"There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed." - Ernest Hemingway

As always, I have little bits and pieces of thoughts throughout the week or during the periods of time where I don't write. Things that pop into my brain - "hey, yanno, I really should write about that" - only to have them disappear into the ether. What I should do is write them down as they occur to me, but even if I do (and I've tried), I usually decide that it's not really worth expounding upon later, for the most part.

You'd never know that I actually used to write on a creative level when I was younger. Not by the disjointed posts you see here today, anyway. I'd love to get back into that, but I don't feel that I have enough talent to do it, or originality to be honest. When I go back over the few writing pieces of mine that exist today (mainly really bad poetry on Literotica and the like), I cringe with complete embarrassment. That's usually a sign that I'm not cut out for the writing scene, heh.

Just that I'm thinking about trying to start again, though... that's as close to "normal" as I can ever remember being. Writing used to be my passion, what I lived for, and I might have had a shot at it if it hadn't been for a really painful experience when I was younger.

Yes, folks, here it comes. I'm purging yet another painful memory. Get ready.

Between the time I was about, oh I'll say sixteen or so, and nineteen... I was ass-deep in the writing of a book, an actual book. It doesn't matter what it was about now - something about a smart-alecky cat traveling the country having Kerouac-like adventures - but it was really, really good, or so I thought. I'd written, written, rewritten, revised, gotten critical opinions, revised again... etc. I was actually going to try and publish the damned thing, more fool me. At nineteen, I had a lot of dreams, still.

To make a long story short, the asshole that I was with at the time was abusive - in body, mind and spirit. This is the only douchebag that ever dared to hit me on a physical level, and to this day I don't know why I ever stayed with him - I guess I was conditioned to take that abuse, just like I was conditioned in childhood to accept emotional abuse and neglect.

This asshole, in a fit of rage, ripped up my book. The only copy I had. You see, there were no computers accessible back then to the general public - you had to have serious money to afford one in those days, which I didn't have. So... no copies. No way to get anything back. He took each page, and deliberately ripped it in halves, quarters, eighths. Scattered them all around the rooms. It was a big, huge, hurtful "Fuck you, bitch - you're nothing. Your so-called "talent" is shit."

I cried for weeks. That crushed my spirit like nothing else could have. At nineteen, something profound died within me. I've never been able to retrieve it since. Not ever. I have never written a word on a creative level since. Only bad, inept, stuttering poetry that is a fraction of the ability I used to have. Something inside of me still hears that limpdick's voice, echoing that sentiment. "I'm nothing. I'm shit."

Isn't that awful?

It doesn't matter how many people tell me differently, either. I just can't seem to get over that one thing, the destruction of something that I poured my heart and soul into for almost 4 years of my life. I guess you just had to be there to understand the depth of the pain.

Just the fact that I'm thinking about writing again, or even trying is a huge, huge positive sign that maybe I'm returning to the young, idealistic woman I used to be. Believe it or not... I did have hopes and dreams once, underneath all of this hurt and all of the tears I've cried incessantly since I was old enough to walk, pretty much.

Ugh, tears again. Always more tears. But it means I'm healing, doesn't it? Even if it seems to take absolutely forever.

I'm finally accepting the hurt, the pain, the fact that I endured abuse heaped onto yet more abuse. I'm finally getting that it happened and that I can't pretend it didn't and that I can't change it. But when am I going to get to forgiveness? I'm conscious that forgiveness is for myself, a way to keep people out of my head and heart... I'm getting that, too. But when is that going to happen? Am I going to carry all of this darkness within me forever?

Questions, questions, yet more questions. I want answers, damn it.

Heh, I can hear Greg's voice in my head now going, "Paaaaayyyy-shence."

Quick update on the rest of my life, here:
- Greg and I are doing wonderfully fine. Now past the 5-month mark and counting down to half a year. Hard to believe that this wonderful man is still with me, despite all. <3
- I just won the annual incentive workplace award, again, for the third year in a row. Which essentially now means that I'm set for life here, should I want to be. Not that I want to take urine for the rest of my life, that's for sure.
- School is in full swing again. This time I'm taking film history (wonderfully fun) and public safety policy (boooooring, yawn). Semester ends December 18th, hopefully I'll pull good marks.
- My wrist is more or less out of the soft cast (though it's not supposed to be yet, but I can't stand wearing the fucking thing one more day). It aches, it's VERY stiff in the mornings, but that's the way it goes. It's liveable. I can deal with it.

And that's it, for now, I guess.

Cheers from the verbal vomitorium. :p

A bit of catching up to do.

This is the last weekend I have "off" before school starts, and in truth, I'm excited to get started again. I've been bone-idle way too long.

I made a major decision over the course of the week to change my minor from forensics to women's studies - which is striking some people as "quite odd", especially since I've often said that I despise women, can't stand them, etc. In truth, I think that it's the sociological aspect that turns me off, especially regarding my generation. It's a throwback to the 1950s, where women were all about their husbands/boyfriends and their kids - both aspects that I cannot relate to in the slightest. I once read a book called "Tripping the Prom Queen" that described the rivalry of women and how they compete (especially for the attention of men). It only confirmed exactly what I've always thought - there is no such thing as a "sisterhood". The second you show any interest in what women consider "their man", the claws come out and the friendship is all over. Even I've done it. Bee-eff-eff, my fat ass.

I've just never had any interest in "competing" for any man - if a person doesn't want to be with me or spend time with me, fuck them. They miss out, not me. (Although it's taken years, decades, for me to get to that point. I don't kid myself on that score.)

So why women's studies? Partially because it relates to me in that I'm a woman, of course - but also, because I want to know more about my own gender, and what makes us do these stupid fucking things we do. It's also because I actually started to relate to the female convicts down at work - I started seeing life through their eyes, started to realize that a lot of the reason why they were in trouble to begin with is because they have little to no self-esteem. They don't believe in themselves or their potential. And isn't that where I was, at one time? Where I still am, in some ways?

I don't fool myself that I can make these womens' lives better. But I can at least understand, or relate in some way. I can offer empathy, an ear to listen, a shoulder to cry on. I know how they feel, in a lot of respects, in that they don't have anyone to listen to them, or that cares what happens to them.

Perhaps I do have a minute shred of compassion left in this hardened heart of mine.

With the minor change, as of the spring semester (2012), I'll only have 47 credits left before I graduate. At 12 credits a semester (a lot heavier than it has been, but I want this over with, to be honest), I'll be done by fall of next year. Even I can't believe it's true, in a way. I've come very far since my first panicked post that I had enrolled in school.

Oh, how far I HAVE come. :D

Alternate work schedule (AWS) starts this week. Basically my day is now nearly 10 hours instead of 9, but I get Wednesdays off every 2 weeks, which will help me out for things I have to do (like grocery shopping, deliveries, running errands, etc.). I don't know how it'll work out - I'm bone tired as it is - but I've agreed to try it out. It's not as if I'm really there any longer than I am now. What's another hour a day? And this week will be particularly sweet, as I only work Monday, Tuesday and Friday - I have jury duty on Thursday (not that I'll be selected, due to the break-in amongst other reasons), my AWS day falls this week, and then a long weekend for Memorial Day, which will be perfect for me to begin the semester with.

Despite all of the additional expenses because of the break-in, I'm actually all right, financial-wise. It's higher than I want it to be, but isn't everything? And I've decided that my federal tax refund will apply toward my bills, once again, so it'll all wash out in the end. I'll be a lot careful this time around not to run things up - of course, I've said that before, but this time I'm really going to try.

Last but not least... I received another Email from that guy that wrote me back around the holidays last year. That's the one that disappeared for months, then wrote again saying he was "thinking about me". I haven't really gone to much effort to write him, because I'm still ticked off about that - if someone's interested in you, a 4-month-long disappearance isn't the way to show it. But, eh, I guess I'm the flavor of the moment or something. Whatever. I'll play along - I don't have much else to do.

And that's about it. What an exciting life I lead, huh? :p

More later.

.....

"I didn't have to say it. I just had to write it. It was painful enough."



Robert B. Parker
1932 - 2010

Starting to feel better.

I'm not really in a talkative mood today, but I am feeling a little better - the cold/illness/whatever it was is clearing up, so I'm a bit happier.

I am still tired, though.

Just came back from the Pratt Library booksale. Utter madness. I've never seen so many people in one place in my life, but they were only charging 1.50 for a box of books, so... entertainment on the cheap is always good. I bought enough to satisfy my craving for a while. The Kindle is nice, but nothing beats holding an actual book in your hands, sometimes.

Speaking of... I think I'll go do that right now, and add in a nice, hot bath to boot. It's fucking cold out there.

Back later on if I feel like writing.