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Sun, Feb. 17th, 2013, 09:37 pm
Love And Hate

Most of us have those folks we have loved who have hurt us deeply, whether they meant to or not. Many of us come away feeling that they were not deserving of our love, but when you come to think about it, are any of us? Love is such a powerful and wonderful thing, and we are simply and beautifully flawed as humans. The greatest thing about love is that none of us are worthy of it, and yet some of us are blessed enough to have received it, for however long or short a time.

I'm still grappling with a hurt that feels fresh and alive. I have always been a creature of infinite loyalty, and when spurned or wounded that jagged edge is also infinite. Love and hate are merely two sides to the same coin, after all. Despite all that I have done to garner closure, I am no closer.

It takes time. It takes space. Most of all, I have to learn to forgive myself for the bad decisions I have made. I made a mistake. I fell in love with someone (yet again) who hurt me. And, since I can't make the hurt go away no matter how hard I try...and, since I'm not the kind of person who likes to hide how they feel and pretend it's okay to 'just be friends', I've decided it's in my best interests to block this person from my Facebook, something I should have done a long time ago. No contact, no chance of contact. I don't even know why I still have their number in my phone. It hurts me every time I scroll past their name and know that call is never going to happen. As much as I want to hold this person again is as much as I want to carve out their heart with an electric carving knife and stomp it, still beating, under my heel while they take a last gasping breath. Actually, not even close, I want them to live a long, insufferably miserable life to a ripe old age, hopefully full of agonizing pain and loneliness, where everything good they ever want is ripped from them almost as soon is it is realized.

This, too, shall pass. Not the feelings, neither the love nor the hate, but the suffering for it. Just as my soul has grown to encompass and contain previous love/hates, I know these are just growing pains. The feelings don't lessen; the soul expands. I wish him ill only for this discomfort it brings me now.

Can I grow this much? Have I come this far? There's an ex, one who also hurt me quite some time ago, yet another mistake and a rather foolish one at that. Have I forgiven myself? He was quite a large mistake to have dated, but not a bad person for all that. I had a brief contact with him recently when one of his old email addresses started sending out spam to all his old contacts. I'm curious to see if I can walk into a room and still be at peace in my heart, neither full or hurt nor hate, but simply accepting that this was a mistake I made and wish him well on his future endeavors. If I close one door, does another open?

Tue, Nov. 13th, 2012, 03:09 am
(POEM) If I Should Fly

If I should fly,
before I wake,
I pray my dreaming
spirit takes

a wondrous walk,
through meadows fair,
and in the blossoms
find you there.

If I should fall,
before I rise,
I pray my dreaming
spirit lies

beneath a bower
heavenly,
to wait in faith,
beside of thee.

Sat, Sep. 8th, 2012, 09:00 pm
Adam's Morgan Day

So it's the big day. We start at 0200 and go all the way through tomorrow night. It'll be the last security shift I ever pull. It may very well be the last time I work at all. I have absolutely NO IDEA how I'm going to manage or how many days I'm going to be bedridden paying for it. But I did it one year on a broken toe and I'll be damned if I miss the last year the Adam's Morgan Association is going to run Adam's Morgan Day. All the old timers will be working. I simply can't miss it.

Now I'm allowed to cut out early. But really, since when have I done that?

AgtOrange and I got into an argument today, which literally almost never happens. We'd made up again in less than half an hour, but it was still a little upsetting. And the apology never feels the same when you ask for one. That's all I'm going to say about this, though, I have enough on my plate.

I was laying down to nap, having sent AgtOrange out for some Red Bull because we'd forgotten it earlier, when it suddenly hit me. All night tonight and all day tomorrow I'll be working with Trouble (and later, Shaolin). The feeling is a tight fist squeezing everything from my heart; it's a backwash of tears in my throat. His leaving hurt me immeasurably and I can't, I won't just be friends. If I have any brains, I will tell him most certainly that this is goodbye, that after tomorrow I never want to hear from him again, or at least not for a long, long time. I should block him from Facebook, set his email to spam, and erase his number. Of course, realistically I know I'm not going to do that, but it would be the smartest thing to do.

I can't help it. Every time I think I might see him, I hope we'll get back together even though I know it wouldn't end well and I would just get more hurt all over again. The heart is funny that way. I've been slowly removing anything that reminds me of him. I've been erasing his presence bit by bit from my life. One day, he'll be a distant memory and then I will move on. I'm making a conscious effort to do so now.

So I can cry now, for this is the end. And I can cry later, when it's over. So long as I am strong through the middle of it and make it through the day.

It'll be over soon Jade. Take care of yourself.

And take care, all of you. I'll be with you again Monday or Tuesday.

Sun, Jul. 22nd, 2012, 12:43 am
Today's Check-In (Saturday): Meditations & Revelatiions

My OCD had me stuck this morning. I had a slowtime schedule and a regular recovery schedule and my brain couldn't decide which to do, thus locking me into inactivity. Finally managed to veer toward my normal routine again, at least until my surgery. Many, many revelations today, some of which I haven't mentally or emotionally processed yet.

Comprehensive List of Tasks
    grooming = basic yes, but Saturday I'm supposed to a little extra something for myself and I didn't)
  • meal = I finally made the pie. Had to throw out some of the old fruit and substitute, in fact I think there are more plums and nectarines in this peach pie than peaches. I did not, however, make a healthy meal for myself nor did I eat one. In fact, I haven't really eaten all day except for a few cookies with my coffee this morning. 1/3 points
  • Spanish = I started lesson 15, but didn't do Saturday's scheduled extra Spanish, on account the cookies from breakfast put me in sugar coma. Had to nap. 1/4 points
  • Meditation = Now this I did do for once.
  • HUG = Yup, also had to wish the bartender happy birthday. Apparently, I can go into a bar and drink only water.

Medication = yes
Sober (no drinking/drugs/cutting) = fail, I was cutting, or more specifically bleeding. While my honestly compels me to count this as a fail, I am not counting this as a negative thing. Normally when I cut, it is in self-hatred, but this was an act of healing. After all the revelations, I just had this sensation as if my body was full of poisons and not getting rid of them fast enough. So I bled the joints in my fingers and toes like the acupuncturist once did, using my finger stick (everything sterile, wiped with alcohol before and saline after). Then I also used it on my calves, which always hurt. I felt instantly feverish and head-achey, that's when I did some meditation and both sensations went away. Then I felt a bit better; I really think it helped and may do this a few more times in the days to come, plus some headstands to drain my legs.

No Compulsions = success, I'm torn with this new medication. On the one hand, it seems to effectively wipe out much of my compulsive urge. On the other hand, it both saps my motivation and does something wonky to my sleep. I'm still sleeping deeply (in fact, it knocks me quite out), but I have weird dreams, often about sleeping, and I don't seem to be healing in my sleep anymore. I wake up in pain, feeling awful, when usually my mornings are the only times the pain is manageable. A few times I've gotten up several hours early just to take a pain med and go back to sleep.
Extras = no extras today

TOTAL SCORE =  6.75/13 = 52% not a goal-reaching day but at least I managed to do the one thing I usually let slide (my meditation)

Today's Revelations

My legs are getting worse, not better. There was still a tiny kernel of doubt, the vague hope that over time my body would be able to heal itself. When I was bloodletting, some of the sticks didn't hurt, in fact, I couldn't really feel them. You'd think as much as my legs hurt all the time, it should hurt more, but in patches it felt like I was being poked through a heavy pair of jeans. This effectively means the nerve damage is slowly spreading, and probably explains why sometimes my knees stiffen and don't want to bend.

"Forgiving is not the same as forgetting." There's a whole series of mixed-up, intertwined revelations here. It all started a few days ago, my father is on vacation with his fiance and they've been posting pics on Facebook showing him doing all these activities with this little girl of about ten (I think she's the grandkid, or maybe a niece, I forget). Today they were building sandcastles and picking up shells. Instantly I felt a surge of bitter, vile jealousy.

"Jealousy is not about love, it's about loss." I've always thought it was more about possessiveness, but I think the 'experts' are wrong. I can possess a thing and still want to share it. I can feel jealous without feeling like the thing/person/circumstance I'm jealous about belongs to me. Love is giving. In a perfect, loving world I should feel as if I have gained something, an extended family brought in by my father's new relationship. But in reality (and we all know I'm brutal with honesty when it comes to myself) I feel jealous, and more than that, I feel bitter. It just brought to mind that empty hole in my childhood, and I'm angry by an unfair comparison i.e. he can treat a stranger's little girl better than he ever treated his own daughter.

Nevermind that my father then and my father now are simply too different people. Even though he is a good seventy percent changed, I can still see the angry, bitter, shell-shocked alcoholic trapped in a loveless nightmare of a marriage. My father hasn't changed that much. He still gets irritated over little things, and as my therapist pointed out, much of that involves loud noise or sudden, startling actions, a classic sign of PTSD. Sure, he's yelling about something else entirely, but in the background usually one of those two are present and it heightens his anger/reaction.

I'm jealous that people do things I can't, which is certainly not about possession so much as its opposite -- loss. "I owned that once; I could do that once." And I'm angry beyond all reason when people around me use drugs, or drink, or dance, or talk about any of the things I used to do (like rockclimbing). I think I'm still waiting for life to be fair, for there to be some universal justice to the world. My eyes are too open to believe in karma. I know too many bad people who have everything and too many good people who get nothing. Life isn't run by karma, it's run by statistical probabilities and median curves. Someone has to get snake-eyes, and this turn of the dice it was me.

It's time, past time, to let go of my father and whatever dream he had for me. I spent all of my childhood, and much of my adulthood, trying to put forth the good face and make him proud of me. It always backfired, because things back then simply weren't right. Maybe OlderSis can hold in that kind of hurt and pretend it isn't there, but I never could. It ate away at me then as it does now. What has he to be proud of, anyway? A disabled daughter who can no longer work, who may spend the rest of her life in therapy trying to work the emotional torture of her childhood into something she can live with; a recovering addict who still cuts herself like an emo teenager.

The one 'truism' I detest most, and so does my therapist, is "what doesn't kill you makes you stronger." Actually, it doesn't. She says she's seen more people broken by excess pain than anything else. It doesn't make you stronger; it just breaks you down. Whenever I hear someone say that phrase I want to slap them silly. Obviously they've just touched the iceberg of real pain. I've been through so much it literally broke my brain, shattered my personality into fragmented pieces, and though I might with time be able to put those parts back together, you will always be able to see the seams. I am no stronger. In fact, I am weaker. My mental illness opened my eyes but took my power. I am wiser, not tougher. We are all strong, each and every one of us, just some of us are forced to realize it sooner than others. You are stronger than I, although you may be unaware of it. The phrase should really be "what doesn't kill you, will open your eyes."

I can never let go of the hurt done to me. People are always saying let the past be the past, etc. I can't. Because my past has shaped me -- even more, the hurt itself has shaped me. It happened so young that it became an intrinsic part of my personality. If I let it go, I lose me. And sure, one could argue I would be much better off not carrying around all that painful baggage, but I wouldn't be me anymore. I'd be someone else, maybe a happier, healthier someone else, but still someone else entirely. It is too ingrained, too much a part of me to ever let go. Somehow, I will have to learn to live with this, knowing that there is a part of me that is always yearning towards death. I don't even yearn toward an end to pain, but an end to feeling itself, the Buddhist nirvana, the snuffing of the candle. My only sense of peace comes from knowing that I am not even a dust speck on the infinite, and eventually my presence will be entirely cleansed and washed away with no imprint left behind.

My father has never apologized.

Even if he did, he would have no logical reason to expect my forgiveness. Surely I understand, and with understanding I have come to a measure of forgiveness. But I can't forget. The pain built me from the ground up. And my choices are thus: I can attempt to forget the past, and thus forget myself, or I can attempt to forgive totally. The problem is, to completely forgive I have to acknowledge it completely, I have to say to myself, "this person hurt me, this person showed me exactly everything I needed to know about being unwanted and unloved," and, even though he is different now, I think in order to love myself I'm going to have to put some real, emotional distance between us.

I can no longer look to him for guidance. I can no longer seek help or an empathic ear anywhere in that direction. It doesn't matter if he is proud of me or not. Nothing he thinks or feels about me can have any impact, any longer. I'm glad he has this new family. I hope it makes him happy. I hope he makes them happy. But for me to be happy, I'm going to have to embrace the hurt fully, and I can't do that and still look him in the eye and not see the man who told me almost daily he wished I had never been born, that they had sold me as planned, who called me a whore when I was raped and told me I deserved it, who wanted nothing to do with me while I lay strapped to a hospital bed after yet another suicide attempt, who, when I ran away and left my diary open, exposing all my deepest fears and pains, upon my return laughed at it and said, "yeah, your sister had all that fake crap in her diary too."

I forgive, because I know. I know what it's like to have PTSD so bad that another person's misfortune is something you only laugh about on the surface and don't feel anything below. The pain my father inflicted upon me is the same thing that leads me to understand just how much pain he was in when my parents were still married. I know he didn't do it on purpose. And in the end, it doesn't matter. I can forgive, but I can't forget, and to move on would be to lose me. And if I am to keep me, and find some measure of self-worth, self-pride, self-love... then I have to love me enough to let him go.

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Sun, Jan. 6th, 2008, 03:42 am
Love and Fate in the Time of Cholera

At yoga on Thursday, under the careful instruction of Feng, I came to the first of a series of conclusions, perhaps the first I'd been searching for when I decided to take this year of chastity and introspection upon myself. I've been bending my own rules ever so slightly, in spirit especially, and yet the reasoning for my initial resolution spoke clearly to me from the depths of self-preservation, from that indomitable spirit of fire I carry which throws me to continue in seeking out happiness no matter my circumstances of despair.

Guided by the soft, melodious voice of Feng, I sat with legs crossed almost in lotus. My eyes closed and I drifted with the warm energy of her voice as it sang to me across the rumbling chords of Om.

"Hold out your hands to receive your gift from the Divine. When your hands are heavy and full, put the light into your heart and accept what you need." I prayed for wisdom, not only in the answers but also in the questions. Inward, on tiny soft breaths and strung with harmony, the steady pool of clarity trickled into my waiting palms, filled my forearms and pulled me within.

I am afraid. I am deeply, mortally afraid to get better. My fear is that, as most of my actions are driven by an instinctive need to protect (both myself and those I see as being within my scope of care), and as that emotional needs stems from all of my past hurts and traumas, then therefore... should I lose the emotional anguish and baggage I might lose the emotional drive to protect (which is fueling my current quest) and, in consequence, lose myself, lose who I am at this moment.

Logically, I surmise that one can lose emotional pain and still retain the wisdom gleaned from such experiences. And yet... in my heart I have doubts.

I still have doubts, and will continue to doubt, but am considering gathering what inner courage I need to plunge forth despite this, as I have gathered my courage a thousand times before, as I have gathered forth what is necessary in the soul to change.

The voice told me of a trust and a will, and perhaps even a way. That even as my life has been about making myself ever stronger in order to handle more and more pain, impossibly stronger, that there could also be a letting go of the hurts which no longer served me, which no longer fueled anything good within my life. Yet the fear remained.

Max put much of this into perspective when I talked with him about it.

"You act as if this is all or nothing, as if you drop all your baggage or keep it all. Let's not kid yourself, you have more baggage then a Louis Vuitton store. You have a full collection of Coach bags and some old-fashioned steamer trunks in there. You can drop last season's fashions and still have plenty left."

I promptly burst into laughter.

Part of me is still waiting for the miracle, the reversal in time where one of the two great loves wakes up. For Loopy to not be so crazy, to respect me as a willing equal in the fate of the world. For Commando to not be afraid, to want and to want to work, for clocks to move backward and life to stand still until I am ready to face the world.

This will never happen, and even as I know it, also do I know the chain that gnaws at me and the weight that keeps me bound backward. What would I do if such a thing happened, if one or the other committed to a return that promised to be all the things those relationships had lacked? Despite seeing with wide eyes all my idiocy, despite all manner of common sense, my trusted common sense, screaming negatives and expletives, I would be bound to take either one back, in a fruitless hope sure to leave me wanting. And I would want again, and I would hurt again, as I continue to hurt, as I continue to bleed.

Walk up the chain backward, to where it winds around a massive spool slowly turning backward, the weight of where all things were. At the center do you find my father? my mother? Some imaginary figurehead so wrapped in self-misery or some austere world view that they could no longer see the daughter striving for attention? Or is there something deeper still? A firmament stretching back through the generations into some void as yet black and unlit, perhaps.

I look through all the coiled threads to the great woven rope mass, to the heavy links of chain they have calcified and become. Weaponless, I set my teeth against a single link and tell myself, with all the force of conviction I can muster, that I will break this link or I will break my jaws on it, and that either way something must give and be broken once and for all.

I live or I die. I strangle myself on the coils. And if this chain to a distant childhood past can ever be broken and set behind, I shall then look around and take stock and see whatever it is of myself I have left, if anything at all, and decide it such proved to be for better or for worse.