23rd Year

Jan. 4th, 2010 11:59 pm
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I am 23 today. I am actually 23. I can't believe it.
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Who am I supposed to be, not like you give a fuck about me, but who am I supposed to be? [Hurt]

Since Joe & I broke up, I've been dating around, seeing people, but nothing serious or anyone I'd be willing to have anything beyond fun sex with. I've been afraid to fall in love again & be all vulnerable. I actually dated people to distract me from Joe. I was seeing a guy for a couple months that was seriously gorgeous. Had not an ounce of fat on him, simply because he was an MMA instructor. He's a lot of fun, likes to drink, & sing karaoke. He is a little bit of a tool, however, very ADD-- like, "Ooo! Shiney! Ooo! Squirrel!". He also has a huge amount of energy. Can only really stand him in small doses.

After him, I began seeing a karaoke DJ named Charlie. We'd been friends for a couple of months & I'd known he'd liked me for a while. I am really attracted to Charlie. He makes me laugh, really makes me happy, & the sex is amazing. The only thing I don't want is to be on the receiving end of him being angry. He has no filter between his brain & his mouth, so he can say some pretty harsh things that really cut deep. He's Scot/Irish/Welsh, just like me. I'm really falling hard for him. It's really complicated. Things for me can never be just simple & this time they're about as complicated as they can get. See, Charlie is in love with me too, he just won't admit it. He has this thing against relationships that are "serious". He, as he puts it, is a "no strings attached, no tie-down, casual" guy. I'm ok with that for the most part, until I fall in love. Then "simple" relationships become complicated. Part of his problem with serious relationships is his health. Charlie doesn't have kidneys that work. When he was in his early 20's he caught strep & didn't finish taking the antibiotics, so it stuck around in his system & ended up killing his kidneys. He had a transplant, but it ended up not working out after a while. He survives on dialysis. This does not bother me. At all. It's just a part of who he is. He seems to be a bit embarrassed of his dialysis at times, like when he had a catheter port in his chest, he'd apologize for it & tell me not to look at it. It never bothered me, nor did it get in my way. Same with the dialysis shunt in his arm-- never bothered me one bit, in fact I think it's kinda cool because you can feel the fluids moving through it & if you lay your ear on his arm, you can hear it. It sounds like water through a hose. It fascinates me. Anyway, I think because his health isn't perfect, he's hesitant to get into a "serious" relationship because he may end up hurting the other person by getting sick or, God forbid, dying. He says he loves passionately & gets pissed with the same vigor. I do agree & I think that's another thing. He doesn't want to get hurt, so he's trying to stay emotionally distant. I don't think it's working very well because I'm sure he's in love with me. I tried to stay emotionally distant, but it didn't work. I'm ok with that, I just don't know what's going to happen between us. I haven't told him how I feel either. I don't think we'll cross that line, no matter how much we care. If we were, he'd have to do it first. I don't want to be rejected again.

I always fall for the person that doesn't want a relationship or doesn't want to love me. I always make the same mistakes over & over. I can't live with anyone. I want a long-term relationship with someone who is ok with not cohabitating. I want a relationship that boils down to a very close friend, albeit best friend, with benefits. I do want love & I want someone to love me. I want someone to appreciate all of me. I do not want a husband. I have gotten to a point in my life where I don't see the point in marriage. I've ridden that pony before anyway, & I have no desire to get back on. I don't even know if I ever want children. I know absolutely not now, but I don't know if I ever do. I want my freedom but I want so badly for a loving relationship. I don't know if Charlie will end up being what I want. One of my best friends tells me that he thinks he will end up being "Mr. Longhaul", but that would mean Charlie would have to open his life to a long-term relationship & I just don't know if that would happen. I think strongly it will not, simply based on what he has repeated to me in the past.

Part of me wishes he'd change his mind because I love him, but the other part of me, the skeptical part, knows he won't. I just don't have that kind of luck.

It looks like I struck out again.


Nov. 10th, 2009 09:30 pm
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I had forgotten how refreshed one can feel after taking one day to do nothing but rest & recharge your batteries. I feel so much better.
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I've survived another year. This time, I haven't been abused, not even once-- not hit, not assaulted, nothing. It's sad to think it took 22 years to make me intimidating enough to get assholes to leave me alone. I finally have courage & self-esteem.

I am happy to be alive & whole. I am living in a good neighborhood & I have awesome friends. I'm seeing someone new, but I'm not going to fall in love this time. This time it's something casual & fun, no strings attached, no romance. We're friends & we hang out, but we also cuddle & have sex. Right now, this is what I need. I need a drinking buddy who'll sing karaoke with me (which is my new hobby) & be comfortable with not talking to me every single day, someone who can take my humor & play with me, someone very interested in sex. Right now, I'm content.

My heart is off-limits. I've never made that decision before, but it's what I need right now. I've been on a romantic rollarcoaster for years & I need to just recover from all the shit that I got in return. I'm bitter, I'm jealous, so I'm closed for business, but that doesn't mean I can't still have fun.

My family seems to be slowly piecing itself back together. I visited my mom for a few days this summer & my second mom as well. It was wonderful. I had missed them so much. I am going back for two weeks next year. My sister is back in my life & so is my little brother. She sent me a MySpace message recently apologizing for all the shit & wanting to make up. We did & I'm glad-- I've missed her. As for my little brother, I sent him a Happy Halloween text message & he called me. He was happy to talk to me & said he missed me. He's engaged & seems happy in general. It's so good having them back in my life. I hope things stay pleasant.

I also saw my old pastor & his wife as I made an appearance at the church I used to attend while I was visiting my mother. I actually managed to get through a whole service with very few tears shed. It didn't help that the pastor stood me up in front of the whole congregation in the middle of the service to brag about me & how I work for OHP-- I wanted to melt into the floor. If they were gunning for embarrassment, they were successful.

I also heard from my ex, Brady. The damn juvenile delinquent grew up to be a fireman & paramedic, & is gonna be going to CLEET soon. I was absolutely shocked; he really cleaned up his act. I'm proud of him. I kinda feel like a mother hen. Actually, I don't know what it is about ex's calling me up out of the blue this past year. I had another ex, John, do that a few months back. I guess people are figuring out how great a catch I actually am. Well, that's what I think at least as they all seem like they're trying to get back into my life. I wonder how that actually works. Is it random? Or more like they've been thinking of me all this time...Who knows.

I wonder what this next year is going to bring me. Hopefully continued safety & healthier living.
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Truthfully, things are so-so. I am moving to a new apartment on Tuesday. Hopefully, this landlord will actually heed maintenance requests. My job is going wonderfully. I broke up with Chris the cop because he didn't love me-- I was merely a booty call for him. I decided I deserved something better than that. I did meet Mr. Wonderful, an Airforce man, but he recently broke up with me because he needed to work on his PTSD from Iraq & he said he knew until he worked out his issues, they would ruin any relationship he had. Also, there was a timing issue-- the man is constantly busy with college, & military stuff this year is going to take him away from town for long periods of time-- so that was another reason he gave for ending our romantic relationship. I respect him a great deal for being honest with me & doing what is the right thing, though it hurts so much. I am refusing to let him walk completely out of my life because he is amazing & he makes me laugh like no one has ever made me laugh. We agreed to keep up a friendship & I am confident that after he gets all his ducks in a row, he will be back on my doorstep asking for a date. I just wish that day would come sooner rather than later.

On the negative side, I recently found out one of my friends discovered he is HIV positive. I am trying to be a real friend to him & let him know that this will not deter my friendship with him. I am trying to be a good listening ear, but at the moment he's rather understandably upset, as am I for him.

Things are again confusing & complicated in my life.


May. 26th, 2009 10:31 pm
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Lately, I've been hanging out with my neighbors-- two gay boys-- & they are the bomb. There's this gay club we go to on the weekends to have fun. I never thought I'd enjoy clubbing, but I do. I enjoy getting all dressed up & shaking my hips on the dance floor. I enjoy getting to drink a little & just getting lost in the fun.

I feel so free when I go. I've even gone to the club alone just to forget that I live in the real world outside of the colored lights & dance beats. I stay sober if I'm alone, of course, but I don't say no to a drink if offered, though I only sip at it.

I feel so attractive when I go. I'm never at a loss for dance partners. Ironic, since it's a gay club. The boys seem to flock to me & I usually get hit on by a girl or two. It's nice. Of course, I won't do any more than flirt & dance, but that's part of the fun-- getting to use my wiles to tease. It is so much fun to walk into those crowded rooms & just turn heads by walking by, getting compliments on my clothing & accessories. I've never experienced that before. It's such a boost to my self-esteem.

I am IN-LOVE with Lady Gaga's "Just Dance" & "Poker Face"! I can't stop singing those songs since I've started going to the club. They're so catchy & everytime I hear them I just want to dance & dance! They make me happy. I think I'm gonna go get a copy of her album before my vacation so that I can listen to it all the way down to Texas. Maybe I can find a good club to go to while I'm in San Antonio.

I am all about the dancin'! I wish Fuzzy lived in the city too. She'd love going with me, I'm sure. =D
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I need to learn to break things down & deal with one feeling or problem at a time.

I am lonely. I have established this. I know I'm being selfish when it comes to my relationship with my boyfriend, but I don't know how else to feel. I feel like I'm doing all the work & he's just showing up when he feels like it. I know this is not fair, but this is how I've been feeling lately. I would love to be there for him, to be support, to be able to do things for him, show him I care, but he doesn't let me. He doesn't talk or communicate with me. I never know what's going on in his life because he never tells me. He's constantly pushing me away.

My frustration is being internalized & I think the byproduct is this loneliness. He won't let me be there for him & in turn, he's not really there for me. And I am frustrated.

I feel selfish, but how else am I to feel? I feel like I'm beating my head against a wall & it just refuses to give at all. I don't know what to do, can't do anything, without his cooperation.

I miss him so much. I miss his laugh, his smile, his kisses, hugs. I miss his love of chocolate, Mexican food, & Dr Pepper. I miss the way he smells & feels. I miss watching his brows knit together in concentration when he's looking over his stocks, or how his face lights up & glows when he talks about his daughter. I miss hearing him snore in his sleep, for Christ sakes!

I am hopelessly in-love with him, but I don't know how much more of the isolation I can take. It's so frustrating.
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I am so lonely. Lonesome. Alone.

It is amazing to me how I can be with someone & still be so sad, so lonely. I have no support right now. My boyfriend is off God knows where on another transport; I haven't seen him in over a month & I'm beginning to forget those little things that lovers focus on in each other. My BFF is unreachable as her phone service is off. I can't get ahold of Pastor Tom to talk to as he's probably busy with evening Bible study.
I am still stuck against this wall when it comes to God. I still resent Him for not saving me & showing me mercy to pull me out of my childhood. I am still angry that I had to do it alone & that I had to do it all myself, with no support or real help. Still the same old people taking advantage the way they always do.

I am so cynical, but at the same time, I am regretfully a caring soul. I wish I could be cold-blooded & heartless because I'm sure then the loneliness & pain wouldn't matter-- it would be easy to take out the rage & sorrow on someone else & feel no remorse. I am, however, not capable of such cruelty. I care too much about how people around me feel. I wish I could be nasty, but it's just not in me.

But, back to God. I don't seem to be capable of humbleness before God anymore-- being able to say, "I'm unworthy of Your love." I am worthy of love. I feel it is like taking steps backwards to say otherwise, like I'm undoing all the work I have done to rebuild my self-esteem & come into myself as a woman, no, a human being. I feel as though to say I am unworthy makes all the things done to me OK & they are definitely NOT OK.

I know I deserve love, respect, peace, happiness, prosperity... I deserve a wonderful whole life & all my dearest dreams fulfilled. The things I need, the things I wish most deeply for, are really not so strange. They are what every person needs, dreams about. My one wish? To be loved, completely. I want someone to hold me & love me. The one person in the world that I want this with doesn't seem to be paying attention. Ironically, the ones I love never seem to. I believe that as transparent as they claim I am, I must be a master at masking the things that are most important, burying the things that really matter.

And again, God. I don't know where to start with this. I can't seem to participate in "worship". I feel as though I'm crippled. I wish I had some support in this, someone to hold my hand through it. In my head, my imagination, my ideal, this support equates to a husband, or a relationship on the same level-- someone who would be my best friend, lover, someone to encourage me spiritually, who knows me well. I suppose it's solid support with a good foundation. I don't know where to find that. I feel as though until I have this kind of support I won't be able to get past this wall & allow myself to become close to & accept God again.

I just still don't understand how to embrace a God that allows Daddies to rape their little girls or allows anyone to become damaged in that fashion, allowing people to become so utterly destroyed. I am still so raw on the inside. I don't know where to begin.

I've tried just jumping in by attending a service, but it does nothing for me except make me feel more isolated in the midst of being completely surrounded by people. I see the faces & relationships around me & still feel so jealous of the happy children & teens , the happy couples, the smiling choir. It makes me feel worse. I feel no connection whatsoever to any of this. It's like being numb, completely shut down, like a zombie all over again. I know that I've associated pain & betrayal with religion for so long that I think it's become a trigger. I think my mind shuts down to autopilot so that I can survive until after the service. I can think of no other explanation.

I am sane, but I think I'm still so broken. I wish I could talk to my boyfriend about this, I think it might help, but I don't think I can. He doesn't seem all that interested in what's going on with me, is impossible to get ahold of, & doesn't seem to want to share what's going on in his life with me-- he blames it on being busy, which I don't doubt at all, but if someone is important to me I create time out of thin air if I have to just to shoot out an email or make a phone call. The only person who doesn't push me away & shut me out is Fuzzy & I don't get to see or talk to her very often anymore.

I don't know where to begin. I can't seem to gain insight anywhere. I just seem to push everything down until I'm home alone one day & can't talk myself out of feeling so lonely that I break down in tears. I am tired of crying. I just want so badly to be loved, & to know I'm loved. It does not help if someone does love you but never says so, never reinforces the thought that you're really loved. I need it to be plain. No more games.

Ugh, my thoughts are so confused.
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I am in love.  I am head over heels in love.

I really want this to work out.
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I'm 22 today.  Wow, hard to believe I've actually managed to live this long.  I mean, I've been living in a "warzone" of sorts for years, though the last three have been better than ever.  I've made it this far

I remember a time when I didn't think I'd make it past 17.  I really honestly believed that I would die the year that I was 17, that I would never reach 18, the age of adulthood.  I am ecstatic that I've made it to 22!  I mean, holyshit, no more legal milestones!  I get to look forward to being a-quarter-of-a-century-old, then 30, then over-the-hill!  Hopefully by then I'll be settled happily somewhere with a family of my own.

I always marvel at each birthday I get to.  It's literally celebrating surviving.  I am going to make this year the best one I've ever had!  I'm kicking off the year in an awesome healthy relationship with a wonderful man, a good relationship with my mother & her husband, I have a job that I love, I have a roommate that I never fight with who I enjoy being around-- I've even begun thinking of her as a sister, I mean, hell, we even have the same last name-- things are amazing right now!  Yes, I am working on my birthday, a 12hr shift at that, but I'm OK with that. 

I have my creativity back.  I have awesome friends.  I am so thankful for what I have.  I am alive & I am healthy, finally.  I feel normal.  I have finally taken back my power.  I am finally able to put my foot down & say "NO!"  I am determined & confident.  Though I struggled with body issues quite a bit this last year, right now I am content. 

I think this is the first birthday in a very long time for which I've been happy.  I cannot wait to see what this year holds in store for me!
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I finally finished that piano piece I've been working on.  I've named it P.S. I Love You because it illustrates my feelings exactly in the sense that it's shy, kind of like a hint, but not outright bold like a downright declaration.  I am ecstatic.  I can't wait until I have the chance to play it for the man that inspired it.  

I told him last night that I finished it.  He didn't even know I write music.  I also told him that I also write stories & poetry in addition to music, & can also draw & paint.  He asked me what I painted & I said when I paint, I like to paint landscapes, preferably mountainscapes.  He said he loves landscapes.  He also suggested that I paint the view from his front porch.  I think this is a fantastic idea!  I haven't painted in several years, so I'll have to buy a couple canvases, a palette knife, & acrylics. 

I am so happy that I've been able to get back into being creative.  I've begun working on the story of my life, finally.  I figured, I might as well start now so that I can write out as much as I can before I forget it.  I know I can always add to it should I remember something new.  I think it'll be a therapeutic way of getting everything out.  I actually became inspired to write it out through my Christmas present from my mother this year.  It is a memoire that my cousin Bubba Stahl published this last year.  He's a Baptist preacher in Texas & has been all over the State pastoring different churches.  Right before we moved from Boerne, he got involved in missionary work in Uganda, & that has become a whole separate ministry.  He's now the pastor for the First Baptist Church in Corpus Christi.

While reading that book, I've realized how much I've missed out on.  Both of his boys are grown & married with multiple children.  I totally missed out on that.  It makes me sad that I did, but I'm happy for them.  I also remembered things from my life that I had forgotten, which is why I began writing, trying to remember as many details as I can.

I am just excited to have my creativity back.  It seems like it's been dormant for a while.
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I've always heard Christians say things along the lines of, "Lord, I want to be broken for You," or "I am Yours, so break me."  I never really thought about those words or phrases until a few days ago.  I was listening to a Jars of Clay song that I usually skip over because it's one of those really "worshippy" songs, you know, the kind that are so cliched, so servile-sounding.  In it, they sang a phrase about being "broken on my knees" & it hit me that I'd be willing to bet that most of your run-of-the-mill Christians have no idea what brokenness actually is.

Being broken is a terrible thing.  It is horrifying & I wouldn't wish it on anyone.  Brokenness is not some happy state of servitude-- it is a state of instability, of pain, of torment.  Brokenness is when you're so messed up that you're terrified of being locked up in a mental ward & never being let out.  Brokenness is needing medications just to get out of bed each morning or to fall asleep at night.  Brokenness is not eating to waste away & cutting up your body with a razorblade because you can't feel anything.  Brokenness is knowing that people avoid you because you are what they would call "crazy".  Being broken is eponymous of "Screwed up, used up, crumpled, lying on the floor [Korn]" & "Don't bring me daffodills, bring me a bouquet of pills.[Korn]"  It is not something flowery & beautiful to wish for.  It is "Don't ever tell the world that I don't belong, that I can't ever change my ways, & I can't be strong.[Cold]"  Brokenness is being completely shattered, absolutely crushed, full of sorrow, consumed by misery, immersed in despair. 

I don't understand the prayers of wishing to be "broken."  It is impossible for me to believe that someone who has actually been broken before would ever wish for it.  It is a nightmare that a person lives in waking & sleeping.  You go to bed miserable hoping that sleep might bring some relief, & you wake back in the miserable world from which you tried to escape in your dreams.  It is a cycle of despair because nothing ever gets better.  It goes beyond your run-of-the-mill blues & tarries in the realms of depression.  You become a living zombie operating on autopilot.  You feel nothing but pain.  You sometimes even wish for death.

Even though I've become more comfortable with Christianity, I'm still not able to bring myself to pray anything like this.  I don't want to ever go back to what I lived through.  Things have improved immensley in my day-to-day life & I would never wish to repeat any of the Hell I've lived through.  I am still influenced by my history, in the same way that every person is influenced by their history.  Mine is simply a bloodier history, a history with more tribulation than most go through.  I know that it makes me a special kind of person, a person much better able to deal with the darkest parts of life than someone who has not the experiences that I have.  Yet, I don't dare think that I'm better than anyone else.  I don't think of myself as arrogant simply because I do have the appreciation for the things that I have.  Perhaps it is because I was broken once that I feel this way.  Or perhaps I am arrogant & I simply refuse to believe it.

My experiences have colored me differently.  My fears are more real & much darker.  My biggest fear is being raped again.  It is a real fear, not something that is to be dismissed flippantly.  It has happened to me, more than once.  It is a rational fear, something that is not out of the realm of reality.  I've developed the mindset that if I'm ever attacked again, one of us will end up dead.  I've developed the same determination that most Police Officers have that they are for sure going to go home alive from their shift.  That's my outlook-- when I say one of us will end up dead, I mean it won't be me-- & there's no way that I'll be injured the way I have been in the past.  This fear became a bit more concrete just a few days ago.

Earlier this week, on my days off, I stayed over at my significant other's house out in the country.  I love going out there as it's a beautiful property.  It's peaceful, lots of grasses, trees, gorgeous skies-- both at night & during the day-- though my favorite is during sunset or sunrise.  There's a stock tank with wildlife, a bit of brush, & enough room between neighbors that you feel you have your privacy, yet also have ease of access to contact friends.  His house is on the same property as his mother's house, which is the one he grew up in, only on the other side of a treeline & a couple of barns, & down a hill.  Technically, it's a trailer, but it's a large well-built, very nice one with 5 bedrooms, 3 bathrooms, a dining room, kitchen, laundry room, & living room.  It's very comfortable &, when the furnace is cooperating, can be very cozy.  He has an alarm system installed &, like all country boys, has plenty of weapons at his disposal, not to mention the fact that he's a Police Officer.  This is a fact for which I am beyond grateful-- it has saved our properties & possibly even our lives.

On my last night there this week, we were at home.  We'd just had a wonderful evening together & had retired to bed around 2320.  His Acid Reflux & old back injury were bothering him, so he decided to sleep on the couch, & I slept in the master bedroom.  I was tired, as was he, & it didn't take long for me to drift off to sleep.  Every night I stay there, I go to sleep to the sounds of the family of possums that live under the house scratching around & making noises just under the bedroom.  My significant other has been battling them for months & still hasn't figured out a way to scare them away, outside of shooting them when they wander up onto the porch at night & begin going through the trash.  On this particualr night, I heard them scratching across the house where the laundry room was, though they were louder than usual.  I vaguely remember hearing a thump, & then I drifted away into sleep.

The next morning, I woke up around 0735 & went into the living room to wake my significant other & cuddle for a little while before he had to get ready for work.  We talked & cuddled for a bit, discussing how we'd be working the New Year's Eve shift that night & how busy we thought it'd be.  We watched a little morning news, talked about some of the stories, then he hopped in the shower to get ready to go to work.  I went into the laundry room, which is just off the kitchen, to make sure I'd not forgotten any of my clothes, & to make sure there was no more laundry to do.  The back door in the laundry room was wide open.  I thought, "That's odd.  It's never open."  I didn't touch the door & I retreated back into the master bathroom to ask my significant other if he'd left the door open for some reason.  He was listening to his morning talk radio while showering, so he couldn't hear me talking over the noise.  After getting him to turn off the radio, I asked about the door being open.  He thought I was yanking his chain, that I was full of shit & just messing with him.  I wasn't, I was serious, so he turned off the shower, grabbed a towel, & followed me into the laundry room.  Sure enough, just as I said, the door was open.  He pulled the door shut & saw that a stool that he usually has leaned up against a pole across the yard had been propped against the house.  He threw on some jeans, a shirt, & a jacket, then went outside to sleuth the scene.  He discovered pry marks on the house & door frame, & came to the conclusion that someone had broken into the house during the night while we were sleeping. 

He told me that right before he'd laid on the couch to go to sleep, he'd pulled his uniform out of the dryer to hang it up so it would be ready for work the next day.  He told me that he almost draped it over the back of a chair in the kitchen area, but instead decided to hang it in the doorway between the kitchen & the laundry room.  He told me he thinks that the person broke into the house, saw the uniform, realized a cop lived there, turned tail & ran.  That certainly seems plausible to me.  This is the time that I'm thankful that I'm dating a cop.

Things could have turned out so much worse if his uniform had not been hanging in that doorway.  My worst fear could have become reality again & things could have been even worse as we could have lost both our lives.  I am so thankful that we're both alive & that the only harm was a door pried open.  Ironically, this is the only door that does not have an alarm sensor on it, though it's blocked by the dryer, but obviously can still be opened.  The alarm system had been set that night, but didn't trip because of the lack of sensor.  He told me that he'd heard the same scratching noises & the thump from the laundry room area that I did, but didn't think anything of it as he, like I, thought it was just the possums again.  Needless to say, a sensor is going to be installed on that door promptly, even if I have to pay for it myself. 

If the person who broke in didn't care that a Police Officer lived there, they could have easily murdered my significant other in the living room & then done unspeakable things to me.  I had no way to protect myself.  All of his firearms are in the living room & kitchen areas, & there are no weapons in the master bedroom or master bathroom in the house, with the exception of a pocket knife he left in the bathroom on the counter.  I would have been completely vulnerable.  I have decided that I'm taking my handgun with me when I go there, that way I have a weapon with me.  Most of his neighbors are his family or practically family, & it never occured to me before that this could happen as I felt safe there, even with just the alarm.  I suppose that one cannot be too careful.

My significant other is angry that he didn't get up & investigate when he heard the noises, & that he missed out on the chance to defend his property.  He & the deputy that came to take the report were joking that if my significant other had discovered the intruder, things could have gotten a whole lot bloodier.  Though there is truth to this, I am thankful that things turned out the way they did-- no one got hurt & we, as well as our "stuff", are safe.  I told my significant other this, but he still said he was disappointed that he did not investigate when he heard the noises.  I told him things could have turned out much worse if there had been a confrontation, like he could have been killed or I could have been raped, & that it scared me.  He just looked at me & said that he didn't think anyone could take advantage of me that way.  I guess I need to have that talk with him soon that I've been putting off.  Of course, my attitude is a bit different now than it was back then, but does that really make a difference?

I am dismayed the intruder wasn't caught, but all of the neighbors have been warned to keep an eye out for suspicious persons, so hopefully whoever it was that did this is not coming back to the area.  I certainly hope that whomever it was knows that it's not a good idea to piss off country folk, but I don't think they were really smart enough to consciously think about that.  I can only hope that whomever it was learned a lesson & won't do something this stupid again.

I am so thankful to be alive, I am thankful that he's alive-- we get more time together. 
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I am sad today.  I had nightmares all night again & I woke myself up screaming a few times.  It's been a long time since I've had nightmares of that caliber.  I hate my father for this is because of him.  He took away the first precious moments that I was supposed to have.  He took away my virginity, my first orgasm, my first experience with oral sex, my first pregnancy...possibly my only pregnancy... These are things that are supposed to be beautiful & celebrated & instead mine were painful & shame-inspiring.

My heart is still sick over this.  I've been crying since I woke up.  I feel so violated.  My child would be about 10 years old now.  Perhaps I'm not meant to ever be a mother with biological children.  Perhaps that pregnancy & any others subsequently that I should ever have are simply not meant to be.  I see families with small children & though I find them to be things that make me happy & bring me joy, I also feel pangs of sadness.  What would my baby have been like?  Would they have been artistic or analytical?  Would they have had birth defects or would they have been completely normal?  How would my family have dealt with a child whose parents were blood related?  What about my baby?  Would I ever have revealed who their father was?

Some of these questions are so painful to think about.  The thought that my baby would have been not only my child, but also my sibling is horrifying to me.  If my mother had known & believed the truth, it would have destroyed her.  Perhaps that is why things happened the way they did-- because she could not handle the truth, denial was so much better a cushion.

I want to believe that fathers love their daughters above anything else.  I don't understand how my own father was able to do something so damaging to his own child.  He was a doctor for Christ's sake!  He knew the consequences of abusing a child.  He knew that the child would have a lifetime of problems.  He knew pregnancy was possible.  He knew & he still did it anyway!  Maybe he just wanted one teenager that was so screwed up that he could put on display.  Maybe he wanted a child that he could medicate with an anti-depressant that would make their problems worse to maybe make him feel as though he wasn't the sick one.  Dad did that-- he put me on Zoloft, which only made me more suicidal. 

It is because of my father that I was terrified of oral sex for so long.  It is because of my father that I have sexual dysfunctions.  It is because of my father that I both have a huge fear of never getting pregnant & pregnancy itself.  It is because of my father that I have nightmares that make me wake screaming.  It is because of my father that I have these problems when I open myself up to another person. 

I hate my father.
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I had a flashback this morning after waking from yet another nightmare starring my father as World's Biggest Douche. The nightmare was a surreal, monster-filled, gloomy, humid argument. We were in this strange house in the midst of a storm that was rolling in. My dad was just being an asshole & yelling at me over minute things. I looked out the window & saw these large dinosaur-looking cloud monsters coming towards our general direction & they scared me. I told my mother that a bad storm was coming & she went to a garage-type room & switched the breakers from 5 to 6. She then said she was going somewhere & I was welcome to join her in the car & I could even sit in it while she was inside. My brother piped up saying he wanted to go & she told him no. My dad began yelling again at me over something & I turned to my mother & tearfully asked her to make him stop being a douche. Then I woke.

I don't know what this dream means, but it triggered a flashback to something extremely unimportant. It was around the time we moved to Amarillo. We went to visit someone named Jesse for Christmas. I think Jesse was a woman & was related to us in some way, or maybe she was just a close friend of my parents. I don't know. They used to call their close friends by "Aunt" or "Uncle" or similar, so I have no way of knowing if we were related. She was in her 50's I think & had this house that was an older one-story. All I remember is that it was cold outside, there was snow & ice on the ground, & it was dark. I think we stayed the night, but I'm not sure. I do remember she had no toys except for a couple of board games & we had to play with them in the living room.

This memory is so generic to me. There's nothing negative that I can place, but it came back attached to some very strong feelings of sadness & despair. I don't know what this means. I hate the holidays & I wish I didn't have this problem.
gothicotter: (Default)

Also, new experience--

It feels fucking wonderful when there's someone to miss you.

gothicotter: (Default)
So I have memory problems.  As far as I know, I always have.  It's a problem that is also a symptom of C-PTSD, so if I had problems before the trauma-- which I have no way of knowing-- then the result of the trauma magnifies that problem two-fold.  That fucking sucks. 

I have a hard time making new memories in triggering situations.  For example, I cannot recall statements made during arguments.  Arguments trigger me to dissociate & I cannot remember things that happen while I'm dissociated.  I can remember that I was involved in an argument, & roughly what it was about, & am usually able to know the outcome as the outcome affects the relationship outside the argument, but I cannot remember the "meat" of the quarrel.  I certainly cannot quote back exact phrases the way my ex could & it was an ability he used often to twist my words & arguments against myself, all the while accusing me of not making sense.  In essence, he took advantage of my weakness to make me out to be the crazy bad guy that had no grasp on reality, therefore elevating himself to be in the right all the time.  I know that sounds really petty & cannot be true all the time because I know some of the time I was indeed at fault in arguments, but it was a tactic he used often enough that I began to doubt anything that I thought-- I began to wonder if the thoughts in my head were actual reality or if what he said was the true reality.  Maybe, in an existential Freudian light, both realities are simlutaniously correct as every person makes his own reality, but perhaps that's a concept that is not altogether based on reality.  Eh, it hurts my brain to think about it.

Ironically, I ran into him a couple of weeks ago & told him about my memory problems.  He said he was unaware that I had honest-to-God problems with memory & said he just thought I was being "choosy" on my recollections during arguments.  He seemed horrified that he took advantage of me that way, but I think part of that is because he was in "Please come back-- I love you" mode.  Maybe therapy is doing him some good.

Over the last few years I've been able to recall memories that were "blocked".  I'm finally able to put faces on the people that my mind was protecting me from.  I am finally able to remember every single sexual abuser I've ever had & the situations surrounding the abuse, as well as the probable extent of the abuse.  I'm going to chronicle them right now so that I never have to wrack my brain to remember each one ever again.  They are in no particular order:
  • There's my father.  Every form of abuse imaginable.
  • There's my high school ex-boyfriend.  Rape.
  • There's my ex-husband.  Abandonment, Emotional Abuse, Neglect, Rape.
  • There's the guy that stuck his hands down my pants & groped my breasts while I was engaged.  I was at a party with one of my friends from high school & had some alcohol to drink.  He wanted to have sex & I didn't, & as soon as his hands went down my pants, I got the fuck out of there.
  • There's my ex-husband's best friend who routinely made sexual comments to me that were unwelcomed, stared at me like he was undressing me with his eyes, & then groped me in front of my ex-husband who didn't do anything to stop it & never spoke with him about it.  When I confronted my ex-husband, he simply said, "Dave was drunk."  It hurt that he wouldn't stand up for me & protect me like he swore he would (being my husband & all).
  • Then there's the guy named Ek Ott who sexually assaulted me when I was watching a movie with him at his house & then stole my most prized possession that I had at the time-- my special edition Tekku No Escaflowne Movie: A Girl In Gaia-- which completed my Escaflowne collection.
Before I went to sleep this morning, my mind was racing through my memories.  I've been preparing to tell the man that I'm seeing about my history or as much as I can remember.  There are so many details that I've been able to recall & I've spoken aloud my story over & over the last few days trying to figure out just what to tell him.  If we had the time, I'd tell him everything that has happened, but I am both afraid we won't have the time to have a conversation that long, & that he may look at me differently.  I don't want him to see me as broken or wounded.  I want him to continue to see me in the light of someone who is courageous, strong, & independant.  I don't want him to think I'm insane because I've a psychological illness that makes me a little bit different than everyone else.  I want him to still think of me as a girl who has all her shit together.  I don't want to seem as though I'm not solid.

He's a good person & very understanding, but has one of those crazy ex's.  I don't want to emulate her in any way & I'm afraid that by telling him the full extent of what I've been through I will scare him off.  I've told him so far that my family & I have a bad relationship.  I've told him that my father abused me.  I also believe I told him of my miscarriage.  He also knows of the abuse that my ex-boyfriend put me through as he was one of the many rational voices of friends telling me what I already knew-- that I needed to get the fuck out of that relationship for my own sake.  I suppose the "what if's" are really bothering me-- what if he ends things when I reveal what I've been trying to hide for a while? 

I always joke that everyone is trying to hide their crazy.  However, in my case, it's true.  I have a psychological problem that people who have not experienced real trauma do not have.  I'm always trying to control my triggers & hide my reactions so that I can at least appear normal to others.  I still scream inside whenever I see a woman being attacked in a movie & I'm able to at least keep my reaction down to maybe a few silent tears.  I've been able to mask my reaction to someone coming up behind me unexpectedly by laughing or smiling even though I feel like backing into a corner or hauling off & socking them right in the jaw.  I know I've come far in my journey of recovery, but I also know I'll never be fully recovered, no matter how many years go by.  The only way that I could feasibly see that goal was if there was a way to wipe the memories completely from my mind forever.  Alas, I am not a computer, so wiping my hard drive is not a possibility; it would be nice to install Windows XP though, & maybe get rid of this frustrating Windows Millennium Edition-- maybe I could fix some of the bugs that way.  :P

Honestly, I wrestle with this same dilemma everytime I allow myself to get close enough to someone that it really matters.  I've been able to somewhat distance my "quirk" & my professional relationships, but when they branch into friendships outside of simply "work", then I struggle with whether or not I should reveal why I am the way I am.  I don't want pity & I worry that I change a person's perception of me.  I want to project the best person I can because I want to be the best person I can.  I don't know what to feel other than worry of possible negative outcomes.

I wish I didn't have a secret this big.
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I've not had good experiences with therapists or counselors. Over the years, I've been to several & have had quite an array of experiences.  They've ranged from counselors who don't ask the right questions to counselors who overstep their bounds.  In all honesty, had I not these experiences with therapists, then I would not have discovered that I can better work on my issues on my own than hashing them over for months at a time with a complete stranger that does not understand my thought processes.  When I need help from outside sources, I've the luck to have a close friend or two in my time of need to bounce things off of, but I prefer to confine my healing to my own parameter that I can set boundaries to.

When I was around 14 or 15, my family sent me to a counselor for my behavioral problems. My mother & I did not get along & would often quarrel. Of course, I was the one blamed, as a teenaged girl obviously has authority problems & should ultimately submit to the adult per the belief that one should honor one's parents & all elders as well, scripturally speaking. I never was violent, but the therapy sessions were sparked by my admission to my mother that I had attempted suicide unsuccessfully previously. It was indeed a cry for help, but no one seemed able to give me the kind of help that I needed. Granted, I didn't even know the kind of help that I needed, only that something was terribly wrong & that I was the one who was ultimately suffering.

The counselor, Katie, met with my mother & I several times. She heard of our surface history & came to the conclusion that I had grieving problems associated with my mother's illness. When I was 9, my mother was diagnosed with a benign brain tumor that was inoperable due to its location in the very center of her brain. The doctors said that no matter how they would attempt to access it surgically, there would be brain damage & they felt that it was not worth the risk due to the unknown side effects. Her tumor pressed constantly upon a pain sensing nerve & she had debilitating headaches. It also caused her to develope epilepsy & changed her personality quite a bit. She became almost bipolar in her shifts in attitude. She was put on a bunch of different kinds of medication to try & control the pain & epileptic episodes; the side effects of the various medications didn't help any.  But of course, the fault of our relationship problems & my own depression was MY fault, & outside influences had no bearing upon it. Bollocks

Katie never once asked about abuse, not once was the subject broached. In my adulthood, I've learned that suicidality in a child is a huge red flag & should I have been in her place, I would have at least asked once. I think that if she had brought up the subject, then perhaps I could have been spared some pain & maybe I'd have had the chance to stay with some other family member who would not have been so quick to disbelieve me.  Alas, hindsight is 20/20 & I am left to simply write out my experiences & reasons for making the decisions that I do. 

I did learn a few valuable things from that specific therapist, like how better to navigate arguments & how better to identify the feelings that I had inside my head.  The use of "'I'-statements" have definitely come in handy in better diffusing disagreements.  However, I feel that by her not asking the right questions, which seem to me to be basic ones, that she didn't do her job to help me like she was paid to do.  We saw this counselor for a few months, & then we stopped & ended up moving shortly thereafter.

The next time I had an experience with a professional counselor, I was 17.  It was shortly after my admonition & disclosure of abuse to authorities & the removal of my father from our home.  My mother sent me to the local rape crisis center for counseling, hoping that I could be "fixed".  I had tried suicide several times since the previous counselor & had sunk so far into despair that I was using cutting as a way to feel anything almost every day as I was constantly dissociated; my mother never found out about the cutting that I'm aware of. 

I began going to group sessions in the evenings, as well as one-on-one counseling at the center.  I used to go to these sessions & things would never really go anywhere.  We always got stuck either talking about the same things over & over, or not talking at all.  Whenever I'd be picked up by my mother from these sessions (as my car had been confiscated by my father prior to that Thanksgiving), my mother would always ask about what went on in therapy & if I shared anything, my brother would make fun of me & my mother would make snide remarks.  I refused to tell them anything after that. 

The group sessions were heartbreaking for me.  It was a relief to feel like I wasn't the only one going through this pain & have faces to relate to, but hearing their stories & seeing their tears was something I wasn't ready to deal with.  I was already broken & still immersed in a terrible situation-- it was too much to see these people that I ached to support & console when I knew that I didn't have the capacity to do that when I had so much to work on.  All the energy I had I needed for me & it killed me that I had to be so selfish in order to regain my sanity.  I tried to make friends with some of the girls anyway, but the friendships ultimately fell through as things in all our lives were so much up in the air that circumstances drew us apart & out of touch.

In addition to group therapy, there was the one-on-one aspect.  I began seeing the head counselor, Penny, until she could decide which therapist I'd be best seeing & which one would help me make the most progress.  Ironically, the very day that I finally began to open up to this counselor, she placed me with the only male therapist in the whole building, Phil.  I was uncomfortable at first, but he often sat in on the group sessions, so I didn't completely distrust him.  For a while I saw both Penny & Phil, but then Penny had new clients to look after & Phil became my only therapist.  Things went alright for a few months, but then he began to put demands on me that I felt were outside his scope of authority & I personally felt he should have no concern about. 

I was a chronic insomniac that would stay awake for days at a time & then sleep for days at a time.  I spent my waking hours watching TV, surfing abuse sites, & chatting on the Internet-- doing pretty much anything to avoid going to sleep-- as well as doing what I could to try & spend as much time with my husband as possible as I was terrified of being alone.  Part of my insomnia was due to the fact that he worked nights & I was alone during what I perceived as the scariest time-- a time when I was most vulnerable.  Most of our neighbors were druggies that were his friends, but most of his friends made me extremely nervous, like the one who constantly hit on me & would feel me up in front of my husband who would do nothing.  What sleep I did get was full of violent horrifying nightmares that would often seep into my waking hours & would cause horrifying days of constant flashbacks, body memories, & panic attacks.  I tried holding down a job for about a month, but quit because I could not handle the stress in addition to what I was already going through; I did not keep up with the chores as I did not have the energy to do so-- I had no energy for anything at all.  Most days I didn't even want to get out of bed, but I never wanted to sleep.  It was little wonder that I didn't care about my appearance.  I showered & wore clean clothing-- that was all that really mattered to me if I was to make an appearance in public.

Anyway, this specific therapist took it upon himself to begin imposing a dress code for my sessions.  I felt that it was none of his business what I wore as long as what I was wearing was not offensive.  I never wore anything that was the least bit suggestive or obscene, so I honestly felt that his "rules" on my attire were very inappropriate.  Most of our appointments were in the morning, so most of the time my attire consisted of a big t-shirt, jeans, & flip-flops.  Phil insisted that I wear a skirt & a nice shirt for our sessions & if I didn't show up in attire that he deemed appropriate, he would refuse to see me that day & would turn me away.  He did this one day on a day that I really needed the support because I had recovered a specifically traumatic memory that week & I needed to talk to someone about it-- a memory of being raped by my father that lead to my pregnancy & miscarriage-- & that was the last straw; I was not going to put up with that shit any longer.  Instead of listening to me, Phil made me wait for an hour past my appointment time in the reception area due to a meeting that he had not told me about.  When he was finally available, he took one look at me, told me I was not dressed appropriately & that I needed to leave & come back next week when I could wear proper attire.  He then shut the door in my face.  Needless to say, I did not go back to him.  In fact, I left a voicemail for him in his office since he wouldn't even talk to me telling him that he had overstepped his bounds & I would not be returning to see him ever again.  I kept my promise.

During the time that I first began seeing Phil as my main therapist, my father committed suicide.  That day, Penny had me come in for an emergency session with her & she sent me to a psychiatrist to prescribe sleeping pills & anti-depressants.  He was a fucking asshole.  He asked who my father was, & when I told him, he said something along the lines of "Well, he was a fucking asshole."  Yes, that's true, he was, & I agreed with that man aloud, but I felt that it was not his place to say something so unprofessional.  I was not the least bit comfortable during our one session & the only good thing came from the Lunesta & Paxil that he prescribed.  The Lunesta worked for the first three days, & then it didn't work anymore.  They played with the dosage of the Paxil until it was pretty high, then I ran out of money to afford it & went through the most horrendous withdrawals when I had to quit cold-turkey.  I will never take anti-depressants again for this specific reason.

I also got royally screwed by the crisis center financially.  Prior to going to see the shrink, they informed me that Victim's Compensation would be footing the bill for the session as well as the initial medications so I needn't worry about having to afford the expensive visit.  They told me to tell the receptionist to call over to the center when I arrived & that everything would be taken care of.  LIARS.  I got a bill in the mail for a huge amount of money & so I contacted the crisis center who told me that VC should've covered it & it must've been a mistake.  I called the shrink's office & was informed that I needed to pay the bill as no one had covered it.  I then went to the crisis center & was told that VC had rejected covering the emergency visit in error & it would be remedied soon; they never did anything about it & left the bill on my shoulders, which ultimately ruined what little credit I had.  I had no money at all as I did not have a job & my husband spent all our money on video games.  I am still recovering from that financial "snag".

I do not like medical professionals anyway.  My father is the cause of my phobia & he is to blame.  It was extremely hard to cope with these people that were kinda psuedo-medical professionals (psychiatry) who kept betraying me over & over.  It is no wonder that I have abandonment issues, as I've said time & time again.

A couple of years ago, I thought about getting another therapist.  I went to the preliminary appointment & then the follow up, but then I decided that this was still not the route for me.  I am glad that I made that decision as I really feel that counseling is not for everyone, & that it would have only hindered my progress & not really assisted much in healing, only creating more problems.  I think that most people should at least start with a counselor of some kind, try it out a little, but if you decide it's not for you, then go with your gut.  Find healthy ways to heal & exorcise your demons.  I know I have found good ways to cope & have worked hard for years to become a better person.  I have my lows & I deal with the sadness & anger & flashbacks & all the other symptoms of C-PTSD, but I'm so much improved from how I used to be.  I am mentally stable now, which has been my goal all along-- to feel at least semi-normal. 

I've had people notice my symptoms & strange mannerisms sometimes & it's been suggested that I need to see a therapist by ex's that simply weren't interested in my health but in their own selfish agenda-- using the suggestion of seeing a professional as a thinly-veiled put-down.  I know what works for me & what doesn't & I haven't let anyone tell me what they think is best for me when I know better.  I am very stubborn & I do not compromise when it comes to my mental health.  I have been working on me for far longer than anyone else has & I know how I tick.  I am most definitely the authority on my issues & how to fix them.
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I have a few good memories of my Grammoose.  In fact, most of the good memories I have are ones that include her, like the one I have of being around 4 or 5 years old & picking blackberries on the property in Spring Branch & playing with the neighbor's pet deer, Juicy.  She & I didn't always get along, & many times I found myself jealous of my little brother because he was the one that my Grammoose doted on.  Many times we'd be fighting about something, & she'd always take his side & repremand me instead of him, regardless of whose fault it actually was.  We were very different as she was very conservative & proper & I was more liberal-minded.  One of the good things I remember was her house.

My Grammoose had this house in Boerne that she lived in. It was on our property just behind our house. It was actually a guesthouse, but it was perfect for her with one exception-- it needed a bigger closet. My Grammoose had more clothes than any person I knew. She even had more clothes than my Mamma, though Mamma had her beat on shoes.

Her house was blue & the inside was really like one big room. The bed area & the living room were the same & she separated them by arranging her couch & her little bookcase to kind of cut the room in half. Her kitchen was in this tiny alcove just to the right of the front door as you came in. Her bathroom was on the same side of the house, just in the back corner & then the closet was just to the left of the bathroom along the back wall. The closet was tiny when she first moved in, but that was remedied the first year we lived there because she needed more room for her clothes & various other things she held onto.

She had so many knicknacks & things from her childhood & I used to love to play with the old toys. Most of them were left over from my mother's childhood, but some of them were older than that. There was this pair of Native American dolls that wore teal-colored clothes that I used to love to play with, but I always had to be very very careful. She also had this wooden & glass case that hung on the wall by the front door that had these tiny things inside, like a toy soldier, a thumble, a tiny glass flower. It always fascinated me. 

Her couch was this old paisley-printed thing that one could fold out into a bed; this is where we'd sleep when we visited. Usually when I'd visit, I wouldn't even bother to fold out the bed.  Instead I just laid a sheet over the cushions & crawled under a blanket with my pillow, Mr. Bunn, Otter Buddy, & Bunn Bunn. I remember the house had a tin roof & it got loud when it would rain, but that didn't seem to bother my Grammoose, presumably because she couldn't hear it very well.

In the mornings, we'd have Lucky Charms for breakfast or soft scrambled eggs, toast with honey, & grits.  I loved the way my Grammoose made grits.  She'd put in butter & salt & they just tasted awesome.  I hate grits with sugar in them-- it reminds me too much of Cream-of-Wheat , which I cannot stand to eat, much the way I dislike Spam.  In my adulthood I've tried a few times to make grits the way my Grammoose used to, but they never turn out exactly right.

Going to Grammoose's house was always a treat.  I never turned down a chance to go stay a night with her.  It was always safe there.  No one ever hurt me there.  I knew that if I stayed there, I'd be left alone.  She was the only family member to validate me when she found out about the abuse.  I hate that she lost her memory to Alzheimer's.  I miss her.
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I used to play the piano all the time.  I would sit down in front of the keys & my fingers would find a melody of whatever was going through my head & it would be translated into a song.  Many times, I played the same things over & over, some of which I don't think I'll ever forget, no matter how many years go by without playing them.  Other songs I created & have forgotten.  Some absolutely amazed me that I had written them & now I look back disappointed that I cannot remember them.  I always had hell if I tried to write them out on paper & how I wished at one point in time that I had the software to write into the computer as I played so I didn't have to bother with hand-writing.  Now, I wished I had simply sucked it up & written them out.  I would probably have a binder full of songs had I actually tried.  Though, everything I've ever written sounds so similar because I used the same left-hand pattern, for the most part. 

Sometimes I get bored sitting in front of the keys & I get frustrated that I cannot create something more substantial & complex.  I want to create something so beautiful & haunting that I & everyone who ever hears it will not forget it.  I wish I had more talent in that area.  I am a bit lazy when it comes to applying myself in this way.  I think part of it is a subconscious resentment that I have towards my parents for forcing me to play the piano for all those years.  On one hand, I am beyond grateful that I can play an instrument & have a talent for music.  On the other, I hate being a creative personality because so much was & is expected of me. 

Sometimes I hate my taste in music.  It's so obsessive & complicated & emotional.  I connect to music on such a personal level-- akin to making love with someone you're head-over-heels for who feels the same for you.  It affects me on such a deeply personal level that I am extremely vulnerable & will go a bit crazy until the desire is sated.  I will play or listen to a song over & over & over until I feel like I am bursting with it.  It gets stuck in my head & even refuses to stop when I attempt to sleep.  It's very frustrating.  It plays over & over in my mind until I finally breakdown & play it on my piano.  Most of the time I get so frustrated trying to pick out the melody that I give up all together. 

I cannot write lyrics to go with my music.  I've tried, but it just turns out terrible.  I can write poetry, no problem, but not lyrics.  I wish I could because I've got some songs that would be amazing with the right words to paint the picture of the melodies, but of course, most of those I've forgotten.  Most of my music, however, I can't imagine that they'd be any good with lyrics.  My music is about feelings the way classical music is.  My music communicates feelings the way Moonlight Sonata does-- no lyrics necessary.

Lately, I've been writing this lullaby.  It's actually inspired by my current love, though I doubt I will ever reveal that to him.  I feel silly that I'm writing something for someone without their knowledge.  I honestly would be embarrassed to tell them at all.  I don't even have a name for it, though most of my music I don't name-- I just don't feel it's necessary.  Most of the time, my music has no direction, but this time I've built a melody on a basic pattern of left-hand that I've never tried in this order.  I actually discovered this lullaby whilst playing out a bit of the Beatles.  It just appeared under my fingers & then I began to develope it.  At first, I wanted to communicate longing-- slightly sad & bittersweet-- but it's developed into something deeper, more like being under feet after feet of ocean.  It's like floating away into a wave, but not in the literal sense.  It doesn't sound like a wave, but it surrounds me the way being under a wave would.

I feel silly writing about this.  It is very hard for me to describe this side of things in my head.  It doesn't translate well into words.  But I want so badly to write words right now.  I'm restless.  I have to get this out. 
gothicotter: (Default)
"Music expresses that which cannot be put into words and that which cannot remain silent." ~ Victor Hugo

The only thing that my father & I shared, apart from our feet, is our love for Jars of Clay.  Presumably, he & my mother introduced me to Jars of Clay our first Christmas when we were living in Boerne.  I remember hardly touching the CD because I had never heard of the band.  It wasn't until my father got his own copy of their self-titled album & Much Afraid & began listening to them non-stop that I finally gave it a chance-- they are now my favorite band. 

I love Jars of Clay because it sounds like poetry put to music.  It's the stuff I wish I could write.  It speaks to my soul, my entire being.  It's the feelings & emotions that are in my head that I wish I could project.  Sometimes the words mean more than face value.  Sometimes they are directed to different people.  They are songs about love, songs about sadness, songs about longing, songs about being inadequate, songs about thankfulness.  I love the imagery, especially on The Eleventh Hour album-- that entire CD is basically a love letter.  I have loved Much Afraid & their self-titled album for years & recently picked up a copy of If I Ever Left The Zoo.  I have been listening to this album practically non-stop.  I had forgotten how addicting their music is, especially if I haven't heard it for years-- it's like hearing it for the first time all over again. 

I had to reconcile myself to the fact that everytime I hear Jars of Clay, especially their Much Afraid album, I think of my father, but only the good parts of him.  His taste in music was on par with mine.  He listened to Enya, Beethoven, Don Henley, Jars of Clay, etc.  The only difference in musical taste that we had is that he could not understand my love for Korn.  Korn, for me, is about imagery & raw emotion.  Lyrics have a huge impact on me, as well as beautiful melodies.  If the lyrics paint a picture & the music is haunting, then I am bound to love it.  This is also the reason for my love of Cold-- such haunting lyrics.

I have worked through my issues regarding this little hang-up on my musical tastes.  I am happy to say, this I have reconciled.  I just hope that my father understood the lyrics in the way I do.  I wish that he'd only seen it from my point of view.  Then perhaps, he could've understood me.
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