Same Old Poop

I know the answers to the unspoken questions that pull tears from my eyes.  I know not to ever ask ever again “When will it stop?” I came as I promised Monday  evening to pick up some food and the old food processor and juicer. She was upset, I guess I was too precisely on time. I said, “I’m here” and the response was “Oh, okay. Whatever.” Dad’s response to me was don’t start anything. Me? I came on time. I came as promised. She’s mad when I come, when I don’t visit.

I can’t entertain the crazy.

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birthdays

Twenty-nine years ago today, I was born. From what I hear, that was quite an event, lots of to-do about a wee little me. I was 2.2 lbs. I’m about 118lbs heavier now.

When I started working, and especially since moving out, I give myself the gift of not working on or near the date of my birthday. Two years ago I went hiking at Switzer’s Falls in the Angeles Forest when it was (surprise!) raining and some snow flurries that melted within a hour. Last year I went on a silent retreat for a day, and this year I went to Switzer’s Falls again. The restrooms were closed and the information kiosk wasn’t selling adventure passes, so a really nice couple gave me their annual pass! The fall colors were still putting on a show, and there were people around, but not so many that there weren’t extended periods of alone time. I returned in time for therapy & dinner at home; then went out to the Yardhouse in Long Beach with some grad school friends & coworkers. Some of them re-gifted items to me (i.e. no original packaging, things are not correctly itemized in the packaging).

 

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Today I went to Mass, came home and excitedly read a letter that had arrived yesterday from the monastery. I was told that after “much prayer” that God “isn’t calling you to our Carmel”. Lovely news to read on my birthday. But I went on with my day, buying a gift for mom’s birthday, some errands and a late lunch with friends at Versailles, a Cuban restuarant. Now, i’m doing laundry. Might do some sewing later. Mom’s birthday was on Thursday, and she controls the birthday weekend: her cake, her time, her location, etc. I had to ask Dad if he/they wanted my birthday gift suggestions, and he was “Uh, what?” Like, hello, it’s my birthday, too. Anyway, my family is crazy.

Silence

I’m thinking about silence itself as an object/presence recently. Immediately in my reaction field is a post I was reading from another blogger here on WP.

In my work as a child and adolescent therapist to some of the poorer children (the poorest live on skid row and I don’t have the stomach to work with that population) of Los Angeles; specifically called SPA 8 (Service Provider Area 8). I’ve had the special privilege of working with different young women, all under the age of 15 years of age who have been raped, sexually assaulted, attempted sexual assault/molestation, and/or sexual harassment. Each one has told me that they considered themselves to be the only one until they confided in a friend, cousin, or aunt near to their age (under 20 years of age); then they tell me, “I told her to tell someone about what she was going through”. Can we just get this over and done with?

Ladies/Girls/Women, let’s just admit that the men in our lives want us to feel alone. They want us to be frightened and feel alone! Yet, the reality is that more women and girls are assaulted, harrassed, abused by people they know than absolute strangers.

And abuse, physical abuse is the same story and I totally want to jump in there with the kid and be like “Yeah, I know!” but I can’t. The therapy hour is totally about them, and I pull myself back inside and be all like “Yeah? Can you tell me about what makes you scared?” or “What’s that like?” I stay on the back-burner and may save my urge to blurt out for my own therapy sessions where I get triggered/reminded of getting hit on the back my head or back with shoes or slippers (and you wonder why the F I hate the color pink or her perfume or being touched at all, least of all being touched or hugged or anything by her); that evening I watched the filled Mayo jar fly by me, missing me by golly-knows-what; choosing dissociation in the closet instead of listening to the litany of Megan’s-fucked-up-as-a-daughter-because.

You know what’s also the same fucking story? (I know, a wanna-be-nun just said the F word. Pick your jaw off the floor, ‘cuz she’s heard and said so much more worse in the past). Getting harassed and bullied at work by your supervisor. I’m taking the fall because I told my supervisor’s boss that she made comments which I considered to be inappropriate. About the 3rd week of September I received information from a client’s caregiver about A/V hallucinations, and my supervisor in the course of consulting with another supervisor, stated “Oh, is this your wife?” My roommate (a co-worker) and her supervisor were in the room. As it was out of context, inappropriate, and I’m generally reserved, I didn’t say a damn thing at the moment.  However I did email my supervisor’s supervisor about her statements, explaining that I felt they were:

Hi [Supervisor’s Supervisor],

I want to make a complaint about a statement [Name redacted to protect the not-so-innocent] made to me yesterday in front of another employee & supervisor. We had gone to the back of the [Location] office to consult with [Roommate’s supervisor] about a cx [client] of mine. To this other employee (who is my roommate, [name removed]) and in front of her supervisor, [my supervisor] said, “Oh, is this your wife?”  I corrected it immediately as “No, she’s my roommate.”
Myself and my roommate felt it was inappropriate; I’m embarrassed.
I’m making a complaint as this is not the first time [the not-so-innocent] has made inappropriate comments about faith/personal issues to me; I’ve addressed them with her in the past and thought it was taken care of. I can talk more about those  with you’d like.
I write that I’m taking the fall because I’m the one getting pegged for distinct deadlines prior to the company’s established deadlines for monthly paperwork; my supervision time is being double-booked two weeks in a row and my supervisor says “oh, I messed up…no I didn’t”; she hangs up on me, she conveniently “never” receives my text messages (I can prove this via phone company) ; she gives me the clients that she’s having assigned to her (I can also prove this), which she needs to be credentialed in an evidence-based practice (one of our primary sources of funding); she does not listen to me pertaining to being able to either submit notes on-time, or completing paperwork to her superficial deadlines but not both (I have multiple witnesses). I’ll be harassed, picked on and bullied until my body collapses or she finds someone else to bully.
Yet, there’s another side to silence, where I can find peace instead of noise, calm instead of jarring harassment; can breathe without needing to calm my pinched and firing nerve[s]. For me this kind of silence is filled with incense, Gregorian Chant and sunlight filtered through stained-glass windows. Usually, I’ve just beginning to grasp this kind of silence at the end of the Mass of the Catechumens. Currently, I take a single line from the Anima Christi “Hide me in Your wounds” because it’s the only place that has been once-struck and never struck again. That blow is finished for all time, and He is righteous and reigns again. I can hide wherever I want to, but I crawl into the lance-blow, and imagine Momma Mary holds the body of her Son one last moment as in the Pieta and clasps her hand over me, not only keeping me hidden but I cannot fall out either. I sleep with a Crucifix clutched in my hands because it’s the only way I can sleep through the night without waking up every 2 hours. One of these days I’ll walk behind the closed doors of a monastery which St. Therese of the Child Jesus frequently called a prisoner; however it’s the first time I won’t be imprisoned. I’ll be able to openly declare/be myself without fear of reprimand. Nothing should slow my mother down on reprimanding me about how I’ll cause the doom-and-gloom on her marriage and am an utter disgrace more than a 7 hour drive to San Francisco. I hope I laugh when I should be silent.

Birth Control Pill

The World Health Organization has been labelled oral birth contraceptives a Level I Carcinogen, as in it is in the top tier of causes for Cancer, thereby breast cancer. Furthermore, they (the WHO) have not retracted this statement.

Yet did your OB/GYN or GP/PCP tell you of this?

To clarify, you not only increase your chances of cancer, but breast cancer, and infertility via usage of birth control. That’s a nice price to pay for sexual freedom: unable to conceive children when you want them, and you can increase your chances of any form of cancer, but especially breast cancer.

Source: http://www.who.int/reproductivehealth/topics/ageing/cocs_hrt_statement.pdf

time

I missed my extra hour of sleep, because I was worried about missing Mass.

Birthdays went very smoothly yesterday; someone was very heavily medicated.  I toed the line a few times, and barely got a look.  But it’s fake, its a veneer.  Some things were said in jest and if it weren’t for the meds, lolz.  She just about flipped her biscuit when my sister joked that she and ‘T’ were considering certain things for when they get married. Holy friggs, the look on her face, you could see the meds working overtime, like a switch flipped.  At least I didn’t get any crap this time about not having a boyfriend; I got jabs over not having a job, though.  Not sure which one is worse.  Just a few more days to go until the actual birthdays pass, then we can all let down the guard a bit.

—Post Edited 11/07 at 3:27pm —

What a weekend. I’m tired.  Can I get a do-over?
This is one weekend I’m really glad that I don’t have to teach.