Every week a new headline catches the attention of a nation ready to attack and judge the subject. Recently, a gorilla, a toddler, and a Mom were in the firing range. Everyone became a perfect parent, and an expert zookeeper. But, the most recent headline sparking debate, is tearing a hole through me, and I've discovered some troubling things.
I had no idea there was a "rape culture." I had to look it up. Such a thing, even after reading the definitions, seems implausible to me. A generation that doesn't recognize the definition of rape, or believe that it should be punished severely...that is one warped, hardened generation.
Nineteen-seventy-nine gave my rapist his 20+ minutes of action. With me, at least. I was naive, a virgin, and very, very drunk. Bad decisions are made while drunk...anyone that had been drunk has probably made at least one in their lives, thus far. My second bad decision (the first was getting that drunk) was taking a ride from an acquaintance who I saw frequently at the bars, and who seemed to be everyone's buddy. I thought, how bad can he be? I never made it to the party he was giving me the ride to. Instead, he pulled into an alley, and kissed me. Then, began pushing me against the bucket seat. As I tried to free myself, I somehow ended up pinned against the console, where he raked me across it, into the back seat. I vaguely remember him telling me to stop crying, but, I don't remember much until the end. This action had nothing to do with sex, but, with opportunity and conquering.
I wish I'd have known that. I lived with guilt and shame for years. I never reported it. I told only one person right after it happened, although my sister knew because she walked in on me getting dressed, and the bruises rendered her speechless. A year later, I told my Mom. She cried so much. She worked in the bank, and wondered how she would ever wait on him again. My already fractured self esteem crumbled to dust. I must mean nothing, if someone could take away something so personal, and toss me about like a rag doll. I made more bad decisions. And more.
After around six years, my doctor demanded I see a counselor. At that time, it was the hardest thing I'd ever done. But, I learned a lot about what makes a rape, and what doesn't mean you "deserve it." That, I think has been the most troubling thing about the headlines...the lack of enlightenment men have regarding rape.
One hopelessly unenlightened man commented specific surroundings that made a rape a rape. Apparently, being assaulted behind garbage dumpsters didn't make the cut. Nor did 'in a car, in an alley'. The men joked about rape being "a forceful way to get your rocks off." I was getting...let's call it riled. I commented on rape being about power, not sex, and more mocking ensued. As my last response, I posted "Rape Myths", and was chastised for my site selection. It was wvu.edu. That's right, a university. What I found most interesting was that my comments were being "liked" by women. Lots of them. Men mocked. How did this happen? When did fathers stop teaching their sons that raising a hand to a woman is wrong?
Just for the record: Myth: Rape is caused by the perpetrator's uncontrollable sexual urge. Fact: Rape is an act of power and control, not sex. In addition, one of the biggest myths about rape is that it happens out of sexual desire..I will add, however, in the case of date rape, perhaps, it may start as sexual urge, but, should stop, no matter how excited a man is, if "no", or fighting back, or trying to escape the situation occurs.I know it's not easy, guys...even hurts, but, if you a real man, you know it's the right thing to do. If you are a man reading this, I beg you not to dismiss it. As someone that has lived through the he experience, been taught about the act, and supported others with the same story, I stand by this. One episode of CSI:SVU would tell you this!
I've not shared my story with many. Perhaps I should have, I suppose. One thing the media has gotten right is that the victim gets blamed before the perpetrator. It has to stop..
Tuesday, June 7, 2016
Thursday, May 12, 2016
LIVING WITH THE "F" WORD--IN HONOR OF FIBROMYALGIA AWARENESS MONTH
I used to be like anyone without a chronic illness.
Since 1994, I kissed Hub goodbye at 4:30am, got up at 6:00, showered and got ready for work. Got Daughter up, and ready for school. Fed the dogs, let them out to be "good puppy". I went to work. Worked all day. After work, I, sometimes, went to get groceries, picked up Daughter from sitter, then rushed home to get my part of dinner ready. We'd have dinner, helped with homework, and I would check her spelling words, with my crotchety teacher look...glasses at the tip of my nose, with a old person voice, either asking her to respell a word, or drawing a star, a smiley face, or my own creation, "Hairy" onto the top of her correct paper. She would take a supervised bath, then we would watch TV until her bedtime, when I would read her a book, turn on her Raffi tape, and head downstairs to watch TV, then run back upstairs to turn the Raffi tape over, run back downstairs to finish watching TV until bedtime. In the morning, I started all over again, just like everyone else.
And, then, Baby Boy was born. The routine had to be tweaked, but, I was in love with that Baby Boy, so "it was all good", as they say. Only, it wasn't.
The day started with that kiss at 4:30, the Baby Boy Alarm at 5 (with him requesting me at midnight, and two), feeding him, while watching IMUS, dressed him, showered for 5 minutes, while he played on a blanket, got Daughter up, helped her dress, fed her, let them play a bit, while I fed the dogs, and let them out, took Baby Boy to sitter, Daughter to school, and myself to work. Pick up kids, rush home, begin my part of dinner. That's when the colic took place. Every single night, at dinner. We'd argue about the fact that it wasn't Baby Boy's fault that he had colic, try to eat dinner, help with homework, check spelling words, with my crotchety old teacher fading, but, still hand drawn stars and smileys. Baby Boy would calm down, and play on his blanket, with Daughter, sometimes, playing with him. We'd watch TV, put kids to bed, with Daughter changing her own tape, and, me reading book to Baby Boy. Turn on his Elton John mix tape, run downstairs to watch TV, back up to turn the tape over, run back down to watch TV, with me heading for bed at 9, Hub maybe 10:30. Up around midnight and two, then all over again at 4:30.
Something didn't feel right. One day, I came home and told Hub that I was exhausted, but not sleepy. More like bone tired. Like walking with cement blocks on my feet, through mud, and 5 feet of snow. And, so sore. I had healed from my Ligation...scars good, bruises gone, but, I hurt everywhere. Eventually, I was fired for missing too much work, due to being put on bed rest at 5 months, and every kind of depression, exhaustion, and so, so much pain. Needless to say, the news was not greeted with joyfulness. But, with some Unemployment, and a tweak of the budget, we did just fine.
My Mother was concerned and told me about a company that would represent me if I wanted to apply for Social Security Disability Insurance. I thought that it couldn't hurt. Now, let me, quickly, say that SSDI is not a government handout, as many people think. It is an account that all of those working, make a deposit into, with every paycheck. It is sort of an assurance that, in time of need, you will be okay, financially. Except, you aren't. But, that's what it is.
I filled out paperwork for a couple of days, mailed it off. I was filing based on an article I'd read in TIME, regarding a mysterious illness reported by, primarily, women, that involved body-wide pain, and overwhelming fatigue. It was called Fibromyalgia. There also a close cousin, Chronic Fatigue Syndrome, now named, Systemic Exertion Intolerance Disease. I have both. After being diagnosed with it, I thought, I finally had an answer. Surely, if I had a name for it, it must be known everywhere, right? The agent that called a few weeks later said "no", I'd never get SSDI based on Fibromyalgia. At the last minute, before my hearing, the company dropped my case, and I was left to represent myself.
I sat in a room with, I think, 15 doctors and lawyers, and answered question after question about my daily routine, how I handled various situations, even my sex-life. The longer I was there, the more anxious I got, eventually shaking, crying, sweating, and having massive panic heartbeats. I was fidgety, and had to be allowed to use the restroom because I thought I would be sick. When it was all over, I was congratulated on my bravery, and they let me read what the doctors had to say about all medical conditions. I could not believe what my Rheumatologist had to say about the Fibromyalgia. He reported that I could sit, stand, or walk for 6 hours a day! I was furious. As horrible as I felt, and this was what he "assessed". Then I got to the assessment of my psychiatric medications doctor. His assessment was written with respect to me, and my struggles with his diagnoses, at the time. And a year later, I was awarded SSDI. But, not for Fibromyalgia. That still got no recognition in the guidelines for SSDI. In fact, it was only last year that it was added to those guidelines. Millions of people, worldwide, have been in pain for decades, and it took until 2015 for it to be recognized as "real", because there is no lab test. Nothing a doctor can show to someone. Nothing as palpable proof.
Eventually, I found a Rheumatologist that listened, and kept up to date on the latest chronic illnesses. He'd just been to a pain seminar a year ago, and he shared the finding of a study that involved pain stimuli and the brain. We all know that the brain is halved by a pathway, and that the left brain is responsible for the movement and sensation of the right side of the body, and vice versa. The study introduced pain stimuli to a person's left leg, and the right side of the brain lit up, as it should. But, when stimuli was introduced for longer, and made more intense, the pain signals eventually crossed over to the other side of the brain, causing pain all over the body, rather than just the applicable side. Continued pain actually rewires the brain!
I suppose this is more information that most of you thought you needed, but, as an advocate for invisible, chronic illnesses, I'm always reminding people to read a bit about Fibromyalgia, if they know someone with it. Of course, you can not understand it, unless you live it, but, just being educated and aware will mean so much to the person that suffers with it! Perhaps, many of you remember an episode of "Happy Days" that had Fonzie frustrated with his Grandma Nusbaum. To make him understand how her age affected her, she had him walk around in shoes with rocks in them, see out of her glasses, and walk a bit hunched, and, with a cane. When Fonzie was asked how he felt, he responded, "I can't see so good. I can't walk so good. My back is killing me!" Grandma Nusbaum was a wise woman!
So, in honor of Fibromyalgia Awareness Month, the month of May, perhaps Google it. When you see that person ask how today has been, rather than "how are you?", because every day with Fibro is different. And, different for each person.
Thank you for your time. I hope everyone has a low pain, high energy day!
Since 1994, I kissed Hub goodbye at 4:30am, got up at 6:00, showered and got ready for work. Got Daughter up, and ready for school. Fed the dogs, let them out to be "good puppy". I went to work. Worked all day. After work, I, sometimes, went to get groceries, picked up Daughter from sitter, then rushed home to get my part of dinner ready. We'd have dinner, helped with homework, and I would check her spelling words, with my crotchety teacher look...glasses at the tip of my nose, with a old person voice, either asking her to respell a word, or drawing a star, a smiley face, or my own creation, "Hairy" onto the top of her correct paper. She would take a supervised bath, then we would watch TV until her bedtime, when I would read her a book, turn on her Raffi tape, and head downstairs to watch TV, then run back upstairs to turn the Raffi tape over, run back downstairs to finish watching TV until bedtime. In the morning, I started all over again, just like everyone else.
And, then, Baby Boy was born. The routine had to be tweaked, but, I was in love with that Baby Boy, so "it was all good", as they say. Only, it wasn't.
The day started with that kiss at 4:30, the Baby Boy Alarm at 5 (with him requesting me at midnight, and two), feeding him, while watching IMUS, dressed him, showered for 5 minutes, while he played on a blanket, got Daughter up, helped her dress, fed her, let them play a bit, while I fed the dogs, and let them out, took Baby Boy to sitter, Daughter to school, and myself to work. Pick up kids, rush home, begin my part of dinner. That's when the colic took place. Every single night, at dinner. We'd argue about the fact that it wasn't Baby Boy's fault that he had colic, try to eat dinner, help with homework, check spelling words, with my crotchety old teacher fading, but, still hand drawn stars and smileys. Baby Boy would calm down, and play on his blanket, with Daughter, sometimes, playing with him. We'd watch TV, put kids to bed, with Daughter changing her own tape, and, me reading book to Baby Boy. Turn on his Elton John mix tape, run downstairs to watch TV, back up to turn the tape over, run back down to watch TV, with me heading for bed at 9, Hub maybe 10:30. Up around midnight and two, then all over again at 4:30.
Something didn't feel right. One day, I came home and told Hub that I was exhausted, but not sleepy. More like bone tired. Like walking with cement blocks on my feet, through mud, and 5 feet of snow. And, so sore. I had healed from my Ligation...scars good, bruises gone, but, I hurt everywhere. Eventually, I was fired for missing too much work, due to being put on bed rest at 5 months, and every kind of depression, exhaustion, and so, so much pain. Needless to say, the news was not greeted with joyfulness. But, with some Unemployment, and a tweak of the budget, we did just fine.
My Mother was concerned and told me about a company that would represent me if I wanted to apply for Social Security Disability Insurance. I thought that it couldn't hurt. Now, let me, quickly, say that SSDI is not a government handout, as many people think. It is an account that all of those working, make a deposit into, with every paycheck. It is sort of an assurance that, in time of need, you will be okay, financially. Except, you aren't. But, that's what it is.
I filled out paperwork for a couple of days, mailed it off. I was filing based on an article I'd read in TIME, regarding a mysterious illness reported by, primarily, women, that involved body-wide pain, and overwhelming fatigue. It was called Fibromyalgia. There also a close cousin, Chronic Fatigue Syndrome, now named, Systemic Exertion Intolerance Disease. I have both. After being diagnosed with it, I thought, I finally had an answer. Surely, if I had a name for it, it must be known everywhere, right? The agent that called a few weeks later said "no", I'd never get SSDI based on Fibromyalgia. At the last minute, before my hearing, the company dropped my case, and I was left to represent myself.
I sat in a room with, I think, 15 doctors and lawyers, and answered question after question about my daily routine, how I handled various situations, even my sex-life. The longer I was there, the more anxious I got, eventually shaking, crying, sweating, and having massive panic heartbeats. I was fidgety, and had to be allowed to use the restroom because I thought I would be sick. When it was all over, I was congratulated on my bravery, and they let me read what the doctors had to say about all medical conditions. I could not believe what my Rheumatologist had to say about the Fibromyalgia. He reported that I could sit, stand, or walk for 6 hours a day! I was furious. As horrible as I felt, and this was what he "assessed". Then I got to the assessment of my psychiatric medications doctor. His assessment was written with respect to me, and my struggles with his diagnoses, at the time. And a year later, I was awarded SSDI. But, not for Fibromyalgia. That still got no recognition in the guidelines for SSDI. In fact, it was only last year that it was added to those guidelines. Millions of people, worldwide, have been in pain for decades, and it took until 2015 for it to be recognized as "real", because there is no lab test. Nothing a doctor can show to someone. Nothing as palpable proof.
Eventually, I found a Rheumatologist that listened, and kept up to date on the latest chronic illnesses. He'd just been to a pain seminar a year ago, and he shared the finding of a study that involved pain stimuli and the brain. We all know that the brain is halved by a pathway, and that the left brain is responsible for the movement and sensation of the right side of the body, and vice versa. The study introduced pain stimuli to a person's left leg, and the right side of the brain lit up, as it should. But, when stimuli was introduced for longer, and made more intense, the pain signals eventually crossed over to the other side of the brain, causing pain all over the body, rather than just the applicable side. Continued pain actually rewires the brain!
I suppose this is more information that most of you thought you needed, but, as an advocate for invisible, chronic illnesses, I'm always reminding people to read a bit about Fibromyalgia, if they know someone with it. Of course, you can not understand it, unless you live it, but, just being educated and aware will mean so much to the person that suffers with it! Perhaps, many of you remember an episode of "Happy Days" that had Fonzie frustrated with his Grandma Nusbaum. To make him understand how her age affected her, she had him walk around in shoes with rocks in them, see out of her glasses, and walk a bit hunched, and, with a cane. When Fonzie was asked how he felt, he responded, "I can't see so good. I can't walk so good. My back is killing me!" Grandma Nusbaum was a wise woman!
So, in honor of Fibromyalgia Awareness Month, the month of May, perhaps Google it. When you see that person ask how today has been, rather than "how are you?", because every day with Fibro is different. And, different for each person.
Thank you for your time. I hope everyone has a low pain, high energy day!
Sunday, February 22, 2015
AVERTING EXPLOSION
I'm writing today, so I don't explode. I've been pushed around, lied about, and belittled for my entire life, by every kind of person, and I've had it. I'm 54 years old, and still tip-toeing around some people, so their feelings aren't hurt, or their feathers ruffled. All the while, knowing that lies that hurt me, ruffle my feathers, have been told to anyone that will listen.
I am not lazy. I'm a great mother. I do have multiple chronic illnesses. I struggle with my budget, because disability doesn't pay for much. Just because I "sit on Facebook all day", doesn't mean I do nothing else. I have to rest after I take a shower. And vacuum. And change the litter. I have tried to work. I even took a course. Because of the cognitive aspects of my illnesses/diseases, I could not put what I learned with the information in front of me. I worked for 20 years in "the trenches". The money I receive is based on the money I made when I was able to work.
I am intelligent. I may not pick up when I'm being lied to, or about, right away, but the pieces fall into place. I know intelligent people, who love me, and tell me the truth. Even if it infuriates, or hurts me. Those people are not necessarily family. In fact, many of the lies, and betrayals have come from family. In general, true friends have been more like family to me than anyone.
I make mistakes. Lots and lots of them. I barely remember a whole decade of them. The result of "Daddy issues", I'm lucky to be alive. As a mother, I'm sure other mothers would condemn my methods of child-rearing, and that's okay. What I have to show for it, is an intelligent, hard working, witty, empathetic son, and for about 13 years, a beautiful, intelligent, funny, step-daughter. I made enough mistakes with her that she shunned me until she left for college. I am not a girly girl, never have been, really didn't even know how to be one. But, that's what she needed. That and her real Mom. I couldn't give her either.
I settled. I'd resolved myself to spinsterhood, when I met a nice man. I was scared no other man would want me...just like Dad told me...so I married that man. And he was a nice man for awhile. He turned out to be a man's man, a buddy to all guys, not an awful person, by any means, but not husband material--for me. I guess this one should have gone in the 'mistake' category. If I could tell my sixteen year old me anything, I suppose it would be to value yourself enough to wait for someone that would walk hot coals for you, rather than leave you because you're sick.
I registered as a Democrat years ago, because my best friend did, and because I once overheard my Dad telling my Mom that Democrats care about the people, and Republicans were only about money. I voted for our current President...twice. The first time because he seemed genuinely concerned about the people, he was young, and yes, because he was black. I loved the historical footprint it would leave. The second time it was picking the lesser of two evils. I hated/hate people of means that have no clue what it's like to struggle. Hate is not a word I use loosely. I now regret my decision. Haters lay the blame of the state of our country on those that voted for the current President, shouting that it's our fault. That's quite a load to bear. The collapse of a once great nation is on no one person. The unrest, the severely divided government, the heightened race war...these are not the fault of one person. After all, if it takes a community to raise a child, it surely takes a whole lot of people to raise, or lower, a country.
I've become a bit of a recluse. I leave the apartment for Dr. appointments, and grocery shopping. I can say I enjoy my own company, and I do, but the more I keep to myself, the more I want to. I wonder if there is a form of Agoraphobia that allows some time out, but not a lot. It has taken me decades to like who I am, and maybe I'm not ready to share that with too many people. At any rate, if I decline an invitation to "get some pizza", please don't take it personally. Many, many times it just takes too much energy.
I care. If I say I will be there for you, day or night, I mean it. I've been in the zone of wide open spaces, with nobody to reach out to. I am so fortunate, now, to have so many friends...from across the globe....that empathize, sympathize, and give virtual hugs, on days that hurt enormously, or leave me with barely enough energy to shower. I had to decline a visitation for a friend's Mother, because I was in raging "flare" mode, and it saddened me more than he can know. I cry at lots of things. Music, movies, how sweet my dog is, the thought of my son moving out, and sometimes I have no clue why. Just time, I suppose.
I like to drink beer. On Friday nights. I drink about 6, maybe 7 in a 4 hour time period.
I got a DUI 29 years ago. The classes I had to take actually taught me how to drink, rather than scare me away from it. Two beers in an hour with the old BAC kept me under the law. I still hold to that, simply because I do not leave the house. And on the DUI subject, I have spent 24 hours in a jail cell, in an orange uniform, made out of the sturdiest denim I've ever felt. It was a 100 degree day in June. Inside the jail it was 115 degrees of dead air.. As I had walked past a large cell with about five naked hookers, I figured taking the top off would keep me cooler. By late afternoon, I'd lost all dignity, and took off the pants. Through the vent to the adjoining room came catcalls from the male inmates that were lude, and sickening. At one point, one of the hookers yelled for then to shut up, "Because I wasn't like them". To that point, it was the biggest compliment I'd ever gotten.
I am addicted to Facebook, and TV. I don't go out to eat, or to see movies, or to meet friends "to have a few", so I believe I am justified. Facebook has given me new friends, plus re-connection with old ones. It also provides strategy games to try to de-jumble my brain. I'm losing pieces of my memory. As a writer that is very frustrating...and scary. I know, or hope I know, that the "Fibro Fog", the medications I take, and sheer exhaustion are the reason. In the back of my mind I fear Alzheimer's, as it is in the family. I'm sure I'm fine, just a bit ditsy.
I believe and trust GOD. It was a long time coming. I've always believed there was a God, but didn't feel Him. The greater my faith, though, the greater my rewards have been. I have two verses, in particular, that I fall back on in difficult times, and I repeat them over and over, until I feel calmer. By the time Mom passed I could take comfort, knowing she was healed and happy, in God's kingdom. It eased the pain of losing her immensely. The day after she passed, I had a serious car accident, rolling my little truck three times, into a culvert. I was calm. I distinctly remember being so calm. Just watching the weeds roll by. When I came to a rest, I had a feeling...very hard to describe...thankful, praising God, realizing I was saved for a reason. I think I know, so I'm acting on it. If I'm wrong, I know God will turn me in the right direction.
I am done. I'm not sure I actually covered all of the thoughts plaguing my brain, but I touched on many. Love me or hate me, I am...and happily so...me. And, Me is pretty cool.
Wednesday, May 21, 2014
THAT SECOND THOUGHT
Few people, in the course of their lives, know exactly what they want to do when they "grow up". Oh, we want to be firefighters, doctors, scientists, mountain climbers...the list goes on...when we are young. Around Middle School, some of those dreams begin to seem silly, or we outgrow them. By High School, the pressure is on. What college will you go to? What will you study to guarantee you the perfect job when you graduate college?
The first thing you learn is that none of the jobs you dreamed of pay worth a darn. The second thing is that every job requires even just a little college. Computers have even taken over the mechanic's garage. The third thing you learn is...college is expensive, and you notice your parents with a clenched jaw, until you choose your college, and, least they know where they stand, financially. The fourth thing, you hopefully learn, is that you have to work from that point, until nearly the end of your life. Second thoughts on attending college? Of course. Until you realize, college means being on your own! But, then you're told, you'd better get a job to pay for the junk food, and beer. Hmm, maybe that's not so awesome. So many paths to choose; so much confusion!
But, what if....just what if...you'd known since the age of nine, exactly what you wanted to do? And stuck with that plan. Oh, a detail may change, but the overall plan stays in tact your entire school career. Your parents don't have a clenched jaw, so much as a twinkle, or a tear in their eyes. After all, wanting to be in the military since 9 years old is something to be proud of! And the only thing that changed was the branch. What kind of pride would you have knowing you were going to be a representative of the USA. Set aside the childish doings of a greedy, outdated government...YOU would represent you country! And second thoughts? Not a damn one.
The day comes, junior year, and you meet the local Marine recruiter in your school counselor's office. You leave with an appointment for you and your parents to meet the recruiter the next week. Because you have support from your parents, the paperwork begins. The next day soo many papers get signed, and an appointment to go to the Military Examination is set for next week. You find out you will spend your first night in a hotel--alone. Second thoughts? Not really.
Then a glitch in the medical exam makes it necessary to make another trip to have a consultation. By this time, several weeks have passed. Still no word from Sargent on the dates for that. In that time, Junior Prom happens. With a pretty girl on your arm, the thought occurs to you that this is your last prom. Second thoughts? Umm...
In the meantime, friends are wishing you luck, because in 7 or 8 months you will be in Boot Camp. They're afraid for you. Their words, "I don't want you to die" ring loudly in your ears. This isn't just a future endeavor, anymore. It is now. Second thoughts? You're damn right! You want, no, need to spend more time being a kid! You don't want to die.
The time has come to go for that final consult before signing the contract with the US Marines, and Sergeant stops at a gas station. In the bathroom, you call your Dad. Second thoughts pouring out, and you are assured that no matter what you decide, you will be supported. Now for the hard part. "What is your reason for stopping now?" you are asked, and your response is exactly what you told your Dad. "I don't want to die." Sergeant drones on with statistics and taunts. You've made your decision. It's all just happened so fast...much faster than you thought, and you can't wrap your head around not being here.
But here's the kicker. You have NOT given up the mission. After graduation you will start over again with alll those papers, and exams, so that you can finally achieve that esteemed title of United States Marine. And your parents will shine with pride, and shed a tear or two. You will have stuck with it for nine years. Twice the time most of your friends will spend in college.
OooRah, Son.
The first thing you learn is that none of the jobs you dreamed of pay worth a darn. The second thing is that every job requires even just a little college. Computers have even taken over the mechanic's garage. The third thing you learn is...college is expensive, and you notice your parents with a clenched jaw, until you choose your college, and, least they know where they stand, financially. The fourth thing, you hopefully learn, is that you have to work from that point, until nearly the end of your life. Second thoughts on attending college? Of course. Until you realize, college means being on your own! But, then you're told, you'd better get a job to pay for the junk food, and beer. Hmm, maybe that's not so awesome. So many paths to choose; so much confusion!
But, what if....just what if...you'd known since the age of nine, exactly what you wanted to do? And stuck with that plan. Oh, a detail may change, but the overall plan stays in tact your entire school career. Your parents don't have a clenched jaw, so much as a twinkle, or a tear in their eyes. After all, wanting to be in the military since 9 years old is something to be proud of! And the only thing that changed was the branch. What kind of pride would you have knowing you were going to be a representative of the USA. Set aside the childish doings of a greedy, outdated government...YOU would represent you country! And second thoughts? Not a damn one.
The day comes, junior year, and you meet the local Marine recruiter in your school counselor's office. You leave with an appointment for you and your parents to meet the recruiter the next week. Because you have support from your parents, the paperwork begins. The next day soo many papers get signed, and an appointment to go to the Military Examination is set for next week. You find out you will spend your first night in a hotel--alone. Second thoughts? Not really.
Then a glitch in the medical exam makes it necessary to make another trip to have a consultation. By this time, several weeks have passed. Still no word from Sargent on the dates for that. In that time, Junior Prom happens. With a pretty girl on your arm, the thought occurs to you that this is your last prom. Second thoughts? Umm...
In the meantime, friends are wishing you luck, because in 7 or 8 months you will be in Boot Camp. They're afraid for you. Their words, "I don't want you to die" ring loudly in your ears. This isn't just a future endeavor, anymore. It is now. Second thoughts? You're damn right! You want, no, need to spend more time being a kid! You don't want to die.
The time has come to go for that final consult before signing the contract with the US Marines, and Sergeant stops at a gas station. In the bathroom, you call your Dad. Second thoughts pouring out, and you are assured that no matter what you decide, you will be supported. Now for the hard part. "What is your reason for stopping now?" you are asked, and your response is exactly what you told your Dad. "I don't want to die." Sergeant drones on with statistics and taunts. You've made your decision. It's all just happened so fast...much faster than you thought, and you can't wrap your head around not being here.
But here's the kicker. You have NOT given up the mission. After graduation you will start over again with alll those papers, and exams, so that you can finally achieve that esteemed title of United States Marine. And your parents will shine with pride, and shed a tear or two. You will have stuck with it for nine years. Twice the time most of your friends will spend in college.
OooRah, Son.
Sunday, February 2, 2014
SHOULDA KNOWN BETTER
Every now and then, I do really half-wit things. Okay, maybe more than every now and then. The past two months I've done two standout "shoulda known better" things. One as recent as two days ago.
Firstly, I trusted someone I'd never met. Actually, 5 of them. Or maybe it was one performing 5. I'm sure I'll never know. Scammers run amok on social media, dating sites, banking sites...you name it. Most, however, request some sort of money to help them, or join them. The scam I became entangled in, played with my good heart. They call the love scams "catfishing" scams. I suppose the one I was caught up in for two years is, perhaps, a cousin of that...maybe crappie-fishing.,
In previous posts, I have mentioned a family in California, that I became so close to, that when Karie got pregnant, they wanted me to be the grandparent on Josh's side, because his mother, Whisper, was unstable, and abusive. This was an overwhelming honor! The two years with them included soap opera like drama...constantly. My gut would whisper, "who has that much drama in their life?" My heart would say, "They need me". The gut suspicions started at the get-go, but, I always seemed to be able to justify the situation. And, then the hammer came down.
As Karie progressed with her pregnancy...twins...she would send me pictures of the ultrasounds. It was always an exciting day when she posted her ultrasound. And, being the proud, Grandma-to-be, I would repost. What I didn't know was, I had my own personal NSA doing background checks on everything I posted regarding them, on Facebook. The most recent post, the one of her 3-D ultrasound, was the one that proved to the world that I was a fool.
Almost as soon as I posted the ultrasound, a schoolmate posted information about a website that let you pick your own ultrasound. How many weeks along are you? Twins or single? We've got a fake for that. And, as much as I wanted him to be wrong, or at least have contacted me privately about it, there it was. The exact ultrasound Karie had just sent me. I remember actually blushing. At my gullibility, my trust...my being used for someone's good laugh.
I confronted Josh. He said he did it so Karie wouldn't know she'd lost one of the twins. I confronted Karie. She didn't seem anywhere near as upset as she should have. It occurred to me, that she never did. I asked Josh for answers. My friend found no trace of Josh, Karie, Whisper, or the two young boys that had supposedly died. Nothing. No names, no death certificates, no doctor licenses for Josh and Karie, and no Whisper. Why me? Was it for shits and giggles? Josh emphasized no, it was not for entertainment. The last message was his/her reason for two years of deception. "My home life really sucks, and I thought that maybe, just maybe, I could make my own to escape into." Alrighty, then. Unfriend, and block all five liars. If there are five. It's very easy to create a profile on Facebook. I even made one for my dog! Strangely, I didn't feel grief, other than how much it hurt to supposedly lose the boys. I hardly felt anger. I just wanted nothing to do with whoever it was immediately. I've not dwelled on it at all. It was a learning experience. Trust is not free.
The second "shoulda known" was forgetting that, on Facebook, the whole internet for that matter, there are eyes everywhere. A simple post of what I know to be true, was challenged by a friend of someone I referred to in the post. It was frustrating, as I am a writer, and hate being censored, but, I understood where he was coming from, AND, I'd gotten in trouble for doing this before. I rarely use names in my posts, but the nature of this thread had made it easy to know who I was referring to. I was sick to my stomach upon reading the confrontation. I believe they believed what they were saying. The thing is...well, it's that judging thing again. Until you have both sides of a story, just don't. And he did not.
He challenged why I haven't had a job in 17 years. His view makes sense. "You sit and Facebook all day, there should be some kind of work you can do." That truly is a good question. I felt he needed a little info on "why". I tried to explain Fibromyalgia, which is about as productive as stapling a board to snow. If a person has it in their head that it is not real, you can't change it. Believe me, I've tried.
The side he didn't know was that I was battling, not just Fibro, which is taxing enough, but Chronic Fatigue Syndrome (we're working on getting that title changed because it trivializes the illness), Osteoarthritis, Chronic Depression, BiPolar, ADHD, and anxiety. And as far as sitting on Facebook all day, I change positions dozens of times throughout the day due to the pain and numbness. I get up more than a dozen times a day (and night) to use the bathroom. I am dizzy, and fall every now and then. At times I sit and stare at the screen, wondering what I was thinking of getting up to do. I did have a job, short-lived, due to the "Fibro Fog" that makes completing a task, or "putting 2 & 2 together" a real struggle. Those things didn't get talked about much back in "the day", because my being on Social Security Disability was an embarrassment. As was my handicapped placard.
Through it all, I was raising two kids. Although, I have learned that it has been said that I did not. I'm still raising one, and I am proud of how we have grown in recent years. I am proud of him in a way that makes my heart want to explode. I fear, sometimes, that his view of women will be based on my bad days. The days that I am in such pain my teeth or my hair hurts. He once said something similar to my being strong, and my heart soared. He has been taught well by the adults in his life, and in the past months I have seen it in the way he treats his girlfriend. But, I digress.
There are things I should have learned years ago about what to, and what state I am in when I post. Posting on a trying day, sometimes bitter day, will only bring hard feelings and confrontation. And now it comes back to the trust issue. Is there anyone in cyberspace that can really be trusted? As I've gotten older, I tell it like I see or feel it. Because, trust it or not, cyberspace is always there for me.
Wednesday, November 6, 2013
BATTLING MYSELF
Some days I feel as though I just might be abusing "the system." I awaken with a clear head, a few creaks and groans, but what 53 year old doesn't, my mind clear, without the fog that clouds my ability to attain words needed to complete sentences. I begin my list of chores post haste, achieving nearly all listed, by day's end. I'm even able to stay up until 10 p.m. .
The accusations of people abusing the Social Security Disability, fly wildly on social media. Posters of heavy set people using store supplied scooters to complete their shopping, videos of a person flinging their walker about with ease, rather than leaning on it for support. Judgments are bountiful. And usually placed by uneducated, ignorant people.
As educated as I am on the issue, I have been "that" person. As a result of the accusations I am defensive, and find myself pleading my case to people I don't even know. Energy, I need not expend. Energy I can't afford to expend.
And then there are "those" days. Like today. A day that was preceded by restless, choppy sleep, leading to a headache that roared when I sat up in bed. A day where getting to the kitchen for the comfort of coffee seems to take forever, clinging to furniture and onto walls to steady my weak, unsteady body. Can I stand long enough to pour a bowl of cereal? If I do, will I make it to the living room without spilling it. And if I do, can I eat it without dribbling the milk down my chin via the shaking of my hand. A day when that empty bowl will sit on the end table until I need to get up for a trip to the bathroom. Those trips need to be made strategically, with how long it may take to get there, in mind. After I am done I will hobble the bowl to the kitchen, perhaps refill my coffee, and return to my padded, strategically laid out, place on the sofa. My loyal, Gabby will snuggle next to me, but only cozy until I have to switch positions due to pain. This happens frequently, and I apologize to her each time. This paragraph covers the first hour I am up. A bit of pain will lower between 11 a.m. and 5:00, then begin it's rise again. During that time I will need to nap due to overwhelming fatigue, that seems to swallow me up. If you're doing the math, you have found that I may have as much a 6 "good" hours in a day, 2 of which, are spent trying to fall asleep for that nap. That leaves 4 hours of the 24 we are gifted each day, that I feel able to tolerate noise, smells, and the pain. On a grading scale, maybe a D+.
And still, one those good days, numbering around three a month, I feel guilty to be receiving Disability Income. I've always defended it with the argument that what I receive is based on how long I worked and what I paid in to the "system". About a month ago, it was pointed out, in yet another Facebook argument, that he, too, pays into that pool, and I was welcome for his supporting me. "It must be nice." I was shattered. He was right. I don't have my own little Social Security box, that I draw from. It is a pool of money from all workers. So, the ugly truth is, 27 days of the month, this country's workers help support me. Perhaps what sets disability apart from welfare is that I am only receiving as much as I actually paid in, as a 25 year employee.
But, those three days...The C+ days...The ones that allow me to perform tasks on a list, including a shower...I feel like I am abusing "the system."
I suspect, that until I am bedridden, I will continue to feel that way.
The accusations of people abusing the Social Security Disability, fly wildly on social media. Posters of heavy set people using store supplied scooters to complete their shopping, videos of a person flinging their walker about with ease, rather than leaning on it for support. Judgments are bountiful. And usually placed by uneducated, ignorant people.
As educated as I am on the issue, I have been "that" person. As a result of the accusations I am defensive, and find myself pleading my case to people I don't even know. Energy, I need not expend. Energy I can't afford to expend.
And then there are "those" days. Like today. A day that was preceded by restless, choppy sleep, leading to a headache that roared when I sat up in bed. A day where getting to the kitchen for the comfort of coffee seems to take forever, clinging to furniture and onto walls to steady my weak, unsteady body. Can I stand long enough to pour a bowl of cereal? If I do, will I make it to the living room without spilling it. And if I do, can I eat it without dribbling the milk down my chin via the shaking of my hand. A day when that empty bowl will sit on the end table until I need to get up for a trip to the bathroom. Those trips need to be made strategically, with how long it may take to get there, in mind. After I am done I will hobble the bowl to the kitchen, perhaps refill my coffee, and return to my padded, strategically laid out, place on the sofa. My loyal, Gabby will snuggle next to me, but only cozy until I have to switch positions due to pain. This happens frequently, and I apologize to her each time. This paragraph covers the first hour I am up. A bit of pain will lower between 11 a.m. and 5:00, then begin it's rise again. During that time I will need to nap due to overwhelming fatigue, that seems to swallow me up. If you're doing the math, you have found that I may have as much a 6 "good" hours in a day, 2 of which, are spent trying to fall asleep for that nap. That leaves 4 hours of the 24 we are gifted each day, that I feel able to tolerate noise, smells, and the pain. On a grading scale, maybe a D+.
And still, one those good days, numbering around three a month, I feel guilty to be receiving Disability Income. I've always defended it with the argument that what I receive is based on how long I worked and what I paid in to the "system". About a month ago, it was pointed out, in yet another Facebook argument, that he, too, pays into that pool, and I was welcome for his supporting me. "It must be nice." I was shattered. He was right. I don't have my own little Social Security box, that I draw from. It is a pool of money from all workers. So, the ugly truth is, 27 days of the month, this country's workers help support me. Perhaps what sets disability apart from welfare is that I am only receiving as much as I actually paid in, as a 25 year employee.
But, those three days...The C+ days...The ones that allow me to perform tasks on a list, including a shower...I feel like I am abusing "the system."
I suspect, that until I am bedridden, I will continue to feel that way.
Monday, October 21, 2013
FEAR OF THE "L"
Love. By the dictionary definition it means, "strong affection", "warm attachment", and "attraction based on sexual desire". That's a pretty broad definition! It would seem it is we, the ones actually feeling any of, or more of, these definitions, that determine the kind of love any given situation is tagged. It gets tossed about as a false greeting, such as "Loves!", as a person leaves another, with which they were chatting. For me, that is the most insincere way to use a word with such a strong reputation. There is, of course, the casual use, as in, "Oh, I just love this jacket!". I think most people are guilty of this careless overuse. After all, if you look at the official definition, you must ask yourself, do I have a strong affection for this jacket? Do I have a warm attachment? And, I must hope, that you do not have a strong sexual desire for the jacket, although I did see show that showcased a man in love with his car. I mean the "attraction based on sexual desire" kind. For real.
The thing about love, I believe, is that their are many kinds. I do not love my son the same way I love my sister. I didn't love my Grandma the way I loved my Mom. I have several male best friends that I love very much. But, not the way a married couple love. I love my sweet Doxie, but not the way I love the gals that have stood by me through my tears, and celebrated my successes. So, it's no wonder the word has seemed to have lost its "oomph."
In fact, it is referred to, mostly by the male population as "the L word". As if it were as horrid a thing as "the F word". If one would look at it as having different levels, perhaps it wouldn't seem such a feared description of one's relationship with another.
If I were to go purely by Mr. Webster, I would have to count myself among the luckiest persons in the world! I certainly have a strong affection for many people, and, without doubt have a warm attachment to a host of folks--some, I've never met, but through social networking have become "as family". The third definition I listed is, for me, saved for a select few in my world. Although, in my twenties I had no clue as to the definition of love at all, and mistook acknowledgement as love. Love, at that time, based on how well I performed my list of tasks for the day. Unconditional love didn't come into my life until I became extremely close to a family of 2nd and 3rd cousins, who almost rejoiced when I walked in the door. For no other reason than I had walked in the door! What a feeling that was!
I have unconditional love for my son, my Gabby, and the friends and family described above.
You have to hurt me terribly to lose my trust. Even worse to lose my love. That may not be healthy, or work out so well on my end, but for the person receiving my love, well, I hope they understand that a piece of me goes with it.
I have raised my son to recognize that there are many kinds of love. I've educated some young people I've met via Facebook, on the many kinds of love, and that saying "I love you" doesn't just mean the "I do" kind of love. As a result, I was privileged to be told by my Asperger's/Autistic, Brandon, (their brother) "I love you." Something any person that deals with those disorders, knows does not come easily, if at all. To me "love" is to be felt without walls, or conditions. If you feel love for someone, in whatever form it is, tell them. Tell. Them.
Someday, that person will not be there, and will, perhaps, pass through this life not knowing that you did feel a "warm attachment"to them. Could you live with that? As for me, if I love you, prepare to hear it, and feel it. No apologies. Ever.
The thing about love, I believe, is that their are many kinds. I do not love my son the same way I love my sister. I didn't love my Grandma the way I loved my Mom. I have several male best friends that I love very much. But, not the way a married couple love. I love my sweet Doxie, but not the way I love the gals that have stood by me through my tears, and celebrated my successes. So, it's no wonder the word has seemed to have lost its "oomph."
In fact, it is referred to, mostly by the male population as "the L word". As if it were as horrid a thing as "the F word". If one would look at it as having different levels, perhaps it wouldn't seem such a feared description of one's relationship with another.
If I were to go purely by Mr. Webster, I would have to count myself among the luckiest persons in the world! I certainly have a strong affection for many people, and, without doubt have a warm attachment to a host of folks--some, I've never met, but through social networking have become "as family". The third definition I listed is, for me, saved for a select few in my world. Although, in my twenties I had no clue as to the definition of love at all, and mistook acknowledgement as love. Love, at that time, based on how well I performed my list of tasks for the day. Unconditional love didn't come into my life until I became extremely close to a family of 2nd and 3rd cousins, who almost rejoiced when I walked in the door. For no other reason than I had walked in the door! What a feeling that was!
I have unconditional love for my son, my Gabby, and the friends and family described above.
You have to hurt me terribly to lose my trust. Even worse to lose my love. That may not be healthy, or work out so well on my end, but for the person receiving my love, well, I hope they understand that a piece of me goes with it.
I have raised my son to recognize that there are many kinds of love. I've educated some young people I've met via Facebook, on the many kinds of love, and that saying "I love you" doesn't just mean the "I do" kind of love. As a result, I was privileged to be told by my Asperger's/Autistic, Brandon, (their brother) "I love you." Something any person that deals with those disorders, knows does not come easily, if at all. To me "love" is to be felt without walls, or conditions. If you feel love for someone, in whatever form it is, tell them. Tell. Them.
Someday, that person will not be there, and will, perhaps, pass through this life not knowing that you did feel a "warm attachment"to them. Could you live with that? As for me, if I love you, prepare to hear it, and feel it. No apologies. Ever.
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