That was a mistake I made when I was very young - I didn't...

 September 1, 1987

That was a mistake I made when I was very young - I didn't

September 2, 1987

My God I wish I could have at least finished my sentence. What a cryptic. Now my whole life I can imagine what it was that was my mistake. Writing a definition for poetry earlier was so very difficult. How can one define poetry? I've read over some poetry. Poetry makes me feel wonderful. See, even my letters become pretty just thinking of it. I was putting off writing - thinking - about poetry because of my undecided fate as to whether I would get into Poetry at all. Then wondering if I might not enjoy it. Why with all the priggish, pigheaded people pretending to be great poets - OH the Pretention! The girl with the big hat! Oh My God!

Walt Whitman makes my heart sing! Phebe Hanson also and who was that other woman poet writing of her father drunk and abusive?

Poetry looks into my eyes, through my retinas and into my very soul - my being - leaves me bare and naked and in the light. As Camus has said we must look as steadfastly into the dark as we do the light. What is all this insanity shit? I am not more insane than I ever was maybe as Cris has said it is just enlightenment. Why is it then that I know people? Know them through and through? I want to reach people to come to an understanding to learn as much as I can about the human condition before I must follow others to the grave. Is knowledge selfish or wasteful? That is what I want to know the answer to. Look at the way the words flow from my pen onto the page. Where are they coming from anyways? And why is it that my brain waits in anticipation for the words instead of racing away and leaving me in the dust. Ah, this must be a true sign that all is well in my head. Insanity is truly a societal stigma. Label me if you must but I know where I stand.

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At this time in my life, I had been receiving therapy from a man in Stillwater. He had agreed to see me for free as long as I stayed away from self-medicating. I think at this time, I must have started smoking pot again. The passage above seems a bit...um...drug induced. When I told Pat (the therapist) that I had started smoking pot again, he was disappointed, well at least that's what he said, and that I couldn't continue seeing him, but if I ever wanted to continue, he would be happy to talk. 

I had met Pat in Stillwater when I was so very frightened of the Cold War. I believed that Reagan was going to send us into mutual nuclear destruction. My babies! I cried for my babies! I wrote nasty letters to the Minnesota State Senators and the Reagan's (Merry Christmas --> and a Happy Nuclear!) and I wrote long letters to the President and board members of Honeywell, which held a contract with the defense department, asking, "How can you sleep at night?" and enclosing ink prints of my children's feet or hands. My fear overwhelmed me. I decided to take out an add in the Stillwater Gazette. A couple of lines - Those interested in creating an Anti-Nuclear group in Stillwater meet at the Library, blah, blah, blah. 

I went to the library at the ascribed time thinking no one would show up. I was surprised when 12 people were there to support me. Pat was among those first members. We met at Pat's house until we overgrew it. The group was a great outlet for my fear. I was able to participate in anti-cold war/anti-nuclear protests. We joined the alliance of anti-nuclear groups based out Minneapolis. We trained ourselves in peaceful demonstration tactics. We staged a "Die In" downtown Stillwater and participated in a larger on at Northrup Hall when the Secretary of Defense had a speaking engagement. Someone stepped on my hand during that protest - I pretended I felt nothing and remained still. 

I know I talked about this group before in an earlier blog. We got some things done. Made some changes. I left after three years or so, when the organization took on a life of its own. The original 12 members were disenfranchised - lol - the group forgot we started it. That happened to the Anime Club at school that I am the advisor for...I know how it feels to have felt "in power" and then to fade into the background. 

I found a post-it note in the front of this journal when I picked it up. It is written in Pat's handwriting. It says, "incidents in which I was not sure how to act as a 25 year old woman". That sounds like an Asperger thing to be confused about. I like how it meshes with this entry, where I brag that I know people. I know them to their core. I just didn't know how I fit in. I was so confused. I received mixed messages from therapists. There were many in my life. I remember that Pat was very interested in the fact that I don't like to get wet. He found that very intriguing - like something he could analyze the crap out of and do me no good. Heck - I just don't like how it feels. 

My husband talks a lot about "air". I never know what he is talking about. He wants the air to circulate in the home. He bought a new fanged computer operated switch-thing that randomly turns the fan on the furnace and pumps the air around the house. Anthony is forever asking me if I notice how nice it is. I don't notice. I don't like air blowing on me. I don't get that air is "stuffy". I do get odors. I am overly sensitive to that. Any small smell will get me up and moving. Where...is...that...smell...?

But air? water? I just don't like them on me. Simple as that. That isn't "crazy" is it? /smile