Saturday, December 31, 2011

Shame no more.

Undated (but definitely 1979)
To me, I am my world, I am the only thing in this world
I am the only thing
the world around me doesn't matter because I am me
and if I'm bad, or fail at life
the only one to know is me
I am not part of this world
I am not part of this life
I am not part of this world, I am not who I am
I am not a part of this world
I am not who I am, I am not who I am
I am not a part of me
I am not who I think I am
You will not deceive me, and you who will die
You will deceive me, and now you must die.

August 13, 1978
The waves flicker with sunlight in play
and they have long since they were born
and they will always be the same
never changing, never wanting, never wishing.
They will shine. The sun will play upon their happy caps,
and slightly brighten their unending depths.
And no, they will never change
never deceive you, the are never to blame.
And those of us who watch them play
upon a bed of unknown land in the mists of everlasting rest,
with only the wind to blow their playing peaks
to shine for us, those who will never waves.

November 1, 1979
I was once as dead as all dead could be
I laughed my laugh and dreamed my dreams.
I could cry and smile and stare from my eyes
and speak of things that meant nothing,
to no one,
but me.
The only thing to me was to be
my only joy was sorrow
I weep my laugh
and sobbed my fears
and screamed my sleep in angered mirrors.
Mirrors of life, my eyes, they were
No one could touch them to reach me, to hold.
To capture my glance a thought you must hold:
my glassy eyes were meanings, surrounded by verbs.
Words trickled past my lips
quivered while they spoke.
Thoughts so mixed up in my mind
faster than my tongue could move,
then abandoned thoughts were left far behind
as my mind raced new ones for me to find.
My mind explodes with thoughts still now
racing forward, faster with time.
Too bad my lips move no more,
for my eyes know the darkness
that no one else knows.

November 12, 1979
Black satin midnight
floating on a dream
yellow hazy moonlight
in moonlit lightening beams
dance upon the willow trees
hazy, still, unseen
Lazy stars in darkest sky
dancing very slow
wishing me a happy life
as I'm growing old
fairies from the fairy tales
sing upon the lazy night
castles forbidding me and you to enter in the light
Cobwebs look like snow to me
and trees are waving slowly
fly away the moonlit sky
and night is wearing down
slow and quiet is the night
when I was born to die.


Embarrassment. Yep. Embarrassment keeps me from posting. Many dramatic "poems" declaring my teenage feelings. 

Why can I throw this up now? I made a decision. I have been wall-to-wall Twilight Saga for the month of December. I do not see it ending anytime soon. I have been reading furiously - not just Meyers but Gaiman too. I think of my postings and how they make me cry sometimes while I write them. 

Pride makes me say out loud that these posts are better than Meyers writing - even on a bad day. These poems are like Meyers. They were written as a child. Yes, I know that I have not sold a franchise worth of material. Heck - Google Ads kicked me off before I received my first deposit. But still. My posts are not a book. I should not compare them to works of fiction. It is difficult for me to not judge. I am judge. that is what I do. It is natural and easy for me to believe that I am superior. 

I do not make New Year's resolutions. Perhaps I should rethink. Perhaps I should continue to write - especially the journals that come out of my box and go quickly back in. What am I waiting for? What can I possible be afraid of at this point? 

/cheers to 2012

Thursday, July 14, 2011

I know fear. It creeps up on you unexpectedly.

January 27, 1978

I’m afraid to walk downstairs.
I’m afraid of the dark and the cold.
I’m afraid of being alone and I’m afraid of other people.
I don’t want to sit where I am.
I’m afraid people will laugh.
I hurt myself often.
I hate to wake in the morning.
I hate facing the day.
I feel as though I’ll burst into tears or scream…
I hate when I walk in the street.
I’m afraid I will trip on my feet.
I’m afraid to turn pages of books, or erase the mistakes I made.
I’m afraid that I will live and I’m afraid that I will die, not that it matters.
I tell you as I write, but who really cares?
I won’t play the piano or arrange my books or put my puzzles together, because I am afraid.
What am I really afraid of?

Last night has been like other nights, a very typical one. I laid in bed reading. Suddenly, I was afraid of turning the page. I had to stop touching the book. I was so afraid, I put my blankets in my mouth and pushed the book away and I started to cry. Why? I was so afraid. I moved the book, not touching it of course, from under the covers and pushed it on the floor. I was crying and gasping. I wanted to scream. Why? Then I was aware of my blankets, just like how the side of the page and the notebook. I don’t really want to touch them. It was very scary. I looked on my lamp, it was on and I knew that if I turned it off it would be dark like the night when I saw girls screaming and being killed and the other night when the squareness of my room was unbearable. I cried those nights too. Looking at the light reminded me of the night when I was afraid of Susie (my dog) and I cried myself to sleep. I reached out my hand slowly first but then quickly and turned off the light. I screeched a silent scream and lay flat on my back with my eyes open. The darkness flooded my eyes. I closed them and cried myself to sleep.

April 22, 1978

My mother told me to grow up. My friends told me to act my age. But I can’t, I can’t change like that.

I live in my own world. It is strange. I live a life like everyone else almost. Sometimes I feel happy, sometimes I feel sad or angry, but mostly I feel fear.

I know fear. It creeps up on you unexpectedly. Such as walking down a street, even in the day, I see a car parked a block ahead of me. Someone is in it. I don’t feel afraid that he will open the door and come after me. I feel that when I pass him, he will open the door quickly and knock me down. That is strange, isn’t it?

My emotions change quickly for no reason at all. If someone asks why I am feeling a certain way, I make up some reason. It doesn’t matter what, just so they will leave me alone. But if someone truly wants to know, I tell them that I don’t know why I was acting like that. That is true.

I walk to school every morning. I walk alone. When I walk alone, I am afraid. I walk like something is wrong with my hips. I can’t walk nicely ever. I have no grace at all. I don’t know why. I am alone most of the time.

I like sometimes to be alone but other times I shake for no reason and usually end up in my room in the corner on my bed shaking and crying.

When I talk to teachers or adults in school, no matter what I am talking about, tears come to my eyes and I almost start to cry.

What is wrong? It bothers me.

May 12, 1978

Around me doesn't matter.
My feet are feet.
My hands are all fingers.
My body is here but my mind is free.
I am in my mind now, all by myself, but I am happy.
My head moves far if I turn it a little.
I wish my hands would swing with grace and I could move with every perfection.
But, I am perfect.
It is perfect this way.
My eyes are peering, opening wide and seem to look through a focusing glass.
They focus in different places, but it takes a while.
I am in me, in the back of my head.
When I move, I want to move gently and slowly so as to perfect each movement.
I want is to be outside and watching a bird.
That is what I want: to watch a bird sailing around on its wings.
Everything has details.
I notice things and I watch.
It hurts to watch sometimes, but it is good, and I am good.
I feel good about something, but I don't think that something is about myself.


These pages were written when I was 15 years old. I was a Sophomore in high school. 

I just gotta let this one go. I cannot think of how to write about the angst of being a teenager when I am bogged down with panic to prepare for the new school year. I wish I could write about it though. I had a strange experience growing up. 

This post *screams* Asperger's. It reveals how I feel to this day - although I am not so frightened anymore. I do cry easily. I see and observe the environment around me - to a greater extent than NTs. I see and decode. I think I am more aware of things outside of myself than is apparent by my lack of social graces. If I am watching events unfold around me, I see the interactions of others - I understand.

So here stands an un-examined post...forgive me.

Saturday, April 9, 2011

The Dining Room Depression

Takes place in 2075

Henry Johnson was usually a polite, young boy. There is only one time I can remember where he lost his behavior, when his family had its "Dining room Depression."

It all started back in the years 1974 and 75, which was about 100 years ago. It was the time when they had moving vehicles called "cars". They were run by gas, which is a form of oil in which we ran out of about 50 years ago. Well anyway, one day Henry's father came home and was very angry because he had just lost his job, he screamed out to Henry's mother that she better cut down on the use of food so they don't run out.

But alas, Henry's mother had cooked up a $50.00 meal and thought that since she had $20.00 left that she would ask her husband if he could give her some more.

She asked Henry's father if he was given any money when he was fired but in those days the factory that he was working at couldn't afford to do that so they had $20.00 to survive on until he got a new job.

In those times it was almost impossible to get a job so Mr. Johnson tried and tried to find a job. His family was now living on $5.00.

At the end of the 4th month, the family was nearly starving. A dinner or meal may consist of 1 piece of bread. Henry's mother has gotten Henry to go to friend's houses after school and steal food.

Near the end of the 5th month, Henry was crashing parties and shoplifting with his mother. Henry's father had recently died of starvation because they didn't go to any public health building because they were ashamed.

In the middle of the 5th month, Henry and his mother walked to the country. There they were lavishing apples and raw corn to live.

In the middle of June, the 7th month of the Dining room Depression, Henry's mother died of malnutrition.

Henry, soon after the 10th month, turned himself into the public health office. And that ended the dining room depression.

The end


This must have been written earlier. This story is in cursive writing, and the story being placed in the 1974-75, makes me believe that I wrote this at that time. I was twelve years old, during that school year. Must have been between 7th and 8th grade.

This story is filled with the oil crisis of the 1970s. The metro bus companies cut service. People talked a lot about oil conservation. There was a lot of shouting done by me from atop the rock in the front yard. "Get a horse!" - as opposed to driving a car - shouted to passing cars. My parents nagged us to turn off the lights when we left rooms. That still makes sense!

In elementary school, I never wondered about other people's families. I was too busy bragging about my own. This story shows some understanding about blue class workers. In 1976, South St. Paul boasted that it was the largest stockyards in the world, it closed in 2008. When the wind was blowing up the bluffs, my walk to school was filled with dread, and what I imagined was going on down there next to the river. Yuck!

My best friend in junior high school lived just up the bluff overlooking the river. I liked to bike down to her house. Her brother was super cute - and her house was larger than mine - larger - because it had three stories plus a basement! The bathroom in her house was massive - it was larger than my own bedroom. It had ceramic tile floor - the little white hexagons that were popular in the early 1900s. My own house in Minneapolis had the same floor, it reminded me of BF Colleen.

The bathroom had a claw foot bathtub. I had only seen such a thing in books. I was amazed. Any way, back to why I was talking about Colleen in the first place. Her dad worked at the stockyards. She said her dad killed the cattle all day long. Shudder. I could not imagine such a life. It was so foreign to my existence. She was so wonderful. I loved her. I did something to lose her as a friend in the following years. She wouldn't look me in the eye. I still wonder what I did.

My family attended church in Minneapolis at St. Stephen's during this period. I remember having my first sip of coffee after service, sneaking in line for communion, and the family of naked hippie children that played in the yard across the street. It was shocking.

These must be the things that play into the ideas behind the tragic Dining Room Depression story above. Very sad. Poor Henry Johnson, if only his mother hadn't made such a lavish meal the day her husband lost his job...

Saturday, April 2, 2011

Don't make me waste my life. You know I believe in something.

August 1976 

Sometimes, I wish I had a gun. I would kill myself if I did.
Sometimes, I am really happy and I am glad that I didn't have a gun.
Sometimes, I wish I was being held by a man.
Sometimes, I am glad I am alone.


I am alone.
No one is ever with me, though people are near me, I am still alone.
I am alone because no one knows how I feel.
No one will ever know how I feel.
No one is like me.
No one can be almost like me either.


 August 23, 1976

Betsy is always going into my room and it makes me sick. She is always invading my privacy. She listens on the phone when I talk to my friends. It makes me sick. She doesn't live her own life. She always has to know about everything I do, or say.

I was talking on the phone with some boys and one of them said a bird threw up when it saw me.

Am I really that ugly? I don't think so.


 August 24, 1976

I got my overalls today! They are so cute. They are just like Bob's. I think. I don't know if I want to ask Doug to the fair. I want to. Maybe I will ask him to help work at my mom and dad's booth with me. He is nice and I want to get to know him. I'm not going to rush into anything this year. I think I will wear my overalls and a pink blouse the first day of school.


August 1976

I need you more
I need you now
I love you, baby.

Give me that smile
The one you first gave me
Give me that look
the one that I miss
Give me that vow, the one that you said you'd give me.
Let us be friends
For the rest of our lives.

I know now you menat nothing that you did.
It was all a fantasy, one that came from me.
I'll never be the same again until you say it's so.
That you'll never say another word again to me for that will be.

To Elton John-
I will never leave my thoughts alone until I see you there walking out the stage towards me. I don't care if you're old. Just give me the chance, the one I've always wanted. Give me the smile the one that I need.


September 1976

Don't let me give up my life. You know I don't believe in nothing.
For if it is wrong, tell me before it's too late.
Don't let me give up my mind to something that'll hurt me for you know I believe in Love.
If you only will tell me why you want what it will do to me. I don't know how it's said, just take my hand and pull me back.
'cause, Darling, don't let me waste my life on stupid dreams, and live my life for senseless things.
Oh, Darling, don't make me give up my life for something wrong, that won't work out.
Tell me at once and I will go and seek my dreams.
Darling, don't make me waste my life. You know I believe in something.


Okay, I am not sure what it was that I was going on about. I think that the last two entries are songs - at least they seem to have repetition and "rhyming" (kind of...)

I had crushes on almost every boy that glanced at me - and that included Elton John. I had posters all over my room and would dream about him. I believed I would marry him one day. 

Over my own discomfort over how I tear into my sisters during this period of time, I decided to call them something else. I love my sisters. They are all totally unique individuals. I have wonderful relationships with each of them. I cannot imagine losing them. I thought very little of them growing up. The love I feel for each of them now is the polar opposite of how I express myself in my early teen years.

I understand that this journal is a slow starter - but this has some similar themes - similar to my earliest writings in my one-year-five-year diary. The boy crushes - expressing love and switching quickly from crush to crush. These journals add hormones and sexual awakenings and the will to act on my urges. 

Another theme that I see here is the self-reflection - knowing somehow that I am alone - and using the journals to process. I see depression, and suicidal ideation. I see confusion over the actions and reactions of others. I misinterpret many social interactions in junior high and high school. 

I was a very awkward person. I still am, but I care so much less now. What a relief to not care.

Friday, April 1, 2011

It is hard to grow up knowing that you are different, but not being able to understand just how

August 22, 1976

Sometimes I don't understand anything at all. I learned today that I hold in my angry feelings so that is why I hardly ever get mad.

When I get mad I usually will go to my room and think over what has just happened. If I hear about things people have said about me I don't get mad, but I get mad if they say something about my friends.

When I get mad I will come up to my room and tell you everything. I think it will help me. I don't feel guilty any more about Bob since I have told people about it. I have nothing I can think of to feel guilty about. I don't feel guilty about Roy anymore. It helped me to write those letters just to say how I feel. I wrote them to get it off my mind not for other people to read. I really do trust my sisters to not read this because I might be mad at them sometime and write what I think because I can't write anything nice if I am mad.

I was mad at my dad today. He has been getting on my nerves lately. I only like him as a person not a parent. I really think he is an unreasonable guy when it comes to parenthood. God-damn, I hope I won't be a single fucking bit like him.

I want to have a baby but I wouldn't know what to say to her. Bob was going to fuck me. He almost did and he would have if Dawn didn't interrupt. God, was I mad at her! I felt like saying to Bob, "If you really want to be a father you sure as hell can screw me, but you better call up my Bitch and tell her first." He would have. He would have said, "Hey Bitch Lowe, I'm a gonna screw your daughter better than hell, so long Bitch!"

No, but I really like my mom. Sometimes she is a real bitch, but mostly she's alright.

A note about the formatting: I am going to cross out the text that I have crossed out in my journal - I find it interesting what I chose to scribble out or exclude.


Jumping straight into the yellow legal pads that I used as a teenager. These are painful, awkward journals filled with boasting and profanity. Some of the entries are calculated entries to lay the foundation for my schizophrenic diagnosis. I started leaving journal cookie crumbs in 1976, writing letters from "partner". After a year or two, I developed the alter ego as a homeless young mother. 

These early journals include a lot of wishing to have a baby. I yearned to have a baby years before I was sexually active. My bravado in the entry above about "Bob" and our almost/not quite sexual encounter was just that - fantasy. I was not sexually active until the next summer - so this journal will have lots of discussion of sex and my naive ideas about what sex was. 

I begin using drugs during this year, so I will certainly act more and more "streetwise" - pretending to myself as I record the thoughts and observations of the days as they pass. 

Paging through this journal before writing this summary, I want to apologize in advance to my siblings. I love you all. I say mean and cruel things about you and our wonderful, loving parents. Please keep in mind that I was only 13at this time. I have just finished eight grade, about to become a Freshman - the upperclassmen in junior high school. I am learning about relationships. I have not yet figured out that just because a boy talks to you doesn't mean that they "like" you. Just because a boy wants to get you alone to kiss you and feel you up, doesn't mean that he likes you either. 

There is so much confusion. I am developing as an observer of my life. I am finding my voice. This is Susan, out of control teenager, trying so hard to grow up and be liked and accepted by my peers. 

It is awkward and painful to watch. Don't avert your eyes. These pages are filled with cringe moments. I hope you find forgiveness for the confused young woman I was becoming. It is hard to grow up. It is harder growing up knowing that you are different, but not being able to place just how. I want to notice how I discuss and analyze my feelings especially. Feelings are still confusing to me. Especially since I discovered two years ago that I never realized that I had such a limited emotional vocabulary.

Just like 14 year old Susan, I yearn for you to accept me for who I am in these pages. It took me a until I was 30 years old, and near death, to finally accepted this awkward teenager. I am still her - she is me. I am her.

Saturday, March 26, 2011

I don't want to remember anything

December 15, 1987

I just don't care. It shouldn't matter. You'll be okay, Sue. Just don't care - it doesn't matter if Cris wants to fool around. If he does, it's his own problem - its's funny how I always write down what I think I should feel - it's like a subtle brain washing technique.

Julie called today, kind of accused me of giving Amy lice - jesus christ. She must have said "okee dokee" and "any who" about 60 times.

December 20, 1987

We had a party last night. My friends and Cris's. Eric and Colleen, Scott and Tracy - oh, and Keri too. They came besides - the only people who knew us both. Lisanne brought egg rolls. She freaked out as I did. I was talking to Lisa and David, they are back from Chicago. It was good to see them. Char came also. She was really scared. She has really gotten pretty gross. I wonder if she has always been like that. Peggie was here too. I wonder if Cris really has slept with her. She's always nice, but, you, know, it's like, I bet Cris feels her up every chance he gets and Lisanne too. Gross! He's like got three women at the same time. I am pretty well decided now on what to do. It's like - I really like Cris (he is talking on the phone right now with Lisanne) (funny how Keri and Lisanne make a better couple than Cris and Lisanne) (this seems like a father-son rivalry.)

Well anyways - Cris is okay, and all, but it is extremely gross and disgusting behavior how he sleeps with other women. I thought of a new year's resolution - not making love until my birthday. But then I like fucked Cris the other night. I wish I wouldn't get so excited - I guess I'll have to learn restraint. I wasn't going to go with Cris and the kids for Xmas eve at Eric and Colleen's but after talking to them, maybe I will. I've been getting back into the book "necessary losses". It is really good. I plan to go see Pat Mulvehill tomorrow. I hope he can help.

I feel pretty manipulated by Cris. It just isn't a good thing. He's saying things like, "if only you changed little things, I could be happy." He wants me to be better about spending money and keeping the house clean. What is he going to do? Think? And then today, he says, "God damn it, there is macaroni and cheese in the refrigerator - why don't you ever look? You told me to save it!" And then I make beets besides and he yells again, "Selfish! Why didn't you look, there are beans in the fridge! I guess you over-estimated your intelligence." What a manipulative bastard.

He's telling me that we could be good together now after all this pain and suffering and mind-fucking games we've been playing. I think it sucks! He's only doing it because I'm seriously considering ending it all. Then he has the gall to say that when I think about Sean or Russ in a sexual fantasy sort of way is just as bad as Cris fucking and romancing and telling other women that he loves them. BULLSHIT!

He thinks that every relationship between members of the opposite sex has sexual undertones. That every man thinks about every woman and vice-versa.

Well, then - that seems not a rule but an exception. It really pisses me off. Well what I'm thinking is that I should like get a bearing on myself - understand my insecurities, my values/morals, my hopes/desires, my dependency problems and get better. I will never be happy, no matter what, in a relationship with Cris while he is carrying on extramarital relationships - EVER - PERIOD.

If I get better, then I will be happy with myself, If Cris changes, maybe he will be part of my life - if he never changes, I will be happy to toss him to the hungry lionesses ready to devour him. And that's sad for Cris because I know he can never be happy behaving like that for any prolonged period. But I really need to look out for myself.. Hey, I can already feel the return of myself. I was worried that I could never regain those eight years I spent with Cris - but I know I am wrong. I will have something. I still know who I am - and I've been here since I was a child - I just hide below the surface.

December 21, 1987

I am at Powderhorn Park. I took the kids here to slide. They are having fun on the hockey rink right now. I went to see Pat today. I want to write down things I want to remember before I forget.
  • I might be really upset with my mother.
  • I want to relate to my parents like they were real people.
  • I am bad.
  • I am ashamed.
  • I stay in this bad relationship to hurt my mother (?).
  • I know it's rational to get out of this relationship but emotions keep me here.
  • Cris and I relate to each other as both parents and children.
I got home to the most unpleasant smell. Cris had burned his "sachet". I guess this means he doesn't love me anymore. Oh what a feeling. But I know burning doesn't mean a thing. It's scary to think he has been casting "spells" on me.

Oh well, good riddance.

Oh, I remember, Pat said I'm not ready to get rid of Cris yet, but I will. I wonder what it takes to be ready.

December 22, 1987

I am feeling anxiety. Cris said he hates me and will leave as soon as he is better (he has a cold). He also tells me I will never be a success - never have any money, or have a house. I tell myself this isn't true. But I will of course freak out if he leaves. But I know I will be okay. I have a plan of action.

1. Be calm
2. Look for work
3. Call about daycare
4. Call about Latchkey
5. Call your friends

I think I'll take the kids to the zoo today when I am done calling.

January 23, 1988

I haven't wanted to write anything in this journal. I don't want to remember anything. I don't want to whine or anything.

• • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •

Wow, there it is. The end of my marriage. Finally. I let this torture draw out for 2-1/2 years. I tolerated Cris's affairs. I told myself he would change. He never has. He has had a series of relationships since the end of our marriage. Several long term relationships with women, quite similar to me. He likes his women vulnerable and dependent. He has cheated on every one of them.

Currently he lives with a woman, whom he calls his "wife" but he will never marry her. She drinks to pretend that Cris isn't sexually active with the girls whom he brings home to "photograph". He is a dirty old man. Once, one of my students said she had run into him at an Art Crawl. He had given her his card and asked her to call to schedule a photo shoot. To say I am creeped out is an understatment. Here is a link to his website. I am disgusted by his work. 

I know now that I could not leave Cris, nor ask him to leave because of my Asperger's need to not change. I like things to stay the same. Different is scary. I don't like changes in my routines. I am resentful and anxiety ridden when something unexpected arises. I like to eat the same things, drink my coffee with the same coffee creamer, drink the same soda, eat the same breakfast, leave home at the same time. drive the same way, routines make me safe. I do not like change.

I hate change so much - I could tolerate a party with my sham-husband - inviting his girlfriends to parade around one another and before me. I could tolerate being scolded about not reading labels on cans, or over-salting a hot dish, or breaking a cup or plate. Although, he could throw things across the room and shatter them - namely a plate filled with the over-salted hotdish. Sure it sounds funny now - but it was terrifying. I never lived with anyone violent before. 

My parents were kind, gentle and firm. They were fair. The punishment fit the crime. They tried to encourage us to be good people. Cris didn't have a horrible upbringing - but he resented his stepfather for replacing him at age 9. 

My adult children tell me that Cris still, to this day, still bad-mouths me. I have not even spoken to him since my grandson was born (that was almost 2 years ago.) His mother believes I have destroyed him. Trust me, he did that to himself. I feel nothing but shame for having stayed with him so long after discovering his unfaithfulness. Wait, I don't really feel anything for him. He is nothing to me. 

Thursday, March 24, 2011

I am curious about how other people think


It's funny - you really don't know what you want. You can't even write your thoughts down. There is a blockage. I even call myself you. I think each thing as I write it down..slowly saying each word as it appears yet knowing what will come next. You say it right before you finish like rub(necks)ber.

I really analyze myself. That must be where I am different from a lot of people, I think of my siblings.

Hey, I could write anything down about Julie and Pete and Steve and Julie and Cindy and John, about a  lot of people. Cris just came sniffing loudly from the bathroom. He will never read this. So I can say anything I want. ooooh...diaphram please (clap clap)

I have always admired your gentleness.

Being the man who wears the dress, all I desire is a house husband.

December 15, 1987

These are things I need to ask myself.

What do I want? More specifically, what do I want from Cris? He is no good. If he wanted to live happily ever after it might be another story but experience shows this is not the case. Cris has had lovers for so long, all of ianthe's life. He will not change. He may be remorseful about leaving us - oh well - not my problem.

I want to go to school but I really need to become independent. Maybe I should get a job and not go to school. If I worked 7-3 it may be okay. I would need daycare for the kids only. i could go to school next fall. Cris has to get out of my life.

I mustn't hurt him intentionally. Matt, who works at the media center is married and has a child. I wonder if he "looks around" like Cris the fink.

Oooh look at me...I looked so young. Oh god do I feel awful to have said that...oh god you stupid cow.

Ooh, look at that! Oh, I was so thin!

God get the damn camera outta my face god you stupid cow.

Start 003617

(I can only guess this is in response to a video being shown in class - the instructor - a visiting artist - was always showing her own work, and I didn't much care for her)

Having paused for such a long time from writing in this blog over the anxiety of the end of my first marriage seems so silly to me right now. I did feel terrible anxiety when I stopped. I was so afraid. All the feelings and shame flooding back. Worry about what I actually wrote of the experience in my journal. I should have known I would gloss over the pain. I do tend to do that. Leave no tracks. I hate records of pain. I really do. Since I had invaded Cris's privacy by reading his journals when I became suspicious of his prolonged absences and his emotional distance, I believed that at any time, someone could find my journal and read it - even though I claim the exact opposite in the first entry above. I know that if I were to journal today, about my daily emotional roller coaster - actually just calm to shame - to calm - to righteous superiority - I would require a lock box to store it. I would require it - not because anyone would even be interested in the contents - but I wouldn't be able to say what is really in here. 

Sure I speak freely after a post, and analyze myself in present context, or in historical - but that isn't the same thing. I can speak freely of the despair I feel often, of my loneliness and anger at not being able to be alone enough. I can speak of obsessions and preoccupations. I can speak of my emotional pain. These are all things I would say out loud, to a friend - there are a few of you who stop by to read that know this.

I am curious about how other people think. I have always been aware that my thoughts were a little out of sync with those around me. I love that I state it in my journal in 1987. I bet I could grab out even older journals from my box and find the same words. I am different. Everyone else does not think.

I wonder what it would be to live life without the "projected self" - that curious Theory of Mind being natural and matter of course. For those of you who are not quite sure what I mean by this, I exist in this world and project myself upon others - everyone. So anything anyone does, I read it as if I were the one saying or doing it. So, everyone is me. I project my beliefs, intentions, desires, and knowledge to those around me. When people act in ways that challenge my understanding of them (me) then I get all riled up - hence the indignant self-righteousness feeling. I am trying to entangle myself from the world by purposefully developing a more expanded Theory of Mind that will take into account that everyone else has their own experiences and feelings and beliefs and understandings and I need to keep that in mind when interacting with them. Okay- that *sounds* like I know it - but I only know the words. I am good with words.

Yesterday, I was talking with my therapist. I told him I was interested in two different emotional experience that I often have - self-righteous indignation and shame. That pretty much sums up my personal hell. Since Minnesota decided that it would be a good idea to dump several inches of melting snow on the freeways at rush hour, leaving well in advance of my appointment still made me 35 minutes late. So with 20 minutes - he said we had enough time for the "self-righteousness". 

People who know me on Facebook, know I have "triggers". I get set off on rants for apparently no reason (well, I know the reason). My doctor was saying, "Most people are..." he trailed off, so I guessed the missing word "stupid?" - "No, not stupid, most people are more forgiving of others foibles". He told me that most people don't care if someone missed their point and can brush things off. They decide that on a scale of zero=it doesn't matter at all to 10=I have to address this right away. That FB posts are zeros for most people. Hmmm. Strange. No Seriously. I was confused. I still am. We didn't have time to finish the conversation. Really? Do neurotypical people really not care? Don't they feel the adrenalin rush? Can't they feel it? Or do they and then they choose to ignore it?

Tears are filling my eyes right now. That is strange. I think I am crying because I really don't "get" it. It makes no sense - I cannot "crack the code". I tried to talk to my son about it - he is the most like me - he didn't get it either. So, we are no help to one another. I don't know what to do. Maybe my husband can explain it better to me.

Saturday, March 19, 2011

This post hurts me to write

November 21, 1987

It's kind of funny. Cris is this pained person trying desperately to have his cake and eat it too. He wnts lots of women - always will have them.

I am making him leave - can't say I didn't try. Now he will live with Lisanne. She is so happy and "my gosh, he's so cute!" She doesn't know...

I feel really good.


My back still hurts.
Cris is back home but it is different. He is not my husband anymore. It is more like we are friends who have had a spat and we are trying hard not to ruin our friendship.

Oh well, I think I must have the house and kids. Cris gets much too angry. I may get angry but I never hurt the kids.

December 3, 1987

Staying late night to edit my video. Laid on the floor staring out the skylights. I am afraid to write things down. Don't want anything stupid to come out that I will laugh at later. I slept with Cris last night. I am sorry [that] I did. He is very selfish or should I say lustful and not loving. I shouldn't sleep with him anymore. I'm always sorry when I do.

I went for a walk with Sean and got high. I would really like to have a fling with him. But I don't know how to make a pass. Oh Sue, all in good time...

December 5, 1987

Stayed over night at Steve and Julie's house - pretty anxiety ridden time. I feel in the way. I bought a book "Earth Power" for Cris last night when I met Steve's family at Northtown [Mall]. Got the baby food jars that Julie has saved for me. I want to fill them for Cris. Now I'm all done with his Christmas shopping. Now it's Mom and Dad and Mom and Dave. Maybe I'll do some prints for them. I want to plan a party. Cris wants to pick the winter solstice but I'd rather pick a different day. Oh well...all ends in love and war.


I split the mahogany. I didn't drill the holes. What? - maybe ten more minutes...

Read "The Gift"again and then give him back himself.


It's funny - you really don't know what you want. You can't even write your thoughts down. There is a blockage. I even call myself you. I think each thing as I write it down...