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Some kind of grief backlash? It's going on about 5 or so days now wherein I am just having a really difficult time again - not sleeping, getting ill when I eat, if I eat, avoiding taking care of myself, crying a lot and overall, intensely missing Xast. My emotions are rapid-cycling through gratitude, confusion, anger, hope, condemnation, etc all infused with a patina of hurt and love. Music is a medium for me and I can't seem to stop seeing messages everywhere. I heard What I've Done this morning and I haven't really stopped crying since. I don't and won't turn off the music because too many messages is better than none at all, even if I do disagree to what he's telling me. And I'm not the only one having this experience of the grief bomb exploding all over again. At least three of Xast's close friends have contacted me in the last 48 hours about their experiences. I've heard from people who I'm not sure were ever told of his death and I get very anxious and it feels like my soul is trying to crawl out of my body, because I don't want to have to tell anyone ever again, and rip a part of them apart. Despite this being another weekend full of Xast memories, I am looking forward to an extra day away from having to function well. It's not so much that the pain is overwhelming, is that it's tedious and awful to carry it for such an uninterupted period of time; now that the shock is over, the haze of that first round of grief is gone. Now I have clarity, a precision of consciousness, despite a lack of intellect (still having weird memory lapses and such). I am getting quite attracted to the idea of a brief escape, into sleep (drug-induced if necessary), books and/or movies. Whereas I would be grateful just to be held for a little while, and to sleep next to someone who is looking out for me, I don't think that's possible or advisable at this point. I tried something like that and it was made of FAIL! to a rather embarrassing degree. Sheiss, this sucks. Current Location: cube farm
Current Mood:  grieving
Current Music: Sorry My Friend - Save Ferris, It Means Everything
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I was 17, living in Southern California; a Junior in high school and playing in the musical Oklahoma. We played six (or seven?) performances over two weeks, and on the final night of the second week, I noticed some of the cast passing around this very freaked out looking kitten. I remember getting angry at how they weren't able to see how scared and upset the cat was, and snapping at them to take it back to its owner where it could get some quiet. I was initially ignored, yet I persisted, asking "Are you the cat's owner?" Finally, I got a coherent answer that the kitten had wandered on backstage during the performancce and they had caught her. I took the cat from the people who were passing her around and skipped out on the second half of the play, going back to the green room and putting her in my voluminous skirts. I sang various songs from the musical to her and she curled up and slept. Later on, I took her home with me, with permission from the cast under the proviso that I name her "Oklahoma" after the musical. I had no intentions of keeping the cat. I simply had the litterbox and catfood necessary to take care of her until we found her owners. I had images of small children crying for their kitty in my mind. I took her home, and she kept me up all night with her exploration of my rather messy room. Didn't she know I had SATs in the morning? Very early on a May morning, I drove her back to the school and placed a can of tuna for her to eat and gave her stern instructions that she needed to GO HOME. I opened the car door and like a shot she bolted in and meowed at me, all innocent, saying "Can we go home now?" This repeated a few times until I gave up and drove home again, smuggling her in once more and going to my SATs very tired and grumpy. Hence entered Oklahoma into my life. Throughout her life, she was an exemplary cat - polite, friendly, people-oriented, charming, beautiful, loyal, funny, loving and incredibly intelligent. In short, she was the ideal cat. People who loathed cats exclaimed over her. She converted more than a few to the feline cause, though I do have to say none could hold a candle to her when it came to beauty, charm or smarts. Hell, even last night, holding her in the car as I waited for Roommate and ![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif) lioness_75 to get out of the video store, even at 4 lbs with poor self-grooming, people stopped to acclaim at her beauty, poise and sweetness. We had an understanding, Okie and I, a covenant and a promise stemming from a chosen relationship. I should have known that, in the end, she would go to her death with the same grace, love and intelligence with which she lived her life. At around 5:15 this morning, as the sun came up, much like that first morning when she chose to be with me, she let me know it was time for her to go. She scrambled up on the bed, her back legs not working right, crawled up to me, woke me up softly and when I asked what she wanted, just stared at me pointedly. I asked if it was time and she lay back, still looking into my eyes and mewed softly. We stayed that way for a while, just looking at each other. She laid her paws on my arm, and didn't seem to have a lot of patience for my crying. I sat up when breathing became difficult, she gave me a look and heaved herself up again to sit by my side as I accepted the decision. I tried to go back to sleep and was woken again by her scrabbling down to the door and meowing by her carrier, sitting under Sticky. I told her that the Vet's office didn't open until 8 AM and we already had an appointment, so they would take us right away. She then crawled back under the bed, only to emerge when I was finished dressing. I woke Roomie to let her say good-bye and left for the vet's office. Dr. Theis agreed with me and Okie, who was rather unfocused and out of it by now. She had been given pain medication and antibiotics, iv fluids and subcutaneous fluids, and she continued to deteriorate. It was time. Indeed, when the anesthesia had barely begun to be administered, she just let go and died. For my part, as much as I am devestated, I thank whatever Gods gave her to me and commend her spirit to Bast, Mistress of Cats, to be put in a place of honor for being the unique, outstanding, and most excellent cat she was. ( Oklahoma )
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Fridays seem to be somewhat painful for me, ranging from sheer agony to randomly uncomfortable. Today it's like growing pains (which I failed to have as a child); there's a dull ache that isn't agonizing enough to do anything about. It's just a restless, vague disturbance of body and spirit. And I get antsy and all philosophical. It doesn't help that I've begun to read Possession by A. S. Byatt, which has that exact flavor of the women's writing I was constantly reading in college. When I picked it up, I struggled with comprehension; it's rather dense and full of that special category of British subtext, the one where it actually has a masked subtext of its own, usually hiding the author's self-important self-awareness. It made me sigh for college, and wonder if scattering my intellect from the theoretical to the practical was a smart idea. I think of my academic career at Scripps as almost Victorian, like an old perfumed book of pressed flowers, all preserved and delicate and extremely intricate and exacting. I'm not sure I have that ability to decipher and reconstruct my world like that anymore. I'm not sure I ever would want to. I've always preferred the fauvists; Matisse with big bold colors, large images and uncontrolled/uncontrollable curves. The cleverness is attractive, although I doubt I ever was or ever will be as knowingly clever as the scholarly perspective that seemed to thread through every class at Scripps. I liked pretending I was that clever. So now I've settled into the book and it feels like this bright, bold, oversized sloppy me has been pulled back into the affected me from Scripps. And there's a great deal of me squelching out around the edges... Don't get me wrong, I love that academic pretender. I greatly enjoyed being her, even if I never quite got away with it as well as, say, the English Literature majors. I recall one telling me, as kindly as she could, that I really didn't have the ability (i.e. self-aware hyper-cleverness) to deconstruct the subtext of Pamela Dean's Tam Lin for one of my senior theses, back when I had more ambition than good sense. I don't doubt she was correct; I've read some of my papers and been very impressed with the ideas and rather shocked at the immature, simplistic writing that I presented them in. Overall, it's just a rather uncomfortable feeling, like trying to put on a sweater that shrunk in the wash, or, more appropriately, the dress I wore to the Senior Formal (which I still own and hope to wear again some day when I'm not mortified by my legs – ha ha, who says I'm not feminine with my heaps of bodily self-loathing?). Although technically, because I always pick sizes too big for me, it still fits. If you can believe it, I'm sitting here while I type this, sucking on packets of mustard. If you know anything about me, you would know I generally loathe mustard, including the color. I'm on my fourth and am greatly enjoying, to the point of requiring the sharp tang of vinegar and the spice of mustard seed. I think it's because the brightness and discomfort of it on my tongue is a relief and a thread out of this whole odd day back to my rather messy, oversized existence. Jeebus, no wonder the average Victorian Lady was half-a-heartbeat away from the kind of raving madness that birthed an entire feminist literary genre. Current Location: cube farm
Current Music: Wednesday - Tori Amos, Scarlett's Walk
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So I was getting vaguely worried when I picked up the latest Bitch and was not really interested in reading it. I've read a couple of the articles, or at least, started to... I thought I had passed from the realm of avid 3rd Waver into the apathetic, take-advantage-of-all-the-hard-work-other-feminists-are-doing-while-never-supporting-them-or-doing-a-damned-thing-myself realm. And yes, it is too much to dream that I would ever go beyond that and stop calling myself a feminist (Oh NOES – she said the "f" word!!) or, worse yet, take advantage of all that feminism has done for women while actively denying its importance or necessity. I like my ability to work, rent an apartment and have a credit card all while single and not have to share my reproductive status with my boss/landlord/bank, thankyewverymuch. And I know from whence those luxuries came.
Anyway, last night, while chatting on IRC, there was a conversation I was vaguely following until I realized what the hell they were talking about - Watchmen, the movie version that is. A few of the guys were going on and on... and on and on about the Big Blue Dong of Doom. I was surprised because my general experience with Cam guys is that they prefer more intelligent, independent women and while most find me too extreme, they have a certain level of comfort with feminism and other liberal political leanings. Not acceptance, per se, but comfort with other people doing their thing...
So I was really surprised that they had fallen into the trap of watching a movie that was about people paying attention to and inflating the importance of irrelevant, small shit. It's a decently done movie and all you can think about is that one of the characters is naked and you can see his dick? Give me a break. According to these guys, the whole movie was about a giant blue cosmic schlong that could destroy worlds. Pointing out that their discomfort with male nudity was not only hypocritical – I doubt they would have had a problem if Dr. Manhattan had been a female – but sexist and rather het-case of them, in that I-am-such-a-heterosexual-male-I-must-assert-that-in-no-way-does-an-uncovered-penis-not-gross-me-out kind of way, seemed a daunting task, even for this witty wordsmith.
Then someone pulls out a "joke" after saying that all nudity, save for in pornographic movies, is gratuitous. All issues with prudery and such soon got lost in the general WHAT. THE. FUCK. response the "joke" inspired – in me. I'm not sure how the others felt about it...
Q. Why does a woman sit through the end of a porno?
A. To see if the guy and girl get married.
Where does one begin? This is a multitasking insulting joke – first, it denies that women watch pornography for their own sexual pleasure. It also assumes that all women obsess over marriage and only are interested in relationships, hence their only interest in what is meant to be a stimulating, titillating porno would be over "the guy and girl" getting married. Of all the porn films I've seen, there is never just one guy and one girl. There's usually multiples of each. At the same time. The "joke" also implies that the only merit a woman can derive from a film, porn or not, is in its romance/relationship aspects. It implies that men are never interested in relationships/marriage, and that it is a trivial thing to be interested in – when watching porn who is focusing on marriage? Men certainly wouldn't be. At least, not a real man. Only women worry about such things. :::rolls eyes:::
It was, in short, really bloody offensive to this particular woman who enjoys her sexuality – a lot, who is not solely focused (or even primarily focused) on romance and relationships, who in fact, doesn't even believe the ultimate culmination of a relationship is marriage and has doubts she ever wants to get married, who is not currently monogamous and not interested in pushing monogamy on others, and who enjoys a plethora of films from romance to comedy to drama to action to adventure.
This particular woman spluttered and her low-functioning brain kinda shut down, but not before a subconscious may-day was sent up that when in a sexist joke fight, the only way to get a point across is to fight fire with fire, and to be as aggressive and mean in the jokes as possible. That was all fine and dandy. My brain is still mush, with 90-95% of thought still dedicated to eternal reruns of This Was His Life, starring Xast. In the end, I made a futile, lame attempt to jab at their relationship skills (and lack thereof), which went, thankfully, unremarked and/or unnoticed.
So, despite not being able to cleverly rip into the sexism like so much tissue paper, it is nice to know that my feminist rage may still be roused.
And for the record – I am tired of being excluded from female-ness and womanhood because I am scary-smart, strong, capable, opinionated and perfectly able to take care of my own damned self, because I do not defer to others for support of my beliefs and opinions, and because all this fierce independence, intelligence and outright fabulousness is packaged in a body that is taller, larger and stronger than most men. In the future, keep your narrow, sphincter-eyed views of what it means to be a woman to your damned selves, or do us all a favor and take your heads out of your asses and broaden your understanding of what it is to be a woman. You may be surprised at how much you learn about yourself in the process.
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So many people have been asking me if I'm "okay" of late and while I know they are trying to be nice and show concern and care, I think I'm going to have to redefine what "okay" means. If, when you ask me, "are you okay?" you mean "are you functional?" I think I could answer that. If you mean the traditional "okay" - no, I am not okay. I won't be okay for a while.
I am functional, to a point. It's low to midling functional.
I am incredibly tired. I'm tired of my brain tricking me into forgetting it happened, yet forcing me to regurgitate every memory I have of him; good, bad or mundane. I'm tired of this ocean of hurt, waiting for the tide to rise and bloody well drown me, again. I've taken to forcing it, so I can go back to having my mind trick me again. At the funeral, I couldn't breathe I got slammed so hard, my whole body was buzzing and cramping, I was crying so hard. I'm tired of seeing my friends in so much pain and knowing there's jack shit I can do about it. I'm tired of ignorant gits in our community using death (this death is not the first time I've witnessed one particular person do this) to self-aggrandize and ego-stroke, perhaps in some vain attempt to soothe their pain, not caring how many toes or hearts are stepped on in the process.
I have a veneer. It's not very thick, and it serves its purpose; which is to keep me moving, even if is only in millimeters. It gets me to work, lets me concentrate for short periods of time before I have to go scour over the chat logs of our conversations, or read and re-read his journal entries, or the like. It gets me through conversations with concerned friends and family. It keeps me eating and sleeping and taking showers and keeping up with my medicine. It's a survival mechanism and while it is spread thin from the sheer vastness of this personal crisis, it is still chugging along as it can.
Inside, I'm a bloody mess. Everything is confused, pulling me in several directions at once. It kind of feels like trying to map the Winchester Mystery House in the middle of a dark moon night with the electricity out. And the one person who could see all the way inside, who could help me put things in some semblance of order, or at least make me more comfortable about this internal hell is dead.
And I don't want to have to comfort those who are worried about me. I can't stop you from worrying, and I can't turn off the compulsive need to ease your discomfort with everything that is going on.
I am a consummate survivor. So while I may not be "okay," I will continue to function and rebuild as I have always done. Part of this process probably involves more sleep... and healthier foods... and a clean house...
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