I was in Austin for a conference. One night my colleague and I were looking for something to alleviate the boredom of the endless round of meetings and workshops, so we went exploring.
I saw him across the room, in the nightclub. He looked lost. I have lost soul radar, and it was going nuts. I walked over to him and said in his ear, "you look lonely... want to join us?" He was drunk, of course. He told me later that he'd been drinking steadily for a couple of hours, maybe more. He'd been with some friends, all of whom paired up, leaving him alone. I didn't know that. All I saw was a man in a shirt and tie, bespectacled... I have a weakness for men in glasses. Especially cute men in glasses, and he was cute.
I brought him to our table. He sat down, and I introduced him to my friend. "This is Ken... I invited him to come have a drink with us." He asked what we were drinking, and promptly bought a round.
He was sweet, and gallant, even when he was drunk. A real estate broker by profession, he was a Southern gentleman by upbringing. He opened doors for us, and took my elbow as we walked back to the hotel proper. I suspected that was less chivalry and more lust, a suspicion confirmed when he leaned in as he opened the door, and I felt his breath on my neck.
This was the point, of course, when alarm bells should have been going off... but there were none. I have a pretty decent grasp of character, and I've learned to go with my gut feelings. I didn't have any bad feelings about him.
He walked us back to our suite, and after conferring with Sarah privately (thank god for sign language) we invited him to come in. We had a little seating area, and the three of us started out chatting. Sarah quickly tired, and took her leave to climb in bed. Ken and I stayed up for a couple more hours, talking about everything, touching each other casually, and finally kissing, until I was sure he was sober enough to drive home.
He promised to come to the hotel bar the next night, as he reluctantly left.
I spent the day waiting. Anticipation is powerful, someone once told me. I felt that power that day, in the midst of my meetings and presentations.
That evening, Jane and Chris came to the bar with me. Deaf women, both, they were a lot of fun, and I didn't worry overmuch about how they'd feel about my flirtation with Ken. Besides, I didn't even know if he'd show up... so why worry about it?
He showed up.
What followed was a fascinating evening. The two women were pacifists to the core, and then there was Ken. He was... not a pacifist. Let me put it this way: at one point, he mentioned something about bombing Iraq and killing every man, woman, and child. I spent most of the evening interpreting between the three; by the time Jane and Chris said their goodbyes and went to bed, I knew what I wanted.
So, when he "whispered" to me that he wanted to take me back to his house... I was ready.
Of course it was stupid. Of course I shouldn't have gone. I kept waiting for those alarm bells... they remained silent all through the drive to his house. He touched my leg in the car, maintained contact nearly constantly. The tension between us was palpable, anticipation made flesh.
Once we arrived at his house, he seemed a little less sure of himself. He gave me a beer, and showed me around a bit. Me? I was nervous as hell.
We sat on his couch, close together. He reached out to stroke my hair. I turned to him, and he kissed me with surprising force. I melted. Tangled together, we made out on the couch like teenagers, until he sat up and said, "Can we go upstairs?"
My nerves returned, but I nodded. He took my hand and led me upstairs. He stopped in the kitchen for a second and grabbed a bottle... I didn't see what it was, but I assumed it was alcohol. God knows I needed the drink... I was a bundle of nerves.
His bedroom. His bed. It was high, so high... more than waist-high on me, at least. He kissed me, again with the force and authority that made my knees weak. I reached down to touch him, to feel how hard he was, and sunk to my knees, pulling his pants down as I went. He let me explore with my tongue for just a little while, his cock buried in my mouth. He pulled me up and kissed me again, as he eased me up onto the bed. Before I knew it, his lips were wrapped around my nipples, and my clothes had disappeared, as had his.
There was a surreal quality to every moment... the play of light and shadows, the slight intoxication, the nerves and adrenaline and arousal all combined to create a dreamlike scene. His tongue and fingers brought me to climax and then he left me lying in the bed, my breath coming hard and fast. He was gone for what seemed like several minutes; in reality it was probably less than one. He came back and showed me the condoms he was carrying. I smiled and started to turn towards him, but he gently pushed me back and closed my eyes with a kiss. I felt, rather than saw, him reach for something... and then I felt it.
Oil. Not just a little bit of oil, poured into the hand for a massage. No. Oil, silken and sliding over my stomach, running in rivulets towards my cunt, pouring over my breasts and pooling at the base of my throat. Oil, and his hands... his fingers brushing over my clit and moving down my legs. Spreading oil down my thighs, my shins, rubbing it between my toes. Tracing a path back up my body, pouring more on my breasts just to push it out onto my arms, through my fingers. Not rubbing it into my skin, but making certain every inch of me was slick, slippery as the fingers he'd buried in me minutes before.
I lay there, every nerve in my body at attention. He made one last pass over my body, throat to toes, and then sat up on his knees. Sitting astride, he poured oil over his chest, and I watched as it slid down his body, his hands pushing it down and around his hips, his thighs, his cock. And then he slid, really slid, down onto my body.
No words. Sensations and dreams. Appetites. Passions. Body against body, slipping and sliding together. It was that night that I really understood the meaning of the word "sensual."
We slid together until the wee hours of the morning. I fell asleep for a little while, the hot scent of sex and oil in my nostrils. I woke to him watching me in the near-dark of pre-dawn, and told him, "I have to go."
As I walked into the lobby of my ritzy hotel at 4am, my hair greasy, a sheen of oil still on my skin, I felt dirty... dirty, naughty, excited, hot. I lathered up in the shower before sliding into my own bed. I smelled how hot I still was, smiled, and rolled over to snatch a few hours of sleep before I had to get up and give a talk on self-care. Little would my colleagues know how much self-care I'd been indulging in the night before...
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
Friday, July 27, 2007
State of the G (x-post)
Physical:
Went to the doctor yesterday for the third time in a month. He's convinced I have bronchitis (which, really, means "well I understand you can't breathe, something unspecific is clogging your lungs, but I don't know what it is exactly, so here... have some more drugs"). I'm on a five-day regimen of Zithromax (which I love, since it's FIVE days, and ONE pill per day, as opposed to ten days of fucking horse pills twice a day), and he gave me a prescription for Robitussin with codeine. Which doesn't seem to do much for me at all, dammit. I was all excited to get the "good stuff" yesterday, but it did very little to either alleviate my symptoms or make me high enough ot not care. Bah. What's the point of drugs if they don't make you feel good one way or another?
Emotional:
Really. Fucking. Tired. of being sick. This is my fourth full day home from work; this is, quite frankly, a record. The longest I've ever taken off work (or school, with the exception of when I lost my hearing at age 6) for sick leave, in my entire working life. I kid you not. While I am, essentially, a lazy person, I'm incredibly sick of this forced inactivity (forced by the fact I can't BREATHE).
Brett... I just cannot wrap my head around this kid. Well, no, that's not entirely right. I CAN. I just don't know how to fix it, or rather how to help him fix it. There is just something missing in this child, some form of impulse control. He truly seems to lack the ability to consider how his immediate actions could affect him in the long term, whether positively or negatively. Never mind how it will affect anyone else around him... that's beyond his ken.
I know teenagers are, essentially, self-absorbed. I get that. I WAS one. I've raised two, and now I've got a third. But this goes beyond that "normal" self-absorption straight into "something is wrong."
At any rate...
In GOOD news!
I'm reading Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell. Yes, I am behind in the times. Sue me.
I have a VIDEOPHONE! At long last... I'm like a kid with a new toy. Hell, I AM a kid with a new toy. I want to call EVERYBODY. And I can't wait until Meredith is home so I can chat with her! Yes, I AM pathetic. Deal.
I do believe I'm going to go climb in bed and read... or convince Paul to turn the TV around so I can watch a movie from bed...
Went to the doctor yesterday for the third time in a month. He's convinced I have bronchitis (which, really, means "well I understand you can't breathe, something unspecific is clogging your lungs, but I don't know what it is exactly, so here... have some more drugs"). I'm on a five-day regimen of Zithromax (which I love, since it's FIVE days, and ONE pill per day, as opposed to ten days of fucking horse pills twice a day), and he gave me a prescription for Robitussin with codeine. Which doesn't seem to do much for me at all, dammit. I was all excited to get the "good stuff" yesterday, but it did very little to either alleviate my symptoms or make me high enough ot not care. Bah. What's the point of drugs if they don't make you feel good one way or another?
Emotional:
Really. Fucking. Tired. of being sick. This is my fourth full day home from work; this is, quite frankly, a record. The longest I've ever taken off work (or school, with the exception of when I lost my hearing at age 6) for sick leave, in my entire working life. I kid you not. While I am, essentially, a lazy person, I'm incredibly sick of this forced inactivity (forced by the fact I can't BREATHE).
Brett... I just cannot wrap my head around this kid. Well, no, that's not entirely right. I CAN. I just don't know how to fix it, or rather how to help him fix it. There is just something missing in this child, some form of impulse control. He truly seems to lack the ability to consider how his immediate actions could affect him in the long term, whether positively or negatively. Never mind how it will affect anyone else around him... that's beyond his ken.
I know teenagers are, essentially, self-absorbed. I get that. I WAS one. I've raised two, and now I've got a third. But this goes beyond that "normal" self-absorption straight into "something is wrong."
At any rate...
In GOOD news!
I'm reading Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell. Yes, I am behind in the times. Sue me.
I have a VIDEOPHONE! At long last... I'm like a kid with a new toy. Hell, I AM a kid with a new toy. I want to call EVERYBODY. And I can't wait until Meredith is home so I can chat with her! Yes, I AM pathetic. Deal.
I do believe I'm going to go climb in bed and read... or convince Paul to turn the TV around so I can watch a movie from bed...
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
x-post... crappy fucking day.
I am home for the second straight day with SOMETHING trying to eat my fucking lungs. I cannot breathe. Seriously. When I take a breath it feels like my lungs are full of water.
The worst part of this is, I've BEEN to the doctor, I'm finishing up a round of antibiotics (one more day). I'm sicker than I was when I went to the doctor in the first place, so it's obviously viral.
I have been taking drugs like there's no tomorrow, and laying off the drugs, and trying just about everything I can think of to clear my chest, to no avail. Expectorant, decongestant, cough medicine, etc etc etc... nothing works. This is making me very, very uncomfortable, to say the least. Climbing the stairs from the basement leaves me winded.
One interesting tidbit about this: my lungs are so full of crud that every time I take a breath it feels, to me, like there's something rattling in my lungs... I was sure that was audible to anyone near me. Paul said not so much, and was a bit shocked when he put his head on my chest and heard my breathing. I guess it's one of those deaf things... things I think would be really loud turn out to be inaudible to other people, and things I think are quiet make people stare at me. There's just no figuring it out.
Second crappy thing about today: I impaled myself on a pointed, sharp corner piece of a large basket I have in my living room. Seriously, it's like a stake. And it went straight into my upper thigh, right through the jeans I was wearing and into the flesh. Puncture wound, ahoy!
Third, and most sickening...
Last night I was going through mail and I found a letter from Child Support Recovery stating that I had to pay back $150 that was mistakenly transferred to my account (this is money *I* paid in child support to my ex-husband... CSR is a bunch of fucking idiots, and they applied it to the wrong account). I was like, wtf. So I looked some more through the mail and saw there was a letter from the bank showing that $150 had been deposited. I told Paul about it, and told him I'd just have to go take the $150 out of the CS account and pay it back to the state.
Today, I decided to go online and check the account to make sure the $150 was there and ready for me to get out.
Imagine my surprise when I found there was only $o.27 in the account.
So I looked at the account history... it showed that I hadn't used the card since November... but then in April and May, the card was used for a whole bunch of small debits. At McDonald's. At Quik Trip. Hy-Vee.
It dawned on me... Brett had stolen the Child Support Card, and used the $150 that wasn't supposed to be there in the first place.
Jesus christ... how much am I supposed to put up with? Am I supposed to wait until he robs me blind?! I just can't fucking believe this.
I was ready to call Shelly and tell her to come get him. Paul stopped me.
Fucking child.
The worst part of this is, I've BEEN to the doctor, I'm finishing up a round of antibiotics (one more day). I'm sicker than I was when I went to the doctor in the first place, so it's obviously viral.
I have been taking drugs like there's no tomorrow, and laying off the drugs, and trying just about everything I can think of to clear my chest, to no avail. Expectorant, decongestant, cough medicine, etc etc etc... nothing works. This is making me very, very uncomfortable, to say the least. Climbing the stairs from the basement leaves me winded.
One interesting tidbit about this: my lungs are so full of crud that every time I take a breath it feels, to me, like there's something rattling in my lungs... I was sure that was audible to anyone near me. Paul said not so much, and was a bit shocked when he put his head on my chest and heard my breathing. I guess it's one of those deaf things... things I think would be really loud turn out to be inaudible to other people, and things I think are quiet make people stare at me. There's just no figuring it out.
Second crappy thing about today: I impaled myself on a pointed, sharp corner piece of a large basket I have in my living room. Seriously, it's like a stake. And it went straight into my upper thigh, right through the jeans I was wearing and into the flesh. Puncture wound, ahoy!
Third, and most sickening...
Last night I was going through mail and I found a letter from Child Support Recovery stating that I had to pay back $150 that was mistakenly transferred to my account (this is money *I* paid in child support to my ex-husband... CSR is a bunch of fucking idiots, and they applied it to the wrong account). I was like, wtf. So I looked some more through the mail and saw there was a letter from the bank showing that $150 had been deposited. I told Paul about it, and told him I'd just have to go take the $150 out of the CS account and pay it back to the state.
Today, I decided to go online and check the account to make sure the $150 was there and ready for me to get out.
Imagine my surprise when I found there was only $o.27 in the account.
So I looked at the account history... it showed that I hadn't used the card since November... but then in April and May, the card was used for a whole bunch of small debits. At McDonald's. At Quik Trip. Hy-Vee.
It dawned on me... Brett had stolen the Child Support Card, and used the $150 that wasn't supposed to be there in the first place.
Jesus christ... how much am I supposed to put up with? Am I supposed to wait until he robs me blind?! I just can't fucking believe this.
I was ready to call Shelly and tell her to come get him. Paul stopped me.
Fucking child.
Sunday, July 22, 2007
Brett - xpost for B
So.
Thursday, I told the child he was grounded for stealing $20 and lying to me about it. I told him he could go to his mom's on Saturday to babysit his nephew, but that was it.
As it turned out, he ended up going on Friday night and spending the night there. He was gone before I got home Friday afternoon; I wasn't too upset about that, because I didn't really want to LOOK at the child. I was just so incredibly sick to my stomach about what he'd done.
So yesterday, after Paul and I got home from a little wander-around adventure, I was lying down for a nap. About 6:30, Brett apparently messaged me... he'd come home briefly. I was sound asleep, and when I woke up 20 minutes later, he was already gone. When Paul woke up, I had him call over to Shelly's to see what Brett wanted... she said he wasn't there, that he'd stepped out but would be right back, and she'd have him call when he came back.
Two hours later, still no call. Paul called her back, and she said that he was out with James. I was, to say the least, FURIOUS. I thought she knew he was grounded; I was not only mad at Brett for playing me, but also at Shelly for not enforcing my discipline.
So I told Paul I was going over there. "Don't do it," he said. "You'll make things worse."
I didn't give a fuck. I've been supporting this woman's child for over three years now... I deserve some consideration.
So I went over. Shelly and her boyfriend were sitting on her porch when I walked up. I asked her if I could talk to her. "Sure, honey, come on in," she said.
She and I sat down and I told her exactly why I was so upset... she was flabbergasted. She'd had no idea he had been grounded, and said she wouldn't have even asked him to babysit if she'd known. Furthermore, she was just sick that he'd stolen from me... and more so when I told her of all the myriad incidents that had taken place over the last three years (Tim's Sidekick, my money, Paul's change jar, etc etc etc).
She offered to have him move in with her. I told her she had enough on her plate with kelsey (Brett's 19-year-old sister) and her baby... but that I was going to be telling Brett that he could either live with me and follow my rules, or he could leave.
She fully supported that, and called him to tell him he needed to go home to my house. He didn't want to... "Gretchen's going to yell at me!" She stood firm and told him to go home.
So I thanked her and went home to wait.
He walked in. I said, "Have a seat, we need to talk."
And then I told him exactly what I'd said I was going to... that he could live with me and follow my rules, or he could leave. I explained that this was exactly what I'd told Morgan, and that Morgan had chosen to leave. I asked if he had anything to say about it. He shook his head very slightly. I said, "Well, I'm done then." And that was that.
You know, the first time I told a child he could put up or get out, it broke my heart. I guess I've become more jaded, because I didn't really even flinch. I was calm and quiet and matter of fact.
But it makes my heart hurt none the less.
Today, he hasn't said anything to me at all, and I've probably said less than ten words to him.
He just walked out of his room, handed me a piece of paper, and walked back in his room.
To: Gretchen,
Well to start off Im not sure what to say. I am sorry. I know I messed up probably the best thing I think I have ever had (an actual family). I guess I am not sure what to say or do. I am not just syaing this but maybe it's better I move to maybe my dads or grandma's. I don't think you or Paul have deserved this. I have put you two through more crap than your own kids. I do want to thank you for letting me be here, feel loved, and know what its like to have a normal family. You have treated me better then I could have asked for. Me being the dumb person I am took that for granite. You or paul neither one are a bad parent. I did this to myself. I know were not on speaking terms but thought you should know this. Dont try to sit down and talk to me because im not good at that if you want email, IM, or write back.
Thanks
Brett
...
My head hurts, almost more than my heart.
Thursday, I told the child he was grounded for stealing $20 and lying to me about it. I told him he could go to his mom's on Saturday to babysit his nephew, but that was it.
As it turned out, he ended up going on Friday night and spending the night there. He was gone before I got home Friday afternoon; I wasn't too upset about that, because I didn't really want to LOOK at the child. I was just so incredibly sick to my stomach about what he'd done.
So yesterday, after Paul and I got home from a little wander-around adventure, I was lying down for a nap. About 6:30, Brett apparently messaged me... he'd come home briefly. I was sound asleep, and when I woke up 20 minutes later, he was already gone. When Paul woke up, I had him call over to Shelly's to see what Brett wanted... she said he wasn't there, that he'd stepped out but would be right back, and she'd have him call when he came back.
Two hours later, still no call. Paul called her back, and she said that he was out with James. I was, to say the least, FURIOUS. I thought she knew he was grounded; I was not only mad at Brett for playing me, but also at Shelly for not enforcing my discipline.
So I told Paul I was going over there. "Don't do it," he said. "You'll make things worse."
I didn't give a fuck. I've been supporting this woman's child for over three years now... I deserve some consideration.
So I went over. Shelly and her boyfriend were sitting on her porch when I walked up. I asked her if I could talk to her. "Sure, honey, come on in," she said.
She and I sat down and I told her exactly why I was so upset... she was flabbergasted. She'd had no idea he had been grounded, and said she wouldn't have even asked him to babysit if she'd known. Furthermore, she was just sick that he'd stolen from me... and more so when I told her of all the myriad incidents that had taken place over the last three years (Tim's Sidekick, my money, Paul's change jar, etc etc etc).
She offered to have him move in with her. I told her she had enough on her plate with kelsey (Brett's 19-year-old sister) and her baby... but that I was going to be telling Brett that he could either live with me and follow my rules, or he could leave.
She fully supported that, and called him to tell him he needed to go home to my house. He didn't want to... "Gretchen's going to yell at me!" She stood firm and told him to go home.
So I thanked her and went home to wait.
He walked in. I said, "Have a seat, we need to talk."
And then I told him exactly what I'd said I was going to... that he could live with me and follow my rules, or he could leave. I explained that this was exactly what I'd told Morgan, and that Morgan had chosen to leave. I asked if he had anything to say about it. He shook his head very slightly. I said, "Well, I'm done then." And that was that.
You know, the first time I told a child he could put up or get out, it broke my heart. I guess I've become more jaded, because I didn't really even flinch. I was calm and quiet and matter of fact.
But it makes my heart hurt none the less.
Today, he hasn't said anything to me at all, and I've probably said less than ten words to him.
He just walked out of his room, handed me a piece of paper, and walked back in his room.
To: Gretchen,
Well to start off Im not sure what to say. I am sorry. I know I messed up probably the best thing I think I have ever had (an actual family). I guess I am not sure what to say or do. I am not just syaing this but maybe it's better I move to maybe my dads or grandma's. I don't think you or Paul have deserved this. I have put you two through more crap than your own kids. I do want to thank you for letting me be here, feel loved, and know what its like to have a normal family. You have treated me better then I could have asked for. Me being the dumb person I am took that for granite. You or paul neither one are a bad parent. I did this to myself. I know were not on speaking terms but thought you should know this. Dont try to sit down and talk to me because im not good at that if you want email, IM, or write back.
Thanks
Brett
...
My head hurts, almost more than my heart.
Thursday, July 19, 2007
Rollercoaster day
First I was kind of up because Brett and I had connected yesterday and this morning. We had coffee together yestermorn, talked about his pseudo-girlfriend, and just had some good mother-son time. Then last night when I got home, I took him to Wal-Mart with me. I bought him a couple pair of sandals, we joked around and talked and just had some good bonding time. This morning we got going a little earlier than usual, got gas before I dropped him off. I told him he could get some money from my pants pocket after school to go swimming. Then I headed to the office to get the agency car and hit the road for Cedar Rapids.
The drive to CR wasn't too bad, other than the whole "a cop every five miles" thing. I got to the courthouse about 15 minutes late, and there was a pre-hearing discussion going on about that fucking cunt of a foster mother's request to continue to have visits with the baby. In the end, though, justice won... the judge told her she would have to file a separate motion, and custody was returned to my client. This is the first time I've had that happen. That was another upper.
Then talking to the DHS supervisor about the whole issue of the abuser living with his parents... fuck. I'm so pissed off about this situation it's not even funny.
Lunch with my client and Sue. Sue is on some kind of medication that's making her seriously spacy, and it showed in her interpreting in court... she was making some pretty amateur mistakes. We had a good lunch (sue ended up paying before she had to fly) and then my client and I sat and talked.
I fucking HATE how judgmental my clients are of each other... in particular these two who have the same abuser. Why the FUCK can't they put themselves in the other's shoes?! Both of them did some pretty stupid-ass shit when they were with him. In fact, both of them pretty much did the same stupid-ass shit, but both of them constantly run the other down... I'm tired of it, and I called her on it today. No dice. She says, "I know... but..." UGH.
Driving back to Ames, I was talking to Paul and then he just... disappeared. Didn't say he was going to go shower or nap or whatever he was doing, he just disappeared. Then I started to fall asleep while I was driving, and I messaged him hoping he would talk to me and help me stay awake... nope. Not a goddamn thing, until close to 3 when I told him to have a safe drive to band and I guessed I would see him tomorrow. Then it was "love you too, bye for now." No mention of where he'd been, or asking if I was ok (the last thing I said to him before that was that I was falling asleep).
It REALLY upsets me when he just wanders away... it probably shouldn't, because I often have to go AFK when I'm at work... but I at least make an attempt to tell him, and I'm at work. He's at home. He just disappears for hours on end. Frankly, it reminds me of Bruce's tendency to do the same thing, and it upsets me just as much.
No, I haven't told him this... will I? I don't know.
Luckily, Bob logged in and talked to me for a bit, keeping me awake for a while. If anything, that made me more cranky, because I always feel a bit... I don't know, crunchy... when I talk to him. I'm always remembering that night when he was drunk and messaged me with horrible, nasty things. I don't know.
I finally got back to Ames, and tried to get caught up... fuck. Tami had to have me check her board report and help her re-write part of it. She didn't even fucking ask me if I was busy or had time to do it, just told me to come in her office... and then she told me to look it over, please.
I did
I re-wrote two parts
I fucking hate myself for that.
I was trying to fix Marvel's computer, and realized she needs a new adapter. I went to find Shelly to tell her... I said, "I have a problem." She kept chatting with Shar and Jessie about FACEBOOK FOR FUCKS SAKE. *growl*
Fine. I finally got her approval to buy a new adapter, but she had no idea where the Staples card was, so that was essentially worthless.
I kept trying to fix Marvel's computer, and finally said fuck it and locked her office.
I'm worried about my client... no word from her for three days, I'm seriously concerned. I've texted her three days in a row.
I emerged from my hole to find Shar was still there. We made note of the fact that the phone had been ringing off the hook; knowing there was only one volunteer (and he's a quiet, reserved guy), we called downstairs to get a terse "come down here NOW please" from him.
What followed was two and a half hours of insanity. Multiple crisis calls, multiple DV agencies, transport between two counties, Alicia on call, me backup, Shar taking over, other clients needing this or that or something else...
I ended up offering to go meet the Des Moines program staff halfway to get a client who needed to come to Ames. Then I waited. And waited. And waited. And finally had Shar call and order a pizza for me, since it looked like it was going to be late.
Not ten minutes later, the DSM program called and said they were leaving. Fuckity.
As it turned out, the timing was pretty well perfect... I pulled up to Casey's just as they were taking my pizza out, so it wasn't so bad. I got to the Elkhart exit and found the DSM people, got the client, and hit the road back. She was pretty upset, so I talked to her and told her a little about our shelter, answered her questions, etc. When we got back I helped her make coffee and Alicia took over to do initial intake with her... I was finally able to leave about 9:15.
TIRED. But driving home, I was in a pretty decent mood all told... I'd done good work, as Bruce used to say. I've been thinking about him so much today, and that's making me a little more irritable, probably... not to mention all the FOOD I've eaten today, jesus. And the fact my period is a week late.
Then I come home... to a kitchen mess due to teenager laziness, and I find that Brett has not only taken all the cash from my pocket, he lied to me about it.
Between that and reading Madd's post, I'm fucking-A done with people for the day.
The drive to CR wasn't too bad, other than the whole "a cop every five miles" thing. I got to the courthouse about 15 minutes late, and there was a pre-hearing discussion going on about that fucking cunt of a foster mother's request to continue to have visits with the baby. In the end, though, justice won... the judge told her she would have to file a separate motion, and custody was returned to my client. This is the first time I've had that happen. That was another upper.
Then talking to the DHS supervisor about the whole issue of the abuser living with his parents... fuck. I'm so pissed off about this situation it's not even funny.
Lunch with my client and Sue. Sue is on some kind of medication that's making her seriously spacy, and it showed in her interpreting in court... she was making some pretty amateur mistakes. We had a good lunch (sue ended up paying before she had to fly) and then my client and I sat and talked.
I fucking HATE how judgmental my clients are of each other... in particular these two who have the same abuser. Why the FUCK can't they put themselves in the other's shoes?! Both of them did some pretty stupid-ass shit when they were with him. In fact, both of them pretty much did the same stupid-ass shit, but both of them constantly run the other down... I'm tired of it, and I called her on it today. No dice. She says, "I know... but..." UGH.
Driving back to Ames, I was talking to Paul and then he just... disappeared. Didn't say he was going to go shower or nap or whatever he was doing, he just disappeared. Then I started to fall asleep while I was driving, and I messaged him hoping he would talk to me and help me stay awake... nope. Not a goddamn thing, until close to 3 when I told him to have a safe drive to band and I guessed I would see him tomorrow. Then it was "love you too, bye for now." No mention of where he'd been, or asking if I was ok (the last thing I said to him before that was that I was falling asleep).
It REALLY upsets me when he just wanders away... it probably shouldn't, because I often have to go AFK when I'm at work... but I at least make an attempt to tell him, and I'm at work. He's at home. He just disappears for hours on end. Frankly, it reminds me of Bruce's tendency to do the same thing, and it upsets me just as much.
No, I haven't told him this... will I? I don't know.
Luckily, Bob logged in and talked to me for a bit, keeping me awake for a while. If anything, that made me more cranky, because I always feel a bit... I don't know, crunchy... when I talk to him. I'm always remembering that night when he was drunk and messaged me with horrible, nasty things. I don't know.
I finally got back to Ames, and tried to get caught up... fuck. Tami had to have me check her board report and help her re-write part of it. She didn't even fucking ask me if I was busy or had time to do it, just told me to come in her office... and then she told me to look it over, please.
I did
I re-wrote two parts
I fucking hate myself for that.
I was trying to fix Marvel's computer, and realized she needs a new adapter. I went to find Shelly to tell her... I said, "I have a problem." She kept chatting with Shar and Jessie about FACEBOOK FOR FUCKS SAKE. *growl*
Fine. I finally got her approval to buy a new adapter, but she had no idea where the Staples card was, so that was essentially worthless.
I kept trying to fix Marvel's computer, and finally said fuck it and locked her office.
I'm worried about my client... no word from her for three days, I'm seriously concerned. I've texted her three days in a row.
I emerged from my hole to find Shar was still there. We made note of the fact that the phone had been ringing off the hook; knowing there was only one volunteer (and he's a quiet, reserved guy), we called downstairs to get a terse "come down here NOW please" from him.
What followed was two and a half hours of insanity. Multiple crisis calls, multiple DV agencies, transport between two counties, Alicia on call, me backup, Shar taking over, other clients needing this or that or something else...
I ended up offering to go meet the Des Moines program staff halfway to get a client who needed to come to Ames. Then I waited. And waited. And waited. And finally had Shar call and order a pizza for me, since it looked like it was going to be late.
Not ten minutes later, the DSM program called and said they were leaving. Fuckity.
As it turned out, the timing was pretty well perfect... I pulled up to Casey's just as they were taking my pizza out, so it wasn't so bad. I got to the Elkhart exit and found the DSM people, got the client, and hit the road back. She was pretty upset, so I talked to her and told her a little about our shelter, answered her questions, etc. When we got back I helped her make coffee and Alicia took over to do initial intake with her... I was finally able to leave about 9:15.
TIRED. But driving home, I was in a pretty decent mood all told... I'd done good work, as Bruce used to say. I've been thinking about him so much today, and that's making me a little more irritable, probably... not to mention all the FOOD I've eaten today, jesus. And the fact my period is a week late.
Then I come home... to a kitchen mess due to teenager laziness, and I find that Brett has not only taken all the cash from my pocket, he lied to me about it.
Between that and reading Madd's post, I'm fucking-A done with people for the day.
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
Picking up where Ieft off (cross-post)
So yeah. Last Thursday, I went to the Golden K Kiwanis meeting. Now, the thing about this is... I went last year, and took Anita with me. It was in a totally different location, and I had an interpreter, Tara.
This year, the organizer contacted ACCESS a full THREE MONTHS in advance, asking for me by name. I guess I have an excellent background *cue rimshot*.
Well. He called, and called, and called to make sure that I'd be there. He called last Monday with detailed instructions for me as to where to be, what time, how long to talk (15 minutes - remember this, it will be important), what to talk about, and requested a line or two of biographical information. This, I gave him in the form of the following:
First things first: My last name is pronounced like "wreck" without the "R"!
In 1999, I became a founding member of an organization called Deaf Women of Iowa Against Abuse. After fiddling about for a couple years, the board of directors voted to hire me as the first, brand spanking new executive director. Due to state and federal budget cuts, in 2005 we lost a significant portion of our funding. During this process, we were invited to merge with ACCESS. We changed the program name to Deaf Iowans Against Abuse, and I became part of the ACCESS staff.
Currently, I am the Deaf Iowans Against Abuse (DIAA) Coordinator. I serve Deaf victims all over the state of Iowa (the entire 99 counties), and also work with the other staff members in the shelter to assist local clients.
I am a proud Deaf woman, mother to three teenage boys, wife to a music teacher, and leader of a pack of three dogs, a lizard, and a chinchilla.
If you'd like any other information, let me know!
Thanks, and see you Thursday!
Gretchen
So. He implied to Shelly that I would be speaking at 9:15, so I planned to be there at 9. I took Kendra (one of our interns, probably my favorite intern ever) with me to relay, as Old Men are hard to lipread under the best of circumstances. We got to the church and parked in the proper lot by following his detailed directions (I kid you not... "the church is east of the post office, across the street. turn into the public lot which is to the north of the church. go in the northernmost door and down the stairs" etc). We found out, quickly, that the meeting didn't even START until 9:30... and I wouldn't be speaking until something like 9:50.
John, the program director (the one who had called) came and talked to me... he said, "You'll be speaking for about 12 minutes... I'll signal you like so *gestures* when you have one minute left. You'll have a total of ten minutes, tops... we're pretty strict about finishing on time at 10:30, and Vic Moss will be talking after you. Your ten minutes won't include time for questions and answers; that will come after. I'll signal you when it's time to wrap up *gestures*."
Ye gods. You see the progression from "15 minutes" to "about 12 minutes" to "ten minutes" here?
Well. I sat my ass down with Kendra, had a couple cups of coffee, attempted to chat with a man in a khaki shirt, khaki shorts, khaki shoes... and black knee socks. We sang the national anthem, said the Pledge, sat through renditions of Home on the Range and You're a Grand Old Flag, and then heard about all the members who were in the hospital or had died. I thought, "this has to be SO depressing for them."
So once John introduced me, I got up and made an impassioned, funny speech about ACCESS, what we do, who we serve, and how their $500 gift would impact our programs. I got laughs, which is what I was aiming for; I even got laughs when I made a comment about getting a ticket for driving under the speed limit. I got a lot of questions, which is a good thing. I sat down after John told the crowd that I was married to a schoolteacher, had three boys, three dogs, and a crocodile. Dude. A crocodile?! I laughed and corrected him, to thunderous laughter.
And then Vic got up to speak.
Jesus. Jumped-up. Johnnycake. Christ. Vic has been working for the homeless shelter in Ames for nigh on 35 years. He's a very nice man, and kind of cute... he really looks like Frankie Munez, but old.
However, Vic obviously flunked Public Speaking 101. Rambles, no eye contact, monotone, no movement... and he held the mic up to his mouth, literally blocking his lips. Plus, I'm reasonably sure John didn't give him the "fifteen, twelve, ten" talk, because he talked for 25 minutes. And went over the 10:30 deadline. John quite literally had to take the microphone away from him. I said to Kendra, once we were in the car, "If that's the kind of speaker they have to look forward to every week, it's a wonder more of them don't die to get out of the obligation!" What can I say? I'm a heartless bitch.
We headed back to the office, where I regaled Shelly with tales of my conquests and Vic's lack of public speaking skills, and went off to work for a bit before leaving for Ottumwa.
(as an aside: I really need to get some freaking userpics uploaded on this account...)
cross-post from last Friday
A recap of the past near-week
friday: the day sucked a lot. I was insanely busy, and could barely focus because of my head. For a while in the morning, I was wearing Alysa's sunglasses with my office lights off and the computer brightness turned WAY down. I must have looked like shit because Shelly told me to go home. I didn't, of course; having spent all of Thursday barely functional, I had WAY too much to do. I finally decided to piggyback ibuprofen and tylenol, and did so all day, leading to an at least manageable level of pain. So I worked all day, and hit the road for home (to pick up Paul) so we could go to Ottumwa.
My client, however, had other ideas... she texted me when we were about a quarter of the way there and said to postpone until this week. So I said to Paul, "I could have gone to Iowa City to hang out with Tim and Chris." He said, "Go!"
So I did. I mainly watched the guys game in WoW and worked on my grant. Not to mention enjoying a few lovely beverages. There's not a man, woman, or child alive who doesn't enjoy a lovely beverage. *winks at Paul*
Saturday, got up, saw Tim off, and Chris and I went to lunch at the Airliner, where I had possibly one of the top three burgers of my life. Blue cheese and mushrooms... mmmm. I hit the road after lunch. I think Paul and I watched "In Cold Blood" in the afternoon. Days are melting together. Note to self: Aldi bratwurst sucks.
Sunday, I got up and started working on my grant in earnest. The final push, as it were. Paul managed to drag me out of the house for a bit in the afternoon, for a glorious little interlude involving sand and murky lake water. I also got my new glasses, which I have yet to take a picture of. *turns on webcam and shows Lin*
We came home, made dinner, and I worked on my grant until 2am. At some point in the evening, I scrapped the whole fucking narrative and started all over again.
I was up way early on Monday and hit the road to the office, arriving before even Marvel. When I walked into the office, the nighttime advocate stopped me to tell me that one of our clients was planning to go back to her abuser THAT MORNING... could I please go talk to her and maybe do some safety planning with her? (this client is in her 60s and heavily medicated a lot of the time).
So I had to go deal with that impending crisis before I could settle down to work on my grant.
I started off with trying to finish a couple of sections that I'd left partially done the night before. Shelly came in, Angie came in, and Angie pointed out to me that I'd missed one critical direction: the grant had to be in goal-objective-activity-output form. *#)$)_!_$#*.
This meant, essentially, I had to figure out what my goals and objectives were (this is harder than it sounds, believe me). Thank god I had Angie to help, or I would have been totally screwed.
What made it worse was... Angie, Shelly, Marvel and I had to go to Des Moines to attend a two-hour training on the Rape Prevention Education funds, smack dab in the middle of the fucking day. I took the laptop along and worked in the car both to and fro.
And turned in the grant two minutes before deadline... go me. Jesus. STRESS. I was exhausted after THAT. I needed a near-three-hour nap at the office before I could drive home (no joke).
Tuesday, I worked on computers. I reformatted my PC. I did some crap to my laptop. And I really didn't do a whole hell of a lot to earn my paycheck, if you want to know the truth. I ordered a new computer for Angie, and I did a bunch of bullshit stuff. I got home sometime around 10.
Wednesday I was up early, and I made two peaches and cream cheesecake coffeecake thingEEs. One for the office, one for the man of the house. And then I headed to my long-ass staff meeting... which I skipped out on early, because I had a date with destiny.
Or, rather, with a licensed Deep Tissue/Swedish massage therapist named Chris. I was expecting this hulking "Hans" type, and instead he was slight, nervous young man with a tongue piercing, whom I would not have guessed would be strong enough to give me the kind of massage I needed. We talked for a few minutes beforehand; I showed him (with his own fingers) where my implant was so he could, yanno, avoid it. Then he left the room and I disrobed and climbed under the sheet.
He conducted the entire massage in the dark. Not dimly lit... dark. It hurt like a motherfucking son of an asslicking bitch. And it was so worth it (she says, 36 hours later).
After that, I went to Staples to look for a monitor for Angie's new computer. That took nearly an hour, because the monitor they had advertised in their circular apparently doesn't exist.
I returned to the shelter to find that one of our clients, who is a Genuine Black Southern Woman, had prepared a MONSTROUS spread of soul food. Collards with ham hocks, cornbread, fried chicken, bbq chicken, corn with some kind of pepper, macaroni and cheese, potato salad, yams, and cake.
Lord... if I go to heaven when I die... this is what I'm going to be eating. It was, I kid you not, the single most perfect meal I have ever, ever, ever had. I had seconds of everything but the yams. I was agog. It was a culinary masterpiece. I have never before had a meal that was perfect in every way.
(yes, I'm still waxing poetic about this meal even this long afterwards... I just couldn't believe there was an entire meal that didn't miss a note.)
Shelly, Marvel, and I crunched some numbers which showed that we can't afford to hire Jennifer full-time (we are short a mere $6000, but that's $6000 that's going to be nearly impossible to find, which means I am completely and utterly screwed). I was working on god knows what until about 6:30, and then I headed home to Teh Draaaama with Brett, Paul, and my truck. Jeezus.
I was in bed early, and asleep pretty quick, too. I am still completely discouraged about the budget issue... it's making me wake up at night. Dub can relate.
(as an aside: I"m re-reading When the Mind Hears - A History of the Deaf. Lord. Such a book.)
Today, I was once again up early. I had to be in Ames by 8:40, because I had to give a speech at the Golden K Kiwanis this morning so they would give us money. The "Golden" refers to their golden years... there wasn't a man in the room under the age of 60.
I have a bunch more to write, but it's nearly 2am, there are fire trucks and an ambulance and police across the street, and I do think it's time for me to sleep. I went to Ottumwa today, tomorrow I go to Cedar Rapids, and Saturday Paul and I go to Missouri for a transport.
Sleep.
My client, however, had other ideas... she texted me when we were about a quarter of the way there and said to postpone until this week. So I said to Paul, "I could have gone to Iowa City to hang out with Tim and Chris." He said, "Go!"
So I did. I mainly watched the guys game in WoW and worked on my grant. Not to mention enjoying a few lovely beverages. There's not a man, woman, or child alive who doesn't enjoy a lovely beverage. *winks at Paul*
Saturday, got up, saw Tim off, and Chris and I went to lunch at the Airliner, where I had possibly one of the top three burgers of my life. Blue cheese and mushrooms... mmmm. I hit the road after lunch. I think Paul and I watched "In Cold Blood" in the afternoon. Days are melting together. Note to self: Aldi bratwurst sucks.
Sunday, I got up and started working on my grant in earnest. The final push, as it were. Paul managed to drag me out of the house for a bit in the afternoon, for a glorious little interlude involving sand and murky lake water. I also got my new glasses, which I have yet to take a picture of. *turns on webcam and shows Lin*
We came home, made dinner, and I worked on my grant until 2am. At some point in the evening, I scrapped the whole fucking narrative and started all over again.
I was up way early on Monday and hit the road to the office, arriving before even Marvel. When I walked into the office, the nighttime advocate stopped me to tell me that one of our clients was planning to go back to her abuser THAT MORNING... could I please go talk to her and maybe do some safety planning with her? (this client is in her 60s and heavily medicated a lot of the time).
So I had to go deal with that impending crisis before I could settle down to work on my grant.
I started off with trying to finish a couple of sections that I'd left partially done the night before. Shelly came in, Angie came in, and Angie pointed out to me that I'd missed one critical direction: the grant had to be in goal-objective-activity-output form. *#)$)_!_$#*.
This meant, essentially, I had to figure out what my goals and objectives were (this is harder than it sounds, believe me). Thank god I had Angie to help, or I would have been totally screwed.
What made it worse was... Angie, Shelly, Marvel and I had to go to Des Moines to attend a two-hour training on the Rape Prevention Education funds, smack dab in the middle of the fucking day. I took the laptop along and worked in the car both to and fro.
And turned in the grant two minutes before deadline... go me. Jesus. STRESS. I was exhausted after THAT. I needed a near-three-hour nap at the office before I could drive home (no joke).
Tuesday, I worked on computers. I reformatted my PC. I did some crap to my laptop. And I really didn't do a whole hell of a lot to earn my paycheck, if you want to know the truth. I ordered a new computer for Angie, and I did a bunch of bullshit stuff. I got home sometime around 10.
Wednesday I was up early, and I made two peaches and cream cheesecake coffeecake thingEEs. One for the office, one for the man of the house. And then I headed to my long-ass staff meeting... which I skipped out on early, because I had a date with destiny.
Or, rather, with a licensed Deep Tissue/Swedish massage therapist named Chris. I was expecting this hulking "Hans" type, and instead he was slight, nervous young man with a tongue piercing, whom I would not have guessed would be strong enough to give me the kind of massage I needed. We talked for a few minutes beforehand; I showed him (with his own fingers) where my implant was so he could, yanno, avoid it. Then he left the room and I disrobed and climbed under the sheet.
He conducted the entire massage in the dark. Not dimly lit... dark. It hurt like a motherfucking son of an asslicking bitch. And it was so worth it (she says, 36 hours later).
After that, I went to Staples to look for a monitor for Angie's new computer. That took nearly an hour, because the monitor they had advertised in their circular apparently doesn't exist.
I returned to the shelter to find that one of our clients, who is a Genuine Black Southern Woman, had prepared a MONSTROUS spread of soul food. Collards with ham hocks, cornbread, fried chicken, bbq chicken, corn with some kind of pepper, macaroni and cheese, potato salad, yams, and cake.
Lord... if I go to heaven when I die... this is what I'm going to be eating. It was, I kid you not, the single most perfect meal I have ever, ever, ever had. I had seconds of everything but the yams. I was agog. It was a culinary masterpiece. I have never before had a meal that was perfect in every way.
(yes, I'm still waxing poetic about this meal even this long afterwards... I just couldn't believe there was an entire meal that didn't miss a note.)
Shelly, Marvel, and I crunched some numbers which showed that we can't afford to hire Jennifer full-time (we are short a mere $6000, but that's $6000 that's going to be nearly impossible to find, which means I am completely and utterly screwed). I was working on god knows what until about 6:30, and then I headed home to Teh Draaaama with Brett, Paul, and my truck. Jeezus.
I was in bed early, and asleep pretty quick, too. I am still completely discouraged about the budget issue... it's making me wake up at night. Dub can relate.
(as an aside: I"m re-reading When the Mind Hears - A History of the Deaf. Lord. Such a book.)
Today, I was once again up early. I had to be in Ames by 8:40, because I had to give a speech at the Golden K Kiwanis this morning so they would give us money. The "Golden" refers to their golden years... there wasn't a man in the room under the age of 60.
I have a bunch more to write, but it's nearly 2am, there are fire trucks and an ambulance and police across the street, and I do think it's time for me to sleep. I went to Ottumwa today, tomorrow I go to Cedar Rapids, and Saturday Paul and I go to Missouri for a transport.
Sleep.
Friday, July 6, 2007
cross-posting for B
Basically my entire day yesterday was a wash. I had forgotten to take my zoloft on Wednesday morning; this led to an absolutely horrendous 24-hour headache (complete with migraine yesterday morning) that has only this morning subsided to a dull ache. I was in bed by 9 last night. That should tell you something.
My brain wasn't up to the task of writing a grant, so I didn't. I'll pay for it today, of course. I'll be focusing all my time on both that AND finishing my spreadsheet. It can't be helped... 'twas my own doing.
Tonight, I go to Ottumwa. I haven't seen my client in nearly two months, ever since she took her abuser back. I want to say that this had nothing to do with my not being down there; that would be a lie. It had a lot to do with it, and I'm ashamed to admit that. When she sends me texts now, she sounds so happy... but she's lied to me before. Lied about SO many things. I just... *sigh* Frustrated would be putting it mildly.
I'm getting incredibly burned out on client service again. I just feel like I'm not making any difference... so why bother? I have to find those incremental victories again, and learn to hold on to them.
I miss Melissa. I can't really explain why; it's one of those things you just know is true. I dream about her often; sometimes it's happy and sometimes it's not. I truly feel horrible for how everything ended; It makes my heart hurt for her to know that her wedding pictures will always be tainted. I don't know what she thought she saw in Linder's posts that was so horrible that she had to end our friendship then and there; I said nothing there that I'd not said to her directly at some point or another. *sigh*
I need to take her things to her mother's.
The other day, I sat in Angie's office and said, "What would you do if I died tomorrow?" We joked about the macabre quality of my question, but we both realize that so much of what I do is in my head that, if I were gone, the program would fold. Angie herself said that. And while part of me (the ego, of course) feels inflated and important to know that, most of me feels trapped. This is, of course, nothing new. I've been feeling this for a long time.
I think that meeting Carly was a blessing and a curse. Meeting her, I see someone who could, theoretically, take my job with just a month or two of training. This both gives me hope and scares the fuck out of me, because it means I could, theoretically again, move on with a clear conscience.
Clear conscience. I was reading about Scientology yesterday (yes, this is what I do to make my brain hurt less... read about Scientology), reading the experiences of one woman who had been in Scientology for 12 years. The scary thing is... I can completely see how this would appeal to SO many people. The thought of "clearing" oneself of the deritus of physical and psychological pain... for people who have struggled their entire lives, it's a heady concept. It's the foundation of psychotherapy, for drug use, for the self-help empires. No wonder Scientologists (and Mormons) (and, frankly, so many religions) are able to pull people in so easily.
It makes me wonder, too, about why we, as humans, tend to want what we cannot have. Tim and I have had many discussions about this over the years; Kendal and I have been talking about it here and there, as well. Why do we, consciously or unconsciously, choose paths that will lead to misery? Whether it's being involved with someone who's unattainable, or lusting over a house we cannot afford... I see so many people around me, myself included, who are or could be in those situations. I think it's human nature to want what we cannot have; it's what keeps us reaching for the stars, even though we know we cannot even reach the clouds. "A man's reach must exceed his grasp, else what's heaven for? ~Samuel Clemens"
I'm reasonably sure the secret to happiness lies in striving for better but being content with what you have.
My brain wasn't up to the task of writing a grant, so I didn't. I'll pay for it today, of course. I'll be focusing all my time on both that AND finishing my spreadsheet. It can't be helped... 'twas my own doing.
Tonight, I go to Ottumwa. I haven't seen my client in nearly two months, ever since she took her abuser back. I want to say that this had nothing to do with my not being down there; that would be a lie. It had a lot to do with it, and I'm ashamed to admit that. When she sends me texts now, she sounds so happy... but she's lied to me before. Lied about SO many things. I just... *sigh* Frustrated would be putting it mildly.
I'm getting incredibly burned out on client service again. I just feel like I'm not making any difference... so why bother? I have to find those incremental victories again, and learn to hold on to them.
I miss Melissa. I can't really explain why; it's one of those things you just know is true. I dream about her often; sometimes it's happy and sometimes it's not. I truly feel horrible for how everything ended; It makes my heart hurt for her to know that her wedding pictures will always be tainted. I don't know what she thought she saw in Linder's posts that was so horrible that she had to end our friendship then and there; I said nothing there that I'd not said to her directly at some point or another. *sigh*
I need to take her things to her mother's.
The other day, I sat in Angie's office and said, "What would you do if I died tomorrow?" We joked about the macabre quality of my question, but we both realize that so much of what I do is in my head that, if I were gone, the program would fold. Angie herself said that. And while part of me (the ego, of course) feels inflated and important to know that, most of me feels trapped. This is, of course, nothing new. I've been feeling this for a long time.
I think that meeting Carly was a blessing and a curse. Meeting her, I see someone who could, theoretically, take my job with just a month or two of training. This both gives me hope and scares the fuck out of me, because it means I could, theoretically again, move on with a clear conscience.
Clear conscience. I was reading about Scientology yesterday (yes, this is what I do to make my brain hurt less... read about Scientology), reading the experiences of one woman who had been in Scientology for 12 years. The scary thing is... I can completely see how this would appeal to SO many people. The thought of "clearing" oneself of the deritus of physical and psychological pain... for people who have struggled their entire lives, it's a heady concept. It's the foundation of psychotherapy, for drug use, for the self-help empires. No wonder Scientologists (and Mormons) (and, frankly, so many religions) are able to pull people in so easily.
It makes me wonder, too, about why we, as humans, tend to want what we cannot have. Tim and I have had many discussions about this over the years; Kendal and I have been talking about it here and there, as well. Why do we, consciously or unconsciously, choose paths that will lead to misery? Whether it's being involved with someone who's unattainable, or lusting over a house we cannot afford... I see so many people around me, myself included, who are or could be in those situations. I think it's human nature to want what we cannot have; it's what keeps us reaching for the stars, even though we know we cannot even reach the clouds. "A man's reach must exceed his grasp, else what's heaven for? ~Samuel Clemens"
I'm reasonably sure the secret to happiness lies in striving for better but being content with what you have.
Thursday, July 5, 2007
Yesterday
It WAS a good day yesterday... Spending the evening with Paul, going to El Bait Shop and having fish tacos and Sierra Nevada BigFoot for the first time, watching "Little Miss Sunshine." The morning was good, too... feeling actually well-rested and having my coffee actually PERK me up.
I'm still struggling to be able to write. I'm still struggling to chronicle my daily life, even... let alone write anything of note. I don't know what the hell is wrong with me. I need to carve out space, time, for this or I'll go insane. I will. I don't know how I managed to stay even remotely sane for all the years before I had an online journal... I was never good at keeping a written journal.
I really want to write about love, and friends, and how wonderful the people around me have been. I want to, but I can barely construct a simple concrete sentence. This is making grantwriting a difficult proposition at best.
Grant writing. It's profoundly aggravating to me to have to clear EVERYTHING with Shelly before I do anything... and it's making me balk, to be frank. I'm pissed off that she went back on her word to write this grant for my program, and I'm pissed off that she can't seem to find it in her to just be supportive and trust that I know what the fuck I'm doing.
She's just not the brightest crayon in the box, and while I like her well enough, I'm not impressed with her managerial ability.
Anyway.
I'm going to go shower and get to work on the grant... I'm going to leave at noon, I think. Minimize my exposure to Shelly.
I'm still struggling to be able to write. I'm still struggling to chronicle my daily life, even... let alone write anything of note. I don't know what the hell is wrong with me. I need to carve out space, time, for this or I'll go insane. I will. I don't know how I managed to stay even remotely sane for all the years before I had an online journal... I was never good at keeping a written journal.
I really want to write about love, and friends, and how wonderful the people around me have been. I want to, but I can barely construct a simple concrete sentence. This is making grantwriting a difficult proposition at best.
Grant writing. It's profoundly aggravating to me to have to clear EVERYTHING with Shelly before I do anything... and it's making me balk, to be frank. I'm pissed off that she went back on her word to write this grant for my program, and I'm pissed off that she can't seem to find it in her to just be supportive and trust that I know what the fuck I'm doing.
She's just not the brightest crayon in the box, and while I like her well enough, I'm not impressed with her managerial ability.
Anyway.
I'm going to go shower and get to work on the grant... I'm going to leave at noon, I think. Minimize my exposure to Shelly.
Monday, July 2, 2007
Sleep eludes me.
This weekend was good, low key. Friday night I wasn't up too late... Tim and I talked about politics a bit, which was good and refreshing. Saturday I was up way earlier than I needed to be, and we just really didn't do much of anything most of the day... and I was fine with that. I needed the down time, in particular after reading that book and realizing some things about myself.
We went down to the arts festival late in the day, but some of the magic of the festival is gone with the move to the western gateway. And I... I was constantly looking over my shoulder, simultaneously hoping and terrified that I would see Bruce.
I know it's a stupid fear; I'm reasonably sure he and Mary don't give up a weekend at the lake for something like this. I couldn't shake it, though. It cast a pall over everything.
I know, without a doubt, that it's better for both of us that he cut off communication in every way. I still have this emptiness, this ache, and it's not lessening, it's not fading. Someone said something to the effect of, well, it's like ripping a bandaid off quickly... the pain will go away faster. While I fully grasp the similarity of the concept, it's not working that way. It's not. I want to know when it gets easier, when it gets better.
I was in a mood by the time we left the fest. We went to Walgreens to drop off my prescriptions and then to Hy-Vee for beer. Back to Walgreens, where the pharmacist kept LOOKING AT PAUL when I didn't understand him. It made me unreasonably angry... I really wanted to punch him, wanted to grab him by the throat and make him LOOK AT ME, COMMUNICATE WITH ME, instead of trying to take the easy way out.
Most of the time I can deal with this. I'm used to it; after 31 years, there's no escaping it. But sometimes... I just can't handle it anymore. The little things build and build and build and I just want to scream or break something.
I have a lot of anger in me, still. I don't know if I'll ever get to the point where I can be past that, let go of my anger entirely. I have come so far, SO far, in the last ten years. In the last five. I still struggle with the anger, with the fear.
I need to go back to sleep.
We went down to the arts festival late in the day, but some of the magic of the festival is gone with the move to the western gateway. And I... I was constantly looking over my shoulder, simultaneously hoping and terrified that I would see Bruce.
I know it's a stupid fear; I'm reasonably sure he and Mary don't give up a weekend at the lake for something like this. I couldn't shake it, though. It cast a pall over everything.
I know, without a doubt, that it's better for both of us that he cut off communication in every way. I still have this emptiness, this ache, and it's not lessening, it's not fading. Someone said something to the effect of, well, it's like ripping a bandaid off quickly... the pain will go away faster. While I fully grasp the similarity of the concept, it's not working that way. It's not. I want to know when it gets easier, when it gets better.
I was in a mood by the time we left the fest. We went to Walgreens to drop off my prescriptions and then to Hy-Vee for beer. Back to Walgreens, where the pharmacist kept LOOKING AT PAUL when I didn't understand him. It made me unreasonably angry... I really wanted to punch him, wanted to grab him by the throat and make him LOOK AT ME, COMMUNICATE WITH ME, instead of trying to take the easy way out.
Most of the time I can deal with this. I'm used to it; after 31 years, there's no escaping it. But sometimes... I just can't handle it anymore. The little things build and build and build and I just want to scream or break something.
I have a lot of anger in me, still. I don't know if I'll ever get to the point where I can be past that, let go of my anger entirely. I have come so far, SO far, in the last ten years. In the last five. I still struggle with the anger, with the fear.
I need to go back to sleep.
Saturday, June 30, 2007
"The normal regulation of emotional states is similarly disrupted by traumatic experiences that repeatedly evoke terror, rage, and grief. These emotions ultimately coalesce in a dreadful feeling that psychiatrists call "dysphoria" and patients find almost impossible to describe. It is a state of confusion, agitation, emptiness, and utter aloneness."
~Judith Herman, M.D. - Trauma and Recovery
I read this this morning. I read it, and read it again, and tried to read further... but then I ran upstairs to find B and share it with her.
What?
What? There's a name for it? There are other people who feel this, who express this, enough that there's a NAME for it? It's not just in my head, not just something I made up?
Jesus christ, that's scary and wonderful and horrifying and empowering all at once. There's a certain heady terror in recognizing, in the written words of another person, the same things I've struggled to verbalize and explain to other people. The same things I've struggled to explain to MYSELF. My head feels like it's going to explode and I want to weep. I want to run and cry and just sit here and write it all out, let it pour out of my brain.
I know that, in the greater scheme of things, I got off lucky. I see people who have survived so much worse than I. As ever, this doesn't negate anything I feel or see or experience. It doesn't negate the struggles I have. Why do I feel the need to issue that disclaimer? Why do I feel this overwhelming need to pull myself back and minimize what I think and feel?
I wanted to write this post in the second person... I started to use "you" instead of "I" several times. I realized this at some point and went back to change it. I need to NOT distance myself from this, I need to understand it and pull it into me, figure it out. I need to find a path. I can't find a path if I'm floating above everything... I need to have my feet on the ground.
I have had this book for nearly five years. It's a book we were expected to read at some point in our advocacy training, and Vickie mentioned it during our focus groups last year as being the "bible of advocacy." That piqued my interest enough to find my copy, but I only started reading it recently when I started doing counseling with outreach clients. I figured it would at least give me some practical tools to deal with all the issues that I instinctively understood but intellectually wasn't sure how to work with.
What I didn't realize was how it would impact me, Gretchen.
~Judith Herman, M.D. - Trauma and Recovery
I read this this morning. I read it, and read it again, and tried to read further... but then I ran upstairs to find B and share it with her.
What?
What? There's a name for it? There are other people who feel this, who express this, enough that there's a NAME for it? It's not just in my head, not just something I made up?
Jesus christ, that's scary and wonderful and horrifying and empowering all at once. There's a certain heady terror in recognizing, in the written words of another person, the same things I've struggled to verbalize and explain to other people. The same things I've struggled to explain to MYSELF. My head feels like it's going to explode and I want to weep. I want to run and cry and just sit here and write it all out, let it pour out of my brain.
I know that, in the greater scheme of things, I got off lucky. I see people who have survived so much worse than I. As ever, this doesn't negate anything I feel or see or experience. It doesn't negate the struggles I have. Why do I feel the need to issue that disclaimer? Why do I feel this overwhelming need to pull myself back and minimize what I think and feel?
I wanted to write this post in the second person... I started to use "you" instead of "I" several times. I realized this at some point and went back to change it. I need to NOT distance myself from this, I need to understand it and pull it into me, figure it out. I need to find a path. I can't find a path if I'm floating above everything... I need to have my feet on the ground.
I have had this book for nearly five years. It's a book we were expected to read at some point in our advocacy training, and Vickie mentioned it during our focus groups last year as being the "bible of advocacy." That piqued my interest enough to find my copy, but I only started reading it recently when I started doing counseling with outreach clients. I figured it would at least give me some practical tools to deal with all the issues that I instinctively understood but intellectually wasn't sure how to work with.
What I didn't realize was how it would impact me, Gretchen.
Thursday, June 28, 2007
A new beginning
Perhaps, in a new place, I will feel free to post, to vent, to purge and let things out that need to be let out.
I told Brenna tonight that I just feel so hopeless... I don't know why, exactly. Losing Bruce and Melissa was one part of it. Money is another. But there's just this cloud over my mind, a weariness and fear and wondering. Where am I going? How will I react on the journey, and when I arrive? How can I make up to Paul for the things he's lost in following me on what was, ultimately, a fool's journey?
I just don't know. I can't seem to pull anything out of the muck and mire of my brain. Maybe I just need to keep typing until something comes out... anything...
I told Brenna tonight that I just feel so hopeless... I don't know why, exactly. Losing Bruce and Melissa was one part of it. Money is another. But there's just this cloud over my mind, a weariness and fear and wondering. Where am I going? How will I react on the journey, and when I arrive? How can I make up to Paul for the things he's lost in following me on what was, ultimately, a fool's journey?
I just don't know. I can't seem to pull anything out of the muck and mire of my brain. Maybe I just need to keep typing until something comes out... anything...
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