things i remember

I went through the one photo album I have with me rather than in storage and this is the only pix I have of myself pre-school age besides the out-in-the-corral photo. I like this shot because I can actually remember that period in my life...specifically I remember playing with the fake-glass-grapes and the empty colored-sugar-water plastic bottles quite frequently, and I remember that I loved playing with these things. And I remember that this was the last time until now that I had a sense of happiness. 34 years is long enough to feel miserable. I wonder if my fondness for frogs has anything to do with the fact that I looked like a little frog when I was a little snotter.

making lemonaid

This evening I met my friend Dr Dave for coffee (and pie), and catching up. Even though we come from different time periods, different parts of the country, different sex, and different orientation, we bond quite well over our dysfunctional parenting. It was quite amusing to be able to completely relate to one crazy-vampiric-soul-sucking-mom story after another. We decided that after I graduate we will write a book together about the woes of growing up with a vampire and how to cope. Since Dr Dave actually is a published author, I think that this will actually happen unlike so many other of my book ideas that are still back-logged in my head.

How to deal with a vampire

I didn't think I would need to see my therapist after my visit back to mom as I have been doing quite well psychologically. I was wrong. I found that I was quite...out of my body after the experience of dealing with 4 days worth of comments such as this one that came after spraining my ankle: "Maybe you broke it and you will have to stay here with me." Thanks mom.

About 95% of my conversations with my mother involves her complaining about how horrible her life is. A while back someone suggested that the next time she did it I should counter with my own story of how horrible my life is. It back fired...her response was "Things never work out for you either...You're Just Like Your Poor Ol' Mother." I nearly vomited from the psychic sickness that washed over me when she made that statement. One of those lessons that I've known in my head, I finally got in my heart. That lesson being that my mother wants to live through me...that also means that she wants to pass on her suffering to me. I am happy to say that I don't want it. The thing that I've been getting this last year, and the thing that has been making me a happy s.o.b. is that I Don't Have To Live My Life For Anyone Else. I love my mother, but that doesn't mean I don't get to love myself. I have reclaimed my life, and not everyone is happy about that, but I am, and that is all that matters.

random thoughts on a hot day

The b/w photo to the left was taken when I was 3 or4. There are a number of pictures that my mom took of me that were intended to show that I was my fathers daughter. It's a little hard to see, but I'm wearing my dad's cap and I've got one of his 1/2 chewed cigars in my mouth. There are a number of photos buried somewhere in my storage unit of me around this age again with dad's cigar, and some where I am "passed out" with a jug of booze under my arm. In those photos I'm generally not actually passed out, not because I wasn't drinking, but because dad didn't give me booze around mom.

I was daddy's little helper. Whenever he went into town to 'get parts' (read into that; get booze), I went along with him. The day would consist frequent stops to get beer or schnapps out of the back of the pickup on the 40+ mile drive to town. Once we arrived in town, dad would spend an our or two at each bar in town (for you aspiring alcoholics, the trick is to only stay a few hours at each bar, because if you stay too long at one, people will assume you are an alcoholic). Back in those days, you could still get away with bringing kids into the bar, so that is where I spent my time. In some bars they'd even let him get away with ordering a "shot of rye for both of us". I wasn't much of a rye drinker til my late teens though, however, I was quite fond of beer foam and Tom & Jerrys (I was a little sugar addict too, doncha know).

Many of my fellow alcoholics speak of their first drink...they can remember every detail...their first drink was a life changing event. For me, I was pretty muchly pre-verbal for my first drink, and even my first drunk, but I can remember the first time I cognitively associated drinking with feeling better. I was 7 and I was overwhelmed with an oppressive feeling like the entire world was going to cave in on me and swallow me up into a ball of chaos, and I didn't know of anyway to make it better except to get drunk. Now, on any other day I could have stumbled across 3 different dad-stashes. The first place I looked was in a snow drift about 20 feet away from where that b/w photo was taken, but no luck that day. Next was the quancet which usually held several stashes, but sadly, strike two. Next, there was always behind the seat of the pickup, strike 3.

I guess dad was having a bad day too.

letting go

There is a theme in my mother's life, and that theme is Not Letting Go. It is a theme that I inherited and one that I work very hard to, ahem, let go of...although if you read the last post you know that there are some areas I am not doing so well in. Before I left for ND, I had a friend do a birth-chart for my mother. Said friend wasn't well, so I wasn't able to pick it up til today, but even in her chart, Not Letting Go is the little wise-ass at the front of the class with her hand in the air squealing "pick me, pick me". The other theme that surfaced in her chart was My Life Will Never Get Any Better. Another inheritance from my mother I do my best to run from...I need to keep working on my cardio fitness as that shit runs awefully fast and never seems to tire.

You might be asking yourself, "Well, does mama have any good qualities?" I'm glad you asked. My mother is charismatic, she is a tireless worker, she is loyal, in her youth she was quite the beauty, and she persevered through one hell of a shitty life. Fortunately, I was able to pick a few of these characteristics as well. I figure if I can incorporate a little balance and a whole lotta Positive in my life and the appropriate Letting Go, my mom's gifts to me will be pretty frakking awesome.

My friend the Gadfly

This morning before our workout, TokyoRosa and I went out for coffee and chatted...most of the chat was about me being tired and not wanting to work out...after I had texted her at 6:45 to meet, and after which she had reminded me that the gym doesn't open til 9 on sundays.

However, somehow our conversation got around to all of the (literal) baggage I carry around. Damn you TR for reminding me that I am not as Zen as I would like to believe. I have a storage unit full of stuff. Well, about 1/2 of it is stuff, the other half is actually Stuff that I would be using were I not living in my friends' spare bedroom. "Why do you keep all of this stuff" she asked. I only had an excuse, not an answer. That answer being that I am (cue the Dio) the Last in Line...my father died with only one child (me, if you're having trouble with the math), both of his brothers died childless and his sisters disowned the family...so here I am with all of this stuff...and no one to pass it along to. There are others with my name out there, but I don't know them and they don't me, so there is this heavy feeling that haunts me and stalks me...what is that feeling? (long pause) Obligation. And let me tell you, obligation is one of those primal buttons for me.

I don't know if I'm making it up, or if she actually said it, but I can hear "when are you going to let go?" ringing in my head. Preferably before my mother kicks the bucket. So: Soon, dear Gadfly, soon.

Bread boy

College was such a strange and wondrous time. Pages worth of blogs could be done on the many college-related topics that come to mind, but for now, let us focus on bread-boy, AKA Brian. He's the tall one on the right. Brian was my best friend in college...and back then we both had long hair. The story that came to mind this morning when I woke up at 6am (I really need to stop doing that) is of the time I arranged for us (he and I and my ex Ruby) to go to Bismarck for tattoos. He got a very lovely Pacific Coast Native piece done on his back. I was wanting to get a specific tattoo which the Toad did not have a design for, and since this whole thing was my idea, I had to get something. So in the mean time Ruby got a tattoo of a dragon on her upper peck, and I really liked how it looked so I got the same thing only in a different color. More about that later. Through college, B and I were tattoo buddies...after the Toad, we discovered Penny who became our regular artist, and generally we went along with the other to get our pieces done. We also spent a great deal of time defacing, I mean customizing the art department. Good times. Now B has a real job and gets to fly around in the company jet, has a lovely wife and kids, and a mini-van...and I have a broke-down mini-van complete with side door falling off!