Being Mean For Honesty’s Sake

I often think about honesty, and truth, and the price of putting it out into the world. Like, I almost never speak or write what I actually think or feel. Even on here, I know it will be read, and for sure some among you will take whatever it is personally. That’s what we do; we assume everything is directed at us, whether it is, or not. I mean, the internet makes that much easier, because everything posted online has a degree of, if not anonymity, then at least distance and separation between the author/speaker and the individual reader/audience member. We can say and write whatever we want – promote our truth – and for sure someone out there will read it and think, “Fuck…is she talking about me?!” Whereas, if someone speaks to you directly, via letter, email, telephone or in person, there’s really no denying that you are the one to whom they are referring.

So I, for one, self-edit pretty much all of my actual self away. Or, not away, but hidden inside. I don’t express at least 90% of what I actually think or feel – at least. Probably more. Because it’s mean. There are compliments and such that are nice, so I try to say those, at least when they are true. Usually, though, truth and honesty is pretty mean, and it hurts people. I don’t like to hurt people, even people I don’t like, so I keep it to myself. To spare them. To spare you.

But what is that doing to me, I wonder? Keeping it all in? Surely it’s not the healthiest way to live. (And don’t call me Shirley)

I see and hear people purging what seems to be everything that comes into their heads, regardless of how it may make another person feel. Which I guess is great for them, but they’re mean. Many don’t even appear to try finding a way to express themselves without being hurtful. Either they don’t notice how their voices are being received, or they don’t care. Neither is a quality I want to nurture in myself, and I don’t even like people. But that doesn’t mean I don’t want to be a better version of this inherently evil species. The best version I can be. Or, you know, just better than I could be, if I cared less.

This post went so differently in my head while I was riding to work on transit this morning! It was less vague, yet more stream of consciousness-y.

I think we get ruder and meaner as we get older. Older people will say stuff to your face and not give a crap about your precious feelings. They don’t need to hide behind the interwebs. They’ve got stuff to say and not enough time in which to say it all, so they get out as much as they can, while they can. There’s definitely no time for beating around the bush, or re-phrasing, and no point in keeping it all bottled up inside. Each new day is an opportunity to speak your mind. And now, with the internet, we can be different parts of ourselves depending on our communication method of choice in any given moment. We can show one semblance of truth on Facebook, another in an email, and something quite different to those in our immediate vicinity. It would be interesting to watch the internet generation get older – see how many selves they have when all of the feel like expressing their truth all the time.

I wonder what I’ll be like as I get older? Will I still try to remain quiet, or will I just start expressing my anger and hurt and whatever else I think and feel to whoever will listen? Will I even care if anyone is listening? Maybe I’ll just talk, anyway. To animals, to the air around me. I already apologize to inanimate objects on occasion, so it’s not a far leap to raging my way loudly down the sidewalk, really.

Would I feel better, expressing all these thoughts and feelings? Would it be a relief to just get it all out? Or would I see how my words affect people and just end up wallowing in guilt and regret all the more? (Though, I’d probably get lots of space to myself on public transit if I was speaking my thoughts aloud…food for yet more thought)

It’s so easy to say, “I want you to be honest with me”. But trust me – you really don’t.  Or to say, “Tell me how you really feel.”  Yet truly, you don’t really want to know.  I am not mean or rude enough to make my thoughts and feelings known – yet – but I am absolutely mean and rude enough to have them. I watch you and hear you express yourself, and sometimes it even hurts me, but so far I’ve resisted the temptation to reciprocate or follow your example. It’s not always easy, but I’d rather that than than have to live with the consequences of the effect my words would have on you. Also, I’ve been keeping it all to myself for so long that it’s not only a habit, but I’m also not entirely sure which ones are real overall, versus which are just momentary or reactionary “real”. Which will still be true tomorrow, and which are just lashing out in hurt or anger. When I think about it, it’s difficult to tell for certain. I’m emotional, just like everyone else, but I recognize that emotions fluctuate and change and come with varying degrees of intensity. What I think or feel in a given moment may just be a knee-jerk reaction that winds up not being accurate once I’ve taken a moment to breathe through it. So the idea of doing permanent damage to a relationship, friendship, and even a stranger’s day – all to satisfy a temporary need that may or may not make me feel better – is just not something I’m willing to do yet. It thus far does not seem worth it.

Besides, I’m also aware of how I hurt and insult and upset and anger people on a daily basis without even realizing it. That sentence doesn’t make logical sense, I suppose, but there it is. I know it’s happening, I just can’t usually tell when or why. When I do realize something specific I’ve done, some line I’ve crossed, it’s too late. The damage, however unintentional, has been done. That realization alone is enough for me to carry the guilt and regret inside me for likely the rest of my life. Having that person or people telling me how I’ve made them feel, or highlighting my error in being, makes the burden 100 times heavier. Maybe it makes them feel better to point out my shame, so I let them have their moment, or moments; whatever they need. That’s the only way I feel like I can even partially make up for what I’ve done; allowing them – allowing you – to express how it’s made you feel. But I know how that makes me feel, so I won’t reciprocate.

Usually.

Truth hurts. That’s what they say. It hurts because it’s often mean. It hurts because something we are afraid is true has just been confirmed by another. While part of me wants to be honest with you, and tell you what I think and what I feel, so far, I just can’t. Because even though it’s not my intention to do so, the truth – my version of it – would hurt you. Or anger you. Or confuse you. Or any number of other adverse ways in which it would affect you. Therein lies my frustration. I want to be open and express myself, but I hold back because of how it’ll affect you. Because of how affecting you in a negative way would feel to me.

So far, it’s just not worth it.

Though, at the same time, sometimes I’m drowning in unexpressed and unvented emotions. Yet I see you appearing to have no qualms about putting your thoughts and feelings out there, regardless of how it might make me or anyone else feel. Regardless of how it makes me feel. More and more I wonder to myself – if I am showing you more regard than you are showing me, and if I am showing you more regard than I am showing myself – how can I ever hope to find any sort of balance in my own life? It’s not my job to coddle you, and yet that’s exactly what I do. All the time. Every day. By my own choice. Not because I am a nice person. Not because I wish only to spread peace and love across the land. I’m not a unicorn.

I do it because, above all else, I fear a life without you in it.

Sometimes I just wish you felt the same about me.

A Little More Flynn

A bit of an addendum to yesterday’s post about Miss Flynnie, just because I fully forgot to mention this kind of cool part of the story!

So, even though I’d had my eye and heart on Chimneysweep, the night before I went to the shelter for the first time, I had a dream. It was actually kind of horrible, in that the shelter in the dream wasn’t a shelter at all – it was more like a shed in some guy’s backyard that had crates of cats inside. Some of them no longer alive, and all trapped in their own feces and the like. My mind was reeling, wondering how I could afford to save them all but not tip the guy off to the fact that I was totally calling the police as soon as I got away from his house. On a top shelf of crates, there were these three weird-looking creatures. They were more like birds than cats, but then again, that’s dream life for you. The one thing I remembered most about them was the shape of their heads in profile; the way their foreheads sloped and their faces curved toward their chins. They looked kind of like beaks, almost (hence the bird thing), but that’s just how their faces were built.

I felt weird when I woke up, and disturbed, and secretly prayed that the actual shelter was nothing like that (it wasn’t).

Later, once I was home with Flynn and trying to get to know her while also keeping a bit of a distance (because my heart still hurt over losing Kate) and wondering what I’d just done as maybe it really was too soon to have another cat, I noticed something. Flynn’s head is kind of shaped like the bird-cats in my dream the night before. It has the same kind of slope that’s different from most cats. I guess more of a black cat head, but she’s also so fluffy that the effect on her profile is very similar.

She’s actually a lot like Toothless from How To Train Your Dragon, both in appearance and in personality.

Anyway.

I don’t think there’s much else to report at the moment. Or there is, but I either can’t or am not about to talk about it here. I’m moving extra slow today, as is my mind, because I’m still not caught up from overdoing things on Monday, and I didn’t sleep very well last night. I woke up a lot, but I also went right back to sleep after. It just wasn’t anywhere near enough. And while I was asleep I was dreaming – usually about having to get somewhere, or having to gather things together, or looking for something, or just – all very busy things. Busy yet mundane. None of it felt very restful, that’s for sure!

I wrote a short story for an online course once years ago, and the protagonist had very vivid, busy dreams, so she was tired all the time, too. Almost to the point of not quite being able to tell when she was dreaming, because there was always so much to do. When something extra weird would happen, she could recognize it as a dream, but mostly there wasn’t time to stop and think. I’m not quite at THAT point yet…though if I’m dreaming right now then I’ll miss my post for today…and probably lose my job…never mind, I think I’m fine. Anyway, it was a busy and restless night.

I remember when I quit smoking (and I’ll tell that whole tale in another post), among many other things, I started having really vivid dreams. Colourful. But every once in awhile, I would dream that I’d had a cigarette, and my mind would be disappointed because it meant I had to start counting the days since I last had a smoke all over again. That was part of what got me through, I think. I am stubborn, anyway, but I also really didn’t want to start over again at zero. I’d always be so relieved when I woke up and realized that I hadn’t actually had that cigarette – that it had just been a dream , after all. Less satisfying in the moment, but still a relief overall!

Flynn’s Tale: The Story So Far

When Kate, my kitten of 13 years had to be suddenly euthanized, I was devastated. She’d been the first animal that had been fully my responsibility. She was the one who’d first made me a mom.

I soon discovered that I hated going home to an empty apartment, too, so as soon as I got my next paycheque, I headed to a nearby Toronto Animal Services shelter to adopt. While I waited for payday, I perused the site often, looking for who my next felines loves would be. I knew I didn’t want to have only one pet living with me, so my plan was to get two, possibly from the same litter. And I wanted them to be as different from Kate as possible – I wanted boys, I wanted something other than a tabby (except maybe orange tabbies, because how cute are they?!) and I wanted little kittens who would distract me from my Kate heartache a little bit with their kitten-y antics. Plus, Kate had been a good 3-4 months old before she came to live with me, so I was looking for someone younger this time.

I saw and instantly fell in love with a young tuxedo chap the shelter had named Chimneysweep. He had huge long whiskers and was fluffy and black and white and perfect. Well, almost perfect – he was about 5 months old at the time, they estimated, but he was so cute I’d overlook the slightly older-than-I-was-looking-for age.

The time finally came for me to go find my new kittens, and I bullied Tim into coming with me. I went from room to room, kind of looking at the various cats available to adopt, but wanting to first see if my luck had held out long enough for Chimneysweep to still be there.

It had, and he was!

I scooped the little fool out of his cage and after about a 3 second cuddle he jumped down and played with some/all of the toys available in the room. He was a scamp and a half, that little guy, and I was delighted! After watching and playing with him for a few minutes, I put him back in his kennel with the promise that I would be back for him, and headed off to find him a new brother.

On the way, though, I bumped into one of the volunteers who told me that Chimneysweep didn’t really play well with other cats. He might do well with an older, bigger cat who would put him in his place, but otherwise, he was a ball of energy that would be taken out on me and my apartment if he was an only pet, or on an older cat, which was not what I was looking for. They suggested I try him with another kitten to see how they did together, and decide from there.

In one of the other rooms, a young brown female tabby had been trying to get my attention while I was talking to a little black kitten in the cage next to her. Tim suggested we try the tabby with Chimneysweep, as she didn’t seem the type to take any of his roughhousing crap. I reluctantly agreed – I mean, she was female, and a tabby, but at least she was brown instead of gray, and I’d have Chimneysweep around to keep me laughing if I ended up taking both. I figured it was worth a shot, anyway.

As we walked into that room, however, a little black paw shot out from a lower level cage and snagged my pantleg. I looked in to see who was pawing at me, and saw this cute little black ball of fluff the shelter had named Tabitha. I remembered seeing her on the website, though she hadn’t really stood out to me at the time. In that moment, however, all I could envision was how cute her little black and white fluffiness would look with Chimneysweep’s little black and white tuxie fluffiness, and decided to try the two of them together, instead. One of the volunteers took Tabitha out of her cage and blew on her white patch of belly fur to see how long ago she’d been spayed. She had fully healed, so she carried her back to Chimneysweep’s room, with Tim and I following behind. It would occur to me later that the most prevalent feeling I had in those moments was tiny stabs of jealousy. I wanted to be the one carrying her.

As soon as she and Chimneysweep got to the same floor, the wrestling started. Well, he started wrestling. Tabitha was more pinned on her back with a confused and helpless look on her face as he chewed on her. After a few moments, we decided we didn’t like the way he was playing with her, and pulled him off. I held him, the volunteer held Tabitha, and looking at her now-dishevelled little face, I knew she was the one I had to adopt. If only to apologize for what she’d just been subjected to on my account. With a touch of sadness and a little confusion of my own, I placed the kitten I thought I’d be taking home that day back into his cage, and told him I was sorry. I also mentioned that, if he was a good boy, he’d be sure to be adopted soon, because he was just too handsome not to be.

(Chimneysweep was adopted not long after, actually, but that day was the beginning and end of our story).

So there I was, still with one kitten chosen, but a different one than had been chosen mere minutes prior. I still had to find another one, and by that point (having just given back what I’d held as my one certainty), I was so confused, I decided to just let them choose me, instead. The little tabby was still waiting in the other room, and as she had chosen me first out of all of them, I decided to give her and Tabitha a shot together. I was a little apprehensive, since poor Tabitha had just been worked over a bit as it was, but I was hopeful that the introductions would go better this time.

And they did. The girls wrestled in silence for a few moments – no hissing, or meowing – and both were involved. It wasn’t one chewing on the other. Then they broke apart and took turns exploring the room, and coming back to check on me.

I had my cats.

The shelfter had named the tabby Linda, but I have an Aunt Linda, and was determined to find a different name for her. Something that suited the little curl at the tip of her tail when she walked. The main glitch, however, was that she hadn’t yet been spayed, so I couldn’t actually take both kittens with me that day. In fact, further problems would crop up and I wouldn’t be able to take Linda home for at least a month, if at all.

So, again reluctant, I left that day with one kitten. Tabitha. A female, about 5 months old, so even older than Kate had been. But at least she wasn’t a tabby. But the other one was. What had I done?

I got her home, and she seemed to feel comfortable in the apartment and with me right away. I read all this information about how to introduce a kitten to a new home, to another kitten, etc, but Tabitha didn’t seem to require any of that. She knew she was home.

For my part, I knew she couldn’t keep the name Tabitha. The little trouble-maker was going to require a shorter name – perhaps one I would lengthen when using it as a term of endearment. But shorter for when she was causing trouble. I’d wanted to give both kittens some kind of cute pair name, but I wasn’t sure if Not-Linda (as I’d taken to calling her) would ever actually be able to come home, so while I toyed with the possibility of Scully and Reyes, it didn’t really fit either kitten, so I ended up going with a name from my youth that was making a comeback with a new film in the decades-old franchise.

That’s how Tabitha became Flynn.

As a kitten, Flynn was super cute and had a habit of getting into everything. Or it seemed like everything. She drooled a lot, kept knocking decorations off my Christmas tree so she could bat them around the apartment, and her favourite toy was a stick with a feather attached to the end that she dragged around behind her until the feather more or less disintegrated.  She had no idea how to ask for the kind of attention she wanted, nor did she quite know what to do when she got it. She seemed happy for the most part, though, and sincerely wanted to be loved. And to explore. She was very floppy and you could do pretty much whatever you wanted with her. She was very tolerant, and very light. She looks big because she’s so fluffy, but there is barely anything to her, even now. She likes to be near me more than she likes to be on me, but I am slowly teaching her how to lap cat. She’s not a fan of pooing in the litter, for some reason, but prefers the mat next to the litter, instead.

The vet said maybe something happened before she got to the shelter that made her not like the sensation (she doesn’t cover anything up after, either), or perhaps she was separated from her mother before she learned how to cat.

Regardless, I’ve tried lots of different things, and in the end, I decided that it’s better just to work with her as she is. Sometimes she acts like maybe she’ll poo on the floor instead, and all I have to do is say her name, and she goes over to her usual spot instead. So at least there’s that. We’ve developed an understanding of sorts. She also usually waits for me to be around before she goes, because she knows I’ll clean it up right after.

I remember, for the first day or so, I was kind of stand-offish with her. She wasn’t Kate – at all – and yet I couldn’t figure out how to love her. I feel like we just kind of watched one another for the first bit. Also, she smelled like shelter, and I wasn’t sure she knew how to groom herself. I wasn’t sure I knew what to do with a cat who didn’t know how to cat. She had zero traction on the hardwood floors, and sometimes I wondered if she even had claws, because they never seemed to come out, even when we would eventually play together. She’s gentle and loving and….like…pretty simple. She’s like a perpetual innocent, that Flynn. Just wanting everyone to be pleased.

A day or two into our new life together, I put her on the back of the toilet seat, and got some paper towels together. I wet them, and used them to wipe down all of her fur. She purred the whole time. Her purr is super quiet and I had to put my ear up to her to hear it at all, but I could feel it vibrating throughout her body. She was happy, probably to be getting more attention from me. I probably could have given her a full bath, but I was hoping the damp paper towels would induce her to start grooming more. For whatever reason, it worked, and she stopped smelling like shelter, and instead got even fluffier the more she cleaned herself.

Then, despite the fact that she had the apartment – and me – to herself for at least a month, she remained curious yet welcoming – her usual gentle self – for every other animal and human that comes through the door. She has gotten a bit better at defending herself during play wrestling time, but she won’t be winning any titles any time soon. She is getting much better at being a lap cat, sprawling longer and longer in my lap, and more and more often now.

She loves hand lotion…I have no idea why.

She rarely throws up furballs, so when she does, she appears to be confused as to what the hell it was that just came out of her.

She has a stomach like a steel trap and can eat pretty much anything, yet still remains as light as air.

Her eyes were yellow when I brought her home, but now they are usually green – darker green when she is in a particularly good mood.

Sometimes she still plays by herself, much to my entertainment, and she and the dog have taken to occasionally grooming one another. Which is weird, but awesome.

In some ways, Flynn needs me the most, and sincerely wants me to love her as much as she loves me. She is silly, and adorable and in some cases, I think if I were to have a favourite of the brood, it would be her. I don’t know where she came from, or how she ended up in a shelter, but I’m glad she reached out and grabbed my attention that day. Once I got over the fact that she wasn’t Kate, Flynn grew into a new part of my heart that I hadn’t realized existed.

And now we just keep growing, together.

Tabitha –> Flynn – December 2010 and counting

Does the tabby in Flynn’s Kennel Card photo look familiar?  No idea if it’s the same cat, but wouldn’t THAT be a story?!

Missing The Movie Theatre Experience

It’s super busy at work today so I’m taking a shorter lunch and leaping back into the fray when I am done eating, so instead of writing about what I’d been planning to this afternoon, I’ll write about something less involved, instead.

I miss going to movies. I can’t remember when the last time I was at a theatre was, but it feels like a long time ago, for me, anyway.

I remember a former roomate and I challenged ourselves to see one movie a week in the theatre for a year, not including film festival time, and the like. I can’t remember how we actually did, but it was definitely fun! These days, I have two theatres down the street from my apartment, so every time I get a hankering, I usually just head to one of those and see whatever I’m in the mood for.

I’m not sure if I have seen anything yet this year…which would be ridiculous, but…I of course saw Star Wars a few times. And Mockingjay. But yeah…I can’t think of anything since, and those were both out in December. Maybe I saw either or both after New Years, but still. Sad!

Growing up, movies were a treat, especially the ones in movie theatres or – even more so – the drive-in. The closest theatre was a half hour drive away. The Gayety in Collingwood. They eventually opened the comparatively huge Cinema 4, and there were a few theatres available in Barrie, as well, but it was a further drive. When we leaped into the 80’s and got a VCR, going to the theatre became less of an option, reserved for when there was more time and/or money to go around, since we could rent a video (or several) for a fraction of the price.

My decision to move to Toronto was, in a small way, determined by movie theatres, and having access to movies the first day they were released. No longer would I have to wait a week or more for something to be released in a theatre near me. Here, it felt like all the theatres were near me! I even started off in a neighbourhood with a theatre, a Future Shop, a Silver Snail and a Toys R Us. And my doctor, at the time. Basically everything I need to live. Even my first job was in the area.

Things changed – I moved around the city, held different jobs, and while I now live back in that same area, much has changed. I now have two huge theatres to choose from, Future Shop is now a Best Buy, my doctor no longer practices – but I have a dentist in the same building now. Toys R US is still there, but the Silver Snail moved out long ago. Still, though, a lot of Sue necessities. Plus, the area has felt like home pretty much from the get-go, even when I didn’t live near it.

Since I moved back, I’ve been known to go to the movies just so I can have popcorn for breakfast. There’s just something about movie theatre popcorn that can’t be replicated (though John in Colorado does a damn fine job when he makes it at home, I gotta say!), and the same goes for fountain soda. So ridiculous, but sometimes I just have a hankering for that delicious syrup and water in an overly-large, ice-filled cup.

I’m a weirdo.

But going to a movie theatre is kind of my jam. I prefer it to watching something at home sometimes. There are things I prefer to watch at home, of course (ie anything that makes me cry; not porn if that’s what you’re thinking), but often I get an urge to sit in the dark with strangers (either a bunch or a few, I don’t care, because I forget about them, anyway), eat popcorn in a way which suggests I’d starve to death otherwise, drink my fountain pop, and just let someone else’s mind take me away for awhile. There are very few distractions, and I can just be somewhere else for a couple of hours.

And previews! I love previews! I’m actually glad for the initial commercials because I am of course often late for movie screening times, too! So the commercials give me a buffer, without worrying about missing my beloved previews.

They often help my plan my next trip to the theatre, after all!

Okay…that’s about all the time I have. But I would be remiss if I didn’t at least mention how much I now miss my current movie dates with Kristi – layered butter on the popcorn, whatever tasty treat we get with our combo, and taking turns between tickets and treats for two! I don’t even care what we see, lady – we have to go soon! 😉 ❤

Crap I Did Today

Okay, this one is legit going to be really quick, because I’m about to watch the series premiere of The Catch, and I want to pay attention to it.  I’ve been watching TV like a madwoman much of the weekend, and I want to get at least one more in before another work week begins.

Even though this (Easter) is one of my favourite holidays now, I think I did a fairly good job of getting things done, resting, and spending time with friends.  There’s still a pile of things I wish I’d had time to do, but I’m trying to be okay with how my weekend went as a whole.

Today eventually got really beautiful outside!  Brody and I went on two longer-than-workday walks, but even combined they weren’t as long as we used to do.  I think he actually got over-heated a bit on the second one, though.  He drank a lot of water when we got back home!  But we also went to Pet Valu, just to visit, and his favourite girl was working, so he was a treat-filled happy puppy!

I got more work done on my super secret project (it won’t be a secret forever, don’t worry), and a bit of felting done, but not as much as I had hoped.  Mended some things, did dishes, made lunches for work for the next 3 days, and had myself kind of a crazy yet delicious lunch, too.  Of course, there are now more dishes to do, but whatever.  I have to tidy up a bit before Tuesday because they are testing fire alarms in my building that day so they will be entering my apartment and it could stand to at least have a broom pushed around…but I’ll do that tomorrow after work.  I’m tired now, and it’s still light out.

I guess the biggest task I suddenly decided to get out of the way today was taxes!  I filed, just before writing this!  I’d planned to do it this weekend, and then by this afternoon, I was, like, “not gonna happen”.  Then I just did them, anyway.

Now I just have to hope there’s no audit.  ‘Cause those are kind of irritating, I find.  I mean, my taxes are pretty straight-forward, but still.  No one enjoys an audit.

Did you ever see that episode of Roseanne when the Connors were getting their taxes ready to file, and every time someone said the word “audit”, that dramatic duh-duh-DUUHHHH chord would play, and each time the characters on screen would notice it more and more.  Cracks me up just thinking about it!

I loved that show.

It’s the main reason why “crap” is one of my favourite words.  I once spent an entire summer watching reruns of Roseanne and writing down every line that included the word “crap”.  It was brilliant!

I should dig up that list again.  So much fun!

Brunch

So, I’m sitting here felting away like a good little crafter-attempter, and suddenly I realize I haven’t written a blog post yet today.  And now I’m hugely distracted yet again by a puppy dog who wants to play, and at least one kitty who ways to chill in my lap…it the way of my trying to write, naturally.  And my ever-behind PVR-watching, of course!

I think this one will be shorter than most, and that’s okay.  At least I’m writing, and I can always revisit it all in more depth another time.

I went for brunch today.  I think it’s probably my favourite meal ever.  I have a Brunch of Awesome that I make sometimes…usually on a long weekend like this.  I’m not doing it this weekend because a) I knew I was going out today, and b) I’m broke so my breakfast-y meals this weekend consist of toast with brown sugar and cinnamon spread, or blueberry waffles and 100% pure maple syrup.  And blueberries.  Because delicious.

Anyway, I was super late for brunch…again.  I think I’m late for everything but work (most of the time).  Even appointments with doctors and such.  If not late, then cut close.  And I hate it, always being late.  Like, just assume I won’t be on time.  It’s pathetic but true.  I am always late.

What I think I hate more than being late, though, is leaving my apartment.  It’s a constant daily struggle.  I don’t know how to describe it, really.  Part of it is all the preparation involved; trying to remember everything and make sure I’ve got everything.  My brain and I take it to extremes, though, because I try to plan for every possibility.  It’s…insane, really.  You should see all the stuff in my ever-present backpack.  It’s like either I don’t know how to carry only what I’ll need, or I’m too afraid to risk needing something that I left at home.

Or what if something happens at home while I’m out, and I lose something I end up wishing I’d taken with me, instead.

Though there is also the risk of having something with me and losing THAT while I’m out.

I mean, that’s a lot of stress.  Every time I try to leave my safe haven.  It takes a long time.

I think the only reason I can do it for work is because I’ve been doing it for over 15 years.  It’s a routine.  A habit.  I can do it with my eyes closed, kinda.  More or less.  I try to do everything the same each morning, all in the same order.  It’s crazy, but it helps me remember.  More than that, though, it contributes to my sense of safety and control.  It’s all connected.

Even taking Brody out is a thing.  I had to set myself up a routine surrounding that, too.  I even had mini anxiety attacks sometimes when we were out, and kept trying to go when there would be fewer people out.  That didn’t last long and I am more adept at navigating doggie culture than I was, but I think that’s all largely due to Brody himself.  He’s very chill, and some of that has rubbed off.  He teaches me patience, and to slow down, and to acknowledge people in front of me instead of just walking by.  I don’t wear headphones when I’m with him because I’m with him, and want to be in the moment, experience the world around us.  Enjoy our time together.

Plus, I get to pet WAY more doggies than I ever could when I didn’t have a dog with me!  Way less stalker weirdo now.  In appearance, at least.

If I could afford to work from home and just go out to walk Brody, I think I’d end up being a shut-in.  Not because I’m agoraphobic.  I don’t think.  I just don’t like people.

So naturally I live in a city.

It’s easier to be invisible here, though.  For the most part, no one looks at me, or sees me, and that’s how I like it.  I like to have alone time.  I need it.  Most people need social time or they start to get a little stir crazy, but I have always been the complete opposite.  I need time to quiet my mind or I can’t shut out the noise of the outside world vey well at all.  I get overwhelmed.

The thing is, I actually do like going out for brunch and things.  I like Friday Night Date Night.  I like being around people, one on one or in small groups.  Most of the time I still have trouble talking and being present, but I miss it when it’s not there, and look forward to it each and every time.

I just have so much trouble leaving my apartment.  And hate everything in between that and getting to where I want to be.

This wasn’t as short as I thought it would be, after all.

 

Day Off

I was half-planning on going to the zoo today.  I was in the mood for some extra animal therapy, and there are so many babies growing in leaps and bounds in between my visits.  I even got up earlier than necessary for a legit day off, especially one I’ve been clawing through the past couple of weeks just to go to.  Right up until I was eating breakfast, I was planning the steps I would take to get to the zoo, even just for a few hours.  I was going to have a hot dog for lunch, maybe.

But the weather is still kind of ass, and while I’m not sure when I’ll have the chance to get out there, it occurred to me that I’d struggled so hard to get to this long weekend – burned myself out nicely, made notes for all the things I’ve been needing time to work on.  Now it’s finally here, and the first thing I thought I’d do with it was go out and do other things, instead.  In other words, I almost did what I always do, instead of sticking to getting done the things I need to do.

So I stayed home.  And got quite a lot done, without feeling like I was pushing myself much.  I got two loads of laundry done and mostly put away (I hate that part).  I worked on my super secret project a little.  I’ve been watching things off my PVR pretty much all day, off and on.  I took Brody for a walk, but it got cut short because it was assier than I’d anticipated.  I got some batteries charged.  Did at least one other thing that I can’t remember now because I am writing while distracted by TV.

Cuddled with the critters who live with me.

Had grilled cheese with blueberries on the side for lunch.

Will soon go get r day to go out for Friday night date night with the girls.  And will hopefully not stay out TOO late, because I really want to feel up for our brunch plan tomorrow!   I haven’t felted in a couple of days, but I think I shall be back to it tomorrow, too.  It takes longer to recover spent energy these days.  Sometimes just taking it easy is the key.

I was thinking…if I were to steal something, and then, when charged, insist that it had been a gift, I wouldn’t have to prove that it had been a gift.  My accusers would have to prove it wasn’t.

I spend so much time thinking, wondering, questioning.  More than most, maybe, because I am alone with my brain so much.  Always more questions than answers.  So much to say, and nothing to say.

So much coming up!  How do I get enough rest, balanced with everything I need/want to work on – and still have enough left over to do all the things coming my way in the near future?

Ghomeshi Verdict

Well, turns out that, no matter what else I was thinking of talking about today, there is now only one subject that’s worth my voice. Yet I am so angered and ashamed and sitting here in frustrated, impotent disbelief that I can’t even think of words. So bear with me.

Back in 1988 (nearly 30 years ago now) powerful film called The Accused was released. Starring my love, Jodie Foster, it told the tale of a woman who had been publicly gang raped, and the struggle she went through in both the court of law, and the court of public opinion, to bring her attackers to justice. It was a very tough but very necessary watch.

Today, we’ve been shown that our justice system – and indeed much of our society as a whole – have not come nearly as far as we pretend we have in those 30 years. I want to say today’s verdict hurts my heart (which it does), and that I’d hoped for a different outcome but am not surprised by the actual one (because that’s also true). I also want to say again how angry and disheartened and frustrated I am by the result – because I do feel all of those things.

But mostly what I want to try and express is the very physical effect it’s having on my body now. I feel sick. I can’t focus on my work. I am shaking and every muscle in my body is tense like a wire pulled too tight. I am damn near crippled by it, and I don’t even know any of the people involved personally. Yet there are no words for the effect this verdict has had on me, and from what I can tell, that’s a large part of the problem in situations like this as a whole. There aren’t words to express it. There are just emotional, mental and physical reactions, all happening on the inside, out of sight (except for all the trouble I am having typing this…the amount of backspacing and correcting I have to do is obscene). In cases where there is physical evidence, it’s much easier to prove a point to an outsider. In cases where the loss of a loved one is involved, it’s easier for someone else to have some sort of sense of what that means, having also lost loved ones themselves, but to varying degrees.

But in cases of rape and sexual assault – you just can’t. If you’ve had no personal experience with it at all, you just can’t imagine. And to those who can imagine, there are no fucking words. None that come close to expressing their experience, nor the effect it has had on them forever. Forever, guys. It’s not something you get over, or forget, or have any control over. You can go years without thinking about it, and then something random happens and you’re right back there in it again, experiencing it all again, on the inside, just like you did the first time. It’s a wound that never truly heals. It’s cut that does not scar. It just breaks open again from time to time. For the rest of your life.

And whether it happened yesterday, or 30 years ago, some details you never forget. Everything that happened during the assault remains fresh as a daisy (whatever that means – never mind – it stays crystal fucking clear). Yet everything before and after is gone. A blur at best. Your body and mind don’t consider those details to be important, so they are let go, and 100% of your focus is on what happened to you. Maybe you have even thought before about what you would do should you ever find yourself in such a situation, but guess what? You almost never do what you think you’d do. You can’t plan a reaction to something like that. When it happens, some other subconscious part of you takes over. Self preservation – of your whole self, not just your body – takes over, and when all is said and done, the very first person to judge you is you. You go over it and over it in your head, and imagine other outcomes, and things you could have done or should have done – you envision every possible scenario, including whether or not someone else could have helped, or something you might have said instead that would give your attacker pause.

Because most of the time, it’s someone you know. Maybe even someone you love. Someone you trust. Someone you wojuldn’t have suspected was even capable of such a thing. Someone in a position of power or authority. An employer. A healer. Every single time, it’s someone who should have known better. And then when they treat you like nothing happened, like they did nothing wrong, and that you should know better than to think them capable of such a thing, that’s when the fun self-doubt game sets in! You can’t remember what led up to the assault, so maybe you did do something to encourage it. Maybe it was a huge misunderstanding. He did say he likes it rough (though to my mind, that means he likes rough stuff done to him, not the other way around), and you consented, so maybe you just were too embarrassingly naïve to understand what he meant. He’s just so logical and likeable and no one will believe you when you’re not even sure you believe yourself. So yeah, forget it…you misunderstood and blew everything way out of proportion. Give him another chance, and you’ll see how wrong you were about him. Or he’s your husband…for better or for worse, right? You promised him that. Or you’ve slept together before and this was maybe just a one time thing…just a mood, or whatever (though even a one time thing is one time too many…I tell myself and then don’t listen when it pertains to me). Or you work together and still have to see each other at a time. No sense in rocking the boat over a simple misunderstanding. Be nice. You weren’t raised to be rude, and you’d like to keep your job, so just forget it and move on already.

These women – “the complaintants” (dumbest name ever for what they actually are – heroes, champions, survivors, not-taking-any-bullshit-igans) – they stood up. They gave a voice to the only words they were able to find along the way. They spoke out, for themselves, and for everyone else who has suffered through a similar life-altering event. They said no, I will not let you do this to anyone else. Not one more.

Because one was one too many.

And their reward for taking that impossibly difficult step? To be put on trial themselves, instead. To be the most recent victims of an ancient system of “justice” that still favours the perpetrator. The accused didn’t even have to take the stand in his own defence. He didn’t even really say he didn’t do what he was accused of – he simply said it was consensual. Which…isn’t that speaking FOR the women? However. His actions were never really put on trial. The actions of the women were, instead. Oh, they didn’t tell the whole truth in their original statements? Maybe because they weren’t the ones on trial. Maybe because their actions before and after the assaults had zero to do with his actions during the assault.

Then, to add insult to injury (and more insult), the judge basically accuses the women of lying under oath, says we have to put a stop to women submitting false claims of assault (because apparently that happens all the time, even though the vast majority of such crimes go un-fucking-reported), and then throws out some statement about how his verdict isn’t the same as saying that the events didn’t happen, just that there’s reasonable doubt that they didn’t happen.

Um, Judge Super-Genius, sir? That’s actually exactly what you’re saying.

He’s not only dismissed the women’s claims as invalid, but he’s also sent a very clear message out to anyone else who suffers a similar fate and has dillusions about stepping forward to accuse their attacker. This verdict has basically silenced every other survivor – not just in this city, but everywhere. Canada’s women lie about being raped. And if the oh-so-polite Canadians can do it, then surely every other country’s women are liars, too.

Does anyone even know what a struggle it is to come to terms with the notion that what happened to you is assault? That it’s a crime? Just to get your own self to understand it is a huge inner battle, and you are your own worst critic. Guaranteed, every single thing said to those women during the trial has already been gone over by them themselves. They have already torn themselves apart and then pulled themselves back together enough to take the enormous step of speaking up. At the risk of not being believed, of not getting justice, of not getting some sort of closure.

And thanks Canadian Justice System! That’s exactly what’s happened today.

You know Ghomeshi is going to get laid again. And you know it’s only a matter of time before some woman gives him the benefit of the doubt and it happens again to someone else. Will that woman step forward? Or will she think about herself what so many others will think – that she was warned, and that she should have known better. That it would in fact be her own stupid fault.

To that woman – or women – whoever you are, and to the women who left the courthouse after the battle of their lives today, I will say right now that I believe you. I stand by you. And I will vent my impotent yet righteous rage online for all the world to see or not see because I believe you. I believe in you.

And it’s not your fault.

Owning Life

Man, I am such a mess of scattered and random anger today! My mind is juuuust spinning. So that’s part of the reason why I won’t write about what I’d been planning to write about for this post. Also, I wanted to use some pictures for it, but haven’t chosen which particular ones yet! 😉

Hence, I shall again ramble away for a bit about nothing in particular and see what shakes out.

I don’t think we can own living things. Not the way we think we can. Other than the Buy Friends app on Facebook (or whatever it was called – I haven’t played in years), we don’t own people, in terms of legal possession, for example. Many of us even frown on the notion of ownership of another person. One does not procreate and consider that they own their child. Even if you pay to adopt or be artificially inseminated or whatever – money has changed hands, and yet there’s usually no ownership mentality that comes with it. No deed or some such paperwork. Children and other people aren’t generally considered property. At least not anymore, or in most places.

Yet every other living thing, we think we can own. A pet. A plant. Livestock. Land. We draw invisible lines across the earth and consider what’s within them ours. Our property. Our country. Our continent. Our rivers, lakes, oceans and seas. Even airspace, for the love! We think we can own the air ABOVE our land! We tax and tarriff, we charge fees to cross our land, our waters or travel in our air. We fight for it, to the death. Our territory. While we are not the only species on the planet known to do such a thing, I think we can safely presume that we are the only ones who go to such lengths to “own” it. Even space we’re not using, we don’t want anyone else to use it, either. We’ll destroy something beautiful rather than let another enjoy it.

Yet the whole idea is kind of ludicrous, when you think about it. You own a plot of land, so you build a house upon it, which you also own. You plant trees and grass on it, and you own those, too. Do you also then own the insects and wildlife which traverse it occasionally? Of course not. Do you own the birds that fly through your airspace above your land? Nope. You don’t even think of them as the tresspassing illegal aliens they so clearly are. When the wind (also a tresspasser) blows your leaves off of your tree and onto your neighbour’s lawn, do you go rake them up? Nope – they become your neighbour’s problem, even though you just owned them a minute ago. How quickly you relinquish ownership then, right?! When precipitation falls from your sky, do you claim to own the rain and snow and hail? The floodwaters in your basement – yours? Of course not. It’s a completely silly notion, because life is fluid and temporary and ever-changing. Life cannot be owned.

We claim to own our pets, yet same thing – we own them no more than we own our human children. They are intelligent, unique individuals, and we make them dependant on us for their very survival, but we have also made ourselves responsible for the quality of their lives. We can own the responsibility, but not the individual lives themselves.

I think we’ve just become so bored as a species that we need to control and dominate everything and everyone. We need to twist and shape those around us into what we think we want. All these years of technological advancement and we still don’t know how to plant trees so that their branches and roots don’t grow to collide with power lines, sidewalks and the like, so we cut them, trim them to our liking. We need to travel quickly because we’re all very busy going nowhere, so as long as that’s not a human we just ran over, we’re good. Speed on ahead to get to that red light faster. We measure our worth by what we have. By things. I have this, therefore I am that. We don’t realize that we can have all the things in the world and we’re still going to die. We are not immortal – not in the way we think we want to be – and we are not going to live forever. But the damage we cause will outlast us; all of us. Destruction is our immortal legacy.

I wonder what those who come later will think, when they look back at who we appear to be right now. Will they wonder where all the green went? What happened to all the art and beauty and music? Will they look at our piles of treasured material things as garbage and gaze at our faded selfies and imagine the lives of a people who had the time and need to take portraits of their meals, while simultaneously destroying all of the living things around them? All of the living things they thought they owned?

Will they wonder what the ever-loving fuck we were thinking? Or just wonder if we were ever thinking at all?

Ketchup – Another Irrelevant Post

This is just going to be short and directionless, because I am busy today, but I don’t trust myself to write later. I’d rather write quickly now than not at all later.

So let’s see…what is on my mind today?

Got a call from my neurologist’s office earlier. I have to go get the round of bloodwork I had done last weekend RE-done in about 2 weeks. I guess he didn’t like something he saw and wants a second look. It’s funny, because my doctor mentioned it yesterday, that something about the last tests were elevated, but in my sleepy brain I thought she was talking about the ones from a couple of months ago, as I didn’t think she’d have the results of the most recent ones yet. I said my neuro had mentioned it but that he’d said it hadn’t been high enough for concern. Turns out he just hadn’t mentioned it YET! Haha

I’m still not concerned, though. I suspect all the rampant drinking I did at the beginning of March, while primarily just trying to get through the difficult memories that are now forever associated with that time of year, perhaps took a bit of a temporary toll on my liver enzyme levels. I’ve cut back down to almost nothing again, though, so I’m sure by the time the tests are re-done, everything will be back to within normal ranges. It’s happened before, and I guarantee it will happen again. The good thing is having a medical system that allows my team of doctors to monitor everything as often or rarely as they need to, and double-check when they aren’t sure.

I remember even going in for…something…I think one of the heart-rate tests I had to do when I was going on a new medication? Anyway, they took my blood pressure when I got there, but it was so absurdly high that the woman decided to do it again after the main test was done, at which time it was back to normal. Sometimes these things are all about timing.

I imagine the results from all the other tests my doc did yesterday will be back soon, too. I’m not concerned about any of those, though. They’re just the standard things people get checked out occasionally. It’ll be good for her to have a baseline medical history that’s not related specifically to MS testing, though. The last time I had any of that other stuff done was 2008, which was long before I had to find a new family doctor!

She didn’t check my weight, though, which is too bad, because I’ve totally lost some, and if I continue to lose, it would have looked even better next time! Ah well.

What else? I felted and attached a head to my blue snowman last night. I didn’t have much time but that’s still a good step to get completed. Now I can either work on details (like a face) or try making different shapes all together. Will see what kind of mood I’m in later.

I am much more about welfare instead of rights, especially where non-human animals are concerned. It just makes sense.

I’m bummed at the prospect of yet another winter storm, and will just hope we don’t end up with much more snow. I hate having to get Brody and I all bundled up just so we can go outside for a few minutes, and then have to get boots off and puppy feet dry as soon as we get back in the door again. It’s annoying and time consuming.

I also hate when I feel like I have to pee, but can’t seem to make it happen.

And I hate that I had raw veggies and hummus earlier but am still craving potato chips right now. Jason Isaacs mentioned that he loved that Canada has ketchup-flavoured chips. Which – I don’t really get how it’s that novel an idea. How many people have ketchup with their french fries? Potatoes and ketchup are good together, non-Canadian people! It’s at least not a wacky idea!

That being said, though, I hope he snagged a bag of Ketchup Doritos while he was here, because holy hell – SO GOOD!!!

Now I really want chips.

Damn.