Words Hounding a Page

I haven’t been too chatty lately. For the past week I felt I was losing my rockers. My Dad is having a quadruple by-pass, tomorrow they say it will be now. It was going to be Monday then he had some more heart attacks and they had him on a nitro drip. So then it was going to be today but now I hear it will be tomorrow. They told him he had 80% blockage. You don’t get that by living sensibly. Is it cruel and insensitive to say he deserved it? I am his daughter. Who can be cruel and insensitive if not your daughter?

He has always been stupid about his health. He eats garbage and he loves to yell and spaz at us. It’s definitely cruel to say that some part of me is saying “nah, nah, nah” all the time in the back of my mind. I once wrote about calling the men in your lives ‘bastard!’ and I know I was thinking of him as much as my ex-husband. I’m not sure who I was angrier at then. Now the ex is fading into the past. But, my Dad is always lurking around. Ready to snap at me, blame me, tell me what a loser I am. Anyway, nah nah nah! Bastard.

Yes, it’s horribly rude, cruel and disgraceful of me. But, there you go. I never aspired to perfection. Being perfect would be boring and lonely and far too much work. So I will happily be imperfect and partially messed up.

I can live with it.

He might die. We don’t know anything for sure. I don’t wish for him to die. But I admit I do like the idea that he is going to get a little misery back for all he has inputted all these years. I wonder what will happen next time he tries a spaz attack. Usually his eyes bug out, his face turns red then purplish and his voice blows hot wind over your general environment. Pollution, the pollution of years of violence suspended. No, he seldom hit me or us. But the verbal abuse was more than enough pollution. I can’t fully get over it. No matter how much I tell myself nothing he said matters, that he never got to know me so his opinions carry no weight. Still, it all sunk in too deep too long ago. I can’t get over it or around it and I can’t seem to get past it.

I don’t know if you can make yourself believe in yourself just cause you say so, to yourself. It does seem there has to be someone else to back it up. Not even that. Cause anyone who tells you how good you are gets qualified. Your brain is geared up for qualification so well, it can do it on auto pilot. Tell me how well I write and I know I’m only faking it, or I’m not getting paid or I’m really not even putting my full effort into it. So, how well am I writing really. Qualifications make the grrl drag on. I don’t get things done, I procrastinate cause I’m afraid to even start to try.

It’s all so silly cause I know I can do it. I know I can write. I love to write. I love watching my words take shape on the keyboard. I love the sound of my own words as they fly out on the page. I love words and I love writing them, giving them order, purpose and style. My style!

So, what holds me back. I’m not always sure. Fear of failure, fear of having someone confirm that I really am just a phoney after all. For, once someone does that, there will be no hope at all. How can I overcome someone confirming what I’ve been afraid really is true all along.

What a lot of words on a page. Isn’t that the whole point of a journal? A chance to let your brain stop holding back and just release the hounds! Let them see what they can catch today. So the hounds were out there. I don’t think they caught much. But it will be interesting to see what kind of soup it will make when it all gets cooked up.

Happy day!

PS- Today I found out that I did get the days off to meet Eric in Ottawa! Great news. Now I can start being happy again and planning the trip. 🙂

Blabbing without Sense

This is what I’m working on but reading it back it sounds so ick! Definitely in need of more work.

Love, is it a verb, does it still have any real meaning and do you really love making love as much as you love your Mother and your stuffed poodle? I love it, I’d love to go, I love you: what the hell does that mean any more?

When you tell someone you love them does it mean you like them but you really love ice cream with mashed potatoes? Love is overused to the point of being a broken record. Some people say the word far too easily and others can hardly say it at all, unless they’re describing something they love. See what I mean?

I don’t say ‘I love you’ to anther person easily, if at all. But, I do say I love ice cream, cheesecake, road trips, etc. So what does the word really mean? Has it become meaningless?

Can you love someone at first sight? Can you love someone you’ve never met? Or can you only love someone you’ve spent 50 years with, fighting life’s battles together, sharing the best of times and being together in spite of all the little things you just can’t stand about them? Is love a battle field? Is love enduring? Is love a disease? Maybe love needs to be tested before it can be trusted.

When someone says ‘I love you’ you’re supposed to say it back. There’s a lot of pressure to return the words. But, co-erced words don’t count. So it’s pretty risky to say you love someone, first. What if they don’t feel the same way but cave to pressure and in the end you’re the only one in love and they’re just in like. What if they really love peanut butter or red flannel shirts? Is that a list you want to fit into?

Greeting cards deal out love. They’re just words typed on paper, words not spoken. They’re dry and shallow. So easy to mean every word and yet they’re meaningless until spoken with the emotion of face to face. So hard to find a sincere greeting card, one without the mushy words you don’t mean and don’t want to give away so cheaply.

Then there’s making love, is it really just sex or are you making love? Are you using your body to express love you might not even be able to say in words?

Well, must get motivated or at least get dressed and in the car heading for work. I don’t want to go!!!

That much closer to 'over the hill'

Soon I’ll be 39. How does stuff like this keep happening to a nice girl like me? Isn’t 38 old enough? Someone should really put their foot down and stop this whole getting old thing. It’s a really bad habit.

Ok, back to reality. Thought I couldn’t find it, eh? Fooled you.

It still hurts to laugh. Have you ever puked so hard and so deeply that your rib area is sore two days later? I was not drinking and having a hangover. I woke up with what I’ve been calling asthma headaches and soon after I was puking over the bathroom sink. Couldn’t even keep the Tylenol I’d taken for the headache. After trying to distract myself with mindless cartoons on television I finally went back to bed. Donating the last of my stomach lining to the kitchen sink first. I’m sparing you more details but I had a shower to clean myself up after the first round. Aren’t you so glad you’re reading this now? Doesn’t this sound like some old lady talking about her hairy toes, her gout and her arthritis?

I don’t want to be old. People still say I look like I’m in my 20’s. I laugh. Then I laugh some more. Well, not today cause it hurts too much to laugh.

On December 19th, 2003, I’ll become 39. I’m trying to let it sink in a bit at a time now. Like getting tiny amounts of whatever you’re allergic to in order to become immune to it. Like poison. I’m not ready to be old. I’m not ready to be looking 40 in the eyeballs. How can I be this close to 40 already?!! I haven’t done even half the things a woman my age is supposed to have done. Instead I was lolly gagging around. I wasted time being afraid and intimidated, roiling in self doubt. I’m still roiling in self doubt, it keeps me imprisoned inside myself. Everything comes out in the words as I type them. Nothing comes from my eyes, my hands, or my mouth. People see me everyday and know nothing about me. People think they know me when they read what I write but they only know the bare minimalist details. How could they know more? I don’t even know it all yet. I never will, there’s just too much inside to sort it all out and find out where it came from, how it works and what the heck it wants from me.

Do you ever think there are aliens directing you? When I’m writing I sometimes feel like it’s someone else’s brain dictating to my fingers. My fingers just keep typing without caring what my eyes think as they see it all appear on the page in front of me. Kind of like a horror story where you lost all control and can only watch while strange and sometimes dreadful things happen.

Is that bloggish enough? Blogs are so full of dramatic poetry. It’s one of their attractions. To see someone else spin away on some tangent and maybe never quite make sense or even really care to.

So, I’m still here. Still going to turn 39 in just mere weeks. Life isn’t fair. I’m not ready to be one of those older women I used to watch when I was 16.