[.l.o.s.t././.i.n././.t.r.a.n.s.l.a.t.i.o.n.]

My apologies to the folks who were kind enough to let me photograph them and/or their pets at Genuine Joe’s yesterday afternon and. I know that I promised that I would have the pictures up on the site shorty after I got home las night. However, I got home much later than anyone expected and, hence, it didn’t get done . . . yet, but it wil get a free moment and can find the mini-USB to USB cable that I thought was . . .

Oh, well, that’s okay. I’ve got several method I can use and they’re all readily available. One just requires installing some sotware on the Windows machine and then – ready, set, go! No biggie. Actually, it’s something I should’ve done quite some time ago.

However, they shall be up tody. Feel free to leave commens and remember to remind me as to which picture belongs to whom so I don’t send out the wrong picture to you!

(ephemeral) 

The paradox of our time in history is that we have taller buildings but shorter tempers, wider Freeways, but narrower viewp oints. We spend more, but have less, we buy more, but enjoy less. We have bigger houses and smaller families, more conveniences, but less time. We have more degrees but less sense, more knowledge, but less judgment, more experts, yet more problems, more medicine, but less wellness. We drink too much, smoke too much, spend too recklessly, laugh too little, drive too fast, get too angry, stay up too late, get up too tired, read too little, watch TV too much, and pray too seldom. We have multiplied our possessions, but reduced our values. We talk too much, love too seldom, and hate too often. We’ve learned how to make a living, but not a life. We’ve added years to life not life to years. We’ve been all the way to the moon and back, but have trouble crossing the street to meet a new neighbor. We conquered outer space but not inner space. We’ve done larger things, but not better things. We’ve cleaned up the air, but polluted the soul. We’ve conquered the atom, but not our prejudice. We write more, but learn less. We plan more, but accomplish less. We’ve learned to rush, but not to wait. We build more computers to hold more information, to produce more copies than ever, but we communicate less and less. These are the times of fast foods and slow digestion, big men and small character, steep profits and shallow relationships. These are the days of two incomes but more divorce, fancier houses, but broken homes. These are days of quick trips, disposable diap ers, throwaway morality, one night stands, overweight bodies, and pills that do everything from cheer, to quiet, to kill . It is a time when there is much in the showroom window and nothing in the stockroom. A time when technology can bring this letter to you, and a time when you can choose either to share this insight, or to just hit delete… Remember; spend some time with your loved ones, because they are not going to be around forever. Remember, say a kind word to someone who looks up to you in awe, because that little person soon will grow up and leave your side. Remember, to give a warm hug to the one next to you, because that is the only treasure you can give with your heart and it doesn’t cost a cent. Remember, to say, "I love you" to your partner and your loved ones, but most of all mean it. A kiss and an embrace will mend hurt when it comes from deep inside of you. Remember to hold hands and cherish the moment for someday that person WI ll not be there again. Give time to love, give time to speak! And give time to share the precious thoughts in your mind. AND ALWAYS REMEMBER: Life is not measured by the number of breaths we take, but by the moments that take our breath away".

Thank you, George Carlin, for that beauty.

(ephemeral) 

Right now I’m giving you fair and adequate warning. Below may contain some information that may be considered too much information, so if you choose to scroll down and read, you’ve been warned. However, at the same time, there’s some pretty interesting – and amazing (or so it was to me!) – stuff there, too . . . so it’s a toss up and the proverbial ball is in your court.

My husband tonight utterly amazed me. Then again, he does this often, but this was special – and quite spectacular, if I do say so myself.

So, I say, as we’re laying in bed, cuddling and touching, stroking each others’ skin, that I wonder if it’s possible to be brought to orgasm just by touch. Well, he took this as a personal challenge and started seriously sensually stroking my skin, hitting all my erogenous zones, and just going to town with it. I was writhing like mad. He had me so worked up that it was crazy. I felt myself getting wetter and wetter, I was moaning and I could feel myself getting closer and closer and closer to a pretty intense orgasm. Then, when he – and this just drives me absolutely crazy in that way that every woman loves to be driven crazy – bit me at the right spot at the nape of the neck with just the right amount of teeth and pressure. I was gone. I came so hard. It was on after that. I went down on him, which I love doing, and he didn’t stop touching and caressing me, which was driving me even more wild. I was already pretty much soaking, so . . . We played back and forth for a few more minutes, the intensity just building and I kept coming and coming all through this. It was mind blowing. Then, he enters me and we really get to going at it, him still running his hands and fingers all over me, making me burn with passion and have orgasm after orgasm after orgasm after orgasm. We both came together incredibly hard, falling momentarily in a pile on each other, him on top of me, which I love. At that point and – I absolutely swear – for about an hour or so thereafter I keep having what I call "aftershock" orgams, which are orgasms with minimal touch or stimulation of any kind. We cuddle as he falls asleep and as I’m cuddling with him, I’m still having major aftershocks. Giggling proudly, he asked if I was okay. My response, "I’m more than okay. I’m in sheer bliss here."

I couldn’t move except for the aftershock twitches for about an hour.

Saying that my husband is good in bed is an understatement. He’s an absolute, bona-fide god and the only man who’s ever been able to give me an orgasm, much less multiples and then do things like this.

I’m still floaty and blissed out. I’m going to go cuddle some more. :)

(ephemeral)

 

So, as of a few hours ago – around lunchtime, Central Standard Time – I completed twenty-nine reolutions around this bright star of ours known as the sun.

This year has been rather interesting. I got married in this last turn around our celestial star, which I of all people didn’t expect, but at the same time I’m the last person complaining. And, to make it even better, my Dad loves him! My Dad has never liked anyone that I’ve dated, but he’s given this one his full approval, love, acceptance, and respect. He even calls him "son" – which is a major sign of just how much Dad’s come to bring Steve, my husband, into our family – fucked up though it may be.

And Steve’s family has fully accepted me, too. I have more family! It’s strange. They’re great people, too, and I’ve liked every single one of them that I’ve met. I really love his Mom and Dad. They’re so awesome.

I’ve also had a few old, but very close friends randomly appear back into my life. One was my best friend – and the most unexpected of all, Mr. Mason. Another was Miss Nicky. S. John was definitely the coolest by far. Erin was awesome to hear from again. Ken rocked because he’s just so damn awesome and I’ve missed him soooooo very, very much. There were others, but these by far stand out the most. I’m so glad to have you guys – and gals – back in my life again!

During this year with the stellar movements of the sky and earth in balance, there was Misery Journey, of which I am not sure that I have spoken of. Shortly after getting married I got to take a now former friend back home to Tacoma from Austin when she lost her job at Apple – with the promise that her or her parents would give me enough gas money to make it back. Well, her parents did, but she having Borderline Personality Disorder and being a kleptomaniac stole about half the money they gave me to get home on and thus left me in a major bind. I made it to California, because before I’d left I’d already planned to make a side trip there to visit with my ex-roommate and close friend, Jason. He cleaned me up, got some Starbucks in me, took me to the best sushi I’ve ever had in my whole, entire life (and I’ve had A LOT of sushi), and got me good for the road back home. Because of him, I made it back with under twenty bucks to my name. I didn’t eat or stop to rest on the way back, either. He saved my ass, though. And during that twenty-four hour respite, he showed me some beautiful things. California IS beautiful. I must give it that.

In this last year, this past tour in the sunshine, there have been some really bad things that have happened, namely two – and both have been in the past two months, funny enough: Steve and I lost our daughter; I nearly died last week from an accidentally medically-induced medicine overdose that sent me into grand mal seizures for a few days. One day longer, said the neurologist at the hospital to me after reviewing my EEGs, and I probably would’ve been toast.

My sponsor and I decided after much talk that since my last ‘relapse’ was what I thought it was and what she’d spent the last few years trying to convince me that it was – a suicide attempt driven by my ex. I used a lethal dose and it didn’t kill me, so now March first is my pseudo-sobriety birthday and October thirty-first of 2003 is my actual sobriety birthday, meaning that soon – very soon – I’ll be coming up on five years. Hella cool. So in my previous revolution, instead of making just one year, I actually hit my four. This is going to make things interesting come Birthday Night. LOL.

(ephemeral) 

The Sun was born, so it shall die
So only shadows comfort me
I know in darkness I will find you giving up inside like me
Each day shall end as it begins
And though you’re far away from me
I know in darkness I will find you giving up inside like me
VNV Nation – End of Days

I know that’s a funny quote to begin with, given the title of this post. I’ll also warn you now that there’s some trigger-some content that follows, so you might want to skip the next paragraph and then read the rest if you have abuse-related issues.

I refuse to be a fucking victim. I’ve had enough of that in my lifetime already. As a kid I was abused, but I’m not going into detail there. It gets nasty. At fourteen I was raped by a family friend’s child. At sixteen, while at boarding school, I was raped again. During my parent’s divorce, I was used as a pawn by my mom – promised rewards if I got documents against my Dad during visitations, but nothing ever came of those promises. They were merely lies. Notice how ‘Dad’ is capitalized and ‘mom’ is not. Anyhow, my mom used to have contests with me to lose weight, promising a new wardrobe and other such bullshit if I lost more weight than she did. That never materialized, either. And when her systemic lupus erythematosus got bad enough to where she couldn’t take care of herself, the house, the bills, and my little brother and I, guess who’s shoulders all that fell upon? Mine. There was never any thanks, just chastising that I should do better, perform more. That started when I was twelve. I’d get into my evil bitch of a grandmother on my Dad’s side, who viewed my little brother, cousin, and I for being "half breeds" and therefore not good enough for shit . . . or her verbal and physical abuse because of it . . . and the subsequent bullshit she put my brother and I through while my mom was in St. Luke’s Hospital dying when I was sixteen. Nor will I get into my Dad abandoning me in Puerto Rico for the rest of the summer after mom’s funeral because I insulted his bitch of a mother, over which we got into a nasty argument that resulted in my being ditched there and eventually landing my ass in boarding school, after a wonderful – and I mean that in the most sarcastic way – month with some of my mom’s extended family in which I was ridiculed by an alcoholic pastor’s wife. Hey, at least the pastor didn’t . . . and I got get drunk with him. I’m pretty certain he wanted a divorce, but his religious convictions wouldn’t allow it. Meh. Not my problem now.

I refuse to be a fucking victim again. I refuse to be a fucking statistic. What am I talking about? See, about two months ago, my husband got referred to a neurologist when he had an accident that landed him in the emergency room. So we went to this guy’s office, unsuspecting of the bullshit and lies and what else would come of that. At first, I thought the guy was okay as he seemed to be very scientific in his proceedings. Being narcoleptic and epileptic and having also been looking for a neurologist, I figured I’d make an appointment to see this doctor – if he can even be called that – as well. So I went in, he seemed focused on the narcoleptic issue because, well, it’s been getting worse and Provigil isn’t working for me as a stand alone medication anymore. So he set me up to have a polysomnogram – though without an MSLT, which is a standard test for narcolepsy and repeated if the condition worsens. And then it got fun. I got jacked around and lied to by his office and then directly – to my face – by him, all the while my condition was still deteriorating. And, as if that weren’t enough, my husband wasn’t improving. Now he’s at a point where things are to the point where they began. Our patient records – if they can be called that – are full of erroneous details, things we never said, and more. And I’m angry as all fucking hell about it.

I refuse to be a fucking victim – and even moreso – I refuse to let the one I love be a victim, too. This means war. I’ve been trampled on enough just on my own, but what pisses me off more than anything is seeing the mistreatment of my husband. I can live with having to wait another few weeks – maybe – if my thyroid levels are in check – to see another neurologist, who’s been recommended by both my primary care physician and my psychiatrist. But my husband may have to wait until the start of the year because of our fucking insurance until he can get adequate care without it putting us in financial jeopardy. It aggravates me that he’s suffering and that my hands are tied as to doing anything about it, really, without drastic action. But, you know what? I’m READY to take drastic action against this son of a whore. Little does he know who he’s fucking with. Little does he know just how much firepower I’ll bring to the table. Little does he know that the victimization of people, in this instance, is going to fuck his shit up. And that’s NOT a threat. It’s a goddamn promise.

(ephemeral)

dis·hon·est

1. not honest; disposed to lie, cheat, or steal; not worthy of trust or belief
2. proceeding from or exhibiting lack of honesty; fraudulent
3. deceptive or fraudulent; disposed to cheat or defraud or deceive
4. characterized by lack of truth, honesty, or trustworthiness : unfair, deceptive

Don’t fuck with me or lie to my face, especially when: a) I’ve got proof from other sources – hard proof – that shows that you’re lying and b) I’ve got a witness that can prove that you’re either just a sadist and like to make people’s lives as miserable as possible or that you’re just incapable of telling the truth . . . or, in this case, probably both.

When you screw with me like this, to where not only my life is affected but the lives of others . . . to the point where you’re damaging my ability to work; to perform even the most minimal of tasks around  the house because I might succumb to narcolepsy while, oh, cooking, and burn down the house; to the point where I’m afraid to drive unless absolutely necessary because I feel like I might pose a threat to others should – God forbid! – anything happen; to the point where I’ve scared the holy living fuck out of my husband a few times because of this . . . and it’s because of your negligence, dishonesty, and irresponsibility, you’d better be ready for what comes next.

To qoute Eminem:

"No more games, I’m a change what you call rage. Tear this mothafuckin’ roof off like two dogs caged. I was playin’ in the beginning, the mood all changed. I been chewed up and spit out and booed off stage. But I kept rhymin’ and stepwritin’ the next cypher. Best believe somebody’s payin’ the pied piper. All the pain inside amplified by the fact that I can’t get by with my nine to five and I can’t provide the right type of life for my family . . .  This is my life."

Don’t. Fuck. With. Me.

(ephemeral) 

this post is brought to you by small letters because it is not a happy post.

this post bears the "friends" tag. rather it should wear the tag "ex-friends", "betrayal", "backstabbing", or some other such thing as the tag "friends" is in and of itself a lie because this post is about those things . . . about someone who used to be a friend. and while i’m one of the most forgiving people you will ever meet and will give you chance after chance after chance after you’ve fucked me around and hurt me bad, this person gets something very few people have ever gotten from me: the axe.

i guess the era era ended between this person and i a long while before this. no, actually, it did end. but i guess i just found a nice, clean line of demarcation to simply walk away from it, to begin the silence that should have begun a long, long time ago.

so, without further ado, i bring you song lyrics that when and if you play the song itself – which i highly encourage you listen to it as it’s a great song – it embodies the emotions that washed over me when i stepped up to this line of demarcation.

the eels – "guest list"
album: "beautiful freak"

are you one of the beautiful people?
is my name on the list?
wanna be of the beautiful people . . .
wanna feel like i’m missed.

hey – you – with the walkie-talkie,
i know my clothes are not right.
i wish i had my own walkie-talkie
that reached to god every night.

everyone needs to be somebody.
everyone needs to find someone who cares.
but i don’t know if you know what i mean
‘cause i’m never on your list.

are you one of the beautiful people?
am i on the wrong track?
sometimes it feels like i’m made of eggshell
and it feels like i’m gonna crack.

everyone needs to be somebody.
everyone needs to find someone who cares.
but i don’t know if you know what i mean
‘cause i’m never on your list.

i’m never on your list.

(ephemeral) 

So . . . spinal taps aren’t fun.

I’ve been through one before. The techniques have improved, though, as I got to witness today, while watching my baby going through one while I held his hand. That sucked. Let me tell you. I hate watching people go through pain that I can’t take away, but I’m not God or any other diety . . . at least last time I checked or. if I am, I haven’t been notified, so I’ll take it that, nope, I’m not anything of the sort. Nor would I want to be. It’s too much responsibility.

But I digress.

 
I watched my baby go through a spinal tap. And it sucked. They found a high level of protiens in his cerebrospinal fluid. Not good. Now he’s got to see a neurologist in the next few days to determine what this could mean, but none of it sounds really good right off the bat, at least with the reasearch that we’ve been able to do on our own thus far.

I’m praying for rain. I’m praying for tidal waves.

(ephemeral)
 

http://organizedchaos.blogsome.com/

(ephemeral) 

Thank you to my hubby and to my best friend, Kevin, for reminding me that I’m not useless.

As Kevin pointed out, what’s most likely going on with me is that things aren’t happening for me as fast as I’d like or the way that I’d like. There’s me . . . trying to wrest back control when I am powerless. In A. A. you learn a lot of things: personal powerlessness, surrender, humility, acceptance, letting go, boundaries . . . That’s just a small number of the myriad of lessons I’ve learned so far – and sometimes have to revisit.

Like right now while talking to Kevin he pointed out to me the above about things not happening "my way". This means I need to surrender them to my Higher Power and stop trying to meddle. My job is NOT to fix everything, but to do what I can and only that – the next right thing, as it were.

I’m powerless over a lot of things right now and that makes me feel ineffectual. 

But I have to realize that it doesn’t mean that I am ineffectual. As Kevin pointed out, if I were ineffectual, things wouldn’t be where they are now. I wouldn’t have made any headway anywhere, or, if anything, I’d have already relapsed. 

So, ummm, yeah.

I need to surrender. Again. I keep revisiting this one this year. Heh. And I need to remember where "you" end and "I" begin. And I need to keep in mind what personal powerlessness is and what it does and doesn’t touch in my life.

 
(ephemeral)
 

Not only do I feel useless, but I feel like I’m pissing someone off without meaning to. Great. Watch me fail all over the fucking place.

True to addiction, huh? Everything gets going good and you find a way to tear it apart. You can’t have nice things.

There goes the committee. Spin, spin, sugar . . .

(ephemeral) 

IT’S MINE I GOT THE NAME!! IT’S MINE!! OMFGWTFBBQROGLMAOU812

The business name I  wanted wasn’t taken.

It’s on now, peeps. We are talking about all-out full-court press, yeah. Hahahahaha. D00d. W3rd to d4 m0th3r5h1p.

(ephemeral) 

It’s been an awesome weekend all the way around.

I got to pick some business brains, get stuff accomplished, and chill out. I got to hang out with Rob Landley for the first time in a long time, too, and catch up over coffee. We had a great coversation that was MUCH needed and some wicked stuff came out of it.

Hellz yeah.

And as if all that weren’t cake, the icing was mmmm mmmm mmmm . . . My hubby is beyond words. :)

How did I ever get it so damn good? 

(ephemeral) 

The last month’s happenings . . . in NO particular order:

• Road Trip From Hell 2007
• PTSD resulting from the aforementioned Road Trip From Hell
• Hanging out with Jason Goddard
• Hanging out with Calic0
• Mr. Bacon is back
• Drama on the business front
• My sole sibling is . . . I love him. If he gives my Dad a heart attack, though . . .
  
• Preparations for meeting my husband’s parents
  
• Meetings in other cities

I think that’s the short of it.

(ephemeral) 

One month . . . and if you don’t know what I’m talking about, then you just aren’t speechul. :)

It’s been a badass month, though. I mean, really. It’s been kinda surreal in places – especially at the beginning, but I’m by no means bitching!! I like this. A lot.

I’m crazy about him, which, all things considered . . . :)

(ephemeral) 

Here are the lyrics to Breathe by Prodigy:

Breathe with me

Breathe the pressure
Come play my game I’ll test ya’
Psychosomatic addict insane!
Breathe the pressure
Come play my game I’ll test ya’
Psycho-somatic addict insane!

Come play my game
Inhale, inhale, you’re the victim!
Come play my game
Exhale, exhale, exhale!

(Like a fool)

Breathe with me

Breathe the pressure
Come play my game Ill test ya
Psychosomatic addict insane
Breathe the pressure
Come play my game Ill test ya
Psycho-somatic addict insane

Come play my game
Inhale, inhale, youre the victim
Come play my game
Exhale, exhale, exhale

Come breathe with me
Breathe with me

And this would be the END of my dealings with the two people at Dramapartment.

(ephemeral) 

Wow . . . that was powerful stuff there. I mean, really. I can totally relate to the emotions there.

I can’t thank you enough for sharing that with me. I started crying soft, mellow tears. Someone got it. People around here haven’t been through the death of a parent. I’m the only one of my friends who’s had to deal with anything like that. The closest that anybody’s come is losing a grandparent at like three or four years old before they could really form a relationship with them, so even they don’t even really have a clue what this is like.

Most people have been like, "Why is this so hard sometimes, especially near the anniversary? It’s been so long? Move on already?" Heh . . . I wish it were that simple. My Mom died tragically, too. She had a brain hemmorage as a complication from systemic lupus and I was the one who walked in on her convulsing right before she died and tried to figure out what was going on. I called 911. I did what they said. I couldn’t save her before they got there. I was the one who held her while she died. I was sixteen. I’d been taking care of her solely since I was thirteen, putting my teenage existance on hold, sacrifincing any hope of being ‘normal’ – whatever that means – because my father was an absentee parent so the responsibility fell on my shoulders as the oldest.

She was abusive. Nothing was good enough. I struggled to please her. I tried to be perfect. She was Borderline and Narcisistic. She tried to live vicariously through me. No matter how much I achieved, it wasn’t enough. How many people in my position could’ve maintained a 3.95 GPA, taken college courses on top of it and maintained a 3.75 GPA there, gotten a hardship license, taken care of the household duties – including the budget and shopping and housework, taken care of a learning diabled and diabetic younger brother’s special needs, and their mother’s illness? Somehow, by some miracle, I did it for three years. At the end of it I had a nervous breakdown.

I was angry. My dad, when she died, came back into our lives like he’d never been gone at all. I hated him with such vehemence as he tried to control us with rules and regulations so overbearing and strict that they were insane. In the end he ended up sending us to a boarding school in Connecticut – until I attempted suicide after being raped there and checking myself into a psych hospital for it. And I learned to hate more deeply.

I knew depression. I couldn’t cry. I was comforted by few things at that time. Rain, dark winter days, thunder and lightning, deep gray clouds that promise storms . . . Yes, those things, too, lent me a measure of peace and calm for some reason. Perhaps it’s because they seemed to understand somehow, inherently.

I got diagnosed as Bipolar then, at sixteen, while at the psych hospital. The treatment seemed to help stabilize things over time, but that didn’t mean that I didn’t have to do a lot of work on my own as well. I’ve always been a writer and kept journals and I found that especially then it was a huge theraputic tool to put pen to paper. I wish I still had those journals, but an ex of mine threw them out. I still write . . . It’s something that keeps me sane, I guess you could say.

So . . . thank you, again, for your candidity this morning and the things you said to me on the site. They really hit home and meant a lot. How much I don’t think you know. And I truly appreciated what you sent me in e-mail, too. Hopefully this doesn’t come across as too self-absorbed . . . sigh I guess it’s just where I am today, thinking about all this shit with my mom. It’s finally come to a head and swimming around my mind in some strange mass I can’t seem to shake. :P

This, too, shall pass . . .

(ephemeral)