My relationships with religion have always been very marginal, but I admit to being intrigued by the history of Catholicism, and I have cycled half of the pilgrimage trail to Santiago de Compostela in Northern Spain. I also took quite a few courses in South and Southeast Asian art, and have learned a cursory amount of information about Buddhism. My dear friend Thomenon likes to say that the Jesuits and Buddhists have much in common in terms of being hair-splitting in their approaches to life. Both also stress compassion as one of the most important human virtues.
I would like to think I'm compassionate, but the truth is that I am pretty much only compassionate with people who don't piss me off. That isn't really what compassion is about, I know. And in my current sleep-deprived and constantly simmering state, it's really easy to make me mad. I get mad about all sorts of things, my personal favorite being the shortfalls of others where it comes to politeness. (I know all about glass houses, thank you.) I suppose that I like to think of myself as near perfect or at least ashamed of my imperfections in this realm, so I hate it when others are knowingly and unabashedly rude. I must learn to watch myself because I am starting to yell obscenities in the car in response to others' rudeness, and while my son is apraxic, it won't be long before he is able to emulate me, none the less.
So this morning I had a terrible time with the two kids in their Music Together class. It's normally fun, and of course the mix of children can be wild, not to mention that my son's best friend is in the class and that they are frequently exuberantly wild. Most of the mothers in there are understanding of my being stretched in making sure my two don't end up killing each other or themselves or anyone else. But some of the moms look at me and my elder son as if we are subhuman. These Stepford moms must have a lot of childcare at home or be extraterrestrial themselves, because I have no idea how they and their kids can be dirtless, spotless, and snotless at all times. And some of the moms are perfectly made up with shining hair. Maybe they come out of pods in the morning. Who knows? Anyway, one mom with an 18-month-old son gave me some nasty looks when my elder son knocked hers over in a game of wild chase. Yes, Callum pushed him. It may or may not have been intentional. I gave Callum a time out and severe warning. I apologized to the mom. No spoken reply to me or acknowledgment. Then her 18-month-old took drum sticks and beat my one-year-old over the head repeatedly and severely. Did she apologize to me? No. She removed her kid, but hey, perhaps she could have acknowledged that her kid isn't perfect, either. After one more push by Callum we left class because I was 1. too tired to keep dealing with the situation 2. living on fumes 3. worried that I couldn't bite my tongue if her son beat my one-year-old any more, while she gave me icy looks.
My goal today: be compassionate for those who lack compassion.
Friday, September 29, 2006
Thursday, September 28, 2006
Epiphanies
A dear friend sent me e-mail the other day, noting my long hiatus from posting and suggesting that my blog was an abandoned project. I by no means see it as a finished project, so my chastened self is back on track.
By way of excuse, I submit that I have been terrifyingly busy with all number of academic and volunteer projects. I took the GRE almost two weeks ago, and all my preparation seems to have helped me mentally and in terms of my scores. Disappointingly, I got the same on the Verbal as I did sixteen years ago (not that it was a bad score at all, but I had hoped to raise it a least a smidge), but my Quantitative score went up a brawny 60 points from last time. I am still waiting to hear about my essay scores, but I feel relatively confident that they will be fine. I also had to work hard to finish my application to the Masters Entry Program in Nursing at UCSF. In typical fashion, the more prestigious the university, the shorter the application and the fewer the requirements. I am about three-quarters done with USF's, and hope to get that on its way Saturday or Monday. That will give me a good three months to make sure my application to Samuel Merritt gleams. On top of that, I am in Microbiology (not easy at all) and Interpersonal Communication (lots of busy work). I do have to say that I took last night and the night before off to watch "Ladies in Lavender" and "A Room with a View." Hugely refreshing for my intense Anglophilia.
Before I get to my epiphanies, I want to relate a humorous anecdote relating to my beloved German husband. He knows that I am an Anglophile and that I spent years trying to find Mr. English Right. He occasionally asks me (particularly when I am embroiled in an obsession with an English actor--at present, Toby Stephens) if I regret marrying a German and not an Englishman. Last night, prompted by my mooning over "A Room with a View," he asked me this, and I answered, "I love you so much, darling." He replied, "You didn't answer my question." I responded, "No, I didn't." We then smiled and laughed. My mother, when I told her about our exchange, opined that Mark is a German-English hybrid: not English, but not rude and presumptuous, like many of his countrymen. I think she made an excellent point. I love that he is German, and that he recognizes and is horrified by the downward spiral of manners, as an Englishman might. But I am in no way giving up my English obsessions, especially when reading interviews with Toby Stephens teaches me new words, such as "rictus."
OK, back to my epiphanies. First, my pillar of support in life and academia has asked me to apply for the Nineteenth-Century Art job at his university. This means a number of things. First, that I have to find a new recommender because there is no way in hell that I will ever ask my evil advisor to do ANYTHING for me EVER again. (Tangentially, I saw the witch the other day when on campus to meet with a more worthy and wonderful faculty member, and she refused to acknowledge me; I ignored her, too. What an odd, infantilizing situation the whole adviser-student relationship can be.) Second, I would have to go back to teaching thankless, rude, presumptuous undergraduates, most of whom I loathe on principle. Third, I would have to figure out what I really want to work on that I could finish in time to get tenure and that would be of interest to others. I have realized, especially after publishing my article, that I really do think about marginal topics that aren't of great interest to many people. It doesn't make these topics any less interesting to me, but it makes my position within the field rather more tenuous. I know in my heart of hearts that I'm finished being an art historian--there, I've said it--but it feels horribly wrenching to take action and admit it widely to colleagues because it will burn bridges and truly be THE END. More than anything, I think I fear admitting to myself that my academic life is over (at least as an art historian) before I am accepted to nursing school.
My second epiphany is more self-relexive and inextricably tied to my emotions. Anyone who has known me for any length of time knows that I (used to, anyway) love sex and that I have been haunted for three decades now by one particular boy/man. As a girl, my (unhealthy) obsession with this boy was all consuming, and I felt tied to him in truly transcendent ways. We had been best friends in first grade, and he had asked me to marry him (he rued that day, I'll tell you, later on) when we were six. For some crazy reason, even back then, I "knew" we were soul mates. Time passed, things changed, I moved to England and back (where I was obsessed with his near doppelganger in school), and we were teen-agers. I felt that we were meant to be, I pursued him, he rebuffed me, and I never felt an undoing of my resolve to be with him. Not even the worst dumping or heartbreak finished what I felt for him. We were together and apart more times that I can count (no, really I can count them all, but won't bore you). I last saw almost 18 years ago, when he came to visit me at college. We had tried at numerous points to be friends, but it never worked.
In the ensuing years, I have made peace with him in my head, and I have lovely dreams in which we're friends. One relatively recent dream had us meet each other's spouses, and it seemed like I had finally come to terms with how things had ended. All the psychology classes I've taken recently have helped me see that my feelings don't diminish because they're tied to adolescence and childhood, and were part of making me who I am. I've journaled about this, talked to therapists about this, still cyber-stalk this person. I can't erase the intensity of my feeling, and I couldn't figure out why.
The first part of my epiphany happened about two years ago, when I was driving at midnight to pick up Thomenon at the airport. I was of course going over the scenario yet again, as it can be a fun activity inside my head. I realized at this point that I really didn't know anything substntial about this man, except a few facts that stuck in my head. I do know that he listened more than he spoke, and didn't really open up to me (perhaps I didn't let him, preferring my fantasy boy/man). I think to all of my healthy relationships and know so, so much more about each of them.
The second part happened in the past few weeks, as a corollary to my Toby Stephens obsession. Toby Stephens is HOT. I like to watch him and Ralph Fiennes because they are HOT (as well as English and beautifully cultured and well spoken). I realized with a jolt that the reason I've always been obsessed with this Irish-American boy/man is that he exactly fits (or perhaps he helped to create) my ideal physical type: 6'4", black hair, green eyes. In any case, one reason I still feel viscerally connected to Shamrock (one of his nicknames: a fact I do remember) is that I think he is HOT.
The other night on the phone, my erudite and perceptive friend Thomenon summed it up: "You are a woman raised in a culture that disavows female sexuality, and also sexuality in children. You sublimated your sexual desire in favor of a romantic fantasy that he was your 'perfect' man. Now that you're 37 and the mother of two, you know that you just always wanted to f*** him." How true. Shamrock wasn't particularly bright and came from a conservative family. He might have been marginally (that word again) awed by my brains. I sure was in awe of his athletic bod. His good-boy Catholicism was also a remarkably appealing challenge to a sex-crazy man-hunter like me. He never gave in. So Shamrock, if you're out there, sorry about all the stalking and harassment. If we'd ever had sex, I'm sure I would have left you alone much sooner.
By way of excuse, I submit that I have been terrifyingly busy with all number of academic and volunteer projects. I took the GRE almost two weeks ago, and all my preparation seems to have helped me mentally and in terms of my scores. Disappointingly, I got the same on the Verbal as I did sixteen years ago (not that it was a bad score at all, but I had hoped to raise it a least a smidge), but my Quantitative score went up a brawny 60 points from last time. I am still waiting to hear about my essay scores, but I feel relatively confident that they will be fine. I also had to work hard to finish my application to the Masters Entry Program in Nursing at UCSF. In typical fashion, the more prestigious the university, the shorter the application and the fewer the requirements. I am about three-quarters done with USF's, and hope to get that on its way Saturday or Monday. That will give me a good three months to make sure my application to Samuel Merritt gleams. On top of that, I am in Microbiology (not easy at all) and Interpersonal Communication (lots of busy work). I do have to say that I took last night and the night before off to watch "Ladies in Lavender" and "A Room with a View." Hugely refreshing for my intense Anglophilia.
Before I get to my epiphanies, I want to relate a humorous anecdote relating to my beloved German husband. He knows that I am an Anglophile and that I spent years trying to find Mr. English Right. He occasionally asks me (particularly when I am embroiled in an obsession with an English actor--at present, Toby Stephens) if I regret marrying a German and not an Englishman. Last night, prompted by my mooning over "A Room with a View," he asked me this, and I answered, "I love you so much, darling." He replied, "You didn't answer my question." I responded, "No, I didn't." We then smiled and laughed. My mother, when I told her about our exchange, opined that Mark is a German-English hybrid: not English, but not rude and presumptuous, like many of his countrymen. I think she made an excellent point. I love that he is German, and that he recognizes and is horrified by the downward spiral of manners, as an Englishman might. But I am in no way giving up my English obsessions, especially when reading interviews with Toby Stephens teaches me new words, such as "rictus."
OK, back to my epiphanies. First, my pillar of support in life and academia has asked me to apply for the Nineteenth-Century Art job at his university. This means a number of things. First, that I have to find a new recommender because there is no way in hell that I will ever ask my evil advisor to do ANYTHING for me EVER again. (Tangentially, I saw the witch the other day when on campus to meet with a more worthy and wonderful faculty member, and she refused to acknowledge me; I ignored her, too. What an odd, infantilizing situation the whole adviser-student relationship can be.) Second, I would have to go back to teaching thankless, rude, presumptuous undergraduates, most of whom I loathe on principle. Third, I would have to figure out what I really want to work on that I could finish in time to get tenure and that would be of interest to others. I have realized, especially after publishing my article, that I really do think about marginal topics that aren't of great interest to many people. It doesn't make these topics any less interesting to me, but it makes my position within the field rather more tenuous. I know in my heart of hearts that I'm finished being an art historian--there, I've said it--but it feels horribly wrenching to take action and admit it widely to colleagues because it will burn bridges and truly be THE END. More than anything, I think I fear admitting to myself that my academic life is over (at least as an art historian) before I am accepted to nursing school.
My second epiphany is more self-relexive and inextricably tied to my emotions. Anyone who has known me for any length of time knows that I (used to, anyway) love sex and that I have been haunted for three decades now by one particular boy/man. As a girl, my (unhealthy) obsession with this boy was all consuming, and I felt tied to him in truly transcendent ways. We had been best friends in first grade, and he had asked me to marry him (he rued that day, I'll tell you, later on) when we were six. For some crazy reason, even back then, I "knew" we were soul mates. Time passed, things changed, I moved to England and back (where I was obsessed with his near doppelganger in school), and we were teen-agers. I felt that we were meant to be, I pursued him, he rebuffed me, and I never felt an undoing of my resolve to be with him. Not even the worst dumping or heartbreak finished what I felt for him. We were together and apart more times that I can count (no, really I can count them all, but won't bore you). I last saw almost 18 years ago, when he came to visit me at college. We had tried at numerous points to be friends, but it never worked.
In the ensuing years, I have made peace with him in my head, and I have lovely dreams in which we're friends. One relatively recent dream had us meet each other's spouses, and it seemed like I had finally come to terms with how things had ended. All the psychology classes I've taken recently have helped me see that my feelings don't diminish because they're tied to adolescence and childhood, and were part of making me who I am. I've journaled about this, talked to therapists about this, still cyber-stalk this person. I can't erase the intensity of my feeling, and I couldn't figure out why.
The first part of my epiphany happened about two years ago, when I was driving at midnight to pick up Thomenon at the airport. I was of course going over the scenario yet again, as it can be a fun activity inside my head. I realized at this point that I really didn't know anything substntial about this man, except a few facts that stuck in my head. I do know that he listened more than he spoke, and didn't really open up to me (perhaps I didn't let him, preferring my fantasy boy/man). I think to all of my healthy relationships and know so, so much more about each of them.
The second part happened in the past few weeks, as a corollary to my Toby Stephens obsession. Toby Stephens is HOT. I like to watch him and Ralph Fiennes because they are HOT (as well as English and beautifully cultured and well spoken). I realized with a jolt that the reason I've always been obsessed with this Irish-American boy/man is that he exactly fits (or perhaps he helped to create) my ideal physical type: 6'4", black hair, green eyes. In any case, one reason I still feel viscerally connected to Shamrock (one of his nicknames: a fact I do remember) is that I think he is HOT.
The other night on the phone, my erudite and perceptive friend Thomenon summed it up: "You are a woman raised in a culture that disavows female sexuality, and also sexuality in children. You sublimated your sexual desire in favor of a romantic fantasy that he was your 'perfect' man. Now that you're 37 and the mother of two, you know that you just always wanted to f*** him." How true. Shamrock wasn't particularly bright and came from a conservative family. He might have been marginally (that word again) awed by my brains. I sure was in awe of his athletic bod. His good-boy Catholicism was also a remarkably appealing challenge to a sex-crazy man-hunter like me. He never gave in. So Shamrock, if you're out there, sorry about all the stalking and harassment. If we'd ever had sex, I'm sure I would have left you alone much sooner.
Monday, August 14, 2006
Busted
So hubby looked at our joint account and saw that I bought oodles of books over the weekend. I was in trouble because we're trying to save to buy a house. I feel very naughty and should know better. Oops. But I still can't wait for the Daedalus books to arrive; my excitement cannot be dampened.
My friend Greensunflower told me today that I should pare down my book collection by giving her books that I'm ready to part with. That seems like a good compromise, IF I can be convinced to purge. I suppose that I'm not quite ready to let go of my academic collection or my shelves of classics of American and British literature or those French novels that I will read again one day. Shouldn't I at least make an effort to read Sartre in French? Doesn't make much sense if I'm supposed to learn Spanish. What will I be buying next--Don Quixote in the original?
I also have to work on my academic cv tonight to send to the Director of the Center for British Studies at UC Berkeley. I think that having a connection to a group of academics would help me to push forward with publishing another chapter of my dissertation before I forever abandon the field to be a nurse. Perhaps I'm just excited that my article is coming out soon. I will probably be cursing and raging with a sudden onset case of academic Tourette's, and running in the opposite direction in no time.
Special thanks to Greensunflower for saving me and my kids from homicide/suicide today. It definitely helps the day to pass more quickly and sanely when there is another adult around, and it's even better if there is ice cream involved. Moreover, she and I could laugh with each other when my crazed 2.5-year-old son started to say what sounds suspiciously like "douche." I can only hope that he's picked up the German word "Dusch" (shower) from his father.
My friend Greensunflower told me today that I should pare down my book collection by giving her books that I'm ready to part with. That seems like a good compromise, IF I can be convinced to purge. I suppose that I'm not quite ready to let go of my academic collection or my shelves of classics of American and British literature or those French novels that I will read again one day. Shouldn't I at least make an effort to read Sartre in French? Doesn't make much sense if I'm supposed to learn Spanish. What will I be buying next--Don Quixote in the original?
I also have to work on my academic cv tonight to send to the Director of the Center for British Studies at UC Berkeley. I think that having a connection to a group of academics would help me to push forward with publishing another chapter of my dissertation before I forever abandon the field to be a nurse. Perhaps I'm just excited that my article is coming out soon. I will probably be cursing and raging with a sudden onset case of academic Tourette's, and running in the opposite direction in no time.
Special thanks to Greensunflower for saving me and my kids from homicide/suicide today. It definitely helps the day to pass more quickly and sanely when there is another adult around, and it's even better if there is ice cream involved. Moreover, she and I could laugh with each other when my crazed 2.5-year-old son started to say what sounds suspiciously like "douche." I can only hope that he's picked up the German word "Dusch" (shower) from his father.
Sunday, August 13, 2006
Confessions of a biblioholic
As one might expect of an academic, I adore books. I have had little time in the past year, however, to read anything more substantial than textbooks and magazine articles. After recovering from the travails of a dreadful summer school class, and having another week or two before I need to buckle down to more academic work, I've spent the past few days dreaming about adding to my book collection. After sending in the proofs for my first article, I decided to indulge my inner glutton. While out shopping the other day, I bought two tomes, one new to me and one old: Jessica Mitford's "The American Way of Death Revisited," and Henry James's "The Turn of the Screw/The Aspern Papers." Once I'd gone down the merry garden path of book purchasing, I had merely stoked my hunger for more.
I went through two book catalogues from Daedalus and ordered three more books, two for me and one for the kids. The two for me are a a biography of Gwen Raverat, a granddaughter of Charles Darwin and satellite member of the Bloomsbury Group, and a book by an evolutionary biologist about the Y chromosome. The kids' book presents what looks to be a delightful tale written by Virginia Woolf, accompanied by some charming illustration. Woolf is one of my all-time favorite authors, so I will devour the story greedily and hope that my kids will follow suit.
A terrible blow, however, came when I decided to reward myself with yet another book, memoirs of Diana Holman-Hunt that I had seen some time ago in the beautiful pages of the book catalog "A Common Reader." I went online to buy it, only to find that the company had gone bankrupt in December of 2005. I had from occasionally wondered absently why I hadn't received any of their catalogues for months, but I simply figured that I had fallen off their list after failing to purchase anything for so long. I am positively heartbroken to find that their extensive holdings will no longer be available in one place, and that one of my favorite ways to keep up with new books has evaporated. This only compounds the sense of melancholy I feel after Cody's Books closed their store in Berkeley last month. Where am I to browse? Oh sadness. At least I had the forethought and pack-rattiness to tear out pages from catalogues with books I wanted to buy in the future.
I went through two book catalogues from Daedalus and ordered three more books, two for me and one for the kids. The two for me are a a biography of Gwen Raverat, a granddaughter of Charles Darwin and satellite member of the Bloomsbury Group, and a book by an evolutionary biologist about the Y chromosome. The kids' book presents what looks to be a delightful tale written by Virginia Woolf, accompanied by some charming illustration. Woolf is one of my all-time favorite authors, so I will devour the story greedily and hope that my kids will follow suit.
A terrible blow, however, came when I decided to reward myself with yet another book, memoirs of Diana Holman-Hunt that I had seen some time ago in the beautiful pages of the book catalog "A Common Reader." I went online to buy it, only to find that the company had gone bankrupt in December of 2005. I had from occasionally wondered absently why I hadn't received any of their catalogues for months, but I simply figured that I had fallen off their list after failing to purchase anything for so long. I am positively heartbroken to find that their extensive holdings will no longer be available in one place, and that one of my favorite ways to keep up with new books has evaporated. This only compounds the sense of melancholy I feel after Cody's Books closed their store in Berkeley last month. Where am I to browse? Oh sadness. At least I had the forethought and pack-rattiness to tear out pages from catalogues with books I wanted to buy in the future.
Saturday, August 12, 2006
Ties that bind
There is a war going on inside me right now, and it's not pretty. I have a large extended family, and my parents are the youngest kids in their respective families of origin. They shoulder a very large burden of guilt where it comes to pleasing said families, and I was "trained" to do the same throughout my youth. Case in point: we NEVER EVER took vacations that were about fun. All of our summer vacations (well, at least 97% of them) were spent in long, hot peregrinations throughout the Midwest, paying homage to this great-aunt or that aunt and uncle or my grandmother. On the plus side, I got to read many books, uninterrupted, while we drove for hours. On the minus side, I spent a lot of time in what my beloved friend Thomenon has called "forced association" with people I wouldn't say a word to otherwise. It could be lonely, and my parents' liberalism and openness were generally not taken in a good way, causing lots of palpable tension.
What does that have to do with today? One of my many cousins (one I haven't seen since my grandmother's funeral in 1993) is vacationing nearby with her husband. They're very nice people, I'm sure, but I have pretty much nothing in common with them. I am a decent conversationalist, so I could probably come up with something, but I am tired. Anyway, my mother must have given them my telephone number, and they called, hoping to meet. The obedient daughter in me agreed, with some reluctance, but guilt won out. So we set a time of 2 p.m. today. I just got a call from them, saying that they're outside my place (I live in a secure converted loft building), and it's 12:30 p.m. My two kids are asleep, and I really don't want to disturb their naps. My excellent boundary-setting husband said that we should just ignore my cousin's message until 2 p.m. Ever in a panic, I called my mom to see what she would do, and like the great placator she is, she said that I should go down and take them to a local coffee shop until the kids wake up. Why, I ask, should I reward their trespassing on my time? I feel guilty about ignoring them, but I didn't ask them to come early.
As my wonderful friend Greensunflower said yesterday, it can take a long time, but saying no will come to feel good and not wrong. I'll let that side win out in the battle and hope for the best when it comes to this afternoon.
This girl has done ENOUGH accommodating for the time being.
What does that have to do with today? One of my many cousins (one I haven't seen since my grandmother's funeral in 1993) is vacationing nearby with her husband. They're very nice people, I'm sure, but I have pretty much nothing in common with them. I am a decent conversationalist, so I could probably come up with something, but I am tired. Anyway, my mother must have given them my telephone number, and they called, hoping to meet. The obedient daughter in me agreed, with some reluctance, but guilt won out. So we set a time of 2 p.m. today. I just got a call from them, saying that they're outside my place (I live in a secure converted loft building), and it's 12:30 p.m. My two kids are asleep, and I really don't want to disturb their naps. My excellent boundary-setting husband said that we should just ignore my cousin's message until 2 p.m. Ever in a panic, I called my mom to see what she would do, and like the great placator she is, she said that I should go down and take them to a local coffee shop until the kids wake up. Why, I ask, should I reward their trespassing on my time? I feel guilty about ignoring them, but I didn't ask them to come early.
As my wonderful friend Greensunflower said yesterday, it can take a long time, but saying no will come to feel good and not wrong. I'll let that side win out in the battle and hope for the best when it comes to this afternoon.
This girl has done ENOUGH accommodating for the time being.
Monday, August 07, 2006
Boundaries
I have eleven minutes before my sons' babysitter leaves, and thought I'd ruminate for a moment. I spent today working on my math skills, very rusty indeed, for the GRE (for a career change, more on that to come). I took it last almost 16 years ago--YIKES--and after going to graduate school in the humanities, it's taking quite a bit to get the gears cranking again. I can do all the problems, but I'm excruciatingly slow, something that must be remedied in five weeks, if possible. I feel as though fences have been erected in my head that separate off all my mathematical mental agility, and it takes an overwhelming amount of effort to get over those walls.
On the other hand, I am frothing and seething inside because I am unable or incompetent where it comes to setting boundaries between myself and others. Most of the time this doesn't matter too much, but then there are those who take advantage of my softness (because I let them, of course), and I get out-of-proportion mad once I hit a certain zone. One particular person has been annoying me greatly of late, and I feel such tremendous guilt about putting up a boundary, and yet if I don't, I'll go bananas. My guilt is two-fold: one level is because I hate letting people down (damn that "need-to-please" side of myself), and one level is because the person who's annoying me is developmentally disabled. I just can't take being her dumping zone for the little that goes on in her life. It's too much. I've told her this, and given her more chances than I should have, but nothing has changed. Hence I am helping both her and myself by cutting things off, but it's SOOOO aggravating to have someone call and leave messages four or more times a day. I don't even pick up my phone anymore because I don't want to reward her persistence. Am I bad? No. But it's really hard to let go of the guilt.
On the other hand, I am frothing and seething inside because I am unable or incompetent where it comes to setting boundaries between myself and others. Most of the time this doesn't matter too much, but then there are those who take advantage of my softness (because I let them, of course), and I get out-of-proportion mad once I hit a certain zone. One particular person has been annoying me greatly of late, and I feel such tremendous guilt about putting up a boundary, and yet if I don't, I'll go bananas. My guilt is two-fold: one level is because I hate letting people down (damn that "need-to-please" side of myself), and one level is because the person who's annoying me is developmentally disabled. I just can't take being her dumping zone for the little that goes on in her life. It's too much. I've told her this, and given her more chances than I should have, but nothing has changed. Hence I am helping both her and myself by cutting things off, but it's SOOOO aggravating to have someone call and leave messages four or more times a day. I don't even pick up my phone anymore because I don't want to reward her persistence. Am I bad? No. But it's really hard to let go of the guilt.
Sunday, August 06, 2006
Anger management
I'm not really sure that what I'm doing would qualify as anger management for most people, but I'm hoping that it will work for me. I've decided to start a blog as a way to deal with the quivering jelly that is my insides; I tend to bottle things up extremely effectively and then boil over or drive my loved ones crazy by spreading my self-torture to them. So maybe by blowing off steam and practicing witty repartee in cyberspace, I'll garner some strength to engage more actively and assertively in my life.
Why do I think my perspectives are marginal? I've always felt as if I'm living my life along the margins (more on that to come), but at the same time, my experiences in the liminal space occasionally offer me insights that I've come to treasure. So it's definitely an intellectual place with some benefits, although it tends to be rather lonely. I was also thrilled to learn long ago that the margins of medieval manuscripts were lovingly used as places for monks to doodle. The margins were places where creativity and humor could be engaged in an otherwise rigidly defined place. Perhaps I should remember the joys of marginalia more often.
Why do I think my perspectives are marginal? I've always felt as if I'm living my life along the margins (more on that to come), but at the same time, my experiences in the liminal space occasionally offer me insights that I've come to treasure. So it's definitely an intellectual place with some benefits, although it tends to be rather lonely. I was also thrilled to learn long ago that the margins of medieval manuscripts were lovingly used as places for monks to doodle. The margins were places where creativity and humor could be engaged in an otherwise rigidly defined place. Perhaps I should remember the joys of marginalia more often.
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