defiant (mood); 2 cool 2 be 4-gotten (song)
Saturday 12 March 2005 | I like a cookie
you can’t depend on anything really
there’s no promises there’s no point
Merci à Lucinda, I hum while I pick dried rosemary needles from the keyboard—Eloise’s afternoon effort at reducing the one to the many. And then type vigorously, seething, energized with angry—and why? Because “I don’t feel safe around you yet,” according to N.
Oh really? You don’t? I’m scary? Find out what it feels like to spend the night alone, then. I don’t mean to backlash, and truly we talked on the phone for about an hour about it, so it’s clear I don’t mean it totally and he doesn’t take it as counter-rejection; but I was also clear and unapologetic right through the end in saying, this hurts me and makes me angry and, you know, tell it to someone else. And oh yes, fuck you. And he in turn was clear and open about how it’s his problem, and how using the first half of the NVC model (feeling: fear; need: to feel safe) doesn’t even implicate me in being asked to try to meet his need.
And I’m also thinking about calling the Crazy Poor People Center and pleading to be put in the Tuesday DBT group. Tell all kinds of stories about my horrifying self-harming behaviours. Who would ever have thought I’d be in the position of embellishing my neurosis. Because when N. says “I don’t feel safe around you” and I hear “your emotions and acting-out are too big and scary” then it’s only ovulation which keeps me from screaming and throwing everything in arm’s reach; and worse.
Blah! Blog. She eats her thawed red enchilada, listens to “Concrete and Barbed Wire” (which Lucinda pronounces as “borb wore”), defiantly.
When defiance suddenly sunders, leaving me feeling like a small girl in a big cat suit. Someone little inside begging, I’m not really that bad, am I? Like the time at the monastery when I cried in my car for about two hours after the ino told me not to take a nap on Herself’s couch, because “I’m trying to keep people from bothering her.”
Bother! Blog. I smirked over assorted links at the bottom of the Amazon page for Byron Katie’s new book:
• So you’d like to…
find out what mental problems your job could create?
• Do I need therapy?
Take this scientific quiz to find if you might benefit from therapy.
Lucinda warbles on:
he was born in Nacogdoches
that’s in East Texas
not far from the border
Further non sequiturs: tigons and ligers are in fact sterile in most cases. N. also informs me that the latter feature (though not prominently) in that classic of contemporary cinema, Napoleon Dynamite. (He amused me yesterday morning as we lolled under the duvet by pretending to be one of my crazed fans: “Have you seen Chips: The Movie? Oh my God, I loved Chips: The Movie!” Though I don’t have many, or apparently any, crazed fans at this point. Still, my picture only ran this week so we’ll see if their tribe increase.)
it’s over
I know it but
I can’t let go
I have to admit that I pored over the Dagoba page with a disturbing degree of attentiveness. Roseberry and lavender will always have my heart, but in some mad moment I thought about buying the sampler box at a cool $29.95.
Now. On to something no less self-absorbed but perhaps chewier: here’s the natural-hormone-prescribing CNP whom my godmother recommends to me. But do I really want a telephone consultation with someone who looks not a little like Stevie Nicks?! To say nothing of her “eight near-death experiences” (according to the excerpt from her forthcoming New Age title Birthing the Soul—there’s a link to it at the bottom of the page, and I certainly wouldn’t recommend it except that if you scroll past all the babble there’s a totally wild story about being attacked by a seven-foot rattler, and then by her cat, and weirdly enough her cat’s slashing fangs may have saved her life—but you should read the story). I mean, someone this accident-prone probably shouldn’t be a CNP, right? And anyone who puts dolphins on her home page seems immediately suspect. I’ve also requested a referral from something called Women’s International Pharmacy, whose name makes it sound as though it’s part of the UN somehow, like UNICEF or I know not what. But they’re just as nutty as the dolphin lady I suspect. Still. I don’t know what else to do—qu’est-ce que tu pense? Should I throw myself at the promise of yam estrogen, or at the Indifferent Intake Social Worker in hopes of gaining admittance to the group of nutty womenfolk, or finding a workable antidepressant, or or or?
And how do I objectify, depotentate, and transform into something serviceable that screaming, throwing-things, won’t-let-me-write personality fragment. How.
don’t want to see you again
or hold your hand
cause you don’t really love me
you’re not my man
Finally, the Keirsey people compare the sorting hat at Hogwarts to the Myers-Briggs Type Indicator. I’m apparently Gryffindor, relievingly, as is Mandarin. (Though I have a sneaking sympathy for Slytherin, and am convinced when all is revealed Severus Snape will be the hero of the series.)
Speaking of whom, I’m starting to think I should burn this album (Car Wheels on a Gravel Road) for the recently bereaved Mandarin. It was so seminal, ar ar, for me in my South Texas crying-and-driving recovery one year ago.
money can’t replace it
no memory can erase it
and I know I’m never gonna find another one
to compare
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