I'm grateful for: diaryland, and my buddies here; the time to sit here, all by myself, without fretting about getting up tomorrow; not throwing up

Today ... I dunno. Good, bad, a mix of many different things and I want this to be an easy, short entry. Whatever.

Morning I woke up, didn't get enough sleep. No surprize, I was up pretty late. I couldn't sleep, I had this memory - not precisely a grody flashback - but, yeah, of a scene from my past which you couldn't play on primetime. I don't know quite what to say. I think if I try to explain it it will take reams of typing and still not be adequate, and I am not up to that. On the other hand, I really want to 'talk' about it somewhere.

So it may get really x-rated here. I don't know.

Oh, damn, I don't know where to go from here. I have a host of 'other people's shit' in my head. I have been accused (don't I just know the loveliest people) of being a bad writer and a tease because I write the way I talk, the way I think, the way I live my life. I write it as it comes out. I don't edit except sometimes for spelling, typoes and even less occasionally for grammer. So, I say something like it may get really x-rated and that means it may. It also means it may not. 'Cause I don't know. When I'm typing it. And I don't go and change it because maybe nothing grody comes out. Which, I guess leaves it as an unfulfilled teaser or something. But, why the hell should I change what I write or how I write because some un-housebroken control freaks have said mean things to me in the past? So I don't. But then I hear their words in my head... I know, so many other people's words in my head. You'd think by now I'd be able to get rid of them, or at least stop listening to them.

I don't have an answer for that one other than it takes time. And in some ways I am still just learning to recognize the extent to which other people's shit messes with my head and sometimes runs my life. It really sucks. What, did I win some kind of reverse lottery. Sometimes i wonder. Do other people have quite so many really mean people in their lives, or am I just specially blessed? Or do I do something that invites it? I don't have a clue. Just throwing out ideas here. Oh, and just for the record? Mean people suck.

Yeah, so. Um, Tzvia came over with all of her kids today. It was a really nice visit, even though I had to dash into the shower as she walked in the door (I really didn't smell nice to be next to), and the dizziness is still with me, which made showering by myself a real treat. Still, I survived, threw on some clothes, and invited Tzvia up to my room. Her son Avraham had already disappeared with Eliyahu. I didn't even know for sure Michal had come with her except that I didn't hear a peep out of Simcha the whole time. And Zechy and Hans seemed to have a good time visiting with Eli--(help, I can't figure out how to transliterate this one!)--Elieazer and her other son who's name (bad Mel!) I can't for the life of me remember.

We had a really terrific visit, a bit less than perfect by the fact that both of us had diarrhea of the mouth and kept interrupting each other. Not a really bad thing, but a good sign that neither of us get together with other mom's in person enough. We talked about everything, families of origin, dentists, the army, you-name-it. John came home about half way through the visit, and made falafel for all of us before dragging me off to the chiropracter.

I was a bit nervous about going. This was the first time I rode in a car since throwing up all the way home from the dentist last week. And, since the dizziness is still with me, well, I was nervous. It went fine, though. I don't mean I wasn't dizzy or nauseous, just that I didn't throw up. Which I take as a success.

The visit with the chiropracter went well, but was kind of hard in that I kept having that memory intruding. It made it a little hard to relax. While I was being treated, Havva met up with John in Kfar Saba, so that when I was done we all went shopping together. That was fun. Kind of.

I was in the wheelchair with Havva mostly pushing me. John was pushing the shopping cart. The store was quite full, not as full as it would be later on, but it is Thursday night. It was a bit frustrating that Havva would stop for something she wanted to look at and wouldn't get moving again. I was feeling anxious to get it over with and come home. There were all sort of minor problems, the best one was when at the end of ringing up the order the cashier's computer went down. Fortunately after some racing around like clowns in a circus, they got the computer back up and John was able to pay. Shouldn't have so much trouble getting people to take your money is what I say.

Home again. TERRIBLY dizzy. I don't think the dr.s pills are working. John and I finished watching Turn Left At The End Of The World, an Israeli film that is extremely good. Then I came downstairs and entered the receipts and so on into the computer to discover that we have already overspent for the month of October. It's scary, but I am trusting that somehow it will work out as it always does. I don't know that I will stay that sanguine throughout but for the moment I can be okay with it. I guess.

We got the forms to fill out for the loan from the bank in Vermont. For anyone who doesn't know and cares we are trying to take out a mortgage on our place in Vermont to consolidate our debts and reduce the payment to something we can possibly afford. John did nothing about filling them out, or even phoning the loan officer for help though. He can't phone tomorrow, Saturday, Sunday or Monday, so obviously even though we have absolutely nothing to live on this is not an urgent matter to him. I wish I could just fill the damn things out and forget about him. Being dependent on someone sucks, but so much more when the someone is not dependable.

Urgh, my life in excruciating detail. I find it excrutiating.

John is off in bed now, as is anyone else with a thimble-full of sense. One reason I am not in bed is this memory, which is just waiting to jump me if I go lie down with nothing to distract me from it. Do I want to be distracted? It is really not a fun memory. But clearly there is something there I am not getting, something I need to see or feel or understand. It's not going to go away until I get it. Or probably not. Sometimes they go away for a while, but they always return. So...

It had to be in the late 1960's. Best guess. I suppose early '70's is a possibility, but not a huge one. It would really help if these memories came with one of those boards to tell you when it was and what was happening before each one. I don't remember all of the details which lead up to it (one of the happy things that happens is that when I am finally 'done' with a memory it seems to blissfully sink back into the background and not bother me anymore).

I don't think I can do it.

The memory isn't about the x-rated stuff anyway. It has something to do with, I think, something changing in me. He had gotten angry with me, I think he thought I had lied about something. And I found myself lying on the bed, and he was touching me, and it HURT! He had never done that before. So at an unconscious level, when I saw his hand reaching to touch me, I didn't tense, I just had no experience with him hurting me like that. It kind of scrambled things in my brain. Like I'd been wired to respond positively to his touch, and here it wasn't a positive thing at all, and I couldn't seem, at first, to 'get' that he was Going to hurt me. After the first time I understood consciously that was what was going on, but that isn't how my body was reacting.

It didn't feel like a betrayal, it was just terribly confusing. It was a new reality I was definitely not prepared for, and, it HURT. It seems to me that he finally believed that I hadn't done whatever bad thing he thought I had done. And then, when I hadn't yet begun to get my head around the idea of his touch bringing pain, he stroked me, and, I couldn't handle it. I mean, it felt good, or it would have if my circuits weren't all scrambled. And, yes, I know this is all full of different kinds of deep meaning, most of which I have plumbed at different times in my adult life. But it is coming back and recurring, mostly the feeling of being all scrambled, and of not being able to handle the good touch. I actually had a tear, which was very unusual. I didn't cry back then.

I wonder if it could be something as simple as wanting to go back to a time when he was here. I dunno, it doesn't seem to satisfy as an explanation.

It just occurred to me that the difference between my life and fiction (note, I didn't say Good fiction) is that fiction ends. Granted, an awful lot seems to continue past it's freshness date, but it always, always ends eventually. My life just keeps going, forever. For the rest of my life, anyway. I don't know if I'm making any sense. It's not just about the really badly written adult XXX-rated parts either. It just keeps going, there is no end. At least, not like fiction. See, if I was writing a novel here it would have a format, right, and no matter how long it took or how many detours I took, it would eventually come to an end. Not like a diary. There is no end. Not really. I can stop writing a diary, but that doesn't stop my life from happening.

I guess it would be a good thing if I could at least like what I write, then, huh? I don't know if that is possible, but it is definitely something to work towards.

I guess I really want my life to be more like fiction, with exciting parts and quiet parts and enough humour to keep it fun even when it's suspenseful or completely uneventful.

Am I the only person who finds my own life deadly dull? I suppose other people must feel that way about their own lives sometimes. I spend so much time boring myself by writing about my life. I really wish I could write fiction. Much more satisfying, I would think, and a much better chance of getting paid as well. As educational and as helpful as what I write here is, for me, I wish I could be entertained by what I write, instead. That is, if I have to write. Which I do seem compelled to do, at least sometimes.

When I go on like this I can't imagine anyone reading all the way to the end and not being utterly disgusted if they do. And yet, somehow each time one or more of my 'buddies' always make it and somehow aren't utterly disgusted at how I go on (or if they are, they mercifully keep it to themselves). I can't tell you how grateful I am, because this is so much better than not writing, or writing completely privately (even if I did have to lock my diary). It definitely has less the feel of shouting into an empty room. So, thanks.

I'm listening to the rattle of the fan and Claire Hamilton playing Londonderry Air (Danny Boy)

:: Yesterdays : Tomorrows ::

~~~Last Five Entries~~~
Hi and goodbye - 2010-10-15
I'll be moving on - 2010-10-10
Gold membership and stuff - 2010-10-10
Decisions, decisions - 2010-10-07
Days to go - 2010-10-06