I hurt my thumb

I HURT MY THUMB

For perhaps the first time today,

Something usually semi-conscious

Became fully conscious.

Something usually a free-floating reaction

Was done in response to a specific situation.

I hurt my thumb today.

No, not in the sense of banging a knuckle,

Or something like that.

Rather, this was totally self-inflicted.

I pick at myself.

Call it a milder version of “cutting.”

I bite my fingernails the quick,

And occasionally below.

And when I go that far

(I would say “too far,” but it obviously isn’t,

To at least a part of “me,”

Because “I” keep doing it)

I hurt. And I bleed.

If it’s not biting nails that deeply

It’s picking at the skin around those nails,

Eventually, with the same result.

Why?

Is it a genetic predisposition to anxiety?

Or various abuses of childhood?

Obviously, it’s a mix of both,

And, even on a case-by-case basis,

Who knows which predominates, and when?

I don’t, because I usually

Not fully conscious of this.

Today, at least as to the moment, though,

I was.

I was being yelled at by my boss

For something that was a complex mix

Of who was wrong, or not, and why,

And what background there was.

And I picked.

And then I hurt, and bled,

Even more than normal picking.

No, it didn’t feel “good.”

But, it “felt.”

I “felt.”

I felt the pain of suppressed anger,

Of feeling that whatever I might say

Would only make things worse,

That because of the background there was

Of him, his boss, of me,

Of their perceptions of me,

Of my perceptions of them,

And of my knowledge

Of my coworkers’ perception of them,

That whatever I might say,

Would only make things worse.

He would get angrier yet,

Making me more afraid, more on edge,

More anxious,

More suppressed-angry.

And, given the situation, the relationships,

And the power dynamics,

That, if not even that,

That what I might say

Wouldn’t change things anyway.

So, I picked.

A small psychological victory, perhaps,

To be fully conscious, fully in the moment,

Of why I was doing it, when I was.

And, another small victory, perhaps,

To see that I had done it worse than usual,

And to make me wonder

If I really, really, feel that way.

– Feb 28, 2012

He died at fifty

HE DIED AT FIFTY

That’s what a memorial said aboard the old-time train.

No cause of death listed.

Just that he died at fifty.

Did he feel old? Worn-out?

Or did he just … die unexpectedly?

Sometimes, at age forty-eight

I feel “older,” at least,

And definitely worn-out on occasion.

Especially recently.

Internalizing criticism,

When it’s not totally valid

Or overblown relative to the situation,

Can do that to a person,

Especially one sensitive in general

(Though not perfect

About being sensitive to others)

And sensitive to yelling in particular,

As well as sensitive to crazy-making.

What if he, too, finally just wore out?

It’s one thing to die young, or younger,

It’s another yet to die younger

With the end of one’s life

Becoming one massive burden.

And nobody noticed, and he said nothing

Until too late.

What if that’s me?

– Feb. 26, 2012

Opinions, passive-aggressiveness and more

First, passive-aggressiveness isn't necessarily a bad thing. Often, it's the personal relationship psychology equivalent of asymmetric warfare. People lower on a power scale fight with the weapons they have.


No, passive-aggressiveness isn't good in a more equal relationship, like an intimate one. And counselors are right to point that out. But, something like an employee vs. employer situation, especially if the employer is putting the energy in the "versus"?


And, isn't it passive-aggressive of an employer to berate an employee for not being able to do something that was at least partially beyond his control, then admit to a third employee just that difficulty with the issue while never fully apologizing to the original employee?


Specifically, the issue of photography.


No, I'm not Ansel Adams. But, I can't make silk purses out of sow's ears. And, I know enough about photography to know when I'm faced with little more than a sow's ear to work with. And, if not a total sow's ear, at least, no better than synthetic velour -- and an employer who should know that in advance, from having been around a while.



That, then, gets to the issue of opinions.


Is it passive-aggressive, even, to not bother offering opinions, or, a better word, ideas, in the first place, if you know they're going to be ignored, rejected, or not listened to?

And, is it really people pleasing to not speak up more, either? Might it rather be an acceptance of reality, or how reality is perceived at the lower end of the stick by someone who's not a stereotypical Type A male?



Of course, from my point of view, these are offered up as largely rhetorical questions.


But, they reflect larger societal issues related to income disparity, job outsourcing, and, some industries (creative-type ones) becoming ever tighter with the dollar and expecting more for less.

Anger, parents, and emotions

I'm in the middle of reading the book "Obama on the Couch." While I disagree with the author's neo-Freudian psychiatric stance, I do think he has some valid, very valid insights insights on dissociated emotions, especially anger.

To be honest, I'm realizing now just how dissociated I still am from a fair amount of anger toward my parents.

And I am realizing how much I may be like Obama in "swallowing" anger, avoiding conflict, etc. as part of the fallout from this.

Meanwhile, last week, I had another insight about emotions in general.

Long ago, in my early days in AA, I heard about an "attitude of gratitude." I eventually realized one did not have to be grateful TO anyone, including not needing to be grateful to a divinity.

Last week, I realized that's true of other emotions, but not necessarily in just a "free floating" way.

I can have anger at my current state in life, without it being "free floating," yet without it being directed at some particular person. I hope to let this sink in more in the days, weeks and months ahead.

And, to let myself feel more fully more of this deeper anger at my parents, without getting fixated on it.

Did I make a mistake?

Three weeks into a new job and relocation, I feel like I'm in a PTSD shellshock free-fire zone.

I'm making mistakes at work, and getting yelled at, and this past week, have made more. And, a couple of them have been kind of big. And have had domino effects.

I knew, when I was considering coming here, that my ambivalence was in part not due to fear of change but due to past perceptions of the place when I interviewed for anther job with this group of small papers in 2009 and for this job.

But, wanting to get near a big city, having fears of being "stuck" where I was and other things ... led me to think that some of my ambiguity was other things, like general fear of change.

And, some of it was fear of getting more and more stuck back in Odessa the longer I was there as I got ... older.

But, I'm awake, alive, reasonably sane ... and sober. And ... I still have a reasonable possibility of saving my hide, if I don't let the stress get to me any more, or the idea of stress.

Sometimes the 'trouble' does never happen

Mark Twain has a famous quote, which has been botched a bit here and there, but which I believe is authoritatively rendered as, "I am an old man and have known a great many troubles, but most of them have never happened."

Well, I can personally relate to that.


I had a notice from the Postal Service in my box Tuesday night, to sign for a certified letter at the post office. My mind was racing.


Did my old apartment complex suddenly decide it wanted additional money from me somehow? (Even as I have two noncertified letters, one from the complex, one from the parent company, both of which came in the last week, on my table. But, I know what I signed, and signed for, when I moved.)


Did that traffic ticket I got lawyered out of two of three counts, but paid the remaining one, have the money order incorrect? 


Something worse?


Well, it was from the Dallas County Sheriff's Office, which made me more nervous at first, since they're the folks who pulled me over in 2009.


What was it actually for?


I had a applied for a PR job, public information officer, with the office. I was being notified I didn't make the final cut - notified by certified letter.


I've played Twain's quote in my head many a time, but never before have I had this concrete of confirmation.

Poem: Too soon to tell

TOO SOON TO TELL

A new job.

New bosses. New responsibilities.

Not-so-new computers.

Anger. Antsiness. Impatience. Control issues.

Was this the right decision?

Did I choose wisely in coming here?

Per Zhou Enlai,

When he was asked about the success

Of the French Revolution:

“It’s too soon to tell.”

It’s too soon to tell.

My mind will be a jumble

And even a bit shell-shocked

For more than a month.

Will weekend visits to Austin help?

To the degree they do,will they be worth the price?

It’s too soon to tell.

Was it just fear of change?

Or was my intuition correctly ringing out

A blaze of three alarms or more?

Should I have suffered

Through yet more feelings of being trapped,

Through low-grade ongoing anxieties,

Rather than the potential of high-voltage unknowns?

It’s too soon to tell.

When I left Dallas for Odessa,

The first domino of moving to fall in this chain,

After two months of unemployment,

Anxious over job hunting,

And recognizing the severity of the recession,

Yet loath to move

And depressed as I drove across the Permian,

Was it good or bad?

It’s too soon to tell.

Good and bad are relative, and utilitarian;

I did nothing “wrong” any of these times.

But I made decisions

In uncertainty, without knowing even

Rough percentages on outcomes.

And, so, in that utilitarian sense,

As to whether these choices were good or bad?

It’s too soon to tell.

December 26, 1963 – was it good or bad?

It’s too soon to tell.

            Jan. 3, 2012

The shells of PTSD

I don’t trust me well.

Let alone you. Or others.

I’ve learned that well.

That’s one of the biggest takeaways about this move, and about some of my personality in general. I don’t believe in my own skill set, let alone the rest of the haiku. Due to a variety of things, trust, including ideas of confidence, just isn't much of a part of my mental vocabulary. And so, more than being a “highly sensitive person,” I am “thin skinned,” but not in a “fly off the handle” way. Rather, it’s that I simply don’t seem to have a lot of emotional and psychological “insulation.”

When criticism arises,

I enter my PTSD shell,

A set of nestled Russian puzzle boxes.

Dissociating even deeper.

It doesn’t even have to be actual criticism, or conflict. It can be fear of possible or anticipated criticism or conflict that sets me off. Add in some physiological things like consecutive male births (the more consecutive boys a mother bears, the more likely the latest boy is to be gay, and there may be other effects from this “battle of the sexes,” too, for all we know, which is what I am getting at) and a family anxiety heritage, it’s probably not a wonder I feel like I had thinner “emotional insulation” to deal with the events of childhood as they hit me. I don't mean this to be sounding like a pity party. It's simply to say this is part of my heritage as a "survivor." In light of the Penn State and Syracuse scandals, or the Catholic priest scandals, some "survivors" adaptations are even more "primitive" than mine.

Anyway, therefore, I adapted as I knew or learned how. When I say dissociation, it’s literal, though not as severe as it once was, and it’s more conscious, at times, than in years past. I know that nobody likes criticism, and few people claim to deal with it well, though many probably deal with it “OK.” People talk about letting criticism be like water off a duck’s back. Well, to me, this is criticism like a rain storm, not just water, but being blocked out by enough layers of shells (I hope).

It’s easier not to trust just one

Rather than another, too. So I live alone.

Occasionally infused from within with childlike wonder,

While desiring a thicker skin that no wizard has to offer.

Bunting vs. swinging away: A life in baseball cards

I recently got done reading "Cardboard Gods" by Josh Wilker. He's about 4-5 years younger than me. He pens a memoir of childhood and early adulthood based on different baseball cards from his childhood. It's an interesting concept, though the book could be even more deeply biographical than it is.

Anyway, Wilker played Little League, albeit not very well by his own admission, through his childhood. In the last game of his last year, in Babe Ruth-level play, the manager on two separate at bats gave him a bunt sign. Wilker followed through the first time, and said he could accept it, but the second time, saw no strategic reason for it, and so he swung away.

An interesting thought. Bunting, even for a base hit rather than a sacrifice, is a "safe" move, versus swinging away. It's a metaphor for life that I'll hold on to for a bit longer. This is about "security."

I first thought of the jobs world, but, unless one is a deliberate risk-taker, "bunting" is wise right now. But, other issues? Hmmm ...

Passing down the anger, passing down the shame

I recently finished reading a great book titled "Payback." The subtitle of "Why We Retaliate, Redirect Attention and Take Revenge" tells in detail what this book is about.

As I note, in a selection from my Amazon review:

Briefly, the authors note that many animals either retaliate against aggression or else redirect it lower down the food chain while we (and chimpanzees) are the only ones so far known to also use revenge. From there, they look at how this affects/relieves stress, in both humans and other animals. ...

Both in humans and animals, besides stress issues, the authors note aggression, and the various ways of dealing with it, relate closely to social status issues. they suggest this is part of why simple apologies often don't satisfy victims. Rather, whether consciously or not, victims are looking for a restoration of lost status, and perhaps a diminution of the aggressor's status. That doesn't happen after a few words.

If you are a survivor of sexual or physical child abuse, doesn't this all ring so true? And, while being abused does not an abuser make, for those abusers who were themselves abused, doesn't this ring true about abusers, too? That they "passed on the shit"?

And, for we the survivors, no matter whom our perpetrators, some of us may have been more affected than others because we had little to no outlet to pass things on further. Or, as the authors of the book note, already in childhood, we showed that we had personalities who didn't naturally do that, or often even think of that as a possibility true to our own natures.

Anyway, you may find this book well worth reading.