I'd be remiss if I didn't make note of what transpired on Thanksgiving this year.
No. I did not go to my extended family fuckfest; so everything I'm going to share is second hand.
The cliffnotes is that my aunt worked like a servant while my sister and sister-in-law both sat on their asses and did nothing.
My sister was overheard saying, "If aunt wants to be the boss of Thanksgiving, let her." And she proceeded to sit and leisurely eat cheese and crackers, photographing them and facebooking it.
My sister-in-law (aka the YentaBeast) was overheard saying "I sit over here (far wall) so no one expects me to get up and help."
So yeah. Good times. Mom can't walk so she can't carry heavy trays of hot lasagne into the dining room. And my aunt has (knee) issues of her own, and yet, she's worked like a servant, while everyone sat on their asses.
My aunt then decided (I honestly don't know why) to make a video clip, panning the room, "Let's wish Maven a happy thanksgiving!" Very few people faced the camera, no one smiled, and no one wished me a happy thanksgiving. Which is fine. As my aunt panned my sister-in-law, the YentaBeast, crossed her arms and turned away (so jury is out on whether YB did this to avoid being recorded due to her facial disfigurement due to the NF; or if she was shunning my aunt, or was shunning ME). Meanwhile, my sister sat there with her arms crossed over her chest, staring dead-eyed ahead.
WHY my aunt chose to share this with me? I haven't a clue. It was so full of ambivalence, and had all of the festivity of a post-funeral repast. And pretty much summed up and validated why I no longer go to these things. I mean, if you're not going to be happy or thankful or even remotely in a holiday mood, why bother?
The moment my sister and my sister-in-law* left, my aunt broke down in tears right there at the dining table.
*Odd alliance they now have, as my sister does not like my sister-in-law. And it's getting to the point now where you need a score card to find out who is on my sister's shit list. Two years ago when mom was hospitalized, my sister restricted YentaBeast's access at the hospital to see mom. So to see them now somewhat aligned with each other is par for the course, and again, I'm glad not to be dealing with either of them.
Bottom line: After experiencing my sister's cruelty directly, my aunt won't be attending next year's Thanksgiving. Or at least that is what she says NOW. Let's wait and see if she fulfills on that statement a year from now.
*************************************
So. The stalker.
Yes. It's been pretty quiet regarding the Stalker. As of September 22nd, I've been ignoring him for two years and three months (minus 1 day). I've been ignoring him for much longer (perhaps 3x as much time) as I spent cultivating that unfortunate friendship.
As I work in a high rise, there are many people I come in contact with from other offices. People I know either just by face, and some I know by first name. In this case, this one guy, Robert, I know in the course of schmoozing. And well, now I no longer linger at the front desk to schmooze with the Stalker nor his flying monkey, Jean, aka "The Haitian Dude."
So last week I ran into Robert on a street corner and he walked with me back to the building. And he asked about how or why I no longer schmooze with Jean. And I said how I've been ignoring the Stalker for years, and I've had to cut Jean out entirely because even though I have stated, very firmly in very direct terms that I no longer wish to speak of the Stalker, Jean INSISTS on working him in conversation. And I've had to throw the baby out with the bath water. That to fully shut the Stalker down, I've had to circumvent talking to Jean.
So yesterday, I happened upon the same street corner, and Robert was there again. And we walked to the office as is our norm. He asked about how or why I was no longer speaking to The Stalker. And I gave him a synopsis, but by no means did I elaborate too deeply, but did manage to say "He's a sociopath, and he's been stalking me, and he talks shit about everyone, PLUS, he's a brown-on-brown racist." Robert looked at me and validated every last word and then added his two cents, "The stalker is perhaps EVEN WORSE than what you think."
I then asked Robert, "Since I obviously can't ask Jean, I've noticed the Stalker has been absent from the front desk--could I be so lucky? Did he quit or was he fired?" And turns out neither is the case. The Stalker is out on medical leave for a surgery to fix what was botched over two years ago--during the surgery (after which I visited him in the hospital, and seems to be the tipping point regarding the "familiarity breeds contempt").
It shouldn't matter all that much to me what Robert said, but it DID mean a lot. It validated my experience. It validated my judgment in dumping him out of my circle of influence. A man validating me. Saying, "Yes, you were right. You were victimized. Yes. He is a monster." And ultimately, validating that little niggling thought or worry, that I might have just imagined it all--and I haven't.
Wednesday, December 21, 2016
Tuesday, July 19, 2016
Daddy Issues
Perhaps
it's convenient to blame my dad for being victimized. My mother's
brother (2 yrs older than me) and his friend both groped me (I was 13)
in my swimming pool; and the following year, a cousin of my mother's (7
yrs older than me) did that, plus I believe digitally raped me.
I remember being at my mother's other brother's home and blurting out about the former groping me, which was met with me being slut shamed and called a trouble making slut, while others present sat there, slack jawed and silent. I remember this event with crystalline detail. My uncle's youngest daughter was born (after an ectopic pregnancy). My aunt served her trademark "deep dish biscuit pie." It was hazy, humid, and July or August.
I remember this was the last time we visited my uncle's home in Scotch Plains.
I remember how it seemed even my brother, who was ten at the time, seemed to know about the degree I was violated, yet nothing was done about it, and dad didn't seem all too concerned until my brother antagonized the cousin and the cousin brandished a hunting knife, and that was the last summer we all went to my great-aunt Millie's beach house during the summer.
I remember how at the age of 16 after being slut shamed and still being a virgin, I went out and intentionally lost my virginity, since I was being accused of it, I might as well be DOING IT. (Lame argument, but fuck, I was 15 going on 16).
I remember vividly how neither of my parents bothered talking to me about sex or how to protect myself (whether from pregnancy or rape); yet, I remember how disappointed my dad was to learn of this, and went out in the backyard and started beating the piss out of his maroon Duster--then later going out there with a plunger to plunge out the dents. And of course, dad knew about this, because my mother couldn't keep her yapper shut.
I remember how my mother, I suppose attempting to project responsibility onto someone else, in this case the mother of the boy with whom I had sex, his mother was an RN and worked full time, and she wasn't home, so yes, easy to vilify a woman who isn't on the scene--unlike a clueless, out of touch, self-absorbed stay at home mother (like MY mother).
I remember how only a few years ago (upon learning of the death of this boy's mother), I reminded my mother of how she embarrassed me by calling that boy's mother, trying to pin the blame on the boy or his mother for what happened, and again, I was slut shamed by the boy's mother. "Did I really do THAT? Why would I do that?" This was met with my reply, "I don't have a fucking clue."
I remember how the year afterlosing giving away disposing my virginity, I
started seeing a man who was 7 years older than
me. I recall how utterly shitty my relationship with my mom was, and how both my
parents acquiesced and let me cross state lines into PA for a weekend,
so we could attend a wedding (and bone in this guy's grandmother's
house). Only recently has my mother been told by someone who knew what
was going on back then, that was child neglect, by her doing nothing at
all to prevent it, she was complicit in it (statutory rape). (Why did
this someone keep their yapper shut all those years ago? I don't have a
clue. IMHO, they are just as complicit as my parents.)
I remember in 2003? being someplace I suppose I shouldn't have been, dropping off food for a friend, as they were not well, and as I pulled off my pull-over windbreaker, it was still over my head (like a bag of sorts), he assaulted me. I was too disoriented and in shock to do anything about it. It's only NOW (thirteen years later) that I am able to process this as what it was, and what it was, was not consented.
My father SHOULD have been my protector, and yet, failed. Obviously, failed. In the case of my uncle and my cousin, he did nothing, whether beat the piss out of either of them or file charges against that cousin. He did nothing. I don't know to what degree he knew of everything at the time, and I held back a good lot of what was going on at the time, primarily because my mother was at her height of control and abuse, and because I knew nothing would be done. My mother no doubt would have said "I asked for it," and her mother was the one who called me a trouble making slut.
I remember how when my first marriage imploded, all my father had for me were tears.
I remember also how when I was going to get married to the Maharajah and travel the world, my dad told me that if I ever got kidnapped (while traveling, I guess?), there's nothing he can do.
Come October, my father will be gone eight years. I need him. But what I really need is the person he should have been or could have been, but was either unwilling or outright unable to be.
And I think of the Maharajah, and how in so many ways he encompasses good qualities my dad had. He's a good provider and partner, and I think of things like him doing my delicates/brassieres or him going out on a snowy day to clear off the car, these are little things that dad would do--but I feel so guilty or selfish that I want more. I want to feel protected. I want to feel like the Maharajah would be the man I needed my dad to be. I need him to be a dragon slayer, if I need him to be.
I remember being at my mother's other brother's home and blurting out about the former groping me, which was met with me being slut shamed and called a trouble making slut, while others present sat there, slack jawed and silent. I remember this event with crystalline detail. My uncle's youngest daughter was born (after an ectopic pregnancy). My aunt served her trademark "deep dish biscuit pie." It was hazy, humid, and July or August.
I remember this was the last time we visited my uncle's home in Scotch Plains.
I remember how it seemed even my brother, who was ten at the time, seemed to know about the degree I was violated, yet nothing was done about it, and dad didn't seem all too concerned until my brother antagonized the cousin and the cousin brandished a hunting knife, and that was the last summer we all went to my great-aunt Millie's beach house during the summer.
I remember how at the age of 16 after being slut shamed and still being a virgin, I went out and intentionally lost my virginity, since I was being accused of it, I might as well be DOING IT. (Lame argument, but fuck, I was 15 going on 16).
I remember vividly how neither of my parents bothered talking to me about sex or how to protect myself (whether from pregnancy or rape); yet, I remember how disappointed my dad was to learn of this, and went out in the backyard and started beating the piss out of his maroon Duster--then later going out there with a plunger to plunge out the dents. And of course, dad knew about this, because my mother couldn't keep her yapper shut.
I remember how my mother, I suppose attempting to project responsibility onto someone else, in this case the mother of the boy with whom I had sex, his mother was an RN and worked full time, and she wasn't home, so yes, easy to vilify a woman who isn't on the scene--unlike a clueless, out of touch, self-absorbed stay at home mother (like MY mother).
I remember how only a few years ago (upon learning of the death of this boy's mother), I reminded my mother of how she embarrassed me by calling that boy's mother, trying to pin the blame on the boy or his mother for what happened, and again, I was slut shamed by the boy's mother. "Did I really do THAT? Why would I do that?" This was met with my reply, "I don't have a fucking clue."
I remember how the year after
I remember in 2003? being someplace I suppose I shouldn't have been, dropping off food for a friend, as they were not well, and as I pulled off my pull-over windbreaker, it was still over my head (like a bag of sorts), he assaulted me. I was too disoriented and in shock to do anything about it. It's only NOW (thirteen years later) that I am able to process this as what it was, and what it was, was not consented.
My father SHOULD have been my protector, and yet, failed. Obviously, failed. In the case of my uncle and my cousin, he did nothing, whether beat the piss out of either of them or file charges against that cousin. He did nothing. I don't know to what degree he knew of everything at the time, and I held back a good lot of what was going on at the time, primarily because my mother was at her height of control and abuse, and because I knew nothing would be done. My mother no doubt would have said "I asked for it," and her mother was the one who called me a trouble making slut.
I remember how when my first marriage imploded, all my father had for me were tears.
I remember also how when I was going to get married to the Maharajah and travel the world, my dad told me that if I ever got kidnapped (while traveling, I guess?), there's nothing he can do.
Come October, my father will be gone eight years. I need him. But what I really need is the person he should have been or could have been, but was either unwilling or outright unable to be.
And I think of the Maharajah, and how in so many ways he encompasses good qualities my dad had. He's a good provider and partner, and I think of things like him doing my delicates/brassieres or him going out on a snowy day to clear off the car, these are little things that dad would do--but I feel so guilty or selfish that I want more. I want to feel protected. I want to feel like the Maharajah would be the man I needed my dad to be. I need him to be a dragon slayer, if I need him to be.
Tuesday, July 12, 2016
Having Normal Impulses For Abnormal People
Last time I saw my mother was December, so we're now into the seventh month without seeing her--this is one of the longest times I've gone without a visit, save for 2009 when I avoided her entirely (after the whole manipulation involving the facade of dad's "Memorial Mass," which was nothing more than a regular Saturday evening Vespers, where mom paid $5 donation for the candles).
But I still have pangs. And funny thing is, just when I think to myself, "It's been a while since I spoke to mom," she'll call me; and visa versa, she'll think about me, and I'll call. In this case, she was saying on Sunday how she hadn't heard from me, and in Monday's mail was a care package I sent (which I sent on Saturday!), nearly a case of these sugar free cookies she likes (which I get at the Dollar Store), a few books and some magazines.
She called to let me know the parcel arrived, and I let that go to voicemail (just to maintain the boundary that unless it is an emergency, I am at work). And I called her first chance I got after work. And we had a normalish conversation.
"I'd really like to see you." See? Even she, in all her abnormal-ness, is able to articulate normal sentiments (at times!). This wasn't said in a pathetic tone, either. No manipulation. Just a genuine parental sentiment. See? She's capable of it! (when the mood strikes her)
"I'd really like to go out to lunch with you," was my reply.
But the reality is, she hasn't left her home since roughly Mother's Day 2014, when she came home from the nursing home. And she's to the point now where her stamina is so reduced, even the act of showering and getting herself dressed, something so BASIC, actually tires her out. Even my sister the LPN who lives local, the one who thinks she does so much for mom, won't go to the trouble of taking mom places outside her house, because it's just not worth the risk. I just wish there were some form of transport option for mom, so if she wanted to go out, she COULD.
I wish I could get the husband to go with me, to keep me company especially on the longer ride home, especially given my hypoglycemia (and the fact the ride home is 3 hours, and within that time frame, I will start to wane, and sometimes get the shakes and get fatigued, and I"d feel better, safety wise, if someone were with me), but there's no convincing him of it. And my mother knows this, too.
The excuses write themselves: the nearly three hour drive puts my back in spasm; Memorial Day to Labor Day the traffic to the shore is just HORRENDOUS; and then add to it the hypoglycemia, and well, to say I'm reluctant, is an understatement.
Let's see what I can do.
But I still have pangs. And funny thing is, just when I think to myself, "It's been a while since I spoke to mom," she'll call me; and visa versa, she'll think about me, and I'll call. In this case, she was saying on Sunday how she hadn't heard from me, and in Monday's mail was a care package I sent (which I sent on Saturday!), nearly a case of these sugar free cookies she likes (which I get at the Dollar Store), a few books and some magazines.
She called to let me know the parcel arrived, and I let that go to voicemail (just to maintain the boundary that unless it is an emergency, I am at work). And I called her first chance I got after work. And we had a normalish conversation.
"I'd really like to see you." See? Even she, in all her abnormal-ness, is able to articulate normal sentiments (at times!). This wasn't said in a pathetic tone, either. No manipulation. Just a genuine parental sentiment. See? She's capable of it! (when the mood strikes her)
"I'd really like to go out to lunch with you," was my reply.
But the reality is, she hasn't left her home since roughly Mother's Day 2014, when she came home from the nursing home. And she's to the point now where her stamina is so reduced, even the act of showering and getting herself dressed, something so BASIC, actually tires her out. Even my sister the LPN who lives local, the one who thinks she does so much for mom, won't go to the trouble of taking mom places outside her house, because it's just not worth the risk. I just wish there were some form of transport option for mom, so if she wanted to go out, she COULD.
I wish I could get the husband to go with me, to keep me company especially on the longer ride home, especially given my hypoglycemia (and the fact the ride home is 3 hours, and within that time frame, I will start to wane, and sometimes get the shakes and get fatigued, and I"d feel better, safety wise, if someone were with me), but there's no convincing him of it. And my mother knows this, too.
The excuses write themselves: the nearly three hour drive puts my back in spasm; Memorial Day to Labor Day the traffic to the shore is just HORRENDOUS; and then add to it the hypoglycemia, and well, to say I'm reluctant, is an understatement.
Let's see what I can do.
Thursday, June 23, 2016
Perhaps I've got ADD
I've blocked my aunt from texting me, and I might consider doing the same to my brother, thus forming a communications choke point where they'd have to either call my house phone or email me.
I'm done.
I'm done.
Monday, June 20, 2016
No Wallow Zone. Just an acknowledgment
It had been close to 2-3 weeks since I last spoke with my mother. Saturday after errands but before going into the house, I gave a call, and miracle of MIRACLES, she picked up. There isn't much to be said anymore. No new dramas in either of our lives, and certainly nothing is new going on in her life. Unless someone calls or visits her, or unless there's a new health drama, there is absolutely nothing going on in her life.
And there's not much going on in my life that I'd care to share with her (or the rest of the family, as she'd no doubt inform everyone of whatever is going on with me, as if anyone gives a shit). Nearly ten minutes elapsed, and before I knew it, my husband was approaching my car, to assist with bringing in groceries, and I was off the phone. Nothing of any real substance shared; however, she did let me know that there was an elaborate, formal party for my uncle's 50th birthday--the uncle who is two years older than I am, the uncle who was foisted upon me and my siblings like a bastard older brother we never had. And everyone was invited. Everyone, that is, except for ME.
At some point in the weekend, I zapped my aunt a photo of me in a killer red dress I got on sale, which was met with, "Nice." Full stop. Nothing follows.
Yesterday, I zapped my brother a text wishing him a happy father's day, which was met with, "Thank you." Full stop. Nothing follows.
The more time elapses, the more it seems the decision will be made for me, to abstain from my mother's funeral, whenever that day comes.
Considering making the thankless trip down there for a visit, "Paratrooper Style," hopefully with my husband in tow, to ensure a rapid release. Exhausting to think about, that 5 hour drive to/from the Jersey Shore on a Saturday. Miserable drive. If I go or don't go, the results are the same: Misery. If I go, I usually regret it; and if I don't go, I feel like a shit-heel.
And there's not much going on in my life that I'd care to share with her (or the rest of the family, as she'd no doubt inform everyone of whatever is going on with me, as if anyone gives a shit). Nearly ten minutes elapsed, and before I knew it, my husband was approaching my car, to assist with bringing in groceries, and I was off the phone. Nothing of any real substance shared; however, she did let me know that there was an elaborate, formal party for my uncle's 50th birthday--the uncle who is two years older than I am, the uncle who was foisted upon me and my siblings like a bastard older brother we never had. And everyone was invited. Everyone, that is, except for ME.
At some point in the weekend, I zapped my aunt a photo of me in a killer red dress I got on sale, which was met with, "Nice." Full stop. Nothing follows.
Yesterday, I zapped my brother a text wishing him a happy father's day, which was met with, "Thank you." Full stop. Nothing follows.
The more time elapses, the more it seems the decision will be made for me, to abstain from my mother's funeral, whenever that day comes.
Considering making the thankless trip down there for a visit, "Paratrooper Style," hopefully with my husband in tow, to ensure a rapid release. Exhausting to think about, that 5 hour drive to/from the Jersey Shore on a Saturday. Miserable drive. If I go or don't go, the results are the same: Misery. If I go, I usually regret it; and if I don't go, I feel like a shit-heel.
Thursday, June 9, 2016
TL; DR; Story Time: It's Not Easy Being Green (or in this case, INTJ)
(Edited about twice, to be as articulate as possible, as new nuances of this TL; DR; percolate to the surface, demanding to be acknowledged.)
For as honest but critical in an unvarnished way I am about how I perceive others, I am even more critical of myself. I am my own worst critic. I think we ALL are, but truly, I'm rotten to myself. Furthermore, it takes me a while to "go easy on myself" or to even get to the point of either accepting or forgiving certain transgressions of mine.
I figured I'd dump it here rather in any of my other blogs, as somehow, I am quite sure, it circles back and is related SOMEHOW to how my family fucked me up (or not, who knows, but this blog IS devoted to the dysfunction in my life).
So I'm presenting a series of inter-related stories (of events that have transpired in the last 7-10 days) to illustrate how rotten I am to myself, and how critical I am, and how even in what I view as "seeing things as honest as I can," I still suffer. It's not that I think I'm better than anyone else. Perhaps my standards are just too high to deal with other people? I don't know. It's a theory. Regardless, the stories will be broken down in the order that I presented them to my therapist yesterday, and I am fortunate I had a session with him yesterday evening, as I had one more story at the end present itself earlier in the day yesterday.
For any friend that is involved in these stories who may be put off or offended by reading this, offending you is not my intent. The intent here is to illustrate that no matter how critical I may be of you, I am much much more critical and unforgiving of myself. I know how imperfect I am.
PREAMBLE:
SUNDAY
I had promised a dear friend of mine that I would attend her spoken word performance. The week prior, I was in Europe traveling, and traveling takes a lot out of me physically (which does affect my mood, too), and for roughly 8 weeks I have also been experiencing food-related anhedonia.
So I texted her the night before and confirmed that, yes, I would be there. I texted her along the way that I was on the train, and expected into Grand Central by 5:30 and I'd be there with 10 minutes to spare. My flaw in my plan was that I had relied on my husband's advice, as he told me, "It'll be so much quicker to take a cab than to take the Shuttle to the 1."
I exited Grand Central with the queue for the taxi stand stretching eastward by a full block, or possibly TWO. As the words "OH FUCK" looped through my mind, and as my anxiety started to mount, I hoofed it two blocks westward, thinking, "Surely I can catch a cab."
Stopping every two blocks to attempt to hail a cab was fruitless. Every two blocks until I finally reached Bryant Park, at which point, I was now furiously texting my husband, "Why did you do this to me? It's Memorial Day weekend AND Fleet Week, and I can't catch a cab AT ALL!" Furious! I'm still stopping every two blocks attempting to hail a cab, until I reached about 34th street where I just gave up attempting to hail a cab, and walked about as fast as my legs could move.
At this point, I am now turning all my rage inward at myself, "Why do you bother making plans at all? You are a fucking failure! You're a horrible friend! How can you expect people to be there for you when you clearly can't be there for them?" Oh on and on I raged at myself. However, all along, my friend knew I was on my way. And all along, my husband is watching me on "Find a Friend" on my iPhone, totally stupefied at how fast I was walking, as well as the distance I walked--I had rage-walked from Grand Central Station on 42nd Street all the way to the theater, which was on 29th, between 7th & 8th Avenues.
THE IMPETUS--WHY I WENT TO THE CITY, AKA THE PRIMARY STORY:
So I arrive at the show approximately 7 minutes late. I showed up in a full on flop sweat with what felt like a raging case of shin splints, and an anxiety attack about to GO INTO FULL BLOOM. I got a glass of cold wine (just the thing after all that physical exertion--so hydrating!) and took my seat off stage right.
Her show started at 6 and she was the first speaker performing. My friend is about six feet tall, with long black hair like Morticia Adams, with about 50% of her exposed skin tattooed. She's in her early 50s and retired and goes on "rocker cruises" where the likes of KISS or MotorHead perform. Her stories involved the colorful and interesting people she encounters on her cruises. Her stories are interesting and amusing, mind you she's not a comedian. She's a story teller. And she's good. Photo slide show included. She was great.
She wraps up her bit, and exits stage left. The lights go out, and the next performer is about to take the stage. I had a brief moment where I wondered if my friend would come and get me and we'd leave, but within a few moments, I realized my friend was not going to leave and was going to wait until the end of the show.
THEN IT GETS WEIRD:
The next performer takes the stage and I immediately hated her. Even fully clothed, I knew she had a BMI of (most likely) 1%. She commanded the stage like a pro. Turns out, her stories involve how she's a poli-sci professor by day and a "cirque du soleil" LIKE aerial acrobatist/contortionist by night. She told us how she first got involved in the circus while working as a professor in China. She briefly alluded to a friend in the circus who was a midget--and to be honest, I would have liked to have learned more about the midget (because, really, who doesn't love midget stories?). She informed us (perhaps as a manipulation ploy?) that her parents were in the audience. She proceeded to tell us how each of her circus costumes were getting progressively smaller, until one day they gave her a costume that was essentially a vial of glitter. Oh, and she said how she's not the most sexually open person, which I feel quite confidently was a lie or at best, a manipulation to make what comes next appear so provocative.
She then puts on a platinum wig, and starts to disrobe. Just when I thought I could not hate her more, she strips down to black electrical tape "pasties" (forming an X over each nip), garter belt and thong, all the while giving a college level lecture on the causes of war (Powerpoint Presentation and laser pointer included), all the while strutting or contorting herself in what I guess she thinks are provocative positions. I was bored to tears and actually pissed that I had to sit through this.
I'm not being entertained--and context is everything. To clarify: Years ago, I was at an S&M club and was weirdly entertained by witnessing someone being suspended by hooks in their flesh. Context! I wasn't expecting nudity in a story-telling performance. And fortunately it was only a half hour long, and the grand finale came in the form of her doing a back bend, all the while fellating a banana. END SCENE. And I hated her even more, because she was so OUT THERE, I feel like she undermined my friend's confidence in her own material, which was radically different than Miss Thing w/the Banana.
EPILOGUE OF PRIMARY STORY:
We're outside thinking about where to go to eat dinner and get drinks, and some random girl comes up and bums a smoke off my friend's boyfriend, and then starts a very animated conversation which included but not limited to thinking about changing careers and muses openly about becoming a notary. I told her she should aim higher, "Fuck it, anyone can be a notary! I AM A NOTARY!" And with that, some strange man walks past and laughs and yells out, "HEY NOTARIZE THIS!" We all laugh and disappear for dinner, where we extrapolated about how Miss Thing with the Banana's "parents" weren't there, more likely her mother and her mother's love or step-father--and perhaps there's some Woody Allen and Soon Yi level depravity going on there.
My friend and her boyfriend are taking off, and my friend's other friend M decides to walk me to the subway, and in doing so, we pass the strange man who passed us earlier in the evening. So I playfully yell out to him, "Hey! Yo! Did you ever get that thing notarized?" And he's laughing and into it. As we continue on our way, I turned to M and ask, "You DO know him from the neighborhood, don't you?" He asks, "Why do you ask?" I said, "Because there was such an air of familiarity, surely you or A know him?" He said, "Nope, I never saw him before in my life!!" I laughed so hard, but hey, things could go sideways quick. I shrugged it off as one of those typical "New York" kind of things that happen.
THE PARALLEL STORY:
THE NEXT DAY, MONDAY:
While still reeling and feeling like a failure and a horrible friend to A (who, to her credit, reassured me, I did not let her down), I mixed up my weekly loaf of bread the next evening (which was Monday). I mixed it up thinking it would be ready to be baked off by Wednesday.
TUESDAY
When I woke up on Tuesday morning, I was met with what I will refer to as the "I Love Lucy" batch of bread dough. The weather is getting warmer and my bread dough really responded to it. So I divided the dough, put in prepared pans and popped them in the fridge to be dealt with later when I get home. I knew I had to bake them off on Tuesday night now instead of Wednesday.
So I baked the bread, two loaves, and as is my habit, I don't have room in my freezer, and decided to bag up the spare and leave it on the door knob of the lady in our condo building, the lady I refer to in my head as "The Godmother."
WEDNESDAY
Wednesday a.m. while heading out to my car, I hang the bread on her door. No note. No nothing; however, I know that she knows who the crazy person is who leaves her random parcels of home baked bread--I mean, who ELSE in the condo complex would do these types of random things except ME?
Wednesday evening, I return home and The Godmother comes out, and gives me a huge hug, and wanted to thank me, and to find out what this week's variety was, and also inform me that the timing was perfect, as Wednesday was the day of her very last chemo treatment.
Point of illustration: My friend A, I promised my word and I struggled to keep it; this Godmother I promise nothing, and the timing was so fortuitous! This further fucked me in the head.
A week elapses, and I'm in Manhattan to attend three appointments. I have another friend who I try to sync up my appointments when I know I'm going to what we refer to as "The Mount." She either said or implied that she had an appointment and would meet me for lunch between appointment #2 (which let out around noonish) and between appointment #3 (which was at 5:30). Okay. We planned on noon.
She texts me around 12:15 and says can we make it for 1?* I said sure. I look at the time and it's already 12:15, and I thought I might go visit one of the few yarn stores I haven't been to yet, and then reconsidered, as it started to rain, and I wanted to be at the restaurant on time for my friend.
By the time I arrive at the restaurant it's nearing 1 p.m., and she's no where. It is now pouring, cats and dogs. I'm hungry and haven't eaten yet. My feet are wet and cold, and I'm reduced to pacing outside like a homeless person. I cross the street to get out of the rain, and step inside a Lush store and got some small items to kill time--as well as try to give myself that blast of dopamine I thought I was going to get from the lunch date itself.
She texts me that she's running late. Mind you, I'm on Lexington, between 61st and 62nd. "Are you okay? Where are you?" Her reply, "Parkside, 4 stops until I get to Canal Street." (Approximately a half hour or more away). In my head I was screaming. In my head I was LIVID. What I WANTED to blurt out was, "Wait a minute--you're not even at The Mount (right around the corner from where I was earlier yesterday)?" But really, what good is being an asshole, other than to make two people miserable? And making her miserable wasn't going to make me feel any LESS miserable.
What temporarily kept my ire in check was knowing she's got a SHIT LOAD of health issues, many more heavy duty and much more immediately life threatening than I do. A voice in my head said, "She's coming all the way into midtown to see me. Calm down."
So then I looked for YET ANOTHER place to be, to get out of the rain for the undetermined interim until she shows up. I tuck into a pharmacy and buy some items, and then ask if I can sit and hang out due to the rain, and they allow it. Had there been a Dunkin Donuts or a bar, that's where I'd go for either a hot tea or a cocktail to help take the edge off my own percolating anxiety and rage. I was connecting the dots and feeling the familiar pangs of being taken advantage of or being taken for granted, both things I am keenly tuned into. I tried to keep the negative thoughts at bay.
We finally have lunch. We chit chat too long. The waiter comes by and gives the billfold. I thought/she implied she was treating. He comes by to get the check, only to realize she never put her credit card in it, at which point, I put MY card in it to speed things up. I didn't have much cash on me, and I was still planning on taking a cab to go elsewhere. Additionally, she did not even offer to pay the tip.
I find it distasteful to nickel and dime friends, however, this was to be her treat, and it wasn't a break the bank kind of thing. And we did have a good time. But the sordid issue of coin is still there. So we exit and she's walking with me a bit and asks where I am going, and I said I needed to get to the west side for my next appointment and given the rain I'm going to take a cab. I offered to share the cab to get to Columbus Circle as that was where we both needed to be. When we arrive, I pay--and she doesn't offer to pay even half. Unpleasant to think about, but useful nonetheless.
This is now a trend. This is now a thing. And this is now a thing that I no longer want to participate in. We've known each other for years, however, we've only seen each other IRL two times in two years, and mathematically, she has done this to me every time we get together. As it stands currently, this is not a "one off" type of unfortunate thing that happens from time to time--this is now something that is a trend.
The little voice in my head tells me, "Perhaps this isn't her character? Perhaps she's that broken? Perhaps this could be air-headedness due to her health issues or any medications she may be on?" And then the bigger voice in my head tells me, "Perhaps you see things exactly as they are. Perhaps this is your super power. JUST. PERHAPS."
As distasteful as it is for me to think this, I feel like I'm being manipulated. To feel sorry or compassion for her health situation, and then to feel like my generosity is taken advantage of, and her obvious lack of appreciation for my time.
*Allegedly, the initial cause for her delay was when she first left her house and got to the subway station, she realized she left her cell phone home and went back for it. It would have been useful to know at 12:15 she was texting me from HOME. This information would have been incredibly useful to me. The silence/lack of that information wasted about two hours of my life, which left me pretty much outside in the rain too long, hungry, angry about the waste of time, time I'll never get back. All I knew was I held up my end of the bargain. I showed up on time. I was a good friend, and I just feel like all of those good qualities aren't appreciated or worse, are being taken advantage of-- which of course, makes me just shut down. The entire situation has left me emptied out of everything good I was anticipating about spending time with a friend, and has been replaced with rage and regret.
Had she found out she forgot her phone and the weather up and shit the bed, and she realized perhaps yesterday wouldn't have worked out, why not just OWN that and say "Can we do this another time?" FINE. This is the one occasion I actually agree with Larry David on something.
Even if she bailed out, that would not have changed the trajectory of my day AT ALL. I would have gone to the yarn store. I would have probably gone to Lush. I would have eaten at that restaurant I picked out, I would have eaten lunch (my first meal of the day) on MY TIMETABLE, and I would have continued on to the west side to my therapy appointment. The only thing that would have changed would be that I would not have been standing out in the rain and cold for too long.
So while I forgave her (to her face) all in the name of making peace for a friendship (as well as, why make things MORE unpleasant), I faked my way through lunch, and (here it is, two days later) I STILL left with all this misplaced rage and frustration and all the residual ICK! of "what exactly happened yesterday?"
HEREIN LIES THE RUB:
I can forgive her for whatever it was, yet, I cannot forgive myself for caring, or compassion, or even buying even an IOTA of any of the excuses, let alone the money issue.
THE EPILOGUE:
I am now left feeling like a hyper-critical bitch, or perhaps I've got impossibly high of standards regarding what I expect in a friend? I don't know. But I am on the verge of just completely bottoming out emotionally. It's just sad.
From when we finally ate until RIGHT THIS MOMENT roughly 48 hours later, I have been moody and bitchy, with even my husband getting on my last nerve every five minutes or so, and even told off a "friendly co-worker" ("JabippyLoo," for those who are familiar with her being featured in some of my stories about work), who wanted "story time" and when I am about two minutes from finishing said, "Oh you can finish this up later." I said, "Nope. I'm done. You lost your opportunity to see how this ends." And I pretty much told her off as I walked away. Ten years into the fourteen years I've known her it finally kicked in, but now I'm finally able to get in touch with it and articulate it to her in terms she can understand:
I even managed to post a status update on Facebook yesterday that posited the question, "Why do I even bother including others in my plans?" And my friend Kristina, a dear friend, one I can count on replied, "Because not all of us suck?"
Touche, Kristina. Touche. Well played. And again, perspective is a great thing. A worthy truth that bears reminding; however, that aside, I'm just very disappointed and depressed. I don't like feeling like a fool or that I've misplaced my value on someone who doesn't value me the way I value her. Just a thought. My lunch date friend is not a horrible person, we just obviously have very different ideas about what's acceptable behavior to someone we consider a friend.
Currently, I am now in insulation mode, and I'm disinclined to put myself in a position for another opportunity to feel like a shit-heel-fool. 48 hours later, I have now bottomed out completely, emotionally. I'd feel better if I'd have a good cry, but I can't even muster up a few salty tears. I. AM. THAT. EMPTY.
For as honest but critical in an unvarnished way I am about how I perceive others, I am even more critical of myself. I am my own worst critic. I think we ALL are, but truly, I'm rotten to myself. Furthermore, it takes me a while to "go easy on myself" or to even get to the point of either accepting or forgiving certain transgressions of mine.
I figured I'd dump it here rather in any of my other blogs, as somehow, I am quite sure, it circles back and is related SOMEHOW to how my family fucked me up (or not, who knows, but this blog IS devoted to the dysfunction in my life).
So I'm presenting a series of inter-related stories (of events that have transpired in the last 7-10 days) to illustrate how rotten I am to myself, and how critical I am, and how even in what I view as "seeing things as honest as I can," I still suffer. It's not that I think I'm better than anyone else. Perhaps my standards are just too high to deal with other people? I don't know. It's a theory. Regardless, the stories will be broken down in the order that I presented them to my therapist yesterday, and I am fortunate I had a session with him yesterday evening, as I had one more story at the end present itself earlier in the day yesterday.
For any friend that is involved in these stories who may be put off or offended by reading this, offending you is not my intent. The intent here is to illustrate that no matter how critical I may be of you, I am much much more critical and unforgiving of myself. I know how imperfect I am.
PREAMBLE:
SUNDAY
I had promised a dear friend of mine that I would attend her spoken word performance. The week prior, I was in Europe traveling, and traveling takes a lot out of me physically (which does affect my mood, too), and for roughly 8 weeks I have also been experiencing food-related anhedonia.
So I texted her the night before and confirmed that, yes, I would be there. I texted her along the way that I was on the train, and expected into Grand Central by 5:30 and I'd be there with 10 minutes to spare. My flaw in my plan was that I had relied on my husband's advice, as he told me, "It'll be so much quicker to take a cab than to take the Shuttle to the 1."
I exited Grand Central with the queue for the taxi stand stretching eastward by a full block, or possibly TWO. As the words "OH FUCK" looped through my mind, and as my anxiety started to mount, I hoofed it two blocks westward, thinking, "Surely I can catch a cab."
Stopping every two blocks to attempt to hail a cab was fruitless. Every two blocks until I finally reached Bryant Park, at which point, I was now furiously texting my husband, "Why did you do this to me? It's Memorial Day weekend AND Fleet Week, and I can't catch a cab AT ALL!" Furious! I'm still stopping every two blocks attempting to hail a cab, until I reached about 34th street where I just gave up attempting to hail a cab, and walked about as fast as my legs could move.
At this point, I am now turning all my rage inward at myself, "Why do you bother making plans at all? You are a fucking failure! You're a horrible friend! How can you expect people to be there for you when you clearly can't be there for them?" Oh on and on I raged at myself. However, all along, my friend knew I was on my way. And all along, my husband is watching me on "Find a Friend" on my iPhone, totally stupefied at how fast I was walking, as well as the distance I walked--I had rage-walked from Grand Central Station on 42nd Street all the way to the theater, which was on 29th, between 7th & 8th Avenues.
THE IMPETUS--WHY I WENT TO THE CITY, AKA THE PRIMARY STORY:
So I arrive at the show approximately 7 minutes late. I showed up in a full on flop sweat with what felt like a raging case of shin splints, and an anxiety attack about to GO INTO FULL BLOOM. I got a glass of cold wine (just the thing after all that physical exertion--so hydrating!) and took my seat off stage right.
Her show started at 6 and she was the first speaker performing. My friend is about six feet tall, with long black hair like Morticia Adams, with about 50% of her exposed skin tattooed. She's in her early 50s and retired and goes on "rocker cruises" where the likes of KISS or MotorHead perform. Her stories involved the colorful and interesting people she encounters on her cruises. Her stories are interesting and amusing, mind you she's not a comedian. She's a story teller. And she's good. Photo slide show included. She was great.
She wraps up her bit, and exits stage left. The lights go out, and the next performer is about to take the stage. I had a brief moment where I wondered if my friend would come and get me and we'd leave, but within a few moments, I realized my friend was not going to leave and was going to wait until the end of the show.
THEN IT GETS WEIRD:
The next performer takes the stage and I immediately hated her. Even fully clothed, I knew she had a BMI of (most likely) 1%. She commanded the stage like a pro. Turns out, her stories involve how she's a poli-sci professor by day and a "cirque du soleil" LIKE aerial acrobatist/contortionist by night. She told us how she first got involved in the circus while working as a professor in China. She briefly alluded to a friend in the circus who was a midget--and to be honest, I would have liked to have learned more about the midget (because, really, who doesn't love midget stories?). She informed us (perhaps as a manipulation ploy?) that her parents were in the audience. She proceeded to tell us how each of her circus costumes were getting progressively smaller, until one day they gave her a costume that was essentially a vial of glitter. Oh, and she said how she's not the most sexually open person, which I feel quite confidently was a lie or at best, a manipulation to make what comes next appear so provocative.
She then puts on a platinum wig, and starts to disrobe. Just when I thought I could not hate her more, she strips down to black electrical tape "pasties" (forming an X over each nip), garter belt and thong, all the while giving a college level lecture on the causes of war (Powerpoint Presentation and laser pointer included), all the while strutting or contorting herself in what I guess she thinks are provocative positions. I was bored to tears and actually pissed that I had to sit through this.
I'm not being entertained--and context is everything. To clarify: Years ago, I was at an S&M club and was weirdly entertained by witnessing someone being suspended by hooks in their flesh. Context! I wasn't expecting nudity in a story-telling performance. And fortunately it was only a half hour long, and the grand finale came in the form of her doing a back bend, all the while fellating a banana. END SCENE. And I hated her even more, because she was so OUT THERE, I feel like she undermined my friend's confidence in her own material, which was radically different than Miss Thing w/the Banana.
EPILOGUE OF PRIMARY STORY:
We're outside thinking about where to go to eat dinner and get drinks, and some random girl comes up and bums a smoke off my friend's boyfriend, and then starts a very animated conversation which included but not limited to thinking about changing careers and muses openly about becoming a notary. I told her she should aim higher, "Fuck it, anyone can be a notary! I AM A NOTARY!" And with that, some strange man walks past and laughs and yells out, "HEY NOTARIZE THIS!" We all laugh and disappear for dinner, where we extrapolated about how Miss Thing with the Banana's "parents" weren't there, more likely her mother and her mother's love or step-father--and perhaps there's some Woody Allen and Soon Yi level depravity going on there.
My friend and her boyfriend are taking off, and my friend's other friend M decides to walk me to the subway, and in doing so, we pass the strange man who passed us earlier in the evening. So I playfully yell out to him, "Hey! Yo! Did you ever get that thing notarized?" And he's laughing and into it. As we continue on our way, I turned to M and ask, "You DO know him from the neighborhood, don't you?" He asks, "Why do you ask?" I said, "Because there was such an air of familiarity, surely you or A know him?" He said, "Nope, I never saw him before in my life!!" I laughed so hard, but hey, things could go sideways quick. I shrugged it off as one of those typical "New York" kind of things that happen.
THE PARALLEL STORY:
THE NEXT DAY, MONDAY:
While still reeling and feeling like a failure and a horrible friend to A (who, to her credit, reassured me, I did not let her down), I mixed up my weekly loaf of bread the next evening (which was Monday). I mixed it up thinking it would be ready to be baked off by Wednesday.
TUESDAY
When I woke up on Tuesday morning, I was met with what I will refer to as the "I Love Lucy" batch of bread dough. The weather is getting warmer and my bread dough really responded to it. So I divided the dough, put in prepared pans and popped them in the fridge to be dealt with later when I get home. I knew I had to bake them off on Tuesday night now instead of Wednesday.
So I baked the bread, two loaves, and as is my habit, I don't have room in my freezer, and decided to bag up the spare and leave it on the door knob of the lady in our condo building, the lady I refer to in my head as "The Godmother."
WEDNESDAY
Wednesday a.m. while heading out to my car, I hang the bread on her door. No note. No nothing; however, I know that she knows who the crazy person is who leaves her random parcels of home baked bread--I mean, who ELSE in the condo complex would do these types of random things except ME?
Wednesday evening, I return home and The Godmother comes out, and gives me a huge hug, and wanted to thank me, and to find out what this week's variety was, and also inform me that the timing was perfect, as Wednesday was the day of her very last chemo treatment.
Point of illustration: My friend A, I promised my word and I struggled to keep it; this Godmother I promise nothing, and the timing was so fortuitous! This further fucked me in the head.
My therapist would stop me as I was regaling him of both the story and the parallel, and inform me that I'm not a failure, and if it were not illegal to do so, he'd slap me to get that thought out of my head. "You WERE THERE! So what! 7 minutes?" Yes yes, I'm hard on myself. I just envision my friend standing there, initially in what was an empty audience, telling her story, as gradually people came in. I contributed to her anxiety! It'll take a while for me to forgive myself... and then...ANOTHER PARALLEL--A WEEK LATER--YESTERDAY:
A week elapses, and I'm in Manhattan to attend three appointments. I have another friend who I try to sync up my appointments when I know I'm going to what we refer to as "The Mount." She either said or implied that she had an appointment and would meet me for lunch between appointment #2 (which let out around noonish) and between appointment #3 (which was at 5:30). Okay. We planned on noon.
She texts me around 12:15 and says can we make it for 1?* I said sure. I look at the time and it's already 12:15, and I thought I might go visit one of the few yarn stores I haven't been to yet, and then reconsidered, as it started to rain, and I wanted to be at the restaurant on time for my friend.
By the time I arrive at the restaurant it's nearing 1 p.m., and she's no where. It is now pouring, cats and dogs. I'm hungry and haven't eaten yet. My feet are wet and cold, and I'm reduced to pacing outside like a homeless person. I cross the street to get out of the rain, and step inside a Lush store and got some small items to kill time--as well as try to give myself that blast of dopamine I thought I was going to get from the lunch date itself.
She texts me that she's running late. Mind you, I'm on Lexington, between 61st and 62nd. "Are you okay? Where are you?" Her reply, "Parkside, 4 stops until I get to Canal Street." (Approximately a half hour or more away). In my head I was screaming. In my head I was LIVID. What I WANTED to blurt out was, "Wait a minute--you're not even at The Mount (right around the corner from where I was earlier yesterday)?" But really, what good is being an asshole, other than to make two people miserable? And making her miserable wasn't going to make me feel any LESS miserable.
What temporarily kept my ire in check was knowing she's got a SHIT LOAD of health issues, many more heavy duty and much more immediately life threatening than I do. A voice in my head said, "She's coming all the way into midtown to see me. Calm down."
So then I looked for YET ANOTHER place to be, to get out of the rain for the undetermined interim until she shows up. I tuck into a pharmacy and buy some items, and then ask if I can sit and hang out due to the rain, and they allow it. Had there been a Dunkin Donuts or a bar, that's where I'd go for either a hot tea or a cocktail to help take the edge off my own percolating anxiety and rage. I was connecting the dots and feeling the familiar pangs of being taken advantage of or being taken for granted, both things I am keenly tuned into. I tried to keep the negative thoughts at bay.
My therapist then chimes in, "So, did you lay into her? Did you rip her a new asshole about being so late?" I said, "No! I was forgiving on the surface!" He then chimed in, "So, why is it you can be forgiving to her for being nearly what? An hour or more late, and yet for your seven minutes you shredded yourself with insults?' I said, "See? I'm worse to myself than to others."She finally shows up, with all an appropriate amount of apologies. However, apologies don't magically give me my two hours back. I am now in a time deficit, time I will never get back.
We finally have lunch. We chit chat too long. The waiter comes by and gives the billfold. I thought/she implied she was treating. He comes by to get the check, only to realize she never put her credit card in it, at which point, I put MY card in it to speed things up. I didn't have much cash on me, and I was still planning on taking a cab to go elsewhere. Additionally, she did not even offer to pay the tip.
I find it distasteful to nickel and dime friends, however, this was to be her treat, and it wasn't a break the bank kind of thing. And we did have a good time. But the sordid issue of coin is still there. So we exit and she's walking with me a bit and asks where I am going, and I said I needed to get to the west side for my next appointment and given the rain I'm going to take a cab. I offered to share the cab to get to Columbus Circle as that was where we both needed to be. When we arrive, I pay--and she doesn't offer to pay even half. Unpleasant to think about, but useful nonetheless.
This is now a trend. This is now a thing. And this is now a thing that I no longer want to participate in. We've known each other for years, however, we've only seen each other IRL two times in two years, and mathematically, she has done this to me every time we get together. As it stands currently, this is not a "one off" type of unfortunate thing that happens from time to time--this is now something that is a trend.
The little voice in my head tells me, "Perhaps this isn't her character? Perhaps she's that broken? Perhaps this could be air-headedness due to her health issues or any medications she may be on?" And then the bigger voice in my head tells me, "Perhaps you see things exactly as they are. Perhaps this is your super power. JUST. PERHAPS."
As distasteful as it is for me to think this, I feel like I'm being manipulated. To feel sorry or compassion for her health situation, and then to feel like my generosity is taken advantage of, and her obvious lack of appreciation for my time.
*Allegedly, the initial cause for her delay was when she first left her house and got to the subway station, she realized she left her cell phone home and went back for it. It would have been useful to know at 12:15 she was texting me from HOME. This information would have been incredibly useful to me. The silence/lack of that information wasted about two hours of my life, which left me pretty much outside in the rain too long, hungry, angry about the waste of time, time I'll never get back. All I knew was I held up my end of the bargain. I showed up on time. I was a good friend, and I just feel like all of those good qualities aren't appreciated or worse, are being taken advantage of-- which of course, makes me just shut down. The entire situation has left me emptied out of everything good I was anticipating about spending time with a friend, and has been replaced with rage and regret.
Had she found out she forgot her phone and the weather up and shit the bed, and she realized perhaps yesterday wouldn't have worked out, why not just OWN that and say "Can we do this another time?" FINE. This is the one occasion I actually agree with Larry David on something.
So while I forgave her (to her face) all in the name of making peace for a friendship (as well as, why make things MORE unpleasant), I faked my way through lunch, and (here it is, two days later) I STILL left with all this misplaced rage and frustration and all the residual ICK! of "what exactly happened yesterday?"
HEREIN LIES THE RUB:
I can forgive her for whatever it was, yet, I cannot forgive myself for caring, or compassion, or even buying even an IOTA of any of the excuses, let alone the money issue.
THE EPILOGUE:
I am now left feeling like a hyper-critical bitch, or perhaps I've got impossibly high of standards regarding what I expect in a friend? I don't know. But I am on the verge of just completely bottoming out emotionally. It's just sad.
From when we finally ate until RIGHT THIS MOMENT roughly 48 hours later, I have been moody and bitchy, with even my husband getting on my last nerve every five minutes or so, and even told off a "friendly co-worker" ("JabippyLoo," for those who are familiar with her being featured in some of my stories about work), who wanted "story time" and when I am about two minutes from finishing said, "Oh you can finish this up later." I said, "Nope. I'm done. You lost your opportunity to see how this ends." And I pretty much told her off as I walked away. Ten years into the fourteen years I've known her it finally kicked in, but now I'm finally able to get in touch with it and articulate it to her in terms she can understand:
I even managed to post a status update on Facebook yesterday that posited the question, "Why do I even bother including others in my plans?" And my friend Kristina, a dear friend, one I can count on replied, "Because not all of us suck?"
Touche, Kristina. Touche. Well played. And again, perspective is a great thing. A worthy truth that bears reminding; however, that aside, I'm just very disappointed and depressed. I don't like feeling like a fool or that I've misplaced my value on someone who doesn't value me the way I value her. Just a thought. My lunch date friend is not a horrible person, we just obviously have very different ideas about what's acceptable behavior to someone we consider a friend.
Currently, I am now in insulation mode, and I'm disinclined to put myself in a position for another opportunity to feel like a shit-heel-fool. 48 hours later, I have now bottomed out completely, emotionally. I'd feel better if I'd have a good cry, but I can't even muster up a few salty tears. I. AM. THAT. EMPTY.
Thursday, May 5, 2016
Feeling Resentful
My least favorite holiday is coming up, and as I'll be traveling soon enough and cannot manage yet another thankless drive to NJ for a visit (so far I haven't seen her at all this year; last time I saw her was in December). So I mailed off another mea culpa package. It's a formula at this point. A few books, hand lotion, sugar free hard candies and cookies. Bundled up and mailed off WITH a mother's day card. And it's been delivered. And nary an acknowledgment (yet).
Despite her precarious health, she is still here with us in the land of the living, almost despite her wishes and a true testament to the advances in medicine. It's not a testament to a zest for life. Heck, I don't even know what trips her trigger anymore.
To date, she has not left her house since Mother's Day 2014. TWO SOLID YEARS without going outside to get some sun on her cheeks or fresh air in her lungs, or even to make a trip to Wallyworld or even to go through the drive-thru at Wendys or Dunkin Donuts.
Two solid years of seclusion.
Add to this the fact her phone is unreliable. I cannot tell if it's a problem with the phone line itself or the physical phone. She seems content to bitch about it, with "it" being how no one calls her. But we do call her, and half the time the calls don't go through. And she's an adult and allegedly living independently, and she can manage this, I'm sure of it--yet she does not.
I've been to her house visiting, and the phone rings and it's a telemarketer, and she keeps them on the phone entirely too much. I cannot tell if it's a cat-about-to-eat-the-mouse type of move or if it's utter desperation, as I know many days go by where she does not interact with anyone at all.
It's an isolating life, and depressing no doubt for her. Hell, it's depressing for anyone who visits! And that in and of itself is depressing.
I've been grappling with this weirdness, this thing where I have normal impulses for someone who's clearly not normal.
Thanks to her neglecting herself and now this seclusion, what little time we have left together on Planet Earth will never, ever involve: dining out, going out to get our hair or nails done, visiting other people, going to the boardwalk, going out to shop, or even going for a joy ride in a new car. None of these simple little pleasures are ours to enjoy. So what is left? A finite amount of visits in that house of hers that bears no sentimental value to me. Being in that house, reminded how dad's not here anymore, and hasn't been here going on eight years. Visits which will always involve take-out style meals or meals I've prepared at home, meals that aren't appreciated.
I'm sure a lot of what's going on is just a projection of her own unhappiness, but it's palpable. You can feel it and smell it.
Another Mother's Day is almost upon us, and I'm in this no-man's land, where she's still alive, and yet I feel this grief and loss, and know there is no way I can turn this around myself. I can't. I won't. I'm totally unable to do this. I wish I could change it, but I can't.
Despite her precarious health, she is still here with us in the land of the living, almost despite her wishes and a true testament to the advances in medicine. It's not a testament to a zest for life. Heck, I don't even know what trips her trigger anymore.
To date, she has not left her house since Mother's Day 2014. TWO SOLID YEARS without going outside to get some sun on her cheeks or fresh air in her lungs, or even to make a trip to Wallyworld or even to go through the drive-thru at Wendys or Dunkin Donuts.
Two solid years of seclusion.
Add to this the fact her phone is unreliable. I cannot tell if it's a problem with the phone line itself or the physical phone. She seems content to bitch about it, with "it" being how no one calls her. But we do call her, and half the time the calls don't go through. And she's an adult and allegedly living independently, and she can manage this, I'm sure of it--yet she does not.
I've been to her house visiting, and the phone rings and it's a telemarketer, and she keeps them on the phone entirely too much. I cannot tell if it's a cat-about-to-eat-the-mouse type of move or if it's utter desperation, as I know many days go by where she does not interact with anyone at all.
It's an isolating life, and depressing no doubt for her. Hell, it's depressing for anyone who visits! And that in and of itself is depressing.
I've been grappling with this weirdness, this thing where I have normal impulses for someone who's clearly not normal.
Thanks to her neglecting herself and now this seclusion, what little time we have left together on Planet Earth will never, ever involve: dining out, going out to get our hair or nails done, visiting other people, going to the boardwalk, going out to shop, or even going for a joy ride in a new car. None of these simple little pleasures are ours to enjoy. So what is left? A finite amount of visits in that house of hers that bears no sentimental value to me. Being in that house, reminded how dad's not here anymore, and hasn't been here going on eight years. Visits which will always involve take-out style meals or meals I've prepared at home, meals that aren't appreciated.
I'm sure a lot of what's going on is just a projection of her own unhappiness, but it's palpable. You can feel it and smell it.
Another Mother's Day is almost upon us, and I'm in this no-man's land, where she's still alive, and yet I feel this grief and loss, and know there is no way I can turn this around myself. I can't. I won't. I'm totally unable to do this. I wish I could change it, but I can't.
Friday, April 22, 2016
Having Normal-ish Impulses: Status Quo Maintained
Text sent Wednesday, 10:20 a.m.
Current day and time: Friday 9:53 a.m.
No reply or other acknowledgment received on my end.
The Great Silence's status quo continues to be maintained.
(I'm totally okay with this too. I sent the text for myself, as it's a normal impulse for a normal person to send on a milestone occasion, a 25th wedding anniversary. I did it for me to prove to myself I've still got my humanity and ability to be loving. The Great Silence has yet to quash that.)
Current day and time: Friday 9:53 a.m.
No reply or other acknowledgment received on my end.
The Great Silence's status quo continues to be maintained.
(I'm totally okay with this too. I sent the text for myself, as it's a normal impulse for a normal person to send on a milestone occasion, a 25th wedding anniversary. I did it for me to prove to myself I've still got my humanity and ability to be loving. The Great Silence has yet to quash that.)
Wednesday, April 20, 2016
Having Normal Impulses Redux
As you might suspect (well, if you KNOW ME personally), I don't take things lightly. And while I can do and WAS doing a fine enough job talking myself out of the notion of texting my sister today, on the occasion of her 25th wedding anniversary, I discussed the situation with my therapist, and while he DID validate my point of view (especially on the mathematics involved in the lack of reciprocity), he managed to give me a bit of food for thought on me NOT stifling the urge to be loving/kind, and that if I were to text the sentiment to her, it could be construed as my asserting myself or even empowering.
I pondered it for about an hour after our session, and I figured WHAT THE FUCK, and jotted off the text at 10:20 a.m. Here it is, 4:42, and it has not been acknowledged (this was one of the possible resulting scenarios I had tossed around in my head).
Whatever. I did my part.
I pondered it for about an hour after our session, and I figured WHAT THE FUCK, and jotted off the text at 10:20 a.m. Here it is, 4:42, and it has not been acknowledged (this was one of the possible resulting scenarios I had tossed around in my head).
Whatever. I did my part.
Monday, April 18, 2016
Having Normal-ish Impulses Towards Outright Abnormal Family Members
Cliffnotes:
This coming Wednesday is my sister's wedding anniversary. We're still not talking (haven't spoken since roughly December 17, 2014). I'm still abiding her, "I don't think we should speak." Audrey claims she regrets things, yet, how much could she regret it? It was her own doing!
Anyway. Wednesday. I was debating with myself about zapping a text "Happy Anniversary" (and yes, sans exclamation points or emojis), pretty much dropping it like the proverbial turd in the punch bowl and see what happens.
Wednesday is also my next session with my therapist. So it could have been the day's topic.
But then again, why should I bother texting her at all? Even before The Great Silence, she never bothered to zap such texts TO ME, or to bother to learn my husband's birthday etc.
This has me analyzing my intentions regarding wanting to send the text. No good can come from this, to be honest. The silence is a big negative, but it's a neutral-ish, INACTIVE negative. It's a constant state; whereas texting could potentially open me up to even more ACTIVE suffering.
Wanting to be the "bigger person" involves a bit of pride, and a healthy dose of either hope or stupidity too--kind of like stepping on a hornet barefoot and thinking you can control the hornet, when there's obviously at least one more chance the hornet can hurt you.
This coming Wednesday is my sister's wedding anniversary. We're still not talking (haven't spoken since roughly December 17, 2014). I'm still abiding her, "I don't think we should speak." Audrey claims she regrets things, yet, how much could she regret it? It was her own doing!
Anyway. Wednesday. I was debating with myself about zapping a text "Happy Anniversary" (and yes, sans exclamation points or emojis), pretty much dropping it like the proverbial turd in the punch bowl and see what happens.
Wednesday is also my next session with my therapist. So it could have been the day's topic.
But then again, why should I bother texting her at all? Even before The Great Silence, she never bothered to zap such texts TO ME, or to bother to learn my husband's birthday etc.
This has me analyzing my intentions regarding wanting to send the text. No good can come from this, to be honest. The silence is a big negative, but it's a neutral-ish, INACTIVE negative. It's a constant state; whereas texting could potentially open me up to even more ACTIVE suffering.
Wanting to be the "bigger person" involves a bit of pride, and a healthy dose of either hope or stupidity too--kind of like stepping on a hornet barefoot and thinking you can control the hornet, when there's obviously at least one more chance the hornet can hurt you.
Monday, March 21, 2016
18 Days Later: Yet Another Update On the Harassment Complaint
It took three months for this to fizzle out.
Got a call from "the committee," and of course, they said their investigation did not find enough evidence to support a sexual harassment claim, to which, I replied, "My complaint was never a cut and dry sexual harassment complaint--it was a hostile work environment with sexually inappropriate elements contributing to it."
So, much in the way I had to wait from 12/29's tipping point being met until 1/4 when The-Asshole's supervisor returns from vacation, I now have to wait until 3/28 when The-Asshole's supervisor returns before I can find out what is the next step (if any) regarding the hostile work environment complaint.
So, I have to wait another week before THAT discussion.
Hurry up and wait, and hope there's a point to all of this.
In the meantime, The-Asshole has been walking around here like the smug-assed Mayor of Mudville.
Got a call from "the committee," and of course, they said their investigation did not find enough evidence to support a sexual harassment claim, to which, I replied, "My complaint was never a cut and dry sexual harassment complaint--it was a hostile work environment with sexually inappropriate elements contributing to it."
So, much in the way I had to wait from 12/29's tipping point being met until 1/4 when The-Asshole's supervisor returns from vacation, I now have to wait until 3/28 when The-Asshole's supervisor returns before I can find out what is the next step (if any) regarding the hostile work environment complaint.
So, I have to wait another week before THAT discussion.
Hurry up and wait, and hope there's a point to all of this.
In the meantime, The-Asshole has been walking around here like the smug-assed Mayor of Mudville.
Thursday, March 3, 2016
(Approx.) 31 Days Later: Update on the Harassment Complaint
Progress is at a snail's pace.
I went all day yesterday thinking that TODAY was going to be THE DAY for my witnesses to give their statements; only to find out this morning that YESTERDAY was THE DAY, and I only found this out when I went to the secretary who sits closest to me (who witnessed the bullshit tipping point on 12/29), and said, "Good luck today," only for her to say, "oh, that was yesterday!"
WHAT WHAT?
Unsurprisingly the attorney who sits closest to me, who was in his office on 12/29 hasn't mentioned shit to me, and I'm not going to ask him about it either, I like this level of neutrality THE COMMITTEE allows.
But what I am more than a bit disappointed with is the lack of any indication via text, email, or call, from JabippyLoo.
I guess that tells me all I need to know about who or what I am to her.
And here I sit, I suppose for another 22 days or whenever to hear back from THE COMMITTEE on the outcome of their investigation into the complaint.
I went all day yesterday thinking that TODAY was going to be THE DAY for my witnesses to give their statements; only to find out this morning that YESTERDAY was THE DAY, and I only found this out when I went to the secretary who sits closest to me (who witnessed the bullshit tipping point on 12/29), and said, "Good luck today," only for her to say, "oh, that was yesterday!"
WHAT WHAT?
Unsurprisingly the attorney who sits closest to me, who was in his office on 12/29 hasn't mentioned shit to me, and I'm not going to ask him about it either, I like this level of neutrality THE COMMITTEE allows.
But what I am more than a bit disappointed with is the lack of any indication via text, email, or call, from JabippyLoo.
I guess that tells me all I need to know about who or what I am to her.
And here I sit, I suppose for another 22 days or whenever to hear back from THE COMMITTEE on the outcome of their investigation into the complaint.
Monday, February 22, 2016
As If Coming to The Office Weren't Bad Enough: The Hostile Work Environment Complaint
You'd think this is going to be a post about the Stalker; however, it's not. Well, not directly. Though he is lumped into the "I'm as mad as hell and I'm not going to take it anymore" kind of theme.
In the last 13 almost 14 years of my employment, I have a co-irker who is now in his 80s. His overall demeanor varies from brusque and uncooperative to hostile and somewhat sexually inappropriate. I have been holding off on lodging a formal complaint for two very big reasons: 1. I have been secretly hoping he'd retire or expire eventually; and 2. I know others have lodged complaints, for which he was written up and inescapably nothing of any consequence ever happens to him.
Two years ago we relocated to a new office, and at that time I started to formulate a "timeline of inappropriateness." There have been occasions where he has ogled me, and outright harangued me about allowing him to kiss me on the lips. Both of these two scenarios are blatantly sexually inappropriate, and in both cases, I've informed him of such, and attempted to establish BOUNDARIES, which only makes him more hostile or brazen.
During the holiday season when we had a day with a skeleton crew, he came up to my office to intimidate and harass and insult me, when I dared to transfer particular calls to him--which (he has been informed by his boss) IS HIS JOB. Anyway, this occasion in December was my tipping point. And my first order of business on January 4th was to report him to his boss, who has now escalated things to the point where "THE COMMITTEE" that handles such complaints is now involved.
Twenty-two days after I lodged my initial complaint, reps from THE COMMITTEE came to interview me, and I gave them the run down of particular incidents, the one in December which I have a witness, and regarding the "kiss harassment," I have two witnesses who were in attendance at a retirement party we all attended and saw first hand the kiss harassment--which was the second time I informed him again, directly (and this time more forcefully) that if he wants to kiss me, he can do so on my cheek, and that only my husband gets my lips. Anyway...
It's now been close to three weeks since they interviewed me, and though I thought today would be the day they would be interviewing my witnesses, I have to wait ten more days until that happens, and who knows how much longer until this ShitShow or Shituation is resolved.
I'm anxious and full of regret, but not regretting my decision to report him. I'm regretting that it's come to this. Why couldn't he retire? Why couldn't he at a minimum APOLOGIZE, EVER for anything? I think of Jim Carrey's character Fire Marshall Bill on the old In Living Color show, and yes, the character in and of itself is HILARIOUS, but in all seriousness, this person is like an 80 year old cop version of Fire Marshall Bill--and it's far from hilarious.
When I was regaling the reps from THE COMMITTEE about the day he ogled me when I wore a Grumpy Cat tee shirt and he fixated on the placement of the eyes being right on my tits, and he put his glasses on and zoomed in on my rack so close I thought he'd start motor-boating me (I did a full pantomime for the reps, by the way), they laughed at the outlandishness of it.
Then I went into detail about this fascination with kissing, and the gall and entitlement issues he's got, demanding he gets the lips, when he kisses everything that will stand still, which has all of the allure of sitting on a toilet seat in the ladies loo in Grand Central Terminal--clearly his lips get a lot of action, and of course the obvious hilarious irony of there is no greater way to make someone feel OH SO inclined to allow you to kiss them on the lips than to BULLY THEM. The last two times he did this, I informed him of the boundary, the last time this happened was at a party, and my personal tipping point was met.
From 2014 until now, I have pondered everything I'm experiencing, and temper it with the knowledge of previous complaints others have lodged against him. And gradually I have downgraded him from friend, to friendly work acquaintance, to the perv codger with whom, unfortunately, I work. (with whom *NOT* FOR WHOM)
He's ten years older than what my dad would be if he were alive today; and he's ten years younger than my grandfather. I could be either his kid or his grandkid is my point--how would he feel if some pervy codger was doing this to his daughter or granddaughter?
This is on the baseline of bullshit with my Stalker, and a life time of being bullied, harassed and or abused by my own family.
To be honest, I've verbally articulated my disgust to this pig, and in all other manner of body language and facial countenance etc. It's not my fault he fails at basic communication.
I've decided I don't give a shit about being nice anymore or being quiet. And the look of utter disgust on his boss' face was just enough validation I needed to know I was doing the right thing in reporting him. Even he said, "He's a bully!" So this is not something unique to me. It's not something I'm imagining. We're all entitled to a "one off" or a bad day. This asshole's blaring issue is thinking he's curmudgeonly, when he's really cantankerous.
Anyway, the resolution is slow in coming. I sit and wait. And hope that when it comes time for my witnesses to give their statements that it's enough to bolster my original complaint--perhaps they'll take the opportunity to share other examples of his assholeishness, too? One can only hope.
Abraham Maslow is credited with saying something about how if the only tool you are provided is a hammer, then you start to view every problem as a nail. The issue here is that not every problem can be fixed with a solitary tool.
My problem is, that my parents were victims of bullying, harassment, and abuse all their lives. So no great surprise that they failed to provide the necessary tools for me to navigate this type of problem solving and conflict resolution. And add to it, being a woman, women typically in the past have been raised with the notion of being NICE and being QUIET, which just allows bullies and abusers to continue with their bullying and abusing.
My mother's mode of dealing with conflict (if she's not the active aggressor) is to be an ostrich with her head in the sand. My father's mode of dealing with conflict was pretty much rage.
I know I still have work to do; however, I am not sure how to do what needs doing.
In the last 13 almost 14 years of my employment, I have a co-irker who is now in his 80s. His overall demeanor varies from brusque and uncooperative to hostile and somewhat sexually inappropriate. I have been holding off on lodging a formal complaint for two very big reasons: 1. I have been secretly hoping he'd retire or expire eventually; and 2. I know others have lodged complaints, for which he was written up and inescapably nothing of any consequence ever happens to him.
Two years ago we relocated to a new office, and at that time I started to formulate a "timeline of inappropriateness." There have been occasions where he has ogled me, and outright harangued me about allowing him to kiss me on the lips. Both of these two scenarios are blatantly sexually inappropriate, and in both cases, I've informed him of such, and attempted to establish BOUNDARIES, which only makes him more hostile or brazen.
During the holiday season when we had a day with a skeleton crew, he came up to my office to intimidate and harass and insult me, when I dared to transfer particular calls to him--which (he has been informed by his boss) IS HIS JOB. Anyway, this occasion in December was my tipping point. And my first order of business on January 4th was to report him to his boss, who has now escalated things to the point where "THE COMMITTEE" that handles such complaints is now involved.
Twenty-two days after I lodged my initial complaint, reps from THE COMMITTEE came to interview me, and I gave them the run down of particular incidents, the one in December which I have a witness, and regarding the "kiss harassment," I have two witnesses who were in attendance at a retirement party we all attended and saw first hand the kiss harassment--which was the second time I informed him again, directly (and this time more forcefully) that if he wants to kiss me, he can do so on my cheek, and that only my husband gets my lips. Anyway...
It's now been close to three weeks since they interviewed me, and though I thought today would be the day they would be interviewing my witnesses, I have to wait ten more days until that happens, and who knows how much longer until this ShitShow or Shituation is resolved.
I'm anxious and full of regret, but not regretting my decision to report him. I'm regretting that it's come to this. Why couldn't he retire? Why couldn't he at a minimum APOLOGIZE, EVER for anything? I think of Jim Carrey's character Fire Marshall Bill on the old In Living Color show, and yes, the character in and of itself is HILARIOUS, but in all seriousness, this person is like an 80 year old cop version of Fire Marshall Bill--and it's far from hilarious.
When I was regaling the reps from THE COMMITTEE about the day he ogled me when I wore a Grumpy Cat tee shirt and he fixated on the placement of the eyes being right on my tits, and he put his glasses on and zoomed in on my rack so close I thought he'd start motor-boating me (I did a full pantomime for the reps, by the way), they laughed at the outlandishness of it.
Then I went into detail about this fascination with kissing, and the gall and entitlement issues he's got, demanding he gets the lips, when he kisses everything that will stand still, which has all of the allure of sitting on a toilet seat in the ladies loo in Grand Central Terminal--clearly his lips get a lot of action, and of course the obvious hilarious irony of there is no greater way to make someone feel OH SO inclined to allow you to kiss them on the lips than to BULLY THEM. The last two times he did this, I informed him of the boundary, the last time this happened was at a party, and my personal tipping point was met.
From 2014 until now, I have pondered everything I'm experiencing, and temper it with the knowledge of previous complaints others have lodged against him. And gradually I have downgraded him from friend, to friendly work acquaintance, to the perv codger with whom, unfortunately, I work. (with whom *NOT* FOR WHOM)
He's ten years older than what my dad would be if he were alive today; and he's ten years younger than my grandfather. I could be either his kid or his grandkid is my point--how would he feel if some pervy codger was doing this to his daughter or granddaughter?
This is on the baseline of bullshit with my Stalker, and a life time of being bullied, harassed and or abused by my own family.
To be honest, I've verbally articulated my disgust to this pig, and in all other manner of body language and facial countenance etc. It's not my fault he fails at basic communication.
I've decided I don't give a shit about being nice anymore or being quiet. And the look of utter disgust on his boss' face was just enough validation I needed to know I was doing the right thing in reporting him. Even he said, "He's a bully!" So this is not something unique to me. It's not something I'm imagining. We're all entitled to a "one off" or a bad day. This asshole's blaring issue is thinking he's curmudgeonly, when he's really cantankerous.
Anyway, the resolution is slow in coming. I sit and wait. And hope that when it comes time for my witnesses to give their statements that it's enough to bolster my original complaint--perhaps they'll take the opportunity to share other examples of his assholeishness, too? One can only hope.
Abraham Maslow is credited with saying something about how if the only tool you are provided is a hammer, then you start to view every problem as a nail. The issue here is that not every problem can be fixed with a solitary tool.
My problem is, that my parents were victims of bullying, harassment, and abuse all their lives. So no great surprise that they failed to provide the necessary tools for me to navigate this type of problem solving and conflict resolution. And add to it, being a woman, women typically in the past have been raised with the notion of being NICE and being QUIET, which just allows bullies and abusers to continue with their bullying and abusing.
My mother's mode of dealing with conflict (if she's not the active aggressor) is to be an ostrich with her head in the sand. My father's mode of dealing with conflict was pretty much rage.
I know I still have work to do; however, I am not sure how to do what needs doing.
Tuesday, February 16, 2016
"Irritable Vowel Syndrome"
Not much going on here. There was (yet another) crane collapse in NYC, and Audrey called and left a voicemail at my home and on my cell, all in a tizzy about whether the Maharajah was anywhere's near there. Whatever. She can't be bothered in 14 years to learn how to spell his name (a whopping six letters long) or find out (and remember) when his birthday is, SURRRRRE she gives a shit about this crane situation. Also? Manhattan is a big expanse of territory (33.77 square miles, to be precise). So, no. I wasn't in a rush to call her back.
She did manage to call me on Saturday (2/13), and I answered because (HELLO! Her phone is still fucked up for incoming calls). Her declaration, "I miss you," was kinda left dangling out there in mid-air, unacknowledged and unreplied to--kind of like a flaccid wiener: UNWANTED. Meh. Whatever. I didn't take the bait for that, either.
I took the wind out of her sails with the only little tidbit of news she presented me with, news I already knew of: That my great-aunt E., is having a relapse of the breast cancer she battled 22 years ago. I wonder what she has to say or think about the fact I knew this for 7-10 days long before she (and her sister) were aware. My attitude is, it's not my news to share. And Aunt E., is a stoic, so really, no. Not my news to share. AT ALL.
And the mind drifts to a statement my brother always says, "She opens her mouth, and nothing but stupid falls out." True, true. But if my brother were to bother to acknowledge the texts I send him, I'd send him one with today's neuron that fired: "She suffers from Irritable VOWEL Syndrome."
She did manage to call me on Saturday (2/13), and I answered because (HELLO! Her phone is still fucked up for incoming calls). Her declaration, "I miss you," was kinda left dangling out there in mid-air, unacknowledged and unreplied to--kind of like a flaccid wiener: UNWANTED. Meh. Whatever. I didn't take the bait for that, either.
I took the wind out of her sails with the only little tidbit of news she presented me with, news I already knew of: That my great-aunt E., is having a relapse of the breast cancer she battled 22 years ago. I wonder what she has to say or think about the fact I knew this for 7-10 days long before she (and her sister) were aware. My attitude is, it's not my news to share. And Aunt E., is a stoic, so really, no. Not my news to share. AT ALL.
And the mind drifts to a statement my brother always says, "She opens her mouth, and nothing but stupid falls out." True, true. But if my brother were to bother to acknowledge the texts I send him, I'd send him one with today's neuron that fired: "She suffers from Irritable VOWEL Syndrome."
Wednesday, February 3, 2016
My Stalker: Part 18 Apparently, He's Still At It.
A while ago, we upgraded my phone. And in doing so, I forgot to reblock the Asshole Stalker's number on my phone. Or I did, and then eventually I deleted him from my contacts (for obvious reasons) and in doing so, it deleted the block?
IDK the particulars, but all I know is today, I looked at my phone and around 3:30, there's this 490-XXXX number on it. The person called and hung up, and knowing I've got a bunch of doctors whose numbers have not made it into my contacts list, I called.
And I recognized the voice of my stalker.
And I hung up.
And apparently, according to Jean the other security guard, Sir Asshole is still lamenting his status outside my circle of trust.
And I fail to comprehend how, "Leave me alone," doesn't sum up my sentiment for him to do precisely that. LEAVE ME ALONE.
The fact that he doesn't understand this is not my problem.
The fact that he misses whatever he thought of our friendship, this, too, is not my problem.
To date, he's even failed to apologize or otherwise take ownership of the insults etc. It's actually tedious as fuck to even know this is going on, and of course, conversations with Jean have now been two days running (this post is actually being penned on the 5th) and Sir Asshole has dominated as the topic.
And today while carrying on a conversation with Jean, which I had hoped would veer off into more interesting things, all the while I am being stalked on the CCTV monitor by Sir Asshole, Sir Asshole is calling Jean on the console for extraneous shit, interrupting our conversation.
And not to be outdone, roughly five minutes earlier than expected, Sir Asshole is lingering, he thinks, just beyond my peripheral vision.
I see him.
He sees me.
I roll my eyes and audibly make an "UCHH!" noise and turn my back.
And I hesitated for a half second thinking, "Do I want to continue my chat with Jean?" And before I could formulate the thought in reply to myself, "No thanks," I turned heel and walked in the opposite direction from both of them.
Next time (and there will be a next time, because fuck! I have to pass the security console several times a day), I will fumble but get this sentence out, the next time Jean attempts to bring up Sir Asshole: "il y a des choses plus intéressantes à discuter." (There are more interesting things to discuss.)
And there ARE (more interesting things)!
IDK the particulars, but all I know is today, I looked at my phone and around 3:30, there's this 490-XXXX number on it. The person called and hung up, and knowing I've got a bunch of doctors whose numbers have not made it into my contacts list, I called.
And I recognized the voice of my stalker.
And I hung up.
And apparently, according to Jean the other security guard, Sir Asshole is still lamenting his status outside my circle of trust.
And I fail to comprehend how, "Leave me alone," doesn't sum up my sentiment for him to do precisely that. LEAVE ME ALONE.
The fact that he doesn't understand this is not my problem.
The fact that he misses whatever he thought of our friendship, this, too, is not my problem.
To date, he's even failed to apologize or otherwise take ownership of the insults etc. It's actually tedious as fuck to even know this is going on, and of course, conversations with Jean have now been two days running (this post is actually being penned on the 5th) and Sir Asshole has dominated as the topic.
And today while carrying on a conversation with Jean, which I had hoped would veer off into more interesting things, all the while I am being stalked on the CCTV monitor by Sir Asshole, Sir Asshole is calling Jean on the console for extraneous shit, interrupting our conversation.
And not to be outdone, roughly five minutes earlier than expected, Sir Asshole is lingering, he thinks, just beyond my peripheral vision.
I see him.
He sees me.
I roll my eyes and audibly make an "UCHH!" noise and turn my back.
And I hesitated for a half second thinking, "Do I want to continue my chat with Jean?" And before I could formulate the thought in reply to myself, "No thanks," I turned heel and walked in the opposite direction from both of them.
Next time (and there will be a next time, because fuck! I have to pass the security console several times a day), I will fumble but get this sentence out, the next time Jean attempts to bring up Sir Asshole: "il y a des choses plus intéressantes à discuter." (There are more interesting things to discuss.)
And there ARE (more interesting things)!
Friday, January 29, 2016
Twenty-two
That's the number of days in the interim between when I last spoke with Audrey on New Year's Day and when she finally broke down and called me on 1/22 (while I was at work) and left this chestnut in my voicemail, "It's your mother. I didn't know if you were still away on vacation." CLICK.
I broke down and called her the next day, as the first week since I've been back from our trip has been so taxing, it's as if I never went away at all.
Apparently the fact that I'm sick and potentially hypoglycemic trumps any other bullshit she could have thrown at me.
The conversation was short, and predictable. And so far now it's been almost a week after, so give it 1-2 more days and it'll be time for another identical call.
I broke down and called her the next day, as the first week since I've been back from our trip has been so taxing, it's as if I never went away at all.
Apparently the fact that I'm sick and potentially hypoglycemic trumps any other bullshit she could have thrown at me.
The conversation was short, and predictable. And so far now it's been almost a week after, so give it 1-2 more days and it'll be time for another identical call.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)