"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 thought about Mother's Day.

Let me preface this post with a simple fact: my mother and I have never gotten along, nor do we get along now if we spend more than say 3 hours at a time together. I already know that if I ever have to live with her again (whether it's because of my having to take care of her, which isn't a far possibility, unfortunately or otherwise), my life would become utter misery. So, before, I'm accused of being an ungrateful brat (which has happened in the past) - try to remember that this is the woman that contributed to my abusive upbringing, even if it was caused by acts of omission.

I've done things over the last few years that have defied description, considering how things have been - I've bought her cruises, I've taken care of her basic needs such as shopping, medical situations, made sure that she's comfortable. People keep asking me why. "Why do you do these things? She's been absolutely horrible to you. Why do you keep sacrificing yourself on her altar?"

Because she's my mother. What can I say? If it hadn't been for her, I wouldn't be here.

I won't mention the fact that I've bemoaned my own existence for a good portion of my life. That's immaterial to the gist of what I'm saying.

No matter what bad shit she's done over the years, or how many mistakes she's made, or how much I wish things could have been different for me - she's my mother. It would go against my personal grain for me NOT to take care of her or do for her. Maybe that makes me a sucker, I don't know. Maybe I'm a masochist. But it's what I am, and I'd be denying an essential part of myself if I don't extend myself to help her out.

It's not about love for my parent. It's about being who I am. It's about love for myself. If that makes sense.

So, happy Mother's Day, for those of you who are mothers, for those of you soon to be mothers, for those of you who wish you were mothers. This holiday, for me, isn't only about love for Mom... but for me.

Peace.

Attention, Baltimore thugs: you didn't break me. Sorry.

I have to work this quarter's Saturday shift tomorrow, so I ended up with today off, which was actually a bonus for me. It allowed me to get some things done that I might not have otherwise. A lot of the mess that was in the house before the break-in has been cleared away/fixed, and as a result, my anxiety levels have plummeted.

I've temporarily hung up a colorful tapestry over the damaged wall where the television was, and I actually like the look of it so much that I just may leave it there permanently. I'm reconsidering even replacing the TV at all, to be honest - it was indeed an idiot box, just hanging there, wasting a lot of my valuable time where I could have been doing other things. Like, say, cleaning. Or actually eating breakfast in the morning, fixing my hair to go to work, that sort of thing.

I'm aware that the last sentence in particular sounded really awful, but I can't lie - all of it is true. I'd neglect simple things like taking care of myself (by eating a necessary meal) or trying to make myself look at least a little better (fixing my hair) because I'd sit on my sofa and just stare into nothingness, trying to fool myself into believing that I needed that time just to "wake up". But it's bullshit, you know. I was awake. Just not... "there". Does that make sense?

It's not as if I ever really "watched" the damned thing, anyhow. It was background noise to try and blot out the fact that if I don't make sound in here, it's utterly silent and desolate. Or is it? It's only desolate if I choose it to be so.

The only thing that truly hurt, I think, was the loss of my computer equipment - partially because I'd just purchased it and it was like throwing 800 dollars out the window, but also because what little entertainment I do choose to watch, most of it is on my computer (be it in the form of movies or TV shows on DVD or something similar). Other than that - screw it, what do I care, the thugs can keep all that shit. Really!

I've changed over most of my accounts now, but there seems to be very little fallout from the break-in itself, which is good news. The two computers that they'd taken (yes, they managed to steal both my new one and the broken one, sheesh), I don't think they're going to get very far. The new one had a fingerprint recognition feature on it that makes trying to access it useless, and the broken one's battery was dead and they neglected to take the charger to fire it up. Dumbasses. Still, I canceled my accounts and set up new ones, just to be safe. It's a good thing that the broken one's battery WAS dead, because that one literally had nearly all of my financial information on it. Lesson learned - I'll never do THAT again. It's back to paper and pencil for me when it comes to my finances.

I've actually learned a LOT of lessons from this incident. I've been way too lax with my own security for a good portion of my life - perhaps because I had the false sense of feeling "invincible". After all, this has never happened to me before; why would I ever think about such things? It's been hit home to me that I do, indeed, need to think about it. I'm a single woman living alone in Baltimore City; while the area of town I live in isn't a "slum", it's on the edge of one where there's still a huge amount of drug activity and crime. I should have thought about this a long time ago. But it's not too late to start now, and I've done exactly that.

I had a security system installed this week, and I'm planning on installing security doors for both the front and back of the house. I'm also considering motion detectors for the backyard, the side of the house, and even bars on the back windows (though I really don't want to go that far - I don't want to feel as if I live in a prison - but it may be necessary). I've also changed some personal habits in that I now shut the blinds at all times unless I'm physically in the room, as well as leaving some lights on at night, and turning different ones on and off. And as soon as I can pick up the old desktop computer that my mother offered me, I'm going to begin scanning personal financial documents and shredding all of the old paper copies. The scans will go on a portable hard drive that will probably be locked up in a personal safe (that of course will be bolted to the floor to prevent anyone from taking THAT).

Too much, you say? Yeah, it might be. I may not go THIS far, but I do think that some of the above ideas are good ones. I have to work with one thing at a time, of course, because I'm facing down some pretty expensive stuff in the next few weeks. My credit card bill has already swelled past the comfort level because of having to replace the computer and get the alarm system installed. Sigh.

But if it means I'll be safe in my own house, so be it.

The one thing that keeps running through my mind, though, is that I'm thankful that I'm alive and that I didn't walk in on these assholes that did this. Because I live in a city where someone will shoot you in the head for a pair of 60 dollar Nike tennis shoes. And, yet, I still love my little house in the city. I still enjoy being here. No one with a drug addiction - or for that matter, any issue - is going to take that away from me.

I've taken my house back. Now I'm taking my life back.