Ghosts of my Past and Other Trite Titles

My therapist gave me some homework to do this weekend, wherein I was to list all of the traumas I have survived and then explore the feelings associated.  He (therapist) has suggested that I am detached from those emotions as a coping mechanism, and he is not the first to make that statement.  He is also right, and it is up to me to break through that barrier.  When certain people experience traumas, some of us file those moments away in our minds as something akin to a movie once seen on late night teevee; it didn't really happen to us, so we don't really have to face it.  Unfortunately, these moments never go away.  They ripple out into our lives for a long, long time, and if we stubbornly refuse to digest them then our every decision is skewed as a result.  Or so I've found.  I, like my father, am a compulsive list maker.  Outlining, numbering, bullet-pointing - these are the comforting routines for organisation in my life.  This list I've made today is not a comforting list.  It is on one hand a sad and scary account of a hard life; on the other hand it is a testament to strength and resilience.  I survived rapes, I survived molestations and I survived physical and mental abuse.  Goddammit, I survived.  That is something to be proud of, no?  But I can't be completely proud, because this shit all happened.  It was no story book, it was no late night movie on the teevee, it was my life. It still is, actually.

This morning, my husband left to go to work and returned one minute later to tell me that someone broke into his work van and stole his GPS unit.  Not the thousands of dollars worth of electrical equipment he carries for his job, not the cds, not the sundry other items worth more than the van - just the GPS.  Two neighbors in our building have apartments facing the van, and there is no doubt that they heard his alarm going off whenever it occurred, but they didn't do anything... they didn't say anything.  They let it happen.  What is wrong with this world?  No one wants to risk a moment of their time to help another human?  Le sigh, true believers; le sigh.  Had one human stepped up to help me in my times of dire need, maybe I wouldn't be so scared of men, so fearful of disapproval and so yearning for acceptance.  Maybe I would be strong enough to face my past head-on, instead of in a dodgy little list.

Not really a Bitch, per se...

Today I ran into an old friend from High School at the local TJ's.  The last time we saw one another, I was using my cane to get around and she was working there.  Today, I was in my wheelchair and my husband was pushing me around in the store as we hunted for suitable noms.  I saw my old friend and said hey! and when she turned around, it was obvious shock on her face.  She asked how I was and what was with the wheels, so I briefly explained that my conditions had deteriorated in the past few years.  After a very awkward few moments, we said goodbye and I rolled back to the man.  Since I don't go out very often (aside from visits to my Mommala and Gran's house), I forget sometimes that others aren't used to seeing me in Good 'Ol Jack Burton*, so there is always a moment of discomfort.  I'm glad it happened, though, because it was a lesson to be gentle and pleasant, calm and cheerful in these situations.  It seemed to make it easier on her, and on me as a result.



* Good 'Ol Jack Burton is the name of my wheelchair (each one I've had, actually).  If you've ever seen "Big Trouble in Little China", you'll know who I mean and if not - go rent it this week.  80's cheesy kung-fu action with Kurt Freakin' Russell.

Small Victories

Remember that piece of shit I mentioned previously, the woman who faked her disabilities to get money?  Stupid bitch.  Well, we have vindication!  It is nice to see the government stepping in to stop liars from getting benefits they don't deserve, but I'd like to see the government start giving benefits to those to do deserve them.  Just sayin'. 

Still, though, this is a wee little victory in my book.  Now if I could just figure out how to de-brain the shithead upstairs neighbor, I'd be in business.

A Barrel and a Heap

My last post was written with coeval grief, and thus only held a small amount of anger toward Pedo Piece of Shit.  He did survive the funeral, as I decided that it was better to silently put the malocchio on him than upset my family.  At one point, he sat next to me.  At the memorial.  Less than 6 feet from the body of my shining, stellar, beautiful Godmother.  Luckily, my mother is aware of what Pedo P.o.S. did to me and to others, so she quickly motioned for me to sit next to her, thereby cutting him off from any chance of conversation with myself.  As we all said our final goodbyes at the cemetery, Pedo P.o.S. broke down and said he wasn't ready to let her go, which at the time seemed so genuine... so real.  Not one month later, we all found out that he has a girlfriend.  That less than one hour after she died, he told her brother that he'd have to find a new woman. It seems sadly realistic that he had that girlfriend the whole time my Aunt (who was actually my cousin) was dying.  I cannot waste any further emotion on him at this time.  What I can do is share with you some of the lyrics to the song she sung to myself and all of the other children who were graced with her light as we grew up.  I recently watched "Julie and Julia", and this song was part of the soundtrack; I was unaware of that, and when I heard the first few notes I began to cry and didn't stop until the last note was played. 


Doris Day - A Bushel And A Peck Lyrics

I love you a bushel and a peck
A bushel and a peck and a hug around the neck
A hug around the neck and a barrel and a heap
A barrel and a heap and I'm talkin' in my sleep
About you, about you
'Cause I love you a bushel and a peck
You bet your purdy neck I do


I love you, Aunt Patty, a bushel and a peck.  I'll miss those hugs around the neck.

Grief Sucks.

**This post was originally written during the week of June 21, 2010.**

Oh, dear reader(s? not likely.).  What a week it has been.  My godmother died on Monday evening, after a very long battle with cancer.  Her husband, Piece of Pedo Shit, hasn't lifted a finger to help her all the years she's been fighting to survive, and if he is able to leave the funeral friday without my cane wrapped around his head, it'll be a miracle. My godmother, Aunt Patty, was a source of beauty, joy, laughter, smiles, love and a perfect touch of sarcasm.  She was an Italian-English marvel with a grin that made you feel loved and worthwhile.  Cancer killed her, but not her spirit or the bright and shining memories we have of her.

I had a list in my head of things to bitch about, but it just isn't as important now.  When my other Aunt called to give the sad news, I cried for a bit but clamped it down (bad habit, I know). My husband just held me and then I decided to paint.  When I paint, I can process without being beaten with thoughts.  There are not enough words to express what painting does for me, nor to state how much my godmother meant to me. 

More bitchings to follow in the near future, I am sure.