Tag Archives: intertubes

Why I don’t “like” many things– a call to comment

Schmutzie has a great post here about quitting the “like” option on FB and how it changed her feed and her interactions with people for the better.  It reminds me of blogging 1.0, when we were all on blogger and there WAS NO LIKE BUTTON AND WE ALL USED NETSCAPE for a browser AND WE LIKED IT (ahem) THAT WAY.  Uphill, both ways, on a 28.8 bit modem.  Rah.  Hipsters on my internet lawn.

I say in my “about” page that I don’t “like” back a lot of people who stop by & like posts– and that’s not because I don’t appreciate that you stopped by & took the time to read, but because I am a bit of a blog-luddite-curmudgeon, and, while I admit, my time is limited and I am really bad about being social at visiting everyone who stops by and leaving comments, (and thank you, again, for visiting) I started blogging when you either lurked or took the leap to leave a comment and engaged and took the risk of either being ignored by the big name bloggers out there, or of making good friends for life with your fellow denizens of the ‘tubes.

I have re-made the commitment to reply back to everyone who does leave a comment– and now I need to take that next step again and not just reply but visit back (or email, for those of you who do not have blogs, *gasp*) for everyone who comments, and to make the time to explore and see about expanding that internet circle from the one I started back before there were mobile platforms and a laptop still weighed over ten pounds.  : )   So– no, I won’t “like” your blog.  But if you leave a comment or question, I will reply, and I will get out of my curmudgeonly shell and visit, just like at the dawn of the tubes when there was no like button at all.

I’m going to thumbs-down the thumbs-up.  How about you?

Ways of looking

I follow the English public thinker Alain de Botton on Twitter, and while I don’t always agree with him, he does provoke thought in his posts, books, and links, which of course is the whole purpose of being a live, working philosopher.  Yesterday, he tweeted about the “evils” of photography versus learning to draw and linked to an article in The Philosopher’s Mail about phone-photography versus sketching.  I don’t agree with the article, by and large.

The points I chose to take away from the article were:

1) we shouldn’t be living our lives through our gadgets, and that phone camera snaps shouldn’t substitute for being actually present in a moment, for noticing the minute details versus just collecting proof that Kilroy Was Here before we move on quickly, because there’s a (socially constructed and inherently false) schedule to keep to so that we can document to the next snapchattable moment, and,

2) by cultivating a “slow” skill such as drawing, especially when it’s something that doesn’t come naturally to us, we learn to take in the world in a different way, to truly notice the depth of beauty all around us and all the fine details that we can breathe in if we just look,

3) the ability to look and perceive both the whole and its details is important.

I agree, fully, that there are too many of us who are distracted in our everyday doings, but it didn’t start with the camera– perhaps with the telegraph, or same day post.  The fact is, life is fast and has been getting faster since the invention of the printing press (darn that Gutenberg, he had no value for the small quiet value of hand-inked vellum), and “drawing” as a way to stop & smell the roses is all well and good as a metaphor.  It’s not so great as a general moral proposition.

The points inherent in the article with which I take issue are, if not legion, ones that have been brought up by people far more articulate than me–

1) that a camera phone photograph cannot inherently capture finer details,

2) that the takers of camera phone photographs are all rushing, rushing, rushing, rather than– pausing to notice and focus in on that detail– the cornice of that building, that tulip, that couple embracing,

 

3) that the takers of camera phone photographs do not take the time, later, to share that captured detail with other people later, either in print or on one of the many social media sites where photographers congregate to share photos, look for those details they personally find beautiful and worthy of documentation and sharing (Instagram? Flickr?  Twitter?  Does Mr. de Botton not know about photography social media platforms, or that photos can be shared on the platform he uses?)

4) that all the details & moments captured on camera phones are inherently “shallow”– selfies or fashion shots or pictures of expensive meals or other consumables rather than externally objective objects of beauty– travel, nature, animals, smiles, architecture, “what a wondrous thing is man” when he manages to capture a macro of a peacock feather– when, in fact, a review of any mobile photography website will show you the whole range of human and earthly existence,

5) that drawing is inherently and always better than phone (or any other) photography, and that photography is not, therefore, art, however “art” is defined,

6) that camera phone photography, as an “art” and a “skill” is something that does not inspire the doer toward improvement, toward other forms of the art, toward more technique or toward gatherings with like-minded persons who likewise seek to gather & appreciate the beauty out there in the world.  (One word/hashtag: #instameet.)  I didn’t start out with a camera phone, for my own self, but my little point & shoots, and my desire to improve my own naked eye shots of the things out there in the world have certainly caused me to read more about how to frame, how to compose, whether to upgrade to a DSLR (and I did) so that I could capture better, finer, more beauty than I had been able to heretofore.  I have met and know many, many, many folks online & in person whose “gateway” drug was the point & shoot or the iPhone, but now they go on photo safaris & print out real art, real beauty, real moments that reflect our world as it is– or as we’d like it to be.

I have no problem, at all, with people who have the time and perseverance to sketch, paint, or engage in other forms of non-photography art.  I admire the talent and ambition and stick-to-itiveness that it takes.  But it is an unassailable truth that life does move quickly, and all the slowing down and taking time to smell the roses (or sketch them, as the argument would suppose) doesn’t change the fact that in the every day churn of it all, sometimes we don’t have the time to stop and sketch, because we haven’t got the concatenation of timing, life circumstances and courage to choose to do anything other than get to work and take care of our selves and our loved ones in mundane, material ways.

It would be nice, lovely, ideal, to live a more artistic, more reflective life in more moments over the spread of a lifetime– but sometimes, realistically speaking, a camera phone shot and five minutes to notice whatever image you saw is all the time you have in a day to notice the beauty and humanity around you.

Five minutes’ pause on your way is better than none.

I also freely admit that there are a hell of a lot of pretty pictures of flowers and beloved children and cats of no particular artistic inspiration on the internet and in photo albums all over the world– though I would also argue that art isn’t always the point of a photograph, because it is also useful in capturing a moment, preserving a memory, and whether it does it with more or less technique or artistry is less important than the preservation itself.

In that regard, photography in its speed does what sketching (and those without patience or time or talent or any combination of those you choose to combine in your moral judgment) does not– it preserves a moment in time which, looked back upon, recalls happiness, even if it is done artlessly.

I’d also argue that today’s selfie might be someone else’s coup de foudre— art is at least partly subjective, after all, and however much sarcasm someone else might inflect the term with, to the aficionado, an iPhone shot of “nail art” has meaning and increases the general quantum of happiness– if some of it is at the shallow end of life’s pool, why does everything have to be deep? I’m not trying to say that there is no objective truth, or larger, important set of truths, but if a shallow happiness works for that person in that particular moment, or if something that seems trite to one person is meaningful to another– well.  I’m happy to wait while someone is standing on the sidewalk before me, taking a camera phone shot of something they find to have meaning.

 All pictures taken on my Google Droid phone, and uploaded to my Flickr, via Instagram & its various automatic filters.

 

Oversimplification and stigmatization of mental illness

The below set of illustrations and descriptions of mental illness “monsters” came up on my fandom tumblr from tumblr user mouzekiller and it turned out I had a lot of thoughts about it.  I’m copying and pasting here, because, um, some of my fandom tumblr stuff is super-specialized and kind of weird and I don’t feel comfortable linking it here.

mouzekiller:

mental disorders in form of “monsters”.
monster description:

BPD:

“The borderline personality disorder is one of the most delicate but perhaps most sinister of monsters. The gather is small swarms around their victims and use pheromones to heighten the emotions of said victim, before feeding off on the emotion itself. They feed upon any emotion but tend to favor feelings of depression.

The monster is made almost completely of a clear ice, rendering it invisible. Only the maple shaped leaf on its tail is visible to the naked eye and looks like a falling leaf. At times, when the monster gorges itself too much on any given emotion its can overwhelm them and they simply shatter like glass.”

Depression:

“The depression monsters floats around endlessly, always covering his eyes becuase of his depressed state. Because of this he always bumps into things causing more distress to himself each time.
Hugs are known to relieve this poor creatures levels of depression and lift its mood slightly.”

Dissociative Identity Disorder:

“Dissociative Identity disorder (also known as Multiple Personality disorder) can be characterized by its ability to alter its form into whatever it likes. As well as changing itself physically, the creature also takes on different personas of itself each with their own personality.

Occasionally, the monster can become confused about its original identity and multiple personas can play out in the same from, complete with a mish-mash anatomy. No ‘DID’ monster looks or acts the same as another.”

Paranoia:

“Paranoia is similar in its biology to Anxiety and they can often be found together. Paranoia uses its tall ears like a radar, scanning the area. Due to the tight curled up nature of their ears the sounds often get confused and muffled meaning Paranoia almost often hears the wrong thing. They are quick to judge and quick to point the finger of blame.

They sometimes work as minions for Schizophrenia and seek out victims for it.”

Bi-Polar & Anxiety:

“The Bipolar monster is always at odds with itself, its two head constantly bickering with each other in a language of gibberish. The blue head is always depressed and easily irritable and the orange head it always on a high and in a frenzy.
Other monsters tend to stay away from Bipolar due to the constant noise it created with its arguing. “

“Anxiety is small enough to sit on its victim’s shoulder and whisper thing in to their unconscious. No-one has ever seen the face of Anxiety for it always wears a skull as a mask.
They often carry small objects linked to their victim’s anxieties. Clocks are a favorite.”

Schizophrenia:

“The Schizophrenia monster is a vile and disgusting creature that manipulates its victims into doing its bidding. It uses hallucinogenic gases secreted form the pores on his underbelly to control and influence others to do what he wants.

They are often accompanied by other monsters such as Paranoia, with Schizophrenia taking up an authoritative role much like a circus ringleader.”

Social Anxiety:
“The Social Anxiety monster spends most of it life underground or in secluded sheltered areas, away from human contact. Because of this their skin appears pale and anemic apart from hard plates that serve as as a means of defense.

They will shy away from all contact, even from a fellow monster making them elusive and rarely seen. They are from the same biological family as Anxiety and Paranoia but due to their extreme way of life they have evolved to look quite different.”

(SC: and here’s where I had thoughts…)

I am having a hard time trying to respond positively to these drawings, including the real, incredible talent exhibited by the artist, zestydoesthings, and the imaginative and mostly accurate descriptions (remember, your mileage may vary, and mine certainly does when it comes to bipolar, contrasted with what’s listed above) all to the side.

On the one hand, I think it’s really important that people find ways to cope with their disorders, and if expressing themselves artistically and finding a way to imagine what’s going on in their head in this format helps them work their way to a stabler self by seeing and then “taming” their monster, then perhaps it’s all to the good.

On the other hand, I think a lot of people with mental health issues already are faced with generalized social stigma against being “crazy.” When you’re identified as your disease— as monsters— that stigmatizing, alienating, reductionist behavior dictates that you’re no one and nothing but your crazy, you possess no real emotions, no ambitions, no real self, no dreams, just crazy, and it creates doubts and anxieties in the suffering person that are hard to get past.  Those marginalizing behaviors create a false sense of other and create a dissociation and an unhealthy case of denial in the person suffering the mental disorder. They feel guilty for something that isn’t their fault, and that just isn’t healthy if they’re going to learn to identify that they’re getting into a bad mental state and they need to do something before it gets worse, be it by reaching out to talk to someone, getting their meds switched, or doing whatever else it is that they need to do to feel better.

I guess I worry about oversimplification.  About dissociation and escaping into the trap of “I’m fine as long as I just take my meds, it will keep my monster at bay.”  About secrecy about your disorder even to people whom you might be able to trust, and to not more generally just owning up to the fact that you have feelings, whether or not they’re a bit more amplified than someone else’s.  They’re still your feelings, and you have a right to them, and to have them acknowledged, and to learn to express them in a way that’s safe for you.

Until the person with a mental disorder accepts and integrates their own monster and knows— it’s part of who they are and they are not a bad person because of their diagnosis— and decides that society and neuronormative people who who blithely toss off shit like “OMG, she was so bipolar, she was wicked moody” can go fuck themselves, because no, they don’t know what it means, and no, they don’t get to define you, because you— you are still human, and if you’re a monster, so aren’t we all, because one of the defining qualities of humanity seems to be our capacity to be inhumane to each other.

We all have monsters inside us.  Jealousy.  Anger.  Self-doubt.  Rage. Racism.  Sexism.  Self-absorption.  Willful blindness.  Those things may not fall within the ambit of the Diagnostic & Statistical Manual (which, fuck the DSM anyway) but they’re every bit as pernicious as someone who’s “officially”  crazy.  Until we recognize that the gamut of “normal” human emotions lead people to do monstrous things, too, I guess I’ll continue to worry about “monstrous” depictions of mental disorders— because I know more “crazy” people living sane, compassionate lives than I could list if I had enough Klonopin to let me stay up long enough to write it all down and not go totally manic.

We can’t forget the green-eyed monster, and the times we all were so mad the monster inside us saw red— were those times when we weren’t “sane?”

Enter, gory backblogstory

So, the husband very kindly managed to fix the breaking of my previous blog, even though I hadn’t expected him to and was in the middle of trying to figure out how to unbreak it myself/which of my techy friends I wouldn’t mind rummaging around in my archives.  But the husband is a generous person, and he managed to fix it.  And then, I imported it all here, with nary a corrupted file import, a small miracle in and of its very self.

If you’re so inspired, you can now read all the gory details going back to 2007.  Or the chocolate truffle post.  I recommend that one.

She Curmudgeon, now with added bipolarlawyercook and pre-breakup archives!    Also, some pretty damned tasty recipes and occasional amusing food-fail.  Come on, you know it’s a train wreck you want to watch.

Friends & family

I’ve been trying, in a somewhat haphazard way, to piece together old friendships, relationships with friends & family that I have let slide as my attention’s been focused mostly on putting one foot in front of the other.  I’ve been trying to do this with the consciousness of several things all at once, or as the White Queen once said, “as many as six impossible things before breakfast.”

It’s not that easy, and keeping all those things straight makes me feel very Down the Rabbit Hole-ish indeed.

In often contradictory order, those impossible things have been:

Thing One:

As someone bipolar and depressed and anxious and insecure as an adult child can peculiarly be (and all of those things do not always intersect, though sometimes they do, because they are separate pathologies/traumas whatever the emergent DSM-V might have to say), I can often be a self-absorbed and shitty friend who doesn’t hear when someone’s in distress and/or who drops off the face of the Earth during my own points of distress because I can’t handle social interaction, and so I miss important things in people’s lives, and if, as a result, people no longer trust me at all, or as far– they have that right, and my unreliability because of my crazy and perhaps maybe just because I am simply selfish, as well, can make me an undesirable friend.  So– if I reach back out to someone and get no response, or a chilly response, or an initial response and then a withdrawal– I can’t really blame them.

Everyone has a right to want people they can rely on.

Thing Two:

I have reached out to some of my oldest friends, ones who’ve disappointed me and I’ve probably disappointed in one way or another and gotten initial warm responses, only for them to fall off again.  People have babies, spouses, other things I do not, and those things are consuming, regardless of Thing One.  And the fact also is that people change, and our expectations of people aren’t met, whether they’re realistic or not.  I’ve found that with one old friend that I chafe under the old constraints of our once-friendship and old expectations about who I was going to be in that friendship– and I have the feeling that they didn’t approve of my leaving my husband despite the support I gave them during their breakups, a fact I find I’m really, really angry about.

Despite all of that, and because we’ve known each other so long, I reached out and got an initial more-than friendly response, and sent a birthday/congratulations on a momentous occasion gift not that long after that I hoped was well-recieved– but now it’s back to nothing again, not even a thanks for the gift, and I think at this point I’m just going to walk away, as sad as it makes me to say and think that.  They’re just– caught up in a life where there’s no room for me, and I’ve made attempts to visit and be part of that life(though not lately because: personal meltdown).  I don’t feel like it’s been reciprocal, though, (they’ve visited maybe once since their marriage) and I just don’t want to keep banging my head on that wall.  That’s ok, right?  To give up on a once-best friend because they just… aren’t anymore?  And to ignore them if they ever reach back because it hurts to try to be a person they want you to be and you aren’t anymore?  I know all of this.  I’ve told it to others.  It’s just hard to take my advice.

Thing three:

I find it very hard to tell people I’m friends with on less than a best friend level (especially ones that I’m conscious of having been a shitty friend to on occasion myself, despite the fact that it’s life, and even non-crazy people have ebbs and flows) that they’re bugging me because of X behavior and that I need them to either stop X or I can’t be friends with them anymore.  Partly, this comes from a long history of not speaking up for the things that I need and being afraid of confrontation, and partly, guilt for having been a shitty friend.  I have two different friends who this is a problem with, and both of them are engaged in shitty cycles of bad career choices/self-hate and want me to validate them– and I can’t.  I really can’t, because I no longer have patience for people who self-victimize (see: my Mommy issues) for years and do jack shit to change things, even if it means really painful retrenchment (see: I haven’t bought new underwear in two years, and don’t ask me about my sock drawer).  It hurts to see them flagellate, and I am angry and angrier the longer I spend time with them/talk to them and… I don’t want to be angry.  I have spent so much time being angry.  I feel guilty because they have been very supportive of me in the past, but at other times they haven’t gotten it, or have been poking at me when I have expressed a real desire not to be poked, and I just can’t be around them while they’re focused on feeling sorry and not doing bupkiss.

So– do I say that?  Do I withdraw and let them feel hurt?  Either way will result in hurt feelings, but my preference would be to be honest, even if it isn’t potentially “kind” to say that I think they’re being a moron.  (Not in those words, but still.)  I made a vow to myself when I left my husband that I was going to be honest and stand up for myself and not put up with people who couldn’t meet me halfway.  Keeping that promise is hard.

Thing four:

I’m really fucking lonely in my regular, in-real-life life.  I love my dad, but he doesn’t like to talk about feelings.  Getting over his alcoholism and keeping a job is what he can manage, and that’s about it.  He is my friend, in his way, but he also drives me batshit and I can’t talk to him about my crazy thoughts except in a clinical “I am feeling kind of manic/kind of suicidal, please poke me occasionally” way when I have that level of lucidity.  And I do that, and he does, but beyond that, it makes him twitch to talk too much about feelings.  My brother and I are not close; he and I can talk about Traumatic Family Shit when my mom’s acting up or my dad’s in poor health, but he’s not a talker to start with and I find it hard to tell if he likes me at all beyond family “of course” obligation.  Of course, I’m scared to ask.  I am sure he is worried he’ll melt down like me.

I have some married friends from law school who all have kids and spouses and jobs and it’s erratic how often we get together– and I have a feeling my most recent drop-off-the-planet stint pissed one of my female friends in this group off to the point of no return, which makes me sad, because she is sarcastic and smart and refreshing like a beach breeze, even though we don’t see each other all the time. I need to send her a card and tell her I miss her and I wonder if I did something to make her mad, even though I worry that it’s clingy, because I won’t know unless I ask, and if it’s clingy, well, I guess I can’t make things worse.

As to the others, well– there’s a married couple and I need to balance them because I enjoy their company in different ways as well as their dynamic together, and they’ve been kind and moreso to keep me after I broke up with the husband.  They have wonderful kids, are busy with that and professional life and their pack of married/kids/friends, and I can’t help but feel a little bittersweet every time I spend time with either or both because we used to do couple things with them and now it’s just me.  And I have another local law school friend who’s going through a rough patch who I’m trying to be available for, but he’s in a needier place than I am and I need to conserve my energy (aka, I need to watch all my spoons), too– so while I am grateful that I have more kindness and patience for him than I used to (I was a horrible bitch, at times, in law school, I like to think it’s not just the meds that have changed me)– I can’t spend too much time with him or I get exhausted, because while he’s a good resource for getting my Geek on, it’s more of a me giving than a reciprocity thing.

There are other friends with other commitments, and it’s hard to keep track of them all, because: everybody has lives/lives at a bit of a distance/I haven’t sucked it up to apologize yet/it’s been a really, really long time/we only talk on Facebook.  They are none of them best friends.  But they are all of them friends.  And I need to work harder, even if it does wear me out.

Thing four:

I am feeling shy about making friends at the new store, both because of my role there– professional secret keeper of personnel files, etc., disciplinarian helper, etc., etc., and therefore The Last One to Know– because I’m older than a lot of the others, if only by a few years, because I’m experience-older than others by a few years– and because I’ve been burnt by people at work who I thought were my friends before, only to have them either backstab me or drop off the face of the Earth once I left an old job, in spite of all their  “keep in touch!” and “<3 u!” protests.  Some of them hurt less than others when the attempts to get together (some initiated by them, some by me) slide off into nothing.  Still, it hurts.  (I feel like that should be my real memoir’s title.)

I should know better.  I do know better.  And yet, still, I’m hopeful.  It’s either a sign of psychosis, uncurable sentimentality, or something else that has yet to respond to medication.  And yet, I know that same soft-heartedness and “I just want everyone to be OK and happy (and also for people to like me)” thing is what makes me a good middle manager and good at my particular job, because my job is to figure out people’s emotional tone & be helpful in a caring, kind, neutral way.  Which I can’t always be if I’m all entangled in messy friendships with people.  I should probably talk with one of the other people in my particular job group outside my store about my TOO MANY FEELINGS about the job and how to/whether to make any friends aside from the three people at work more or less on the same level at work with whom I’m passing from friendly to work-friends– at the very least (and gee, duh, that may result in making some friends there, too).

At my last bookstore, I didn’t push for activities outside of work except for one or two people– and even those fizzled, either because of significant others or I-don’t-know-what-dysfunctions.  It’s rough, mixing business with pleasure.  In short, as much as I really, really like all these folks I work with and have a lot more in common with them in terms of cooking! reading! progressive social issues! political thinking! geekery! the fact is, I’m still kind of an old lady and in an uneven power dynamic with a lot of them, so whether or not they like me as a person and think I am competent or moreso at my job, it’s probably not a good idea to try to do more than be friendly and helpful.  Which makes me sad, because see: fucking lonely.

Thing five:

My brother and his lovely wife are having a baby any minute now, and while I am really looking forward to being an aunt, and as much as it seems like my sister in law seems to be looking forward to my being a competent babysitter, it’s AHOY, MIXED EMOTIONS.  At one point, I wanted kids before I got married, and was pretty baby-crazy.  And then the husband didn’t.  And I was crazy, and angry at my mother and everyone else, and didn’t want to pass on my crazy to anyone else.

Then my husband’s brother and his wife had their son, and he is amazing.  I love him.  I miss him very much, his parents too, and my husband’s older sister’s husband (funny, that, which in-laws you want to keep, despite everything) and the family dinners we used to have.  I was uploading pictures to a fancy photo-editing program my brother got me and got chest-punched with feelings from old photos of some of those dinners with the nephew and my mother-in-law, may she rest in peace and roll her eyes at my drama forever.  (And also, do I email those photos to my brother in law, and try to have no expectations of any response, even a thanks?  I should send them, just because they’re good pictures, good memories, and any good picture of my mother in law is worth having.  But the brother-in-law kind of sat on the sidelines while my marriage dissolved and I can’t help but resent that, and my resentment clouds how I think about him, even as in general, I want nothing but the best for them all.)

Still, when my nephew was born, I started to think… hey, these baby things are pretty fucking cool, but at that point, there was a shadow of awareness at the back of my head that it wasn’t working out with my husband.

And now I’m single, if not yet divorced.

(Also, background, when my mother was moving to California, years ago, one of her prefatory declarations of why was because I wasn’t giving her grandchildren anytime soon. Thanks.  Thank you, mother, for reaffirming my conviction that your narcissism runs so deep that my use to you is limited only to your expectation that I fulfill those roles you had of yourself and failed at.  She is thrilled, however, that my brother is providing a grandchild and plans to come visit that grandchild on as much of my brother’s dime as he will spend as soon as they will let her come, and incidentally, she may spend some time with me.  No, I haven’t had this discussion with her.  It’s like kicking a retarded puppy.  They’ll still piss on the rug, and they’ll whine even more loudly than they did before you kicked them.)

I am really looking forward to being an aunt.  Again.  And this time, to getting to stick around.  (I don’t know what would have happened if I’d tried to maintain a relationship with the nephew-in-laws, but it would have been awkward for the husband, so I chose not to try.)  I do want to be helpful to my brother and sister-in-law, and not just because I’m fucking pathetic and need to be loved whatever way I can get it, even if it’s just competent cook and babysitter.  I want to be that sarcastic aunt who gives my niece all the cool books and takes her on hikes and teaches her to take pictures and shows her how to make a mean steak and a salsa verde and shows her how to install telephone jacks or whatever passes for handyperson skills when it comes time for that kind of thing.

But now I am thinking about– is there any possibility of me, mother-me?  It’s a hilarious thought, considering that I just had (just, literally, as in last night just) my first sexy dream about anyone in two years.  My sexual self has been on the back burner for a long time, and I still have Incredible Moments of Awkward where I don’t know someone’s flirting with me or I get embarrassed because they are and I have no idea how to respond because it’s been … IDEFK because it makes me cry too much to think too hard about it, six plus years since I’ve had someone else want to have the sex with me.  I am no longer used to feeling like I am sexy.  Attractive.  At all.

There is no timeline in my brain for dating again, though I know it’s something in the aspirational undefined future.  I don’t know about pregnant/foster/adopt.  But I look at babies and toddlers and think for the first time more than just cute/adorable/give them back.  I think… mine.  Maybe.  Even if the idea of who/what I might do that with is as nebulous as things they aim the Hubble Telescope at.  (And about as far away.)

Thing six:

I have made a lot of really good friends on the internet, some of whom I’ve then gone on to meet in real life.  Some of them were through this blog in its various url-incarnations, some of them were through writing/fandom sites.  Some I’ve let go because they were toxic, some I let go because I began to associate that community and what I was writing (once I’d looked it over) with the falling-apart of my marriage and I needed the distance to sort out why the hell I hadn’t seen it sooner because I had this erroneous idea that I was beginning to get a handle on shit.

Hah.

Now I need to try repair those friendships I’ve neglected, and suck it up if people don’t reciprocate anymore because I’ve let things go too long, not given enough of a heads up, not apologized enough.  I need to understand not everyone has to understand, because everyone has their own shit and they can decide that even though I have mine, they don’t have time for it, and that if they let me back in at all, I have to accept it on their terms.  I have to apologize in not too abject terms, try to be straightforward and honest and say all the whys while not getting all TMI with the gory details– and if they respond, then I am lucky and blessed and they are generous and kind and I have to work hard not to waste it again, knowing that there’s a good chance I will anyway.

Thing seven:

I have given all this advice to other people.  I need to reread it.  I need to reread my own blog and stop committing Santayana on myself.

Thing eight:

I’m having a bit of a comedown from the initial high of the new job as we settle into the real everyday problems and I’m being a bit of a drama-llama and insecure and feeling depressed as I come off the high, which could be situational or neutransmitted or both.  But I want glitter and flowers and fucking unicorns, okay?  I just do.  It’s unrealistic and I still want it.

Thing nine:

I want a cat.  But– we have a feral one who will attack any other one we bring in the house– I don’t want to bring her to a shelter to kill her just because my father couldn’t be fucked to tame her and only fed her and changed her litter for the four years before I moved in.  But I want a cat who will sit on my chest and love me me me me, because people-friends and lovers and all the see: above shit to the side, animal comfort is no small comfort in deed.

It’s enough to make a girl want to hide under a mushroom and wait for someone to tell her what to do, no matter what nonsense they might happen to spout.