Things I’m good at

Because I need the lift today, I’m going to post some things I feel I’m good at. It’s going to be a short list.

1. I’m a good listener.

2. I think I’m a good aunt to my nieces and nephew (they really love me for some reason, so I guess that’s good).

3. I’m a good friend.

4. I’m a good storyteller.


That’s all. Like I said, a really short list. I’m not good at very much.



What to do about guilt?

What can you do about guilt? Not guilt about things you’ve done, but guilt about things that are part of you.

There’s no reason or need to feel guilt over things that are part of you, I know it. Knowing that doesn’t help me feel any better about it, though.

In my sifting through my mental library, I’ve found a lot of things. A lot of the things I can look at and either file and keep or discard without trouble. But some of them I look at and the guilt pinches me.

As I said, telling myself that I have no reason to feel guilty over factory-installed things doesn’t really help; there is still this little voice that tells me I am bad or weird or twisted for feeling or wanting these things.

Intellectually, I know that it’s not true. But intellect can only carry me so far with this. Under all the mental posturing and all the things intellect tells me are true, there is a little girl who can’t quite believe what she knows, and who still believes everything her mother has ever told her about herself.

I’m working on dismantling the false beliefs, which is harder than you’d think it would be. I don’t feel like I’m getting anywhere though–especially when this keeps popping up.


Where is the breaking point?

It’s very bad that, when threatened with a hospital visit, my first thought was “At least I’d get some rest!”

My mother asked me what was wrong with me today, and when I told her I was just tired, she flared up and said that I needed to go to sleep at a decent hour and stop staying up all night.

When I told her that I do happen to head to bed at a decent hour each night, but I’m lucky if I happen to fall asleep, she changed the subject and said I shouldn’t be tired anyway, since I don’t do anything. I don’t know “real stress” and so shouldn’t be walking around tired. She said that if I didn’t watch out, I’d end up in the hospital, which provoked my opening thought up there.

It wasn’t worth telling my mother that simply getting out of bed every morning takes lots of energy, not to mention I feel like I’m carting around everybody’s feelings and problems too.

I have begun a ritual of visualizing a bottomless hole and dumping everybody’s problems down it, but now I’m wondering if this is going to have to be a more than once a day type thing.

I have to stop thinking that it’d be great to just fall asleep forever and have done with the whole thing.

Is this a sign of emotional breakdown? If so, I hope it hurries; once it’s here I won’t have to think about anything anymore.

Stop the ride, I want to get off

Is there anything I can do to make my brain stop? I would really like to sleep–to sleep without dreaming, without tossing and turning, without lying awake for the next three or so hours while my thoughts eat themselves like a snake eating its tail.

This is very bad. I don’t think it’s sleep that I really want; I’m tired, but I’m always tired lately.  I want to put my brain in a room by itself and just have quiet.

I feel empty, dried out. Maybe this is what happens just before you go off the deep end totally. Maybe insanity is a relief.

I’m going to go try to sleep. Goodnight everybody.


Things my Mother told me that maybe she was right about

I’ve been thinking about pleasure. Is it wrong to want it, or to feel it?

My mother told me some very uncomplimentary things when I was a little girl, and no matter how she’s tried to make up for them–then or now–I still hear her words echoing in my head.

“No one will ever love you unless you change yourself completely.”

“It’s a good thing you’re smart; at least you’ll have something to offer somebody–if anybody ever decides to take you. “

“Men want girls who are happy and smiling; they don’t want girls who won’t pay attention to them and leave them to their own devices.”

“The only way anybody would even want to put up with you is if you were paying for them somehow. Nobody will ever bother with you otherwise.”

“You’re going to die old and alone, and good thing too; you’re too twisted to treat anybody decently.”

And this, whenever I was doing something that made me feel good: “Why are you doing that? Only weird people like things like that. Do you want people to call you weird? What did I do to land you as my child?”

I still wonder if she was right about it. She’s my mother, right? She says she knows me better than I know myself.

So I wonder, when I take pleasure in something, if somehow I don’t deserve it, or if I’m wrong for feeling it. My mother always implied that I was somehow made wrong for feeling the way I felt  and doing what I did and thinking the things I do; maybe she was right that I shouldn’t expect to feel good about anything. Maybe she was.


I hope this post makes sense; it made sense in my head, but it sort of poured out disjointed.

Dream Frustration

What are my dreams trying to tell me now? Yeah, I usually get some kind of guidance or something from them, but right now…I don’t know.

I know that not all dreams are supposed to be message bearers, but the dreams I remember usually are.

I remember this one–I won’t relate it here because it’s embarrassing–and I am at a loss for what it’s trying to tell me.

I guess I haven’t made such great strides on a particular issue as I thought I had, to have a dream like this.

What am I missing? What am I just not understanding? What haven’t I done?


I feel sore today. I haven’t been exercising, so it’s not muscle soreness. I feel sore inside, as though I’ve been bruised.

I don’t know where this is coming from. It’s an organic thing (meaning that it feels like it’s independent of everything that’s happening currently to the people in my life, and is my own stuff), but I wasn’t aware that I was sifting through my stuff on auto while going about my day.

Something inside hurts. I guess I’ve been pressing whatever it is a lot this last little while.  I wish it was a physical pain; at least then I would be able to point to it and proceed to treat it. With this, I can’t even find it. I just know it’s there.

I don’t know if I feel sad; there’s just this bruised place. I can’t explain it to myself. I can’t even write about it, which is saying something.