at fault. There is a child that is in the U.S. for six weeks. Normally in these cases I come up with a plan ahead of time. In this case, I employed two workbooks. My hope was to get half way though the two of them. We are four weeks through his stay in the U.S. and his mother (through his aunt) has told me that my tactics are in appropriate. She didn't want him to be learning grammar. The aunt told me that kids his age aren't supposed to be learning grammar. I said that in the U.S. kids are required to start learning grammar at his age. It occured to me that he will not actually be going to school in the U.S. Maybe what I was teaching his was a) unnecessary, and b) frustrating to him (and to me). He's the nicest kid that I have worked with in a long time. I don't want to make his life harder, yet, I have no idea what to do for him. He didn't know when to capitalize, basic punctuation or basic sentence structure when we started. He knows those things now. These things were learned through learning grammar.
If I had to tie these two situations together, they would have two main similarities. One is that they are both frustrating, but the guardians are unwilling to allow their charges to deal with their frustration. I think that this is a mistake because feeling frustration helps kids to be motivated to learn. Second, both guardians have dictated what the curriculum will be, and have micromanaged me to the point where I have no disgression about how to teach the kids at all. The only disgression that I have had is which workbooks to use. I couldn't find the ones I wanted, so I had to make due with the ones that I could find. The parents own meddling has cost us time, money, and added to our frustration.
I can't escape the fact that it is too late for one kid. I will continue to try my best, but it may have been too late from the start. I have to fight the tides of my own depression in the other situation, if I have any hope of helping him. I can't allow myself to slip under the surface because then he will be left to his own self-defeating devices.
Monday, April 6, 2009
Theory Vs. Practice
Dear All,
Well- it's been a while. I haven't had anything to say for a while.
My friend had her baby. She did pretty well for a prima gravisa, a first-time mom. She was in serious labor for about ten hours. I sat with her for a while my husband took her husband out for some dinner. She wasn't allowed to eat, so none of us wanted to do it in front of her.
I don't think that I have ever seen anyone other than my husband or me in that much pain. It was a very jarring experience. I wasn't their when her son was born, but I suspect she was in far more pain during delivery.
She also said everyone was yelling directions to her. I can't imagine that that was much help. Also- apparently, she wouldn't take the advice of the doctors and nurses about how to make the birth go faster and be less painful. Normally, she is a measured, cautious person, and follows the advice other people give her when they are in a possition to know what they are talking about. For some reason, however, she seemed oddly unprepaired for the whole experience. She went to classes, and read books about birthing. I think that pain can make people crazy and do self-defeating things.
I was aware of being in the way. I tried to stay out of the way, and only transmit necessary messages to the doctors and nurses, but there were quite a few. The only one that I can remember getting immediate attention was when I said she had to use the toilet, and the door was locked. I felt a little bit useless, but I knew that it would be bad for her to be alone, and so I did what I could to sooth her when the pain was at its height. We have never been touchy feely friends, so this was pretty much limited to talking in a low soothing voice. I am not absolutely sure that she could hear the words, but it seemed to be something steady on which she could concentrate other than the pain, which by that time was nearly non-stop.
I timed her contractions as best as I could without pencil and paper, and told her how close they were. When the fetal heartbeat monitor slipped down her belly so we couldn't hear the heartbeat or see the number of beats per minute on the little screen, I told the nurse who basically ignored it. About forty-five minutes later someone came in to adjust it. I have never felt so useless, so in the way, in my whole life. But I stayed because I knew that I was not useless, that just my presence gave her comfort, support and strength.
She was mad that the husbands had been out for so long and he choice words for men. She told me that I didn't want to have kids because I didn't want to go through what she was going through. Then she cried a little. I talked to her in a quiet, low voice. She became a bit calmer, even laughing a little bit at how silly she must look. Honestly, I though she was beautiful, rosy, glowing. I didn't advance this opinion because I knew that the rosy glow was the direct result of pain. The pain didn't scare me in the least. I had dealt with serious pain before.
About two hours after we had gotten there, my husband came back with my friend's husband, only they wouldn't let my husband up because he wasn't family. So, I left my friend, reluctantly. She had been walking around, and was having a contraction, and which point she sagged against her husband who caught her a patted her back as she started to cry. At this point I left. Clearly, I was no longer needed, and I felt as though I was intruding. Plus, my husband was waiting downstairs, banished to the waiting room.
While I was glad to be there for her, I left ASAP. I was very surprised by my reaction when I held their son the next day. The head was soft. I realized that I had made the right decision by not having kids of my own. It terrified me to be holding this terribly fragile creature. It wasn't the pain that terrified me, it was the ongoing need, and the senstivity of the individual in need. I was very relieved to hand him back to his mom, my friend, who looked as happy as a brand new day.
Well- it's been a while. I haven't had anything to say for a while.
My friend had her baby. She did pretty well for a prima gravisa, a first-time mom. She was in serious labor for about ten hours. I sat with her for a while my husband took her husband out for some dinner. She wasn't allowed to eat, so none of us wanted to do it in front of her.
I don't think that I have ever seen anyone other than my husband or me in that much pain. It was a very jarring experience. I wasn't their when her son was born, but I suspect she was in far more pain during delivery.
She also said everyone was yelling directions to her. I can't imagine that that was much help. Also- apparently, she wouldn't take the advice of the doctors and nurses about how to make the birth go faster and be less painful. Normally, she is a measured, cautious person, and follows the advice other people give her when they are in a possition to know what they are talking about. For some reason, however, she seemed oddly unprepaired for the whole experience. She went to classes, and read books about birthing. I think that pain can make people crazy and do self-defeating things.
I was aware of being in the way. I tried to stay out of the way, and only transmit necessary messages to the doctors and nurses, but there were quite a few. The only one that I can remember getting immediate attention was when I said she had to use the toilet, and the door was locked. I felt a little bit useless, but I knew that it would be bad for her to be alone, and so I did what I could to sooth her when the pain was at its height. We have never been touchy feely friends, so this was pretty much limited to talking in a low soothing voice. I am not absolutely sure that she could hear the words, but it seemed to be something steady on which she could concentrate other than the pain, which by that time was nearly non-stop.
I timed her contractions as best as I could without pencil and paper, and told her how close they were. When the fetal heartbeat monitor slipped down her belly so we couldn't hear the heartbeat or see the number of beats per minute on the little screen, I told the nurse who basically ignored it. About forty-five minutes later someone came in to adjust it. I have never felt so useless, so in the way, in my whole life. But I stayed because I knew that I was not useless, that just my presence gave her comfort, support and strength.
She was mad that the husbands had been out for so long and he choice words for men. She told me that I didn't want to have kids because I didn't want to go through what she was going through. Then she cried a little. I talked to her in a quiet, low voice. She became a bit calmer, even laughing a little bit at how silly she must look. Honestly, I though she was beautiful, rosy, glowing. I didn't advance this opinion because I knew that the rosy glow was the direct result of pain. The pain didn't scare me in the least. I had dealt with serious pain before.
About two hours after we had gotten there, my husband came back with my friend's husband, only they wouldn't let my husband up because he wasn't family. So, I left my friend, reluctantly. She had been walking around, and was having a contraction, and which point she sagged against her husband who caught her a patted her back as she started to cry. At this point I left. Clearly, I was no longer needed, and I felt as though I was intruding. Plus, my husband was waiting downstairs, banished to the waiting room.
While I was glad to be there for her, I left ASAP. I was very surprised by my reaction when I held their son the next day. The head was soft. I realized that I had made the right decision by not having kids of my own. It terrified me to be holding this terribly fragile creature. It wasn't the pain that terrified me, it was the ongoing need, and the senstivity of the individual in need. I was very relieved to hand him back to his mom, my friend, who looked as happy as a brand new day.
Thursday, December 18, 2008
Like Molasses
Dear All,
About eleven years ago, I was in a drug study for Remeron. At that point they didn't know that the drug must be taken at night, so I took it whenever I remembered. Taking that drug marked the beginning of the end of my old life in Boston.
On Remeron, I remember not caring about anything because I felt good, oh so good. I remember that one day I was working in the box office at a theater in Cambridge. I had been the fastest and most accurate cashier that they had, so they put me on one really busy night with another very fast cashier. They actually had to open another box, an unusual event, because I was moving so slowly. One of the managers came in to tell us to move a little faster (she did it in a nice way) but I was incapable of moving any faster. This also happened another night at the concession stand. I had always been the number one concessionist because my sales were consistently better than anyone else's. I lost my number one spot. As a result, I started making less money, and was in some real trouble. I was never number one after that. It never occurred to me to tell anyone what the problem had been, and that it was just temporary.
I left the survey after those incidents. I wrote "I know that this drug is not right for me. It is very effective as an anti-anxiety, but I am moving like m0lasses, and I can't both do that and survive. I know that it is your job to get this drug tested, and that you would try to convince me to stay in the survey, but I just can't. One valuable thing that it has taught me, however is that there is more than one reaction to my life." And it was true; it was the same life, I just didn't feel the same way about it. I realized what it meant to "let it roll off". I had, theretofore, been unable to brush off nastiness by others. To me, their action equalled my reaction.
I find myself on Remeron again, but I am having a different experience now. Every drug that is added to my cocktail brings out new facets of my personality. Still- if I were under the same pressure that I had been under while living in Boston, the constant provocations and slurs, I don't know if I could actually deal with it. People there are so hard on one another. Yet, instead of having the rough edges knocked off, becoming smooth, they became rougher, nastier, harder. Meanwhile, I was becoming bruised, mashed between others into a pulpy acquiescence, and thus the small daily snobberies, and unkindnesses took their toll.
People there told me that I was too sensitive to others, too nice, too accommodating. I thought that being upset by a customer who had just called me a "sloth" was not a matter of being too sensitive. I felt I needed to say something back; my friends told me not to, despite the fact that it was just wrong for the customer to say something like that. They told me to "suck it up" because this was the hard reality of my situation: I had to be nice and the customers didn't. So- I learned not to be quite so sensitive and accommodating. I tried to be even tougher than that, but I felt I was losing my empathy, my humanity- that just to survive, I was suppressing my real self and becoming somehow indecent. In short, I expected the worst from myself and others and was never disappointed.
Now that I am back in the city in which I reached adulthood- I am a changed person. While I don't automatically expect the worst of people, the fear of being emotionally needled, poked, prodded and jostled once again is always there. The will to help is still there, but it is tempered by not wanting to do too much for others, lest they take advantage of me, or take me for granted.
Whereas the last time I took Remeron I was in a haze, I am now able to think rationally. Whereas the last time I was on Remeron, I moved too slowly, now I move at an acceptable pace because I take better care of myself. I take my meds at the appropriate times, and have taken steps not to be in chaos all of the time. Where as I was unsettled, single and my mother was still alive the last time that I took Remeron, I have now lived in the same place since 2001, and am married. What appropriately or inappropriately my mother one did, she can no longer do because she is no longer alive. Whereas I was once an angry, over-medicated little girl playing house, I am now of the alpha generation, and the important decisions, for better and worse, are mine.
I think that I am now in a place where Remeron can do more than teach me about my life, it can help me live it.
Sincerely,
Betsy
About eleven years ago, I was in a drug study for Remeron. At that point they didn't know that the drug must be taken at night, so I took it whenever I remembered. Taking that drug marked the beginning of the end of my old life in Boston.
On Remeron, I remember not caring about anything because I felt good, oh so good. I remember that one day I was working in the box office at a theater in Cambridge. I had been the fastest and most accurate cashier that they had, so they put me on one really busy night with another very fast cashier. They actually had to open another box, an unusual event, because I was moving so slowly. One of the managers came in to tell us to move a little faster (she did it in a nice way) but I was incapable of moving any faster. This also happened another night at the concession stand. I had always been the number one concessionist because my sales were consistently better than anyone else's. I lost my number one spot. As a result, I started making less money, and was in some real trouble. I was never number one after that. It never occurred to me to tell anyone what the problem had been, and that it was just temporary.
I left the survey after those incidents. I wrote "I know that this drug is not right for me. It is very effective as an anti-anxiety, but I am moving like m0lasses, and I can't both do that and survive. I know that it is your job to get this drug tested, and that you would try to convince me to stay in the survey, but I just can't. One valuable thing that it has taught me, however is that there is more than one reaction to my life." And it was true; it was the same life, I just didn't feel the same way about it. I realized what it meant to "let it roll off". I had, theretofore, been unable to brush off nastiness by others. To me, their action equalled my reaction.
I find myself on Remeron again, but I am having a different experience now. Every drug that is added to my cocktail brings out new facets of my personality. Still- if I were under the same pressure that I had been under while living in Boston, the constant provocations and slurs, I don't know if I could actually deal with it. People there are so hard on one another. Yet, instead of having the rough edges knocked off, becoming smooth, they became rougher, nastier, harder. Meanwhile, I was becoming bruised, mashed between others into a pulpy acquiescence, and thus the small daily snobberies, and unkindnesses took their toll.
People there told me that I was too sensitive to others, too nice, too accommodating. I thought that being upset by a customer who had just called me a "sloth" was not a matter of being too sensitive. I felt I needed to say something back; my friends told me not to, despite the fact that it was just wrong for the customer to say something like that. They told me to "suck it up" because this was the hard reality of my situation: I had to be nice and the customers didn't. So- I learned not to be quite so sensitive and accommodating. I tried to be even tougher than that, but I felt I was losing my empathy, my humanity- that just to survive, I was suppressing my real self and becoming somehow indecent. In short, I expected the worst from myself and others and was never disappointed.
Now that I am back in the city in which I reached adulthood- I am a changed person. While I don't automatically expect the worst of people, the fear of being emotionally needled, poked, prodded and jostled once again is always there. The will to help is still there, but it is tempered by not wanting to do too much for others, lest they take advantage of me, or take me for granted.
Whereas the last time I took Remeron I was in a haze, I am now able to think rationally. Whereas the last time I was on Remeron, I moved too slowly, now I move at an acceptable pace because I take better care of myself. I take my meds at the appropriate times, and have taken steps not to be in chaos all of the time. Where as I was unsettled, single and my mother was still alive the last time that I took Remeron, I have now lived in the same place since 2001, and am married. What appropriately or inappropriately my mother one did, she can no longer do because she is no longer alive. Whereas I was once an angry, over-medicated little girl playing house, I am now of the alpha generation, and the important decisions, for better and worse, are mine.
I think that I am now in a place where Remeron can do more than teach me about my life, it can help me live it.
Sincerely,
Betsy
Saturday, December 13, 2008
Breastfeeding Manners Vs. Realities
Dear All,
Sometimes your friends make you think. Well- at least mine often do. I think that is why they are my friends. So, getting into a rip-roaring disagreement with a friend yesterday has provoked me to reconsider my point of view about public breastfeeding.
Classically, I have been extremely offended by public breastfeeding. While I agree that there is no spoken rule about it, I believe that there is very much an unspoken rule against it. Feminists I know think that it is basic misogyny in our culture that makes us uncomfortable with public breastfeeding; this may be true. Many feminists think that there should be laws protecting public breastfeeding. Let me say that while I am definitely in favor of breastfeeding, I still wouldn't go that far. I am a woman; I am a feminist in the classic sense, and I am offended by public breastfeeding. There is nothing bad, or unnatural about it; as it is immodest, it is private.
My friend pointed out that there are certain practicalities involved in lactating, over which mothers have little or no control, requiring periodic evacuation of the mammary glands one way or another. Whether by the mothers' choice or by responding to inner pressure this process occurs, and can be conspicuously messy if not properly cared for. Thus, she said it actually is less conspicuous to breastfeed with a blanket over the shoulder and the baby under the blanket than not to breastfeed under such circumstances.
I found this timing-related argument persuasive because this was something that I hadn't known, but mentioned that there were other options. I pointed out that going to the restroom is a good one. She said that it wasn't practical because of the necessary frequency of feedings. "Hell- I go to the bathroom every couple of hours; what's the problem?" I thought, but I didn't say this. In fact, I didn't know what to say because I have never lactated. I was very frustrated because I was brought up to believe that this sort of thing was just not done, but I couldn't give her any reasons that were more persuasive to her than the argument she had already given to me.
After a night's sleep, I have come to several conclusions. While it is true that I myself have never run into this problem, women have been dealing with it since the dawn of time. Before the 1960s, it was thoroughly unacceptable to breastfeed in public, and yet breastfeeding doubtless occurred. Mothers somehow found a way to deliver the proper nutrition to their infants without breastfeeding in public. So, why the sudden inability to deal with the practicalities of breastfeeding without being able to do so precisely whenever and wherever the infant wants it?
My friend says because her infant will be fed every two hours (or as needed) for the first couple of months, and because she doesn't want to say home for that whole time, that I either better get used to it, or not hang out with her then. I tried the following argument, but was disorganized in my thought, and couldn't get it out before she'd already jumped to a conclusion and started arguing about it. The following is not a perfect analogy because children don't have biological imperatives to have temper-tantrums, but I liken this to situations where children need to be removed from public places so as not to disturb other people. Parents who refuse on the grounds that they won't be kept from their favorite activities just because their kids are being naughty are subjecting innocent bystanders to unwanted stress. It is very stressful to be witness to anything embarrassing or offensive over which we have no control.
I would further point out that it is a biological imperative to excrete waste and clean our bodies. We do these things in private because the processes may be found embarrassing or offensive to others thereby making them uncomfortable. It is a question of intimacy and of not setting personal comfortable personal boundaries.
While an infant's imperative for nourishment is not faulty, the need is a reasonably predictable one. If an hour and three quarters has passed since the last feeding, it's time to look for a private place to do it again. The argument "the kid's gotta eat" is, for the above reasons unpersuasive. Also, regardless of why it makes people uncomfortable, my observation is that it often does. I can't personally justify making others uncomfortable when alternative solutions can be found.
I further pointed out that no one, unless he is a complete jerk, would actually say to a publicly-breastfeeding stranger that what she is doing is making him uncomfortable. This is because not only is she is already coping with a difficult situation, but the infant has a very real need. So, a mother breastfeeding in public potentially puts others around her in an uncomfortable situation about which they are unable to do anything socially acceptable but leave. Others may find this uncomfortable because it makes them feel controlled. I said I thought that public breastfeeding, because of how uncomfortable it might make others, was extremely offensive.
It seems clear to me that there is a wide-spread rebellion against classic etiquette and manners (version 1.0) because they are outdated. That's as may be, but the fact remains: the purpose of manners is not to be snobby or to inhibit others' freedom, but to put others around us at ease. Manners exist to make as many people as comfortable as possible for as long as possible. Manners are other-centered, rather than self-centered. In our customs, we find guidelines about what good manners entail, and we follow our customs to enable as many people to be as comfortable as possible, not push our will onto others.
Customs differ, though. Before we brought "culture" to North America, Native Americans felt no shame performing any biological function in front of others. Today, we bathe, brush our teeth, defecate, urinate and blow our noses- in private. Why do we do these things in private? We do them in private because we have been taught that they are private, i.e., necessary facts of life that don't need to be shared with others. It makes us uncomfortable to walk in on someone defecating; the person himself might be uncomfortable as well. Just because some women have become comfortable showing their breasts in public while breast feeding does not mean that everyone else can, or wants to be comfortable with this. Nor does it mean that we should. As long as we do our daily ablutions in private, why is it a misogynistic act to be uncomfortable with public breast feeding? Why does this make our society misogynistic?
Further, the argument, "don't like it don't look" deflects others' opposition by ignoring it, thus not putting others at ease, and in doing so showing passive hostility toward others. To reframe this: we consider it a crime to urinate or defecate, even in a contained manner, in public. It is called indecent exposure. I wonder, just out of curiosity, how many people would continue to stare if a person were to void his bowels in public. I wonder how many of the starers might be offended. Of those people who were offended, I wonder how many of those people might be mothers who regard defecation as equally natural as public breastfeeding, but who might regard defecation as something to be done in private?
For the above reasons, arguments in favor of public breastfeeding such as "my mother did it", or "people should loosen up" are rendered moot.
Sincerely,
Betsy
Sometimes your friends make you think. Well- at least mine often do. I think that is why they are my friends. So, getting into a rip-roaring disagreement with a friend yesterday has provoked me to reconsider my point of view about public breastfeeding.
Classically, I have been extremely offended by public breastfeeding. While I agree that there is no spoken rule about it, I believe that there is very much an unspoken rule against it. Feminists I know think that it is basic misogyny in our culture that makes us uncomfortable with public breastfeeding; this may be true. Many feminists think that there should be laws protecting public breastfeeding. Let me say that while I am definitely in favor of breastfeeding, I still wouldn't go that far. I am a woman; I am a feminist in the classic sense, and I am offended by public breastfeeding. There is nothing bad, or unnatural about it; as it is immodest, it is private.
My friend pointed out that there are certain practicalities involved in lactating, over which mothers have little or no control, requiring periodic evacuation of the mammary glands one way or another. Whether by the mothers' choice or by responding to inner pressure this process occurs, and can be conspicuously messy if not properly cared for. Thus, she said it actually is less conspicuous to breastfeed with a blanket over the shoulder and the baby under the blanket than not to breastfeed under such circumstances.
I found this timing-related argument persuasive because this was something that I hadn't known, but mentioned that there were other options. I pointed out that going to the restroom is a good one. She said that it wasn't practical because of the necessary frequency of feedings. "Hell- I go to the bathroom every couple of hours; what's the problem?" I thought, but I didn't say this. In fact, I didn't know what to say because I have never lactated. I was very frustrated because I was brought up to believe that this sort of thing was just not done, but I couldn't give her any reasons that were more persuasive to her than the argument she had already given to me.
After a night's sleep, I have come to several conclusions. While it is true that I myself have never run into this problem, women have been dealing with it since the dawn of time. Before the 1960s, it was thoroughly unacceptable to breastfeed in public, and yet breastfeeding doubtless occurred. Mothers somehow found a way to deliver the proper nutrition to their infants without breastfeeding in public. So, why the sudden inability to deal with the practicalities of breastfeeding without being able to do so precisely whenever and wherever the infant wants it?
My friend says because her infant will be fed every two hours (or as needed) for the first couple of months, and because she doesn't want to say home for that whole time, that I either better get used to it, or not hang out with her then. I tried the following argument, but was disorganized in my thought, and couldn't get it out before she'd already jumped to a conclusion and started arguing about it. The following is not a perfect analogy because children don't have biological imperatives to have temper-tantrums, but I liken this to situations where children need to be removed from public places so as not to disturb other people. Parents who refuse on the grounds that they won't be kept from their favorite activities just because their kids are being naughty are subjecting innocent bystanders to unwanted stress. It is very stressful to be witness to anything embarrassing or offensive over which we have no control.
I would further point out that it is a biological imperative to excrete waste and clean our bodies. We do these things in private because the processes may be found embarrassing or offensive to others thereby making them uncomfortable. It is a question of intimacy and of not setting personal comfortable personal boundaries.
While an infant's imperative for nourishment is not faulty, the need is a reasonably predictable one. If an hour and three quarters has passed since the last feeding, it's time to look for a private place to do it again. The argument "the kid's gotta eat" is, for the above reasons unpersuasive. Also, regardless of why it makes people uncomfortable, my observation is that it often does. I can't personally justify making others uncomfortable when alternative solutions can be found.
I further pointed out that no one, unless he is a complete jerk, would actually say to a publicly-breastfeeding stranger that what she is doing is making him uncomfortable. This is because not only is she is already coping with a difficult situation, but the infant has a very real need. So, a mother breastfeeding in public potentially puts others around her in an uncomfortable situation about which they are unable to do anything socially acceptable but leave. Others may find this uncomfortable because it makes them feel controlled. I said I thought that public breastfeeding, because of how uncomfortable it might make others, was extremely offensive.
It seems clear to me that there is a wide-spread rebellion against classic etiquette and manners (version 1.0) because they are outdated. That's as may be, but the fact remains: the purpose of manners is not to be snobby or to inhibit others' freedom, but to put others around us at ease. Manners exist to make as many people as comfortable as possible for as long as possible. Manners are other-centered, rather than self-centered. In our customs, we find guidelines about what good manners entail, and we follow our customs to enable as many people to be as comfortable as possible, not push our will onto others.
Customs differ, though. Before we brought "culture" to North America, Native Americans felt no shame performing any biological function in front of others. Today, we bathe, brush our teeth, defecate, urinate and blow our noses- in private. Why do we do these things in private? We do them in private because we have been taught that they are private, i.e., necessary facts of life that don't need to be shared with others. It makes us uncomfortable to walk in on someone defecating; the person himself might be uncomfortable as well. Just because some women have become comfortable showing their breasts in public while breast feeding does not mean that everyone else can, or wants to be comfortable with this. Nor does it mean that we should. As long as we do our daily ablutions in private, why is it a misogynistic act to be uncomfortable with public breast feeding? Why does this make our society misogynistic?
Further, the argument, "don't like it don't look" deflects others' opposition by ignoring it, thus not putting others at ease, and in doing so showing passive hostility toward others. To reframe this: we consider it a crime to urinate or defecate, even in a contained manner, in public. It is called indecent exposure. I wonder, just out of curiosity, how many people would continue to stare if a person were to void his bowels in public. I wonder how many of the starers might be offended. Of those people who were offended, I wonder how many of those people might be mothers who regard defecation as equally natural as public breastfeeding, but who might regard defecation as something to be done in private?
For the above reasons, arguments in favor of public breastfeeding such as "my mother did it", or "people should loosen up" are rendered moot.
Sincerely,
Betsy
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
Happy Birthday to Me
Dear All,
Well- it has finally happened. I have turned another year older. Today I am thirty-nine. How did I celebrate today? I went to my psyche's office.
First, I was a half hour late. Apparently on the machine, there had been left a message that said I should be there at 10 a.m., but the correct time was 9:30. So, already, right off the bat I have inconvenienced someone.
We are playing with my cocktail of drugs right now because I am too anxious and don't seem to be able to get out of bed unless it is absolutely necessary (i.e., it would be more trouble not to get out of bed than to get out of bed). Now I have four psychiatric prescriptions: Citalopram (for Depression), Bupropion (for Depression), Adderall (for ADD), and now a new one: Remeron (for Anxiety).
Let it be said that I am extremely grateful for these visits. They get me out of bed, and I always feel better with the adjustments to my meds. Still- my next appointment is scheduled for two weeks. Usually I can go six weeks between appointments.
As I told them in the nice lady behind the desk at my psych office, "Today is my birthday, and I have a psych appointment. December 24th is my wedding anniversary, and I have a psych appointment. Every special occasion needs to be marked by a trip to the psych!" I was not being sarcastic; I genuinely enjoy my trips to the psych, so we all had a good laugh. It was good to laugh, even on my thirty-ninth birthday.
Sincerely,
Betsy
Well- it has finally happened. I have turned another year older. Today I am thirty-nine. How did I celebrate today? I went to my psyche's office.
First, I was a half hour late. Apparently on the machine, there had been left a message that said I should be there at 10 a.m., but the correct time was 9:30. So, already, right off the bat I have inconvenienced someone.
We are playing with my cocktail of drugs right now because I am too anxious and don't seem to be able to get out of bed unless it is absolutely necessary (i.e., it would be more trouble not to get out of bed than to get out of bed). Now I have four psychiatric prescriptions: Citalopram (for Depression), Bupropion (for Depression), Adderall (for ADD), and now a new one: Remeron (for Anxiety).
Let it be said that I am extremely grateful for these visits. They get me out of bed, and I always feel better with the adjustments to my meds. Still- my next appointment is scheduled for two weeks. Usually I can go six weeks between appointments.
As I told them in the nice lady behind the desk at my psych office, "Today is my birthday, and I have a psych appointment. December 24th is my wedding anniversary, and I have a psych appointment. Every special occasion needs to be marked by a trip to the psych!" I was not being sarcastic; I genuinely enjoy my trips to the psych, so we all had a good laugh. It was good to laugh, even on my thirty-ninth birthday.
Sincerely,
Betsy
Tuesday, December 9, 2008
Having to Lower My Rates
Dear All,
The exchange rate in the country of origin of most of my students is very bad against the dollar. That country had many interests in Ice Land and in the U.S. My goose is severely singed at this point. In the past ten days, I have lost two clients.
The ostensible reason for one was that the mother had to go back to the country of origin for medical treatment. She pointed to her belly; I don't think that she'd having a baby. Many people from her country eat a lot of fish which can cause stomach cancer. Stomach cancer is as common there as heart disease is here. From the gravity of their expressions, whatever it is is very serious. I am sad for her because she was trying to put on a brave face.
The other I lost "...because the uncertainty of the economy". I am worried that there might be more. So today, I texted the father and lowered my rates. I can only charge what the market will bear, and obviously the market will not bear what I was charging. I have not yet heard back from him. If he refuses, at least I will know that it was not actually because of the economy, but rather from some other reason, which is actually what I suspect.
The other possibility is that I am not doing as well tutoring teenage boys as I used to. We could have arranged sessions for the student with the sick mother if the family had really wanted them. This young person is very nice. I thought that we had a good working arrangement. The boy of the family where I lowered the rates for the father is a silent, unresponsive, often surly young man who smiles rarely. The two young men are friends. I have had a lot of trouble finding the surly one's level because I can't get him to talk to me.
I had suggested that perhaps they have sessions together. This met with no response what-so-ever from the father, who is dismissive and disrespectful toward me, and lectures me about English of which he is not a native speaker. Further, I am concerned for the children in the surly boy's family. I suspect that there may be some other things happening; apparently the father has quite a temper. From their journals, I know that this scares and bewilders the children. The family has now retained my services for the little girl only. I was hoping to provide them both with some support in this time of transition and of financial uncertainty, but I can't do this if I am not working with both of them.
I just wish that my clients weren't so ashamed of their circumstances. If they could tell me more about what's going on, I could help them better. Instead, as a result of these mysterious circumstances, they cut me off. Thus, for me times are tough and promise to get tougher before they get easier.
Sincerely,
Betsy
The exchange rate in the country of origin of most of my students is very bad against the dollar. That country had many interests in Ice Land and in the U.S. My goose is severely singed at this point. In the past ten days, I have lost two clients.
The ostensible reason for one was that the mother had to go back to the country of origin for medical treatment. She pointed to her belly; I don't think that she'd having a baby. Many people from her country eat a lot of fish which can cause stomach cancer. Stomach cancer is as common there as heart disease is here. From the gravity of their expressions, whatever it is is very serious. I am sad for her because she was trying to put on a brave face.
The other I lost "...because the uncertainty of the economy". I am worried that there might be more. So today, I texted the father and lowered my rates. I can only charge what the market will bear, and obviously the market will not bear what I was charging. I have not yet heard back from him. If he refuses, at least I will know that it was not actually because of the economy, but rather from some other reason, which is actually what I suspect.
The other possibility is that I am not doing as well tutoring teenage boys as I used to. We could have arranged sessions for the student with the sick mother if the family had really wanted them. This young person is very nice. I thought that we had a good working arrangement. The boy of the family where I lowered the rates for the father is a silent, unresponsive, often surly young man who smiles rarely. The two young men are friends. I have had a lot of trouble finding the surly one's level because I can't get him to talk to me.
I had suggested that perhaps they have sessions together. This met with no response what-so-ever from the father, who is dismissive and disrespectful toward me, and lectures me about English of which he is not a native speaker. Further, I am concerned for the children in the surly boy's family. I suspect that there may be some other things happening; apparently the father has quite a temper. From their journals, I know that this scares and bewilders the children. The family has now retained my services for the little girl only. I was hoping to provide them both with some support in this time of transition and of financial uncertainty, but I can't do this if I am not working with both of them.
I just wish that my clients weren't so ashamed of their circumstances. If they could tell me more about what's going on, I could help them better. Instead, as a result of these mysterious circumstances, they cut me off. Thus, for me times are tough and promise to get tougher before they get easier.
Sincerely,
Betsy
Saturday, December 6, 2008
Wrapper's Dream
Dear All,
I love to wrap things. I don't know why. I have always liked to wrap things. So, I am the family wrapper. I prefer to wrap things with right angles, but, if I do say so myself, I am an elegant and accomplished wrapper. Here are some of my more interesting wrapping problems and solutions.
Last year I wanted to give my husband something that was very large (3x2x2 ft.). While it was a neat shape, it would have taken quite a lot of paper and a lot of time, which I didn't have. My solution: a huge plastic bag (reusable, I might add) with penguins all over it. My husband like penguins and so he enjoyed the wrapping job and the gift as well. Oddly enough, I don't remember what the gift was, but I remember being proud of the wrapping job.
One of my least favorite things to wrap are things shaped like cylinders. So, I have several solutions. For small things, painting an oatmeal container and putting wrapping paper inside the lid works pretty well, as long as you like oatmeal. Another one is folding the paper in at 60 degree angles instead of 90 degree angles on the ends. The paper lies flat and looks cool. The last is a larger version of some gift card holders; they store flat, but become fairly round. The ends fold in so the from the front, the top and bottom are straight, but the sides curve inward. It makes a neat package, requires no tape, is reusable, and is easy to ribbon.
Last, my personal hell is filled with small items that come on cards, the ones that hang from the walls of stores. Blank newspaper inside wrapped around the item like a submarine sandwich makes the package smooth. The tissue paper wrapped in the same manner around the outside makes it look nice.
It is always nicer getting a gift wrapped by the giver instead of some professional wrapper. Using these techniques, I have enjoyed many fruitful hours of wrapping over the years.
Sincerely,
Betsy
I love to wrap things. I don't know why. I have always liked to wrap things. So, I am the family wrapper. I prefer to wrap things with right angles, but, if I do say so myself, I am an elegant and accomplished wrapper. Here are some of my more interesting wrapping problems and solutions.
Last year I wanted to give my husband something that was very large (3x2x2 ft.). While it was a neat shape, it would have taken quite a lot of paper and a lot of time, which I didn't have. My solution: a huge plastic bag (reusable, I might add) with penguins all over it. My husband like penguins and so he enjoyed the wrapping job and the gift as well. Oddly enough, I don't remember what the gift was, but I remember being proud of the wrapping job.
One of my least favorite things to wrap are things shaped like cylinders. So, I have several solutions. For small things, painting an oatmeal container and putting wrapping paper inside the lid works pretty well, as long as you like oatmeal. Another one is folding the paper in at 60 degree angles instead of 90 degree angles on the ends. The paper lies flat and looks cool. The last is a larger version of some gift card holders; they store flat, but become fairly round. The ends fold in so the from the front, the top and bottom are straight, but the sides curve inward. It makes a neat package, requires no tape, is reusable, and is easy to ribbon.
Last, my personal hell is filled with small items that come on cards, the ones that hang from the walls of stores. Blank newspaper inside wrapped around the item like a submarine sandwich makes the package smooth. The tissue paper wrapped in the same manner around the outside makes it look nice.
It is always nicer getting a gift wrapped by the giver instead of some professional wrapper. Using these techniques, I have enjoyed many fruitful hours of wrapping over the years.
Sincerely,
Betsy
Friday, December 5, 2008
Welcome to the Three A.M. Club, Population: Me
Dear All,
Once again it has come to my attention that I am wide awake. Honestly, I wish I were this awake in the morning. I have energy despite being tired- not enough to bake a cake, water my plants or clean the toilets, but certainly enough to put hands to keyboard.
For some reason I am often unable to sleep at this hour, where as sometime between ten a.m. and two p.m. I must take a nap. People tell me this has something to do with eating too many carbohydrates at lunch. Even when I was a kid I had a dip in my energy level after lunch. Then, however, didn't have the luxury of indulging it. I probably slept better at night as a result.
My cats Molley and Cici are nice company at night. They are warm, soft and unassuming. Right now, Cici is perched on the back of my chair. This is an arrangement we have come to after many hours of her rubbing her face on my hand and stepping all over the keyboard when I am trying to type. The cats have made an uneasy peace. Cici's territory is more downstairs, and Molley's is upstairs. She can be found at the foot of the bed on most occasions, ready to wake me up and walk on me at a moment's notice. Busy kitty. And yet the companionship is very nice.
Through many three a.m.s I have learned about non-verbal communication. The house is silent. Usually I have my ear plugs in anyway. Communication is achieved through touch. There are rules: syntax, grammar, a lexicon. For example, a sequence might occur this way: [call] scratch the top of the head, the back of the neck, ([response] from the cat: rub, rub with the cheek), [call] scratch under the chin, ([response] an elongated neck is produced for better scratching, then about face), [call] touch a paw, ([response] about face rub, rub with the cheek, mouth open). Sometimes this will repeat several times, the order unchanged, then, the cat, sated will lie down at my feet.
My early morning interactions with my cats are very pleasant, and blissfully silent, except of course if my husband is asleep. Then our silent cat, Molley, will make the loudest sound she makes throughout the course of the day.
It's three a.m. Inexplicably, I know exactly where the cats are.
Sincerely,
Betsy
Once again it has come to my attention that I am wide awake. Honestly, I wish I were this awake in the morning. I have energy despite being tired- not enough to bake a cake, water my plants or clean the toilets, but certainly enough to put hands to keyboard.
For some reason I am often unable to sleep at this hour, where as sometime between ten a.m. and two p.m. I must take a nap. People tell me this has something to do with eating too many carbohydrates at lunch. Even when I was a kid I had a dip in my energy level after lunch. Then, however, didn't have the luxury of indulging it. I probably slept better at night as a result.
My cats Molley and Cici are nice company at night. They are warm, soft and unassuming. Right now, Cici is perched on the back of my chair. This is an arrangement we have come to after many hours of her rubbing her face on my hand and stepping all over the keyboard when I am trying to type. The cats have made an uneasy peace. Cici's territory is more downstairs, and Molley's is upstairs. She can be found at the foot of the bed on most occasions, ready to wake me up and walk on me at a moment's notice. Busy kitty. And yet the companionship is very nice.
Through many three a.m.s I have learned about non-verbal communication. The house is silent. Usually I have my ear plugs in anyway. Communication is achieved through touch. There are rules: syntax, grammar, a lexicon. For example, a sequence might occur this way: [call] scratch the top of the head, the back of the neck, ([response] from the cat: rub, rub with the cheek), [call] scratch under the chin, ([response] an elongated neck is produced for better scratching, then about face), [call] touch a paw, ([response] about face rub, rub with the cheek, mouth open). Sometimes this will repeat several times, the order unchanged, then, the cat, sated will lie down at my feet.
My early morning interactions with my cats are very pleasant, and blissfully silent, except of course if my husband is asleep. Then our silent cat, Molley, will make the loudest sound she makes throughout the course of the day.
It's three a.m. Inexplicably, I know exactly where the cats are.
Sincerely,
Betsy
Thursday, December 4, 2008
Why I Hate the Phone
Dear All,
I am not good with my finances. I can't keep my bills straight and I don't have the right amount of money in my account when I need it. The latest fiasco was the cancellation of my homeowners' insurance due to the non-payment of the bill. Understandably, they want to be paid, and I can't do it. It makes me feel like a failure that I never know how much I owe, when I owe, and to whom I owe money.
I have negotiated this obstacle, and we will continue to have this insurance, but I have just been reinstated for the third time this year. I don't know if I can finish my Christmas shopping. I can't even afford to buy groceries tonight. I feel frantic and hungry. My rational mind knows that I am in fact not going to starve. We have ample food in the house. Everything is going to be O.K., however this makes no difference. It is frustrating and frightening.
Did I mention that the phone is ringing? Did I mention that my heart pounds at the sound of the phone? It rings and I want to hide because my family doesn't really call me; we keep in touch through the mail and via e-mail. So, it's never good news when the phone rings. It always means that something is wrong, something I have failed to do is catching up with me, and now I have to fix it; usually, I can't, so why should this case be any different?
I feel alone. I feel unprotected. Worry turns to fright at the sound of the phone.
Sincerely,
Betsy
I am not good with my finances. I can't keep my bills straight and I don't have the right amount of money in my account when I need it. The latest fiasco was the cancellation of my homeowners' insurance due to the non-payment of the bill. Understandably, they want to be paid, and I can't do it. It makes me feel like a failure that I never know how much I owe, when I owe, and to whom I owe money.
I have negotiated this obstacle, and we will continue to have this insurance, but I have just been reinstated for the third time this year. I don't know if I can finish my Christmas shopping. I can't even afford to buy groceries tonight. I feel frantic and hungry. My rational mind knows that I am in fact not going to starve. We have ample food in the house. Everything is going to be O.K., however this makes no difference. It is frustrating and frightening.
Did I mention that the phone is ringing? Did I mention that my heart pounds at the sound of the phone? It rings and I want to hide because my family doesn't really call me; we keep in touch through the mail and via e-mail. So, it's never good news when the phone rings. It always means that something is wrong, something I have failed to do is catching up with me, and now I have to fix it; usually, I can't, so why should this case be any different?
I feel alone. I feel unprotected. Worry turns to fright at the sound of the phone.
Sincerely,
Betsy
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