In Some Ways...

Last night, my therapist asked me to read this poem aloud to her and to Seth. She said that when she read it, it reminded her of me. I must confess to tearing up while reading it, and today I have found myself thinking of it several times.

I think it is by Leo Ralston - I've found it all over the internet, credited to various people but usually to him.


In some way, however small and secret, 
each of us is a little mad.
Everyone is lonely at the bottom and cries to be understood. 
But we can never entirely understand someone else. 
Each of us remains part stranger, even to those who love us.
It is the weak who are cruel; gentleness is expected only from the strong. 
Those who do not know fear are not really brave, for courage is the capacity to confront what can be imagined. 
You can understand people better if you look at them -- no matter how old or impressive they may be, as if they are children. 
For most of us never mature; we simply grow taller.
Happiness comes only when we push our brains and hearts to the farthest reaches of which we are capable. 
The purpose of life is to matter, to count, to stand for something, to have it make some difference that we have lived at all!


Beautiful sentiments, no?

dream: bombs in bananas, italian villas

On a trip to Italy with some friends. At the airport, all my companions go through security with no problem but suddenly I am setting off all sorts of alarms. I had packed very hurriedly, but was still stumped as to how I could be setting off the alarms. They check all my possessions and clear them – then make me do this humiliating search… I have to do a sort of “duck walk” involving squatting near the floor and extending one leg at a time. But I’m wearing a skirt and no panties underneath, and am desperately embarrassed at the thought of being exposed by airport security in such a way. Somehow I am just barely able to avoid being discovered, and they eventually wave me through, convinced I am not concealing any weapons after all. (Later in the dream, I realize that someone back home had planted a bomb inside a banana I had in my backpack. No joke. There was also a cucumber in my pack. I refuse to consider the phallic implications here.)

Fast forward to a café – I think in the Italian airport. My companions have already ordered while I have been searched. I take a really long time to order, and eventually settle on something…really wish I could remember the name but it had something to do with Moon Cheese Milk Pie, and was some sort of crazy sweet/savory coffee drink that sounded amazing when the woman described it to me.

…and then we are in a villa or house or something – and I think there are 3 or 4 couples of us. One of the couples is S’s sister and her husband; though in reality they have only been married a few months and have no children, in the dream they have this beautiful daughter with this mystical-magical aura. She is otherworldly. Everyone is in varying degrees of awe of her.

Everything is going along great until the conversation shifts to our relationships. S and I had been avoiding talking about our relationship, but at some point one of us just begins talking. Soon everyone is uncomfortable; I feel an overwhelming sense of being judged…I feel oppressed and blamed and just…. Forever on the outside. I storm off, embarrassed and angry and confused. I look for our bedroom. The bedrooms in this place are crazy – I walk up this spiral stairway and find 3 separate bedroom doors; one on each level. Each door is covered with fabric and there appears to be only a very small circular opening, like a doggy door, toward the bottom of each door. The lowest bedroom has the smallest circular door, and I immediately know that even the biggest opening will not be big enough for me. This adds to my feelings of self-hatred and overall miserableness, and I continue to feel sorrier and sorrier for myself, and angrier by the moment. Eventually I realize that if I reach under the fabric covering the doors, 

I can still open the full doors themselves, thus bypassing the little circle openings.

I choose the middle bedroom. I drop my gear and begin wandering. The room is decadent, and goes on and on, a maze of room after room. There is this kitchen with live seafood and all sorts of fancy stuff. Bunches of fresh grapes and lovely cheese. I continue wandering, and apparently strip naked as I do so. As I finally reach the end of the maze of rooms, I hear that one of the other couples has come into the 

apartment. I grab a towel but it is nowhere near large enough to adequately cover me.

It’s S’s sister and her husband, and their daughter. Rather than feel the reverence for the daughter I’d earlier felt, I am overwhelmed with resentment and anger and … not hatred exactly, but just… anger and self-hatred. I storm at them, trying to stake out my territory. They are entirely unsympathetic, which makes me angrier and sadder.

The next thing I remember, I am shopping for clothes (something I hate in reality). I remember this shopping trip in eerie detail but am not going to bother with all of those – writing about shopping bores me even more than shopping itself.

Dream: Riding in the Outback, Deciphering Happy Meal Toys

Scene: I’m in the cab of a truck in the Australian outback. I am sitting on the left side, Indy is on the right side, and some “old dude” is in the middle driving, where the steering wheel is. I kept wondering why the steering wheel was in the middle, and feeling a bit uncomfortable; there is my best friend, sitting a few feet away finally, and there’s some old dude between us! Occasionally Indy gives some directions to the driver. I feel too large, like I’m taking up too much room. If I close my eyes, I can picture the grittiness and dry heat of the day; my tanned thighs warm on the cracked green leather, short cutoff jean shorts fraying right where my legs are the softest. Trying to shift so that my bare legs are not pressing so much against the driver, and failing.

A little while later, I am in the back seat of another pickup. I think Indy and the old guy are up front. I am squeezed between the right edge of the cab and a young guy. We all have Happy Meals from McDonald’s. I am ravenous and only interested in consuming my french fries, but the guys are all absorbed in trying to solve the mystery contained in the happy meal toy. While all of this is going on, I alternate between eating my fries, inserting suggestions into the conversation, and then mightily farting. Yeah. Apparently I can’t help it. It’s a dream! Every time I fart, I look nervously at the young guy sitting so close to me, embarrassed and ready to pretend someone else did it, but he never pays any attention. On the happy meal toys, there’s some sort of code or riddle; once again, if I close my eyes I can see it almost perfectly. One sheet of paper has symbols on it – then there is the key which deciphers the code – each symbol represents a letter. They decipher enough that they know that RCA is one of the clues. I am excited and want to tell them that there’s a famous “RCA dog” (is this true? Will google to find out), but right about this time, something is pulling me away from the dream, pulling me out of it. I resist, wanting to continue eating my french fries and wanting to know what the code is all about, but then I am waking.

Ah - Google tells me this is Nipper the RCA dog, which I don't recall ever having seen before.

26 January

Feeling confused, helpless, lost. Repeating patterns all the time. Want to go somewhere and be all alone with no one making demands of me. Want to disappear, escape. Afraid of these feelings and what they might mean. Last night after therapy I imagined myself leaving Seth and stopping with therapy with Tracy. Just want everyone to leave me alone. Want to just curl up and watch tv and read books and have a simple life alone.

Afraid of everything falling apart. Still having nightmares about the museum. Dr. Braden still hasn’t called me back. Too many balls in the air – need to call Dr. Shepherd and see about switching off the Zoloft.

Dream: Justin Bieber is my dentist & pedicurist...?

This is a dream from a few nights ago - somewhere around 11 January 2012.

In reality, I have almost no awareness of Justin Bieber. I mean, I'm aware that he exists and is strangely popular, but I have never listened to his music and know almost nothing else about him. When I encounter references to him in pop culture, I try to just filter them out.

...which makes it all the more strange that he featured so prominently in this dream.

The dream begins with me in the very posh waiting room of a dentist. (Apparently I have been grinding my teeth at night, which is highly unusual for me, and clenching my jaws, so it's not terribly surprising that I should have a dream about going to the dentist.)

I can almost picture the waiting room now. It is all very rich & luxurious. I am nervous (as always, when at the dentist) and trying to read, when the dentist walks out to greet me. He looks like a grown-up and more masculine Justin Bieber. I openly express astonishment - "You're Justin Bieber!" - and he sort of blushes, scuffs his toe, and says that most people aren't aware that he's secretly a dentist even though he's only 19. (In reality, he's not nearly that old, is he?)

He kneels down and begins inspecting my toes. (Yeah, I know.) This part of the dream is more hazy, but I think he does something to each of my toes, which makes me rather uncomfortable.

Next I am being led into a large room with two rows of water massage chairs... sort of like the chairs that some salons have for pedicures, but there is also actual deep water sort of surrounding the chairs, and it's like a giant wave pool. I am told to take a seat, but am intensely uncomfortable at the thought of passing so closely to the other people in the chairs. From here the dream becomes more hazy and fragmented. I think there is a struggle - both physical and emotional - and I also see fragments of myself in an exam chair with Justin Bieber prying open my mouth. Not so pleasant...!

Maybe

maybe (1995)

Does it seem your past embraces you more
than you embrace it?
It not only embraces you; it
stretches thinly upward to grapple
against your throat--

a malignant reminder of lives past.
You close your eyes and stroke your own hair,
hope you won't suddenly remember
some memory of someone you
didn't want to forget
but had to.

You screw your eyes against vulnerable vision,
against anything you once loved.
If you had known at the beginning of love
that it could break without your permission,
you would have died before taking the chance.

Take a deep breath, then, don't inhale any
breaths of those you have loved.
Maybe if you hold your breath through life...

170 Pounds

170 Pounds (1998)

Now will be the first time
I speak
about a scale which reads 170 pounds.
I'm sure in some twisted contexts
or
in some vastly different cultures
these pounds
would have entirely different
meaning.
But on this page of this girl's life,
and in this culture of mine,
the meaning is always
unavoidable.
And if I were a much stronger me,
I might spit on that strange mirror
which was given to me
before
I could choose my own.
And sometimes,
when I am alone,
these bulges and rolls
comfort me.
Then
I am not ashamed
as long as my eyes
are closed.

Farewell October

Farewell October (1999)

the leaves are falling on my missouri,
and my reverence for october is falling too.
i'm constructing a slow goodbye to all
i've ever known, and wonder if it knows me or
if i've just been a lowly tenant here, a mere
scuff on the vinyl of this earth, an accidental litterbug
just another oxygen eater.
i used to help my mother in the garden
and coax the tomatoes to grow, just enough
for an occasional sandwich, but to hell with the rest.
summers my brother and i went out with a scythe
and sliced paths into the forests around us,
slivers of exploration, a tiny preparation for today.
five years ago i wrote words of october brilliance,
basked in the sensuous smells and dampness of
the coming cold, loved october for its wistfulness,
delighted to jump into piles of just-raked leaves.
now i wonder what else october may bring me,
since i've given words to it.
will it give me a warm farewell with the wave of a fiery tree,
or will it just sadly wilt away, browns turning slowly to sticks

October 1993

October mornings,
golden as our waking embrace,
chill our heat as day begins.
October afternoons,
warm and crisp as the
smiles on our souls,
entwine us into her falling colors.
October evenings,
cool as only my wrist on your brow,
welcome us into the darkened autumn.
October nightfalls,
damp as our restlessness,
invite us to stay until morning

Grape Nuts Dream #1

Eating Grape Nuts for dinner seems to provoke the oddest dreams for me.

29th April, 2003

Scene:

In the house where I grew up, huddled inside the tiny library outside my old bedroom. I am with my fiance (hereafter referred to as "S"), and we are Jews hiding from the Nazis. I am terrified and afraid to move or make any noise. The Nazis are in the house. S isn't as scared, as he's escaped before, and instructs me to write my name on a piece of paper hung on the wall. As often happens in my dreams, I cannot see very well, so, squinting anxiously, I scrawl my name across the paper.

"You wrote it in the wrong place!" S admonishes me, and shows me where I should write my name. It appears to be a list of Jews who want to escape, and we have written our names at the bottom, under the category of "seriously impaired or wounded". S tells me that I must pretend that my finger is broken so that I can qualify for this elevated rescue status. In reality, my shoulder is severely wounded but for some reason he thinks my finger being broken will be a better story.

I stare at the door leading from the library to the attic, which has a Scooby Doo sticker on it (in reality as well as the dream, which has been there since I was 4 years old). I hear the Nazis blazing through the house, slamming doors open and shooting into hallways. I try not to tremble and prepare myself for dying. I think, "it's been a good life," and try to imagine what it will be like to see the gun and the man's eyes for a split second before seeing nothing at all. I wonder if there will be any pain. I am so scared I have gone numb, probably into shock.

Suddenly a man appears at the window of the library. He's black! S and I stare, dumbfounded, then finally I sputter, "You're not a Nazi!!" and he laughs, then seriously stares at us for a moment.

Here is where it gets more blurry. The BlackNazi is on a search for people to kill, but not Jews. He's looking for "grops" (this may have been a different word but I know it was one I'd never heard before). After determining that we were not, in fact, grops, he allowed us to go. I desperately wanted to know just what grops were, so that I could make sure not to be one, but S silenced me.

The next thing I'm aware of is that I'm back home with my Mom & Dad, standing in the kitchen peeling grapes with my mom. I start to say something about the grops, but she cuts me off, saying, "Oh honey, you're still thinking about California and Florida, aren't you? Honey, they are just completely infested with rain forest now. It's time that you just forget about them." By this, I know that we are no longer in America, but everything else seems the same.

We continue peeling grapes, and I continue living in fear of becoming a grop, which no one will tell me about, but anyone will kill.

why are you looking at me, and why am i showing you?

This is an entry I just found from one of my old blogs, from a little over 10 years ago. I am nearly shaken at how relevant this feels to me (and has felt) over the past few months.

- 8 November 2001

why are you looking at me, and why am i showing you?

After years of near-unabashed, enthusiastic exhibitionism, I now fluctuate between playful exhibiting and fearful hiding. Mixed in with this is the late realization that people can use my openness against me. This is what people have told me for years, shaking their heads at my apparent lack of concern, me gently laughing at their fear of the Internet, gently poking fun and teasing them with bits of knowledge I’ve shared with thousands of strangers over the years.

And then it happened. I’m not sure if I can pinpoint a place or time, but at some point the line between online and real life interactions became blurred, and I felt as if there was no place I could go to escape… except within myself, not writing or sharing those bits of myself which I once felt so compelled to do. And why? Part of it is that my own awareness of ego started disgusting me. The fact that people sought me disgusted me, because it didn’t feel genuine, and then I no longer felt genuine. It was too easy to charm people, and once I saw that it was then too hard to respect those who were charmed. Does any of this make sense? Is this just more of the same self-conscious rambling I’ve been doing for years?

How to get past that, then… and why? For if we don’t know the reasons for doing what we do, then the doing seems either pointless, or like lying to ourselves.

It doesn't really matter. I will continue to act largely as my whim dictates; in that way I am very much the same as I have always been, but I will no longer operate under such innocent and romantic notions as I have in the past. Just please, do not think that you can truly know me simply by reading what I have presented here.

Change is coming, I hope.

Today has been a rough day. I sat here for bloated minutes, staring at the blankness of this rectangle; began typing, deleted. I opened new tabs and initiated new Google searches on topics relating to my distress. I started to write a poem; it laughed at me with its inanity.

Today I have acted like a child. I have demonstrated a shocking lack of impulse control and temper. I have cried and ached and hurled my body against itself in a futile effort to calm the storm within.

Today is the first time in years I have written a blog entry. It's the first time in many months I have felt those old, once-familiar stirrings of creative energy that used to demand to be let out. Fragments of a poem or song, just a few words, haunt me around the edges of my conscious thought. For now, this trickle is all that remains of a once-bursting stream of creativity.

Once again I am avoiding writing, talking, or acknowledging that which is causing me the most distress. I am distressingly good at putting a good spin on things; in my head, I call it my "mask of okay-ness". Yeah, really creative.

Grayson. I love him. He is an inspiration; he is a smart and funny and sweet child. He is remarkable in so very many ways. I can (and have) written many a paragraph about the funny and sweet and silly things he says and does. What I haven't talked about is that feeling of helplessness and frustration... many parents feel this, yes, but at times those feelings have threatened to swallow me up and consume me whole. Today, it all got to be too much for me. I cannot continue the way we have been going. Something has to change - it is up to us to find a way that will work.

I think that's all I can really say about this now. Tears have a way of blurring things and making it a bit harder to see this once-blank space.