Deactivated. July 31, 2009

I deactivated my facebook account. I was hoping it would permanenly delete. But it gives the option of restarting the profile. Great. I don’t know if that means I have to re-add the 200 friends or not. I guess so. Who cares. Forget I mentioned it.

What led me to that choice today? A “friend” that doesn’t treat me like a friend. A friend is someone you can have a conversation with about anything. At least, a real friend should be like that. But this asshole – and what an asshole – just rips into me for sending information to him about something important. Something with which he disagrees. But that’s no reason to write to me with such hatred and aggression in his words.

If it was the first time, I would let it go. Even if it was the second or third time. Hell, I’ve been really forgiving. In fact, I used to think it was me. I deserved it. Something was wrong with me. Not anymore. It’s him. He’s a boiling pot of asshole. He thinks he knows it all, and anyone who disagrees is moronic. Well, I disagree. And it’s for a damned good reason that impacts my livelihood and my future. So fuck him for making me feel bad for attempting to provide information that would help him understand why I feel the way I do. Was I aggressive in my attempt? No. Was I hateful? Nope. Rude? Not at all. Pissed off now? Hell yes I am. After I read his note I cried for a minute because he was being such an asshole. But then I became angry. Really, incredibly angry that I let him make me feel this way again.  This “friend.” Do I need a friend like that? Like I need needles in my eyes. Do I need to be stronger? Is that what you’re thinking? Well, then you can screw off too. I’m done with the “not strong enough” shit. Be nice to me or I’m done with you.

So in summary, I didn’t deserve being treated that way. And that’s how I reached my decision. I’m done with Facebook. Not because I didn’t find it entertaining. It was. But because there are far too many people with whom I am “friends” and they really are not my friends. I can reach out but what’s it for? Artificiality. 99% of those people don’t care a damn thing about me or whether I live to see tomorrow. So forget it. Thinning out the “friendship” list. Me, husband, pets, and maybe a few others. That’s it. And that’s the way I want it.

P.S. I’m so glad I deleted his email after telling him that “I’m done and best of luck” to him. Moments later I had the urge to really rip into him, but decided it would be best to let things be. Nothing I say to him will help him see, and nothing he says to me will be enough. What a relief to be free of such a negative force. *happy sigh…and smile*

Ramblings in another city August 25, 2008

This is from the back of a notebook. I was jotting down thoughts while in another city, far from home.

“All the way back I remember…party in the 6th grade. Paige walking out to the pool. I sang Patsy Cline by the diving board. It was my isolation from the fun inside.  But I felt melancholic. At such a young age. But this is what I do. I isolate myself. I always have in some way.

I vibrantly jump into a new school, job, situation, etc. and bounce to each person with introductions and smiles. I know them all before they know each other. Before they decide which clique to join. Which people to shun.

The first weeks (sometimes months) they are glad for my presence. I’m there with a smile and a kind word. But they eventually conform, if that’s the proper word for it. And once hierarchy establishes their place, mine is forgotten. I’m released back into whatever pool or stream to which fish like me belong.

I endure the rejection, sadness, anger, frustration, and confusion of it over and over – with nearly everyone I meet. Is it me? I always wonder. I know it must be, for better or worse. But I’m a good person. I withdraw further into myself to avoid further discomfort. My personal disaster plan. And despite the queries to others and within myself…regardless of professional training – no one can tell me truly what I must do to connect. They don’t care about me. They don’t care. Shouldn’t we?”

My Chinese is better than I thought August 20, 2008

Or maybe I am autistic or have asperger’s syndrome. *violent sigh*

I am so tired of people misunderstanding me. What I write. What I say. It seems so clear when I expel it into the world, and then it gets all jumbled when others receive it. Makes me want to hole up and not say a word but to myself.

 

I had a horrible dream last night. Nightmare. In it my mom died of stomach cancer. One minute she was diagnosed and the next she was gone. It was awful. Especially the realistic touches that my memory contributed, drawing thoughts from my recent visit home. I don’t think you can imagine how awful it is to lose a parent until you have lost one. At least, I can’t. Couldn’t. But my nightmare was vivid enough to help me realize what a mess I truly will be. And trying to cope with my dad losing my mom…that will be chaos at best.

I wonder sometimes – maybe it’s morbid – but I wonder which scenario would be better – mom or dad dying first. I guess those are normal thoughts…worrying about my parents, who are two of the kindest, most incredible people in this world. I don’t want to see either one hurting. Some parts of the future really suck. Sure, I want to graduate in a few years. But I don’t want time to pass for mom and dad. I want it to backtrack.

I miss the times we vacationed together. I miss mom’s richly colored hair, though it is beautiful as it has whitened with time. I miss dad’s confidence and athleticism. He seems so lost since retiring, and despite our encouragement he won’t work part time. I miss Light Brite, our 45″ player that was in the hallway with Hi Ho Cherry-O and Parcheesi.

I miss being tucked in at night. ”Sweet dreams dolly.” Hugs. The endless positive reinforcement and unconditional love. Enough to make me gag back then, but so wonderful to look back on. I miss stories in the hallway and sleeping bags by the fireplace when we lost power in rain or snow. I miss magical Christmases. I try to recreate them when I’m home, but we’ve lost something. Like no matter how I try, it ends up just being another day.

I miss having time.

I miss having time with my parents and my sister and our pets and the swimming pool. I miss my dad’s obsession with humongous speakers. ”Oh Sherry” and “No One is to Blame” on hot summer days, blaring as we swam. Steve Winwood’s “Bring me a higher love” when it was new. We danced and danced in their room.

I miss baking cookies with mom. Tickle wars when dad would finally get home from work. Or if we were asleep he’d sneak in and give us a kiss on the forehead. We could always tell. A telltale cigarette lighter or pen would appear on the carpet near my bed, having fallen from the breastpocket of his scrubs.

Waving and blowing kisses to daddy as he left for work so very early in the mornings. Or on his few days off joining him to watch Abbott and Costello or football on the couch. Football on tv still lulls me to sleep like a baby.

I can’t say that I had an easy time growing up. I remember these wonderful parts because they are what kept me alive. But I was so depressed early on from being the “uglier” of the two of us. You rode the bus and got dates, I rode the bus and was laughed at for blackheads, for my glasses, for having a crush. It shouldn’t have been that way. I was the older one. But it was that way. They told us we were both beautiful. I believed it for a little while. But moms and dads have to say that, to try a little kindness that the world won’t supply.

I loved dancing. I used to dance every day and now not at all. With friends over we would make up routines. We had costumes. So inventive and carefree. But middle school arrived and dance team rejected me. And rejected me again the next year. And again. And again in high school. I wanted it more than anything at that time. I cried my soul onto the floor of that gym. My heart broke, as I’m sure so many others must have. Especially when my best friend made the team. And then my sister. My sister who didn’t even like to dance that much. Maybe it was my large breasts. Maybe I wasn’t pretty enough. I could dance. I could dance. But they made me believe I wasn’t good enough. And I was damaged for so many years from that. I hated that bitch librarian that participated in the judging. I am scarred still. But it is further away from me now. Thank god for time passing.

The only relief for awful memories seems to be allowing the passage of time between their occurrence and the survival of those events. The pain doesn’t go away. It just becomes hidden under newer, more relevant pain.

So much trouble I’ve had living through this life. Things that may seem small to another but were landslides to me. We are all so different though. And I’ve done the best I could to overcome. But at the end of it all I won’t be sad. Life is so hard. Surviving is so hard. And there is no reason in it. No fairness. No grand reward for being a good person. I can’t give up, though. I just keep hoping it gets better from here.

So I’ll stop this for now. And return to my studies for tonight. Again I am off-topic. But I must’ve needed it. So many thoughts but so little room in my brain  to think them anymore.