It may sound disgustingly pessimistic to say that; however, I don't consider myself to be pessimistic, I think I merely have a realist outlook on life. I don't go for the glass-half-full or glass-half-empty nonsense.
In my mind, there's just a glass. As long as it's not smashed on the floor, things aren't as bad as they could get.
Here is my world-view that allows me to survive: always expect disappointment. When things turn out badly, as I always expect them to, I am never surprised and even get to have a sense of self-satisfaction out of knowing I was right.
If I expect disappointment, and things turn out well, I am pleasantly surprised and even cheerful, and feel for a fleeting moment as if this stupid world is really not a bad place, after all.
Life can be bad or good. Always expect disappointment.
I quote a line from a season one episode of Bored to Death. The one with the 16-year-old girl who says she is 21, Jim Jarmusch and the lost movie script, and the cut-to-the-chase psychotherapist (incidentally the father of the aforementioned jail bait) quoted below.
"Lives don't change, we simply become more comfortable with our core misery. Which is a form of happiness."
Thanks, doctor.
27.10.10
24.10.10
It's really not a theory I guess, or even a hypothesis. It's not as if I actually intend to prove or disprove anything.
I have a theory which I half-heartedly began forming in high school. It has nothing to do with cliques or social status; I can say now that it took me a bit of time to fit in, but high school for me was never the way it appeared in teen rom-com films. I didn't waste much time pondering why some people were popular and others were not. High school was never like that to begin with and I was never interested in, or envious of, what other people did or who their friends were. And aside from that, there was never a controlling, elite group of kids. I found it to be very live-and-let-live.
However, I have always been an observer of people, and there was one difference that always stood out between myself and others.
Or, to put it in a manner that makes me stand out a bit less than I intended to, there was a key difference between two groups of people. And myself being a member of one of those groups.
I have felt since then that those two types, that I first identified, continue to prevail.
There are people who have been well-molded to fit the world. I'm not sure what their parents did or taught them, or if they were schooled differently, but they seem to 1) always know what is happening and what needs to be done, and 2) are always able to easily go along with it.
Then there are people who are perpetually trying to fit into a mold they weren't made for. I always see it as a misshapen lump of bread that is trying to look like a proper loaf, except it can't because that's not the way it was made. And I am one of those people, who are continuously baffled by the world and all of its processes, and spend half their lives trying to get used to, and be comfortable in, such a non-sensical place. So consequently we end up being the ones who are called strange by everyone who is so much better adjusted.
However, I feel that despite this, we end up being the ones who are able to see the world better. Things can sometimes be so much clearer if you are outside looking in.
Although then you're still just outside of where you need to be to actually get along properly, so I'm not really sure who wins in this case.
However, I have always been an observer of people, and there was one difference that always stood out between myself and others.
Or, to put it in a manner that makes me stand out a bit less than I intended to, there was a key difference between two groups of people. And myself being a member of one of those groups.
I have felt since then that those two types, that I first identified, continue to prevail.
There are people who have been well-molded to fit the world. I'm not sure what their parents did or taught them, or if they were schooled differently, but they seem to 1) always know what is happening and what needs to be done, and 2) are always able to easily go along with it.
Then there are people who are perpetually trying to fit into a mold they weren't made for. I always see it as a misshapen lump of bread that is trying to look like a proper loaf, except it can't because that's not the way it was made. And I am one of those people, who are continuously baffled by the world and all of its processes, and spend half their lives trying to get used to, and be comfortable in, such a non-sensical place. So consequently we end up being the ones who are called strange by everyone who is so much better adjusted.
However, I feel that despite this, we end up being the ones who are able to see the world better. Things can sometimes be so much clearer if you are outside looking in.
Although then you're still just outside of where you need to be to actually get along properly, so I'm not really sure who wins in this case.
19.10.10
A discrepancy
In Halifax, Nova Scotia, there have been reports of a man who creeps into women's homes in the dead of night, and watches them sleep.
Apparently this is a very, very awful thing.
However, I seem to remember a very popular, sparkly vampire who was guilty of similar night-time trangressions, and that his only real crime was making girls swoon.
Can you spot the real criminal?
6.10.10
It should be "shopping fiend" or "shopping addict", as "shopaholic" is technically an incorrect word; however, way more cutesy.
Please stand by for this moment of temporary, estrogen-induced, girly insanity:
OMG! There is a new Shopaholic novel!
(Cough.)
I mean . . . Grrrr, consumerism. Grrrrrrr.
OMG! There is a new Shopaholic novel!
(Cough.)
I mean . . . Grrrr, consumerism. Grrrrrrr.
24.7.10
This is not my brain on drugs, this is your brain on drugs
Here is something that is cool: synesthesia.
Having studied English literature, it is a term that came up a lot. Writers are forever mixing senses, sometimes to better describe a certain feeling or object.
Most people, when they hear the term synesthesia, think of people who can listen to music and "see" it as colours, or see shapes dancing in the air after hearing a particular sound. Or some such. Personification is another type, wherein a number or letter "behaves" a certain way.
Myself, I attribute personalities to letters and numbers (I had a particularly hard time in elementary school math; I didn't like adding 2 and 7 together because I knew they didn't get along because 2 is weepy and whiney, and 7 is assertive and can't stand that kind of thing). and taste words. Not all words; "the" doesn't taste like anything. Neither do other small words like "it", "a", "some", etc. Mostly it is people's names, or verbs or adjectives. The name Jesse tastes like water chestnuts. When I say, "Jesse", I can taste and almost feel, physically, the delicately crunchy and slightly sweet little water vegetable in my mouth.
I only realized a few months ago that this was a "thing", that it doesn't happen to everyone. I was listening to Ideas (at least I'm fairly certain it was Ideas) and there was a discussion about synesthesia. The host of the show was speaking to a woman who was describing the taste of certain words. She said that certain parts of long words (she used "multisyllabic" as an example of a long word that has different tastes for each syllable). As I was listening to this, I found it interesting but I didn't realize at first that she was describing something that is not particularly common. It felt really awesome to realize that my brain does something that most people's brains don't do. I suppose my brain already works a little differently that what is common, seeing as I have bipolar disorder. Somehow synesthesia is a way more enjoyable thing to think about. After listening to Ideas that day I googled "synesthesia" and learned more about it. That was when I realized the way I see numbers and letters is also a little out of the ordinary. I just always assumed everyone felt that they have distinct personalities.
I have made a point, since my discovery, to tell people what things taste like. Everyone likes to know what their name tastes like. Some things have a taste that it takes me some time to identify. For example, the name "Leigh" has a taste but I really had to think about it hard in order to figure out what I was tasting (it is the taste of chewing on a popsicle stick after the popsicle is all gone and there is no flavour left).
Some words have tastes or sensations that I think are very obvious. The word "Europe" tastes like maple syrup; the words sound similar, and I find this happens often, sometimes with strange results. The word "credit" tastes like nothing, really, but when I say the word I can feel something in my mouth like I am holding a debit or credit card between my teeth, and biting down.
The word "blog" tastes like plain, unsweetened yoghurt. Don't know why that is.
I think it is pretty nifty that my brain does this on its own, while some people only get to experience feelings like this if they are on really good drugs.
Having studied English literature, it is a term that came up a lot. Writers are forever mixing senses, sometimes to better describe a certain feeling or object.
Most people, when they hear the term synesthesia, think of people who can listen to music and "see" it as colours, or see shapes dancing in the air after hearing a particular sound. Or some such. Personification is another type, wherein a number or letter "behaves" a certain way.
Myself, I attribute personalities to letters and numbers (I had a particularly hard time in elementary school math; I didn't like adding 2 and 7 together because I knew they didn't get along because 2 is weepy and whiney, and 7 is assertive and can't stand that kind of thing). and taste words. Not all words; "the" doesn't taste like anything. Neither do other small words like "it", "a", "some", etc. Mostly it is people's names, or verbs or adjectives. The name Jesse tastes like water chestnuts. When I say, "Jesse", I can taste and almost feel, physically, the delicately crunchy and slightly sweet little water vegetable in my mouth.
I only realized a few months ago that this was a "thing", that it doesn't happen to everyone. I was listening to Ideas (at least I'm fairly certain it was Ideas) and there was a discussion about synesthesia. The host of the show was speaking to a woman who was describing the taste of certain words. She said that certain parts of long words (she used "multisyllabic" as an example of a long word that has different tastes for each syllable). As I was listening to this, I found it interesting but I didn't realize at first that she was describing something that is not particularly common. It felt really awesome to realize that my brain does something that most people's brains don't do. I suppose my brain already works a little differently that what is common, seeing as I have bipolar disorder. Somehow synesthesia is a way more enjoyable thing to think about. After listening to Ideas that day I googled "synesthesia" and learned more about it. That was when I realized the way I see numbers and letters is also a little out of the ordinary. I just always assumed everyone felt that they have distinct personalities.
I have made a point, since my discovery, to tell people what things taste like. Everyone likes to know what their name tastes like. Some things have a taste that it takes me some time to identify. For example, the name "Leigh" has a taste but I really had to think about it hard in order to figure out what I was tasting (it is the taste of chewing on a popsicle stick after the popsicle is all gone and there is no flavour left).
Some words have tastes or sensations that I think are very obvious. The word "Europe" tastes like maple syrup; the words sound similar, and I find this happens often, sometimes with strange results. The word "credit" tastes like nothing, really, but when I say the word I can feel something in my mouth like I am holding a debit or credit card between my teeth, and biting down.
The word "blog" tastes like plain, unsweetened yoghurt. Don't know why that is.
I think it is pretty nifty that my brain does this on its own, while some people only get to experience feelings like this if they are on really good drugs.
20.7.10
In other news
Oh yes. 
Same girl. Stieg Larsson's Millenium trilogy ("The Girl Who ..." novels) are apparently the best things to come out of Sweden since ABBA. I liked the first movie, and then read the first and second novels. It was all very intriguing. I decided to learn Swedish, since it sounds so much like English. So far it is not proving too difficult. I have read that it is easier to learn another language if you already speak more than one.
The best thing, though, to come out of Sweden is, in my opinion, Noomi Rapace. She plays the eponymous Girl, Lisbeth Salander, who has a skewed set of morals and doesn't take much shit from anybody. If she does take shit from you, then you'd best be running and hiding because she will either totally fuck you up, or just kill you.
The character is described as pansexual; so far I have enjoyed seeing Noomi Rapace (as Lisbeth Salander) seduce an older male journalist and writhe on the floor with another girl. Which totally turns me on. As a character who is a hacker with a vigilante mindset and no willingness to be seen as a victim, she has fulfilled my fantasies of strong women.
Also, I think Noomi Rapace is incredibly sexy. I love seeing her embody this character, who does things I wish I were able to do if I were as skilled with technology, and had such an extreme black/white good/evil all-or-nothing mindset.
Excuse me now while I find my lube and vibrator.
19.7.10
Mother dearest darling daughter
I am thinking about moms.
My friend J.'s mother died last Friday. Actually, J. is mostly S.'s friend, but he has become my friend through a process I like to think of as being similar to osmosis. I would say that he is my friend. I just always feel the need to clarify, as if I have to explain why on Earth another human being would be my associate.
I never met J.'s mom, not even when J. lived with S. in Waterloo (they and five other guys shared a house while they attended the same university). I have heard J. talking about his mother at least within the last four months, and always without being upset. His girlfriend explained that she had been sick for some time; I don't know how long -- I would never have known anything was wrong in J.'s life. He is a very happy person and I always found that to be a great (and enviable) quality.
I feel for J. because I do know how much it sucks to lose someone, although I do not know how much it sucks when that person is your mother. J. is 24, a year younger than me. He has siblings who are younger, and I feel for them because no one wants to lose a parent when they are still barely an adult. Before it's time for that sort of thing. Especially when that parent has barely hit middle age (I think I am correct when I say J.'s mother was not even in her 50s).
So I am thinking about my own mother right now, and poking around my current feelings about her. At the moment I feel guilty; J. no longer has a mother, and I do, and I am often irritated with her. Instead of cherishing my mom and being thankful, I get upset with her.
My mom is what my dad calls an intermittent alcoholic. I think he says that just to feel as if he has, in his mind, not yet condemned her to full-blown alcoholism. At home, at my parents' house, if you don't hide your alcohol, she will drink it. My dad is very creative in this aspect; he hides his rum above the basement ceiling. There is a hole in the ceiling (put there in order to do wiring or some-such) and it is covered with a white plastic square that pops into place and makes it look very tidy. And that is where he keeps his stash.
Of course, this does not mean that my mom does not buy her own alcohol. She hides beer around the house, or vodka. Occasionally I will stumble across an empty, hidden bottle. My dad and brother have a tendency to ignore this. They put the evidence in the recycling and no one ever mentions it. I used to do that as well, until I realized that does no good, and more or less got fed up. Nowadays I tend to deposit them on my mom's bed and ask her if she can please not leave empties just lying around the house. It's messy, I tell her. At least make sure to remove the proof of your secret drinking.
She drinks and she is not a merry drinker. My dad, my brother, and myself are all relatively happy when we drink. I had a spot of difficulty a few years back, before I was diagnosed with bi-polar disorder. I drank more since it made me feel more normal. Later I learned in hospital that this is called self-medicating. Prior to being medicated, I would drink and it would drastically alter my mood; I would either be very manic (which I thought was an improvement on my regular self) or severely depressed. It could be a bit of a toss-up and I wasn't in the state of mind where I even cared what happened. Now that I am balanced, I don't need to do this anymore and I can enjoy a glass of wine without downing the whole bottle in half an hour. I didn't know I was having a problem until it was pointed out to me.
My mom, though, she knows she has a problem. We've all talked to her about it. She acknowledges it herself; every so often she says she's trying to drink less. She'll say something like, "Oh, it makes me act a bit weird". A bit weird. Try ... ruining dad's birthday this spring, or not being able to do more than slur on the phone when I call you.
We had an incident the other day, my mother and I. She called my cell phone the other day while I was at work. On my break a few hours later, I gave her a call back. She was so wasted, she could barely keep up a normal conversation. I was in the midst of headaches and a lowered mood. She mentioned that she was feeling tired because she had taken an Ativan (also known as lorazepam; it's an anti-anxiety medication) and had a couple of beers later on. Every time she does this, she acts as though she's so surprised to be feeling so out of it, like Oh my goodness, whatever has come over me. Golly fucking gee. I had no patience for her and I didn't want to take the kind approach, so I said, "Yeah, well, you've done that before and passed out. You missed most of Christmas, remember?. Don't act so fucking surprised. It's not like you don't know the medication has that effect if you drink." She slurred, "Don't use that kind of language." I told her I'll behave well and use proper language once she gets her shit together. She started to tell me that she is having a bad day. I told her I didn't care and asked her to give me a call back when she wasn't drunk or passed out, "but oh wait, mom, that might be never!"
Here is are my issues with this:
1. Being soft about things won't get you anywhere. But apparently, tough love doesn't help either. So I go back and forth between trying to be understanding, or just telling it like it is and letting my disappointment show.
2. My mom frequently says that she is depressed, and tired. I tell her to go see a doctor or psychologist. I offer to call Dr. F. and set up an appointment for myself and my mom. I tell her she should have her iron levels checked (she and I both have a tendency towards anemia), and that since she is taking blood pressure medication, she should not drink so much, if at all. My mom says yes, those are all good things. Then she doesn't take any steps at all to fix her problems. But she continues to complain about the same shit over and over and expects me to just listen to it and then say, "Poor you," and pass the vodka.
3. I've read several articles on families and friends and their relationships with alcoholics. Apparently she is not the one to blame, it is us, for being enablers or what-not. I can understand where this is coming from; I'm sometimes not nice to my mom when she drinks and I see how this can turn me into a reason for her to drink. BUT. Being nice to her makes no difference. She knows there is a problem and will not resolve it. We can't force her to get help, and she seems to want help but isn't doing a single thing about it.
4. As for trying to get her some help, I have talked to my psychologist, Dr. F., and she has given me some advice but the situation is still no better. Basically, my mom has to hit rock bottom before she will see that she needs help. I am afraid that she is going to die before that will happen. She has very high blood pressure, and it is always creeping higher because she is overweight. And gaining even more weight. She never exercises because she is too tired. She has a stressful job. She drinks heavily. (She would probably not be so tired if she didn't drink so much, and then she would be able to exercise, and then she would be less stressed, and her blood pressure would go down. I see it, the solution is simple. Getting my mother to that point is not simple). And she comes from a long line (on the maternal side) of alcoholics who can't drive and have heart problems and mental illness, who either kill themselves, go into cardiac arrest, or crash their cars.
5. I often feel like her behaviour is some kind of convoluted punishment for my leaving home and moving in with S. These episodes have increased tremendously in the two years since I've moved out. When I stayed at home recently (due to the fridge incident), my mother became much more normal than she has been in that last few months. She often asks me (usually in jest), "How could you leave me with your dad and brother?" I usually joke right back and tell her that S. and I will move into the house with her, and my dad and brother can have the apartment. In the end we always decide that wouldn't be good idea because dad and C. would try and kill each other. Or starve to death. When my mom is drunk while trying to pretend to be sober, and not asking that question in jest, I then reply by saying something like, "You moved out of your parents' home, too, you know. You left Nanny with Grampy and your two brothers, and she managed without you." My mom will then accept this, but continue to nag me. We typically end with her saying, "It would be better if you stayed here more often, why did you have to leave me?" and me responding, "Gee, mom, I get home and you just keep reminding me why I left in the first place."
Since I was diagnosed with bi-polar disorder and began devouring books on the subject, I find more and more that my mother displays much of the classic behaviour. I point these things out to her and she generally dismisses them, or says, "Oh. Aunt (so-and-so) was like that."
Her mood can change in the blink of an eye. During the course of a dinnertime discussion, she can go from bubbly and laughing, to crying and shouting. Sometimes she is irrational. She will have periods when she doesn't drink, or at least displays perfect moderation. This is when she is my lovely mother again. The next day she might be screaming at my dad for not tidying up the house while she is at work (my father is newly retired), and going on and on about how she has to do everything AROUND HERE and she is sick and tired of this and that and blah blah blah, and then pouring herself a big glass of wine while my dad says, calmly, "Maybe you shouldn't have so much to drink," and she says, "You do whatever you want to, why can't I have a drink if that's what I feel like?" My dad sometimes says, "T., sometimes you can be a little unpleasant if you have too much to drink." From time to time she accepts this, but mostly she just blows up at him again. I've heard her rants so many times before, she and I could do a lip-synching act.
When I was in high school I started making a huge effort to keep the house clean, and do whatever she needed, so that my mother would have fewer things to yell about. I didn't want her screaming at my dad or my brother in the background whenever a friend or a boy would call. I never even brought my first high school boyfriend home because I was terrified of having to explain my mother's behaviour if she suddenly began lashing out.
She is alternately delightful and terrifying, occasionally bewildering. When I am visiting home things do tend to be better; my father and brother and I are skilled at navigating the mine-field of her behaviour together. But I can't be home with my parents and brother all the time. I have my own life. I want to sleep in my own bed with S., I want to live in the apartment that I pay rent for.
My mom and I do have good times together. When we are enjoying each others company and going out shopping or for dinner, it's as if we push all that unpleasantness aside for the sake of a nice evening. We talk and laugh and confide and occasionally discuss her issues, but nothing is ever fixed. She and I become this temporarily normal mother-and-daughter team. There is this illusion, and I always want to believe that it's for real, and she's going to be better from now on, and that this, right here, is the start of things being good, for everyone, finally.
But then it always goes back to the way it really is. And the way it continues to be. She and I will talk (if she is able to talk) tomorrow, or the next day, and it will be one of those above-mentioned conversations, either pleasant or not. She will act as if she wants to move forward, I will be supportive as if we haven't been over this a million times before. Then I will wait for whatever: for her to be ready someday, for her to die, for her to finally hit rock bottom and have no other choice but to finally listen to us.
My friend J.'s mother died last Friday. Actually, J. is mostly S.'s friend, but he has become my friend through a process I like to think of as being similar to osmosis. I would say that he is my friend. I just always feel the need to clarify, as if I have to explain why on Earth another human being would be my associate.
I never met J.'s mom, not even when J. lived with S. in Waterloo (they and five other guys shared a house while they attended the same university). I have heard J. talking about his mother at least within the last four months, and always without being upset. His girlfriend explained that she had been sick for some time; I don't know how long -- I would never have known anything was wrong in J.'s life. He is a very happy person and I always found that to be a great (and enviable) quality.
I feel for J. because I do know how much it sucks to lose someone, although I do not know how much it sucks when that person is your mother. J. is 24, a year younger than me. He has siblings who are younger, and I feel for them because no one wants to lose a parent when they are still barely an adult. Before it's time for that sort of thing. Especially when that parent has barely hit middle age (I think I am correct when I say J.'s mother was not even in her 50s).
So I am thinking about my own mother right now, and poking around my current feelings about her. At the moment I feel guilty; J. no longer has a mother, and I do, and I am often irritated with her. Instead of cherishing my mom and being thankful, I get upset with her.
My mom is what my dad calls an intermittent alcoholic. I think he says that just to feel as if he has, in his mind, not yet condemned her to full-blown alcoholism. At home, at my parents' house, if you don't hide your alcohol, she will drink it. My dad is very creative in this aspect; he hides his rum above the basement ceiling. There is a hole in the ceiling (put there in order to do wiring or some-such) and it is covered with a white plastic square that pops into place and makes it look very tidy. And that is where he keeps his stash.
Of course, this does not mean that my mom does not buy her own alcohol. She hides beer around the house, or vodka. Occasionally I will stumble across an empty, hidden bottle. My dad and brother have a tendency to ignore this. They put the evidence in the recycling and no one ever mentions it. I used to do that as well, until I realized that does no good, and more or less got fed up. Nowadays I tend to deposit them on my mom's bed and ask her if she can please not leave empties just lying around the house. It's messy, I tell her. At least make sure to remove the proof of your secret drinking.
She drinks and she is not a merry drinker. My dad, my brother, and myself are all relatively happy when we drink. I had a spot of difficulty a few years back, before I was diagnosed with bi-polar disorder. I drank more since it made me feel more normal. Later I learned in hospital that this is called self-medicating. Prior to being medicated, I would drink and it would drastically alter my mood; I would either be very manic (which I thought was an improvement on my regular self) or severely depressed. It could be a bit of a toss-up and I wasn't in the state of mind where I even cared what happened. Now that I am balanced, I don't need to do this anymore and I can enjoy a glass of wine without downing the whole bottle in half an hour. I didn't know I was having a problem until it was pointed out to me.
My mom, though, she knows she has a problem. We've all talked to her about it. She acknowledges it herself; every so often she says she's trying to drink less. She'll say something like, "Oh, it makes me act a bit weird". A bit weird. Try ... ruining dad's birthday this spring, or not being able to do more than slur on the phone when I call you.
We had an incident the other day, my mother and I. She called my cell phone the other day while I was at work. On my break a few hours later, I gave her a call back. She was so wasted, she could barely keep up a normal conversation. I was in the midst of headaches and a lowered mood. She mentioned that she was feeling tired because she had taken an Ativan (also known as lorazepam; it's an anti-anxiety medication) and had a couple of beers later on. Every time she does this, she acts as though she's so surprised to be feeling so out of it, like Oh my goodness, whatever has come over me. Golly fucking gee. I had no patience for her and I didn't want to take the kind approach, so I said, "Yeah, well, you've done that before and passed out. You missed most of Christmas, remember?. Don't act so fucking surprised. It's not like you don't know the medication has that effect if you drink." She slurred, "Don't use that kind of language." I told her I'll behave well and use proper language once she gets her shit together. She started to tell me that she is having a bad day. I told her I didn't care and asked her to give me a call back when she wasn't drunk or passed out, "but oh wait, mom, that might be never!"
Here is are my issues with this:
1. Being soft about things won't get you anywhere. But apparently, tough love doesn't help either. So I go back and forth between trying to be understanding, or just telling it like it is and letting my disappointment show.
2. My mom frequently says that she is depressed, and tired. I tell her to go see a doctor or psychologist. I offer to call Dr. F. and set up an appointment for myself and my mom. I tell her she should have her iron levels checked (she and I both have a tendency towards anemia), and that since she is taking blood pressure medication, she should not drink so much, if at all. My mom says yes, those are all good things. Then she doesn't take any steps at all to fix her problems. But she continues to complain about the same shit over and over and expects me to just listen to it and then say, "Poor you," and pass the vodka.
3. I've read several articles on families and friends and their relationships with alcoholics. Apparently she is not the one to blame, it is us, for being enablers or what-not. I can understand where this is coming from; I'm sometimes not nice to my mom when she drinks and I see how this can turn me into a reason for her to drink. BUT. Being nice to her makes no difference. She knows there is a problem and will not resolve it. We can't force her to get help, and she seems to want help but isn't doing a single thing about it.
4. As for trying to get her some help, I have talked to my psychologist, Dr. F., and she has given me some advice but the situation is still no better. Basically, my mom has to hit rock bottom before she will see that she needs help. I am afraid that she is going to die before that will happen. She has very high blood pressure, and it is always creeping higher because she is overweight. And gaining even more weight. She never exercises because she is too tired. She has a stressful job. She drinks heavily. (She would probably not be so tired if she didn't drink so much, and then she would be able to exercise, and then she would be less stressed, and her blood pressure would go down. I see it, the solution is simple. Getting my mother to that point is not simple). And she comes from a long line (on the maternal side) of alcoholics who can't drive and have heart problems and mental illness, who either kill themselves, go into cardiac arrest, or crash their cars.
5. I often feel like her behaviour is some kind of convoluted punishment for my leaving home and moving in with S. These episodes have increased tremendously in the two years since I've moved out. When I stayed at home recently (due to the fridge incident), my mother became much more normal than she has been in that last few months. She often asks me (usually in jest), "How could you leave me with your dad and brother?" I usually joke right back and tell her that S. and I will move into the house with her, and my dad and brother can have the apartment. In the end we always decide that wouldn't be good idea because dad and C. would try and kill each other. Or starve to death. When my mom is drunk while trying to pretend to be sober, and not asking that question in jest, I then reply by saying something like, "You moved out of your parents' home, too, you know. You left Nanny with Grampy and your two brothers, and she managed without you." My mom will then accept this, but continue to nag me. We typically end with her saying, "It would be better if you stayed here more often, why did you have to leave me?" and me responding, "Gee, mom, I get home and you just keep reminding me why I left in the first place."
Since I was diagnosed with bi-polar disorder and began devouring books on the subject, I find more and more that my mother displays much of the classic behaviour. I point these things out to her and she generally dismisses them, or says, "Oh. Aunt (so-and-so) was like that."
Her mood can change in the blink of an eye. During the course of a dinnertime discussion, she can go from bubbly and laughing, to crying and shouting. Sometimes she is irrational. She will have periods when she doesn't drink, or at least displays perfect moderation. This is when she is my lovely mother again. The next day she might be screaming at my dad for not tidying up the house while she is at work (my father is newly retired), and going on and on about how she has to do everything AROUND HERE and she is sick and tired of this and that and blah blah blah, and then pouring herself a big glass of wine while my dad says, calmly, "Maybe you shouldn't have so much to drink," and she says, "You do whatever you want to, why can't I have a drink if that's what I feel like?" My dad sometimes says, "T., sometimes you can be a little unpleasant if you have too much to drink." From time to time she accepts this, but mostly she just blows up at him again. I've heard her rants so many times before, she and I could do a lip-synching act.
When I was in high school I started making a huge effort to keep the house clean, and do whatever she needed, so that my mother would have fewer things to yell about. I didn't want her screaming at my dad or my brother in the background whenever a friend or a boy would call. I never even brought my first high school boyfriend home because I was terrified of having to explain my mother's behaviour if she suddenly began lashing out.
She is alternately delightful and terrifying, occasionally bewildering. When I am visiting home things do tend to be better; my father and brother and I are skilled at navigating the mine-field of her behaviour together. But I can't be home with my parents and brother all the time. I have my own life. I want to sleep in my own bed with S., I want to live in the apartment that I pay rent for.
My mom and I do have good times together. When we are enjoying each others company and going out shopping or for dinner, it's as if we push all that unpleasantness aside for the sake of a nice evening. We talk and laugh and confide and occasionally discuss her issues, but nothing is ever fixed. She and I become this temporarily normal mother-and-daughter team. There is this illusion, and I always want to believe that it's for real, and she's going to be better from now on, and that this, right here, is the start of things being good, for everyone, finally.
But then it always goes back to the way it really is. And the way it continues to be. She and I will talk (if she is able to talk) tomorrow, or the next day, and it will be one of those above-mentioned conversations, either pleasant or not. She will act as if she wants to move forward, I will be supportive as if we haven't been over this a million times before. Then I will wait for whatever: for her to be ready someday, for her to die, for her to finally hit rock bottom and have no other choice but to finally listen to us.
18.7.10
It would be like saying Neil Gaiman is my personal Jesus. Which he isn't. And being Jewish, he might not like it if he were.
During soccer fever, I happened to be at work sitting next to two co-workers who were discussing the fact that soccer is like a religion, and die-hard fans will often go to great lengths to avenge their team. One co-worker cited, for example, instances where referees have been tracked down and murdered. The other person, she mentioned that she lives in a neighbourhood with a very large, soccer-crazy Portuguese population, and that during the last World Cup matches, someone was killed outside of a bar after a soccer-related dispute (I guess he didn't die-hard, hahaha ... don't worry, I already know I'm a horrible person).
When she said this, I gave a snort of derision, and seconds later the two of them had poked their heads over the top of my cubicle and were asking what I thought was so funny. I said that disputes over soccer, disputes that lead to death, are ridiculous. And it really is, I just can't take it seriously. I mean, I know that someone died. At the hands of another person. But ... over soccer. I can't wrap my head around it.
One co-worker, a man, said that it's not ridiculous at all. He explained that millions of people are very passionate about soccer, all over the world. I said, "That doesn't make it any less contemptible that people go around fighting to the death, and believe me sir, much contempt is what I have plenty of."
In real life, outside of this blog, I hardly ever speak my mind to anyone. Except for maybe S., my friend G., my brother, and my friend H. Occasionally my parents, if it happens to be a bit of my mind that I want to share with them. So in this situation, as I was talking to my co-worker, I was turning red and starting to shake a bit. I can argue; I can yell, debate, scoff at a poorly constructed rebuttal ... it just affects me very much in a physical way, because I am actually a very private person and not used to sharing my thoughts in such an unedited fashion, especially with co-working strangers.
He said that I can't possibly understand what I'm saying. He told me that soccer players are regarded as gods, and that leads people to become very passionate and start riots or commit murders. This just seemed to me that he was making things even more contemptible, and so I retorted, "Well, I'm passionate about books, but I don't go setting cars on fire and rioting, or popping caps in peoples asses when I don't like a plot twist. Passion is not an excuse for anything. Except maybe in France." ( Okay, so imagine that with some stutters and what-not ) He started to say something about, well, I don't know ... I wasn't really paying attention at this point because it was soccer related, and I can't be expected to pay attention for that long. I cut him off and said, "And don't even get me started on religion!" With that, I snapped my headset back on and I haven't said a word about it since. The two co-workers (well, the man really ... there was a woman but she didn't say much) haven't brought it up since, probably because they know I'm right, and probably because soccer is now finished. Hoorah!
I realize the irony in the fact that I don't care much for soccer, yet I have devoted two blog entries to discussing it. If I were a homophobe discussing how much I hate gay people, then that would definitely point to my having, perhaps, some latent homosexuality. However, it is not so much the case with soccer, and dislike of sports in general. If you hate it, you hate it.
Also, speaking of it -- I don't have any latent homosexuality. I am completely bisexual, and fully acknowledge and realize (on a regular basis, with S. as my partner in crime) that I love to eat pussy.
No, I don't mean going to the sketchy Chinese food place down the street to get a fix for my cat meat craving.
I mean vaginas.
When she said this, I gave a snort of derision, and seconds later the two of them had poked their heads over the top of my cubicle and were asking what I thought was so funny. I said that disputes over soccer, disputes that lead to death, are ridiculous. And it really is, I just can't take it seriously. I mean, I know that someone died. At the hands of another person. But ... over soccer. I can't wrap my head around it.
One co-worker, a man, said that it's not ridiculous at all. He explained that millions of people are very passionate about soccer, all over the world. I said, "That doesn't make it any less contemptible that people go around fighting to the death, and believe me sir, much contempt is what I have plenty of."
In real life, outside of this blog, I hardly ever speak my mind to anyone. Except for maybe S., my friend G., my brother, and my friend H. Occasionally my parents, if it happens to be a bit of my mind that I want to share with them. So in this situation, as I was talking to my co-worker, I was turning red and starting to shake a bit. I can argue; I can yell, debate, scoff at a poorly constructed rebuttal ... it just affects me very much in a physical way, because I am actually a very private person and not used to sharing my thoughts in such an unedited fashion, especially with co-working strangers.
He said that I can't possibly understand what I'm saying. He told me that soccer players are regarded as gods, and that leads people to become very passionate and start riots or commit murders. This just seemed to me that he was making things even more contemptible, and so I retorted, "Well, I'm passionate about books, but I don't go setting cars on fire and rioting, or popping caps in peoples asses when I don't like a plot twist. Passion is not an excuse for anything. Except maybe in France." ( Okay, so imagine that with some stutters and what-not ) He started to say something about, well, I don't know ... I wasn't really paying attention at this point because it was soccer related, and I can't be expected to pay attention for that long. I cut him off and said, "And don't even get me started on religion!" With that, I snapped my headset back on and I haven't said a word about it since. The two co-workers (well, the man really ... there was a woman but she didn't say much) haven't brought it up since, probably because they know I'm right, and probably because soccer is now finished. Hoorah!
I realize the irony in the fact that I don't care much for soccer, yet I have devoted two blog entries to discussing it. If I were a homophobe discussing how much I hate gay people, then that would definitely point to my having, perhaps, some latent homosexuality. However, it is not so much the case with soccer, and dislike of sports in general. If you hate it, you hate it.
Also, speaking of it -- I don't have any latent homosexuality. I am completely bisexual, and fully acknowledge and realize (on a regular basis, with S. as my partner in crime) that I love to eat pussy.
No, I don't mean going to the sketchy Chinese food place down the street to get a fix for my cat meat craving.
I mean vaginas.
17.7.10
16.7.10
Adventures in serotonin
I am having one of those days. I could tell it was coming after a headache last night; it felt like a migraine but I could tell it wasn't. Things often seem to change after a particularly bad one, which I've read is rather common.
It went away last night but came back today and now everything just seems to be getting worse. What makes it even more difficult is that my usual defences against mood change aren't working today. A lot of the time I can make myself feel better by thinking about all the horribly shitty things in the world. Or, at least, I can make myself feel insignificant, which makes my depression seem inconsequential in comparison to what happens in the rest of the world. And then I can do something like walk down St. Clair and give change to every truly unlucky bastard I meet and not even think about the fact that they might spend it on alcohol or drugs. S. would argue that doesn't help anyone. He may have a point, but if I want to be entirely selfish I can say that it at least helps me to feel better. And to whoever I'm passing by who has their hand outstretched or a hat resting in front of where they're sitting, at least I stopped to talk to them and smile (even if I don't feel like smiling) and give them whatever I can (which is not a lot, considering my finances are rather pitiful, now and always). That has to be better than just being ignored, and having someone assume that you're a drunk or deranged or lazy.
Today, though, none of my attempts are working. I just want to make my feelings unimportant and I can't seem to do that. All I want to do is die, and I would take myself up on that offer if I didn't have to think about my mom, my dad, my brother, S., and various other people who seem to enjoy my existance.
It really pisses me off, too, that I feel like this. I had such a great week. Stayed with my parents (which made me a bit homesick at first, but I was there long enough that I remembered why I was happy to leave, too), went to a fantastic wedding (my cousin was married at the RCYC which was followed by brunch the next day), spent a great evening at Heather's, cooking, drinking, and watching Scarface ... So my feelings towards all of this are summed up by saying, "What the fuck?"
I mean, I know why, it's just frustrating that I can't do anything about it. I took a bath. I listened to happy music. I thought about all the best things, like the bike trip S. and I went on before we were together, and when I looked back at him riding behind me and smiling and I knew it was inevitable that we would end up with each other. Or this one summer at our family cottage when a group of us took a trip to visit the monastery at the other end of the lake. We drove there and back in my aunt's huge van, with my mom and my cousins and my aunt and our cottage neighbour Lee. For some reason or other we all started singing these stupid camping songs, and halfway through there was more laughing than there was singing. Even typing that now, though, is not working to make me feel better. Right now I feel like the only thing that will make it better is to crawl into bed and just sleep my current self away.
It went away last night but came back today and now everything just seems to be getting worse. What makes it even more difficult is that my usual defences against mood change aren't working today. A lot of the time I can make myself feel better by thinking about all the horribly shitty things in the world. Or, at least, I can make myself feel insignificant, which makes my depression seem inconsequential in comparison to what happens in the rest of the world. And then I can do something like walk down St. Clair and give change to every truly unlucky bastard I meet and not even think about the fact that they might spend it on alcohol or drugs. S. would argue that doesn't help anyone. He may have a point, but if I want to be entirely selfish I can say that it at least helps me to feel better. And to whoever I'm passing by who has their hand outstretched or a hat resting in front of where they're sitting, at least I stopped to talk to them and smile (even if I don't feel like smiling) and give them whatever I can (which is not a lot, considering my finances are rather pitiful, now and always). That has to be better than just being ignored, and having someone assume that you're a drunk or deranged or lazy.
Today, though, none of my attempts are working. I just want to make my feelings unimportant and I can't seem to do that. All I want to do is die, and I would take myself up on that offer if I didn't have to think about my mom, my dad, my brother, S., and various other people who seem to enjoy my existance.
It really pisses me off, too, that I feel like this. I had such a great week. Stayed with my parents (which made me a bit homesick at first, but I was there long enough that I remembered why I was happy to leave, too), went to a fantastic wedding (my cousin was married at the RCYC which was followed by brunch the next day), spent a great evening at Heather's, cooking, drinking, and watching Scarface ... So my feelings towards all of this are summed up by saying, "What the fuck?"
I mean, I know why, it's just frustrating that I can't do anything about it. I took a bath. I listened to happy music. I thought about all the best things, like the bike trip S. and I went on before we were together, and when I looked back at him riding behind me and smiling and I knew it was inevitable that we would end up with each other. Or this one summer at our family cottage when a group of us took a trip to visit the monastery at the other end of the lake. We drove there and back in my aunt's huge van, with my mom and my cousins and my aunt and our cottage neighbour Lee. For some reason or other we all started singing these stupid camping songs, and halfway through there was more laughing than there was singing. Even typing that now, though, is not working to make me feel better. Right now I feel like the only thing that will make it better is to crawl into bed and just sleep my current self away.
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