I'm going to give some of my family of origin background, possibly a bit more than I have before, and certainly more than new readers of this blog have seen.
I am the fourth brother in a family of several children. Brother No. 1, after being sexually abused by somebody (he once, in a pseudo-apologetic letter, said neighborhood kids, and made it sound like a one-time event, which I doubt), sexually abused Brother No. 3, who both then sexual abused me and Another Sibling. For me, at least, it lasted about two years, maybe more. Elizabeth Loftus's theories on childhood memory — some pretty good, some total bullshit — aside, I don't remember a lot of specific events. I remember enough to say that, at a minimum, it lasted about two years. Abuse was not nightly or even weekly, but it happened often enough to be ongoing, yet intermittent enough to have the additional psychological "reinforcement" that intermittent punishments, like intermittent rewards, have.
Dad was mildly-moderately physically abusive and pretty soundly emotionally abusive. It would be harder to name details, but he as a conservative minister was surely religiously abusive. And, Another Sibling wonders if dad sexually abused all of us. I, for reasons noted above, can't say one way or the other, but it would be no surprise.
Mom was sometimes emotionally neglectful, and other times, even that's not the right phrase. She was simply psychologically absent. And, she engaged in what professionals would call covert sexual abuse.
No broken bones (I think) on the physical side, or burns. But, hits in the mouth/face, among other things. If 1 is totally screwed up and 10 is angelic on child-rearing, dad was 3.5 or so on physical abuse. 3 on emotional/verbal. My brothers were 2.5 on their sexual abuse, and just one act of dad's, if he did it, would be 2.5 or lower. Mom was 3.5 on emotional neglect/absence and 3.5 on covert sexual abuse.
In short, being honest, not the worst of families, but, with all abusive issues combined, a white middle-class family that was in the bottom 10 percent overall, by all races and socioeconomic classes, on family dysfuctionality.
As for that pseudo-apologetic letter from No. 1? Over my first two years of sobriety life, and getting back memories, and getting back emotional connections to them, I grew more confronting (by mail and phone) with both him and dad. He eventually admitted he had done some things, without getting specific, but with claiming the fact that he was a minister himself now showed that was all behind him, and shouldn't this just be water under the bridge? No. He had no real apology, plus, he still seemed to be affected from whatever was in his background. (Note: I of course reject the idea that being abused automatically makes one become an abuser.)
I never have confronted No. 3. He's engaged in his own form of denialism. He's admitted that No. 1abused him, while telling both me and Another Sibling that he wished he'd done more to stop No. 1 from abusing us, but never admitting that he not only was involved in such abusiveness himself, but that at times, it was ONLY No. 3, without No. 1 being around.
Time to tie these last two paragraphs together.
No. 3's wife died late this summer. Rest of family was there for the funeral, and I was out there, as part of vacation, a couple of weeks later.
Apparently No. 1 was out there a couple of weeks later.
He, No. 3, No. 3's oldest son, his current girlfriend, and her son by previous relationship were all gathered together.
No. 3 asked the son to kiss him, "on the cheek," before they left. No. 1 then reportedly kissed the son on the lips then bragged about it.
No. 3 said this brought up "stuff" for him. So, he wrote a fairly detailed three-page letter. Sent one to me, one to Another Sibling, and the third to dad's sister. Brother No. 2 lives in the same metro area as her and her husband; her two kids, both married and with children at home, also lives there. And, Brother No. 1 lives in the same state and his one child also lives in that same metro area.
So, depending on how much Auntie tells, and to whom, various amounts of shit could be hitting the fan at the very time as I type this, for their Thanksgiving. I think she'll play her cards close to her vest, and not tell either of her kids. Whether she tells No. 2 or not, or even asks him to corroborate, could be a different story, and interesting enough.
Another Sibling had not told No. 2 about No. 1 or No. 3 when I got sober and got back memories. I did, in part unawares that she hadn't. He accused me of false memory syndrome.
I told myself, after mom died (dad was already gone), that I had no real need to see No. 1 again. This only reinforces that. And, although No. 3 isn't as psychologically scarred or twisted in some ways as No. 1, now that his wife is dead, I have little real reason to see him, either.
Sometimes blood is far thinner than water.
Thursday, November 26, 2015
Friday, November 13, 2015
Expectations after triggering events
Yes, in both the secular sobriety and 12-step worlds, as well as in life in general, we're admonished about not packing too much in the way of expectations in our suitcases.
As for "triggering events"? If you're an abuse survivor, specifically one diagnosed with PTSD, you know what I mean there. I've had a few other things that have had me "on edge," or primed to be triggered, to boot — one of which will be my next post here — as well as my recent move.
The actual trigger?
For me, it was covering the worst fatality accident I've been to as a newspaper reporter and editor. Usually in such cases, the body of the person killed has been taken to a morgue, if dead at the scene. And, if they die at a hospital or in transport, that's that.
In this case, the mother of a 19-year-old was called out to the scene. And, making things even worse, she missed her daughter's body being taken by the hearse by no more than two minutes.
I've never heard such a sound — the old English word "keening" came to mind — in my life. Possibly a mother seeing her kid killed by gun violence or in a war would be the same, or even worse. And, since it was a pedestrian-car accident after dark, I'm still not sure that what I thought was roadkill remains bits of a small animal wasn't ...
Anyway, I checked in with friends on Facebook and a couple of online sobriety groups. And, on the professional side, after emailing the owner of our small newspaper group about the proprietary of a certain picture angle and content, the next day, did a follow-up email to her noting that, well, I was somewhat out of sorts.
Without wanting to focus on the negatives, because a number of people did more than just "like" my Facebook page, they responded ...
I was disappointed that not more people in my two online sobriety email groups responded. And that my company owner, who I would consider at least a close acquaintance, if not a semi-friend, didn't respond, either, whether as a friend, or professionally as someone with years of experience in the business herself.
As for "triggering events"? If you're an abuse survivor, specifically one diagnosed with PTSD, you know what I mean there. I've had a few other things that have had me "on edge," or primed to be triggered, to boot — one of which will be my next post here — as well as my recent move.
The actual trigger?
For me, it was covering the worst fatality accident I've been to as a newspaper reporter and editor. Usually in such cases, the body of the person killed has been taken to a morgue, if dead at the scene. And, if they die at a hospital or in transport, that's that.
In this case, the mother of a 19-year-old was called out to the scene. And, making things even worse, she missed her daughter's body being taken by the hearse by no more than two minutes.
I've never heard such a sound — the old English word "keening" came to mind — in my life. Possibly a mother seeing her kid killed by gun violence or in a war would be the same, or even worse. And, since it was a pedestrian-car accident after dark, I'm still not sure that what I thought was roadkill remains bits of a small animal wasn't ...
Anyway, I checked in with friends on Facebook and a couple of online sobriety groups. And, on the professional side, after emailing the owner of our small newspaper group about the proprietary of a certain picture angle and content, the next day, did a follow-up email to her noting that, well, I was somewhat out of sorts.
Without wanting to focus on the negatives, because a number of people did more than just "like" my Facebook page, they responded ...
I was disappointed that not more people in my two online sobriety email groups responded. And that my company owner, who I would consider at least a close acquaintance, if not a semi-friend, didn't respond, either, whether as a friend, or professionally as someone with years of experience in the business herself.
Wednesday, November 4, 2015
No, things do not happen "for a reason"
Personally, I loathe this, whether out of the mouths of conventionally religious, out of the mouths of New Ages, or out of the orifices of 12-steppers, for two reasons.
One is that I know my sexual abuse didn't happen "for a reason."
Two, as shown here in detail, it's got a huge, gross, boatload of insensitivity behind it.
This also illustrates why the Silver Rule is better than the Golden Rule.
"Do NOT do unto others what you do NOT want them to do to you."
One is that I know my sexual abuse didn't happen "for a reason."
Two, as shown here in detail, it's got a huge, gross, boatload of insensitivity behind it.
This also illustrates why the Silver Rule is better than the Golden Rule.
"Do NOT do unto others what you do NOT want them to do to you."
Sunday, October 25, 2015
Addiction, a book, shattered dreams
Just woke up from a Sunday afternoon nap. Dreamed that I had returned to seminary, after long-term unemployment, to follow in my dad's footsteps and become a minister after all, out of lack of options.
I'm in the middle of a very interesting new book on addiction, "The Biology of Desire." I think it stimulated this dream, along with a yet-unread letter from one of my two abuser brothers to the whole extended family of childhood, spilling more beans on the older abuser brother without yet admitting his own abusiveness.
I'm in the middle of a very interesting new book on addiction, "The Biology of Desire." I think it stimulated this dream, along with a yet-unread letter from one of my two abuser brothers to the whole extended family of childhood, spilling more beans on the older abuser brother without yet admitting his own abusiveness.
Tuesday, September 15, 2015
Jared Fogle
Why? Why?
Why did Subway's pitchman become a child sex abuser?
Some people might say, it doesn't matter.
Well, in the hands of a bad narrative, it does.
If he was sexually abused as a child himself, it's possible for the ignorant, including among major media, to simply report that fact without reporting that fact that the majority of sexual abuse survivors — boys as well as girls — do NOT become abusers.
It matters, too, in that maybe he wasn't a child sex abuse victim himself. Maybe he's just a sociopath whose sociopathy focused on child sexual abuse. Such people exist.
Neither one is an "excuse," of course. In either case, Fogle clearly knew what he was doing, and that it was wrong.
And, "creative" punishment wishes, like castration, or hoping that he gets sexually abused in prison, are misguided.
If there is any chance that Fogle can either deal with the results of child sexual abuse on him, or with a sociopathic personality, those punishments aren't it. And, they won't help heal his victims.
In my personal history, anger has pretty much run its course. But, per what I just noted, my lack of trust has not diminished to any great degree. For any perpetrator to regain such trust, the burden's on them, and in actions and attitudes, not words.
That said, I talked above about some myths related to child sex abuse.
There's another, and that's "stranger danger."
Either incest by family members, sexual abuse by trusted family friends, or sexual abuse by trusted public profile authority figures accounts for the great majority of child sexual abuse. Movies and TV episodes aside, even if based on true events, or true to life ones, like "Mystic River," that focus on "stranger danger" perpetuate this myth.
Family members normally don't even need to "groom kids." The parish priest, church pastor or synagogue rabbi do, though. As do the scoutmaster. As do the schoolteacher or principal. As do the next-door neighbor. But, these are all either trusted family friends or trusted public figure authorities.
Like Jared Fogle.
Jared Fogle didn't snatch any kids off the street. Instead, he befriended them, buddied up to them ...
And then raped them.
That's the last word.
It's brutal applying that adult word to child sexual abuse, but it's true.
And, both are in part crimes of violence. And crimes of control.
Why did Subway's pitchman become a child sex abuser?
Some people might say, it doesn't matter.
Well, in the hands of a bad narrative, it does.
If he was sexually abused as a child himself, it's possible for the ignorant, including among major media, to simply report that fact without reporting that fact that the majority of sexual abuse survivors — boys as well as girls — do NOT become abusers.
It matters, too, in that maybe he wasn't a child sex abuse victim himself. Maybe he's just a sociopath whose sociopathy focused on child sexual abuse. Such people exist.
Neither one is an "excuse," of course. In either case, Fogle clearly knew what he was doing, and that it was wrong.
And, "creative" punishment wishes, like castration, or hoping that he gets sexually abused in prison, are misguided.
If there is any chance that Fogle can either deal with the results of child sexual abuse on him, or with a sociopathic personality, those punishments aren't it. And, they won't help heal his victims.
In my personal history, anger has pretty much run its course. But, per what I just noted, my lack of trust has not diminished to any great degree. For any perpetrator to regain such trust, the burden's on them, and in actions and attitudes, not words.
That said, I talked above about some myths related to child sex abuse.
There's another, and that's "stranger danger."
Either incest by family members, sexual abuse by trusted family friends, or sexual abuse by trusted public profile authority figures accounts for the great majority of child sexual abuse. Movies and TV episodes aside, even if based on true events, or true to life ones, like "Mystic River," that focus on "stranger danger" perpetuate this myth.
Family members normally don't even need to "groom kids." The parish priest, church pastor or synagogue rabbi do, though. As do the scoutmaster. As do the schoolteacher or principal. As do the next-door neighbor. But, these are all either trusted family friends or trusted public figure authorities.
Like Jared Fogle.
Jared Fogle didn't snatch any kids off the street. Instead, he befriended them, buddied up to them ...
And then raped them.
That's the last word.
It's brutal applying that adult word to child sexual abuse, but it's true.
And, both are in part crimes of violence. And crimes of control.
Friday, August 14, 2015
Like a bum tooth with semi-numb roots
On vacation now, and while it's been refreshing overall (I think), it's not been "perfect."
It got off to a bad start, which added to my nerves. Plus, I was so anxious to just get out of Dodge after four full years without a full week's vacation, or without a lot of vacation, period, that I didn't do a lot of planning.
I'm not anal about things like that, but having some sort of structure helps. Just tonight, trying to cut timelines too tight, between fixation over vacation Starbucks visits and going to a New Mex-Mex restaurant in Denver I'd been to before exacerbated this feeling.
The stress of moving has done that. So has visiting my brother who just lost his wife, and realizing there's little I have in common with him as far as interests, not much more on personality, and not a lot more yet on deeper psyche.
The stress of a cell phone whose provider doesn't work at my new city, which has apparently cost me a shot for an initial interview for a non-newspaper job in a non-Texas state probably is there in the background, too.
And, wondering if I'm spending too much time on the Net on vacation may be a bit of it.
I probably didn't have much of a shot at the other job. But it was a bit of a political idealism job, and they showed interest in me, coming from a different background.
Part of it?
The new job that I do have is, if not a forced move, then a semi-forced one. As have been all my newspaper job changes for six years now.
Yes, it's "nice" that I'm flexible, travel light and move easily, etc.
It would be nicer yet if I had similar skill levels in transitioning to new lines of work. So far, though, no soap.
I think it's in part a confidence level, and that's something I wasn't born with a lot of, wasn't supported in developing more of, and even had a lot of it pushed and drained out of me. The "flexible" is a resilience issue, learned in large part from the slings and arrows of a less than happy childhood, either from being "encouraged" to prop up others, being called an idiot myself, or simply abused in various ways, which prevents a child from developing a lot of confidence, while forcing him or her to develop resilience to stay sane.
I'm not getting younger on career change options, and I should have told the other person to call me at my new office number; a time zone difference would have made that OK.
As it is, the semi-forced move was the best available option in a non-libertarian, non-New Agey, non-success gospel way.
It got off to a bad start, which added to my nerves. Plus, I was so anxious to just get out of Dodge after four full years without a full week's vacation, or without a lot of vacation, period, that I didn't do a lot of planning.
I'm not anal about things like that, but having some sort of structure helps. Just tonight, trying to cut timelines too tight, between fixation over vacation Starbucks visits and going to a New Mex-Mex restaurant in Denver I'd been to before exacerbated this feeling.
The stress of moving has done that. So has visiting my brother who just lost his wife, and realizing there's little I have in common with him as far as interests, not much more on personality, and not a lot more yet on deeper psyche.
The stress of a cell phone whose provider doesn't work at my new city, which has apparently cost me a shot for an initial interview for a non-newspaper job in a non-Texas state probably is there in the background, too.
And, wondering if I'm spending too much time on the Net on vacation may be a bit of it.
I probably didn't have much of a shot at the other job. But it was a bit of a political idealism job, and they showed interest in me, coming from a different background.
Part of it?
The new job that I do have is, if not a forced move, then a semi-forced one. As have been all my newspaper job changes for six years now.
Yes, it's "nice" that I'm flexible, travel light and move easily, etc.
It would be nicer yet if I had similar skill levels in transitioning to new lines of work. So far, though, no soap.
I think it's in part a confidence level, and that's something I wasn't born with a lot of, wasn't supported in developing more of, and even had a lot of it pushed and drained out of me. The "flexible" is a resilience issue, learned in large part from the slings and arrows of a less than happy childhood, either from being "encouraged" to prop up others, being called an idiot myself, or simply abused in various ways, which prevents a child from developing a lot of confidence, while forcing him or her to develop resilience to stay sane.
I'm not getting younger on career change options, and I should have told the other person to call me at my new office number; a time zone difference would have made that OK.
As it is, the semi-forced move was the best available option in a non-libertarian, non-New Agey, non-success gospel way.
Thursday, July 30, 2015
Emotional ups and downs, continued
Talked with the publisher of the newspaper in Center after my going to my new place to see the gas getting turned on. As I talked with her, and she listened, and talked back, I realized "all of it" was hitting me. The move ... two shifts in my landing place for my move ... my sister-in-law's death (which I hadn't yet told her about).
I need to be kinder to myself. And, I'm kind of drained.
I'll be glad when the move is done, when I get on vacation, and then just relax, and come back invigorated.
I've been a bit lackadaisical on some aspects of planning this move. I suspect that's delayed bits of apprehension.
Tuesday, July 28, 2015
Emotional ups and downs
OK, two "downs" today as I prepare for my new job to become permanent.
One, in discussion with the interim publisher here, I thought she had planned to be taking the first full workweek of August for vacation herself. Well, it's actually the second half of that week and the first half of the second week. She still sounds OK w/me taking off. But, still, a bit of a jolt.
Two, was getting the gas turned on today at my rent house. I now realize it is indeed a bit smaller than my current apartment. I can "make it fit," but it's going to be tight. It's smaller than my last few apartments, at least a bit.
I guess I just still don't fully realize that a job quasi-loss, followed by two changes of target in my new job location (plus reading that, last year, the newspaper biz had its biggest contraction since 2007 or so), and my sister-in-law's death, are all coming together to hit me.
Repeatedly.
I'll stay sober.
But, good fucking doorknobs, this will be a fun ride for the next couple of months.
One, in discussion with the interim publisher here, I thought she had planned to be taking the first full workweek of August for vacation herself. Well, it's actually the second half of that week and the first half of the second week. She still sounds OK w/me taking off. But, still, a bit of a jolt.
Two, was getting the gas turned on today at my rent house. I now realize it is indeed a bit smaller than my current apartment. I can "make it fit," but it's going to be tight. It's smaller than my last few apartments, at least a bit.
I guess I just still don't fully realize that a job quasi-loss, followed by two changes of target in my new job location (plus reading that, last year, the newspaper biz had its biggest contraction since 2007 or so), and my sister-in-law's death, are all coming together to hit me.
Repeatedly.
I'll stay sober.
But, good fucking doorknobs, this will be a fun ride for the next couple of months.
Sunday, July 26, 2015
Feeling a bit empty
It's been a week since my sister-in-law died. I cried a week ago Saturday, when I got the news. Pinch-hitting at a temporary job, on the road, that turns out will become permanent, I didn't have much time, or mental energy, through last Friday.
I thought that, when I got back to what's "home" for one last week now, that maybe that would change. But, for a variety of reasons, like worried about getting the first edition of the paper out on my own on time, with it being paginated at corporate HQ (the whole process is new for me) and other things, I've been a bundle of nervous energy and other things.
Plus, there's worries about the move itself, getting ready to go on vacation not too long after that, and more.
I otherwise simply feel empty. Maybe I'm just a little emotionally fried, and friable.
That may change, soon enough. Let's hope so, and that it's for the better.
It may take a while, though. As I blogged a few weeks ago, May was the 10th anniversary of my dad's death. Brenda's death and, especially in the early years of her marriage to my brother Tim, her almost adoring take on my dad, has brought that to mind again too.
I thought that, when I got back to what's "home" for one last week now, that maybe that would change. But, for a variety of reasons, like worried about getting the first edition of the paper out on my own on time, with it being paginated at corporate HQ (the whole process is new for me) and other things, I've been a bundle of nervous energy and other things.
Plus, there's worries about the move itself, getting ready to go on vacation not too long after that, and more.
I otherwise simply feel empty. Maybe I'm just a little emotionally fried, and friable.
That may change, soon enough. Let's hope so, and that it's for the better.
It may take a while, though. As I blogged a few weeks ago, May was the 10th anniversary of my dad's death. Brenda's death and, especially in the early years of her marriage to my brother Tim, her almost adoring take on my dad, has brought that to mind again too.
Saturday, July 18, 2015
Death, life, memories, changes and contingencies
Right now, I'm kind of angry at American hypercapitalism, the continuing decline of the American newspaper business, and the backwardness of America with no official national vacation policy and, in general, much less vacation than other civilized countries.
I've long been politically, and professionally, angry about this. But now, it's personal.
I just found out my sister-in-law died early this morning. Brenda had inoperable cancer ... well, inoperable after previous operations, radiation and chemo had all been tried. By this spring, she and Tim knew that, barring a "miracle," it was a matter of time — likely a year.
Before she got too sick, with the help of a crowdfunder, the two of them went to Florida, to the beaches, Disney World and more. I'm glad they had that last time together.
I may have known Brenda, growing up, before Tim did. At any rate, it was probably at about the same time. She was two grades ahead of me, and two grades behind Tim, in high school. Before I moved away from New Mexico with my dad, I had her in my PE class when I was a sophomore, along with her sister. About that same time, near the end of that school year, the two of them started going out. A little over two years later, they got married.
I remember learning the tip of the iceberg already at that time over the pettiness of divorced parents (mine — Brenda's mom was a widow) as to whether the two of them were "suitable" (as in, Brenda might not be), whether one or both were too long, both mom and dad "projecting" some of their thoughts onto the other and more. As I got older and older, I learned more and more, especially about dad's attitudes. And, was less and less surprised, the more and more I learned, sadly.
Josh and Jason were my first nephews. As they grew, they were in some ways alike, others hugely different. Why, I don't know. I know that Tim and Brenda didn't, either.
This April, I took off a whole two-and-a-half days ... first time I'd had more than two weekdays off in 3.5 years. Maybe I should have burned the whole third day, and flown out to New Mexico rather than driving out to the Texas Panhandle.
I thought there would be more "later" time, and I wanted some "me" time as soon as possible.
And, now she's gone.
I've already gotten OK for taking off the second week in August, as I prepare to move to a new job. If they have an official memorial, I'll be there for that. If not, I'll just be there.
Funerals, and memorials, are for the living. Unfortunately, I didn't see Brenda one last time while she was still in the living.
And, everybody in the family knows I'm some type of non-believer, even if they don't know the full details, anyway
So, if funerals are for the living, my mourning is better done alone, at least to start. And start I have.
I think this has also brought other families, with this being the 10-year anniversary of my dad's death, to mind, too.
I've long been politically, and professionally, angry about this. But now, it's personal.
I just found out my sister-in-law died early this morning. Brenda had inoperable cancer ... well, inoperable after previous operations, radiation and chemo had all been tried. By this spring, she and Tim knew that, barring a "miracle," it was a matter of time — likely a year.
Before she got too sick, with the help of a crowdfunder, the two of them went to Florida, to the beaches, Disney World and more. I'm glad they had that last time together.
I may have known Brenda, growing up, before Tim did. At any rate, it was probably at about the same time. She was two grades ahead of me, and two grades behind Tim, in high school. Before I moved away from New Mexico with my dad, I had her in my PE class when I was a sophomore, along with her sister. About that same time, near the end of that school year, the two of them started going out. A little over two years later, they got married.
I remember learning the tip of the iceberg already at that time over the pettiness of divorced parents (mine — Brenda's mom was a widow) as to whether the two of them were "suitable" (as in, Brenda might not be), whether one or both were too long, both mom and dad "projecting" some of their thoughts onto the other and more. As I got older and older, I learned more and more, especially about dad's attitudes. And, was less and less surprised, the more and more I learned, sadly.
Josh and Jason were my first nephews. As they grew, they were in some ways alike, others hugely different. Why, I don't know. I know that Tim and Brenda didn't, either.
This April, I took off a whole two-and-a-half days ... first time I'd had more than two weekdays off in 3.5 years. Maybe I should have burned the whole third day, and flown out to New Mexico rather than driving out to the Texas Panhandle.
I thought there would be more "later" time, and I wanted some "me" time as soon as possible.
And, now she's gone.
I've already gotten OK for taking off the second week in August, as I prepare to move to a new job. If they have an official memorial, I'll be there for that. If not, I'll just be there.
Funerals, and memorials, are for the living. Unfortunately, I didn't see Brenda one last time while she was still in the living.
And, everybody in the family knows I'm some type of non-believer, even if they don't know the full details, anyway
So, if funerals are for the living, my mourning is better done alone, at least to start. And start I have.
I think this has also brought other families, with this being the 10-year anniversary of my dad's death, to mind, too.
Saturday, July 11, 2015
Ten years later, and still angry at times
My dad would have been 85 yesterday.
That's if he hadn't died just over 10 years ago.
Having had my previous newspapers of publishing sold out from under me, albeit with landing on my feet again, now is as good a time as any to reflect on anger over my career of sorts and other things, and connect it to "dear old dad."
Trying to follow in his ministry footsteps, with him passively at times making sure I stayed focused on that, and actively at other times working to cut off other paths, like finding and tossing a partially filled out application to New Mexico Tech to study astrophysics ...
Then finally "escaping," and it being too late, realistically, to do other things academically, especially with a guilt-tripped brain, even as he let me move back in with him ...
I accept that this is where I am. I accept that I'm not poor, even though I hate being in a crumbling profession with anxiety over the future fueled by PTSD.
Yeah, I'm angry. Relative lack of job security at age 50-plus isn't fun. Neither is having a job that doesn't pay ... oh, not a lot, but, say, $5-10,000 more than I actually make. Neither is not having a job, and a career path, that I didn't more actively choose.
Above all is having a dad that steered me away from this — and a mom that allegedly divorced him because of this, but had no real post-divorce interventions.
That's if he hadn't died just over 10 years ago.
Having had my previous newspapers of publishing sold out from under me, albeit with landing on my feet again, now is as good a time as any to reflect on anger over my career of sorts and other things, and connect it to "dear old dad."
Trying to follow in his ministry footsteps, with him passively at times making sure I stayed focused on that, and actively at other times working to cut off other paths, like finding and tossing a partially filled out application to New Mexico Tech to study astrophysics ...
Then finally "escaping," and it being too late, realistically, to do other things academically, especially with a guilt-tripped brain, even as he let me move back in with him ...
I accept that this is where I am. I accept that I'm not poor, even though I hate being in a crumbling profession with anxiety over the future fueled by PTSD.
Yeah, I'm angry. Relative lack of job security at age 50-plus isn't fun. Neither is having a job that doesn't pay ... oh, not a lot, but, say, $5-10,000 more than I actually make. Neither is not having a job, and a career path, that I didn't more actively choose.
Above all is having a dad that steered me away from this — and a mom that allegedly divorced him because of this, but had no real post-divorce interventions.
Saturday, July 4, 2015
Family frustrations
First, let me say that this particular family member has been very supportive of many of my needs, including, years ago, coming to visit me when I was wigging out at a new job with some anxiety issues.
Second, I don't know if they're my one blog follower, but I'm going to write anyway.
The issue is that they went through almost all of the same family environment as I did. Perhaps less on some particular types of abuses, perhaps more on some, but, overall, about the same.
We all react differently to family-of-origin abuse, based on the degree to which we got different results in the genetic pool, on inheriting emotional tendencies and affects, etc., as well as pre-natal epigenetic tagging in the womb and more.
That's react differently both in how strongly react, and what specific reactions we have. That's part of the angle here.
For instance — and part of this may be general genetic or epigenetic heritability, and nothing to do with the abuse, but surely exacerbated by it — I am a BIG "space" person.
And this person knows that to some degree. Maybe they don't recognize just how deep it is, but they' know it to some degree.
That's why I get frustrated when, if they're traveling more than an hour or two straight, whether cross-regional, cross-state, or interstate, rather than turn on a radio station, or have some CDs in the car or whatever, they call me to be a boredom filler as much as anything. A mix of trivial, and rumination — rumination which I probably should "honor" more, yet, try to figure out more productive ways to both protect myself and prod them onward in growth as well as offering support — can run an hour. Or more. Like 90 minutes.
That leads to the bigger issue.
I'm not saying I was affected worse than them. Or that I was affected not as much as them.
That's not the issue.
The issue is that I still don't think they realize how much they were affected. They've gotten some help in the past. I think it's been more than surface-level help, but I'm not sure how much more than that it's been.
It's ultimately their problem.
But, not just their problem.
To the degree this leads them to want me to be some of the things above, it becomes my problem, especially as it interacts with my own "space" issues.
Yes, there are times where I can lament, a bit, being alone so often. And, there are even times when I feel lonely, and feel sad about feeling lonely.
BUT ... I'd like to, ideally, address that more on my own terms.
Some of that loneliness, like intimate relationship loneliness, may never be fixed that well. I know that, even as I lament it. I'm not "damaged goods," but I have had a damaged life. And, my current continuation of bouncing around small towns doesn't help.
But, ultimately, that issue and how I deal with it is mine. And, I've already recognized that, good intentions aside, actual help from elsewhere may not always be available.
Between all this, losing my current job with a company sale of my newspaper, but landing on me feet with another job from the old company and other things, I'm probably going to be a huge ball of stress off and on for a few months.
I'll deal with it the best I can ... and primarily looking to sobriety friends first, a couple of other friends after that, then family after that.
Second, I don't know if they're my one blog follower, but I'm going to write anyway.
The issue is that they went through almost all of the same family environment as I did. Perhaps less on some particular types of abuses, perhaps more on some, but, overall, about the same.
We all react differently to family-of-origin abuse, based on the degree to which we got different results in the genetic pool, on inheriting emotional tendencies and affects, etc., as well as pre-natal epigenetic tagging in the womb and more.
That's react differently both in how strongly react, and what specific reactions we have. That's part of the angle here.
For instance — and part of this may be general genetic or epigenetic heritability, and nothing to do with the abuse, but surely exacerbated by it — I am a BIG "space" person.
And this person knows that to some degree. Maybe they don't recognize just how deep it is, but they' know it to some degree.
That's why I get frustrated when, if they're traveling more than an hour or two straight, whether cross-regional, cross-state, or interstate, rather than turn on a radio station, or have some CDs in the car or whatever, they call me to be a boredom filler as much as anything. A mix of trivial, and rumination — rumination which I probably should "honor" more, yet, try to figure out more productive ways to both protect myself and prod them onward in growth as well as offering support — can run an hour. Or more. Like 90 minutes.
That leads to the bigger issue.
I'm not saying I was affected worse than them. Or that I was affected not as much as them.
That's not the issue.
The issue is that I still don't think they realize how much they were affected. They've gotten some help in the past. I think it's been more than surface-level help, but I'm not sure how much more than that it's been.
It's ultimately their problem.
But, not just their problem.
To the degree this leads them to want me to be some of the things above, it becomes my problem, especially as it interacts with my own "space" issues.
Yes, there are times where I can lament, a bit, being alone so often. And, there are even times when I feel lonely, and feel sad about feeling lonely.
BUT ... I'd like to, ideally, address that more on my own terms.
Some of that loneliness, like intimate relationship loneliness, may never be fixed that well. I know that, even as I lament it. I'm not "damaged goods," but I have had a damaged life. And, my current continuation of bouncing around small towns doesn't help.
But, ultimately, that issue and how I deal with it is mine. And, I've already recognized that, good intentions aside, actual help from elsewhere may not always be available.
Between all this, losing my current job with a company sale of my newspaper, but landing on me feet with another job from the old company and other things, I'm probably going to be a huge ball of stress off and on for a few months.
I'll deal with it the best I can ... and primarily looking to sobriety friends first, a couple of other friends after that, then family after that.
Saturday, June 27, 2015
Dysthymia
Unlike "regular" depression, or bipolar disorder, dysthymia is probably both tougher to diagnosis, and more debatable about just how severe it is.
That said, I'm thinking more and more that I've probably had it, more than just off and on "daily blues," for about six years.
That was when my newspaper company in Dallas closed. I've had a rocky professional life since then, and since I've lived in places that weren't always my personal cup of tea.
How much this is actually dysthymia, and how much is likely related blunted affect on positive emotions, which for me I don't really doubt is PTSD related, I don't know.
I do know that I've had cumulative traumas. Old paper shutting down in the middle of the Great Recession. Added worries, compared to many people, on job hunting with newspaper journalism already struggling.
Then, after landing a new job, having that paper look me up online and finding a blog post I wrote about the whys of the closer of my previous paper. Getting reamed out, and worried I was going to lose that job.
Then, finding out that that paper's parent company entered Chapter 11 on the day I got there. Add in an abrasive (and not just to me, though) assistant supervisor.
Then, I got out to near Austin, just as the oil boom was hitting West Texas again. Looked like it would be a bit more money, and certainly a better area. Until I could not realize how screwy the paper was run. I think I almost went into shell-shock. That, in turn, affected my relationship with my immediate boss.
From there, to my current position. Making yet more money, but having two worry about the financial side of two newspapers in a rural county with declining population.
Why wouldn't I have chronic, semi-regular low grade depression?
My apologies, to both myself, and my one follower, whomever you may be, for not having been on here in a while.
I am probably going to write something next week or so, related to some personal feelings and increased family of origin isolation, over some of the big political and social news of the past few weeks.
That said, I'm thinking more and more that I've probably had it, more than just off and on "daily blues," for about six years.
That was when my newspaper company in Dallas closed. I've had a rocky professional life since then, and since I've lived in places that weren't always my personal cup of tea.
How much this is actually dysthymia, and how much is likely related blunted affect on positive emotions, which for me I don't really doubt is PTSD related, I don't know.
I do know that I've had cumulative traumas. Old paper shutting down in the middle of the Great Recession. Added worries, compared to many people, on job hunting with newspaper journalism already struggling.
Then, after landing a new job, having that paper look me up online and finding a blog post I wrote about the whys of the closer of my previous paper. Getting reamed out, and worried I was going to lose that job.
Then, finding out that that paper's parent company entered Chapter 11 on the day I got there. Add in an abrasive (and not just to me, though) assistant supervisor.
Then, I got out to near Austin, just as the oil boom was hitting West Texas again. Looked like it would be a bit more money, and certainly a better area. Until I could not realize how screwy the paper was run. I think I almost went into shell-shock. That, in turn, affected my relationship with my immediate boss.
From there, to my current position. Making yet more money, but having two worry about the financial side of two newspapers in a rural county with declining population.
Why wouldn't I have chronic, semi-regular low grade depression?
My apologies, to both myself, and my one follower, whomever you may be, for not having been on here in a while.
I am probably going to write something next week or so, related to some personal feelings and increased family of origin isolation, over some of the big political and social news of the past few weeks.
Sunday, April 19, 2015
Sometimes, a door closes, and that's it
There is no metaphorical window opening somewhere else.
There is now New Agey, activist and benevolent universe lending a helping hand.
Sometimes, a door closes, and that's it.
There are no New Agey "lessons" to be learned, either, about why that door closed.
The only "lesson" is a simple, psychological one: acceptance.
The door has closed, and is now sealed shut. I can't change it. Therefore I need to move on.
And, I need to stop expecting a window to magically open.
Instead, I must, as a normal human being, be looking for a new door, or whatever, that I can get to myself, to walk through it if it's open, or to figure out how to open it — if possible — if it's currently closed.
And, the sooner I accept that a door is closed is the sooner I can work on this.
Oh, it would be nice if a window magically opened.
It would also be nice if I won the lottery, if America has a 30-hour work week, and all sorts of other stuff.
But, that's not happening.
==
Personally, I am at the point of accepting a certain doorway is closing more now. And, if this doesn't inspire immediate change, getting closer and closer to the Social Security finish line will.
There is now New Agey, activist and benevolent universe lending a helping hand.
Sometimes, a door closes, and that's it.
There are no New Agey "lessons" to be learned, either, about why that door closed.
The only "lesson" is a simple, psychological one: acceptance.
The door has closed, and is now sealed shut. I can't change it. Therefore I need to move on.
And, I need to stop expecting a window to magically open.
Instead, I must, as a normal human being, be looking for a new door, or whatever, that I can get to myself, to walk through it if it's open, or to figure out how to open it — if possible — if it's currently closed.
And, the sooner I accept that a door is closed is the sooner I can work on this.
Oh, it would be nice if a window magically opened.
It would also be nice if I won the lottery, if America has a 30-hour work week, and all sorts of other stuff.
But, that's not happening.
==
Personally, I am at the point of accepting a certain doorway is closing more now. And, if this doesn't inspire immediate change, getting closer and closer to the Social Security finish line will.
Saturday, April 4, 2015
Frustrations and being "trapped"
Just had to have my car towed back to Hooterville from the nearby mini-metro area. I roughly know the cause, and if the tow truck driver is right on the exact cause, it shouldn't be too pricey. That said, it will cost money, and here in Hooterville, might not be done quickly.
That leads to issue No. 2.
A publishers' meeting in my newspaper company, which starts Friday. I'll have to rent a car, maybe. And, I hate the idea of a corporate meeting with Sunday sessions. And, this all reminds me that I'm the editor and publisher of two struggling papers in small towns that probably should be combined into one single paper.
That leads to issue No. 2.
A publishers' meeting in my newspaper company, which starts Friday. I'll have to rent a car, maybe. And, I hate the idea of a corporate meeting with Sunday sessions. And, this all reminds me that I'm the editor and publisher of two struggling papers in small towns that probably should be combined into one single paper.
I'm in my 50s, I can be grumpy too.
Having the worst case of sciatica I've had in at least 5
years, I think, after throwing my back out 2 weeks ago doesn't help. But, I'm
not dead, and have less in the way of physical problems than Laura, Ang and
others.
It's really that it reiterates the frustrations of still
being stuck in Hooterville and that, for the last five-plus years, while I've
stayed employed, my job moves have generally been escaping problems at the previous
job, whether company closure in Dallas, skyrocketing housing prices in the
Permian Basin, bad management at last position before this one, or a struggling
economy in a struggling city and county here.
And, having been the victim (I believe) of age discrimination on one employment interview doesn't help.
Basically, things like this bring up the fear of being
"trapped" that goes all the way back to my childhood issues, PTSD over the abuse.
Obviously things like this, or a drinking history that developed out of them, aren't things to be discussed with one's boss, even though she knows I've been looking for other work. Especially not when she is a "positivity" type who might think such things are easily transcended.
Saturday, January 31, 2015
Anxious about anxiety, thinking about thinking
A slow, languorous night, as I try to relax
From a long day before,
And enjoy life
A little bit more of a day, or a moment
At a time.
While knowing that the ability to
Not think too much, too often
Sometimes might be a blessing.
However, I know it could only be such
For me,
If I had never learned to think “too much”
In the first place.
The problem is not “thinking too much.”
Rather, it’s not having support for thinking a lot
Or for having feedback on thinking a lot.
Or for having parents who valued thinking
And offered support for facing anything
That it might raise up.
No, the problem is
Being anxious about thinking, then
Being anxious about anxiety.
If I can just remember this,
Just remember on a daily basis
For about 20 more years,
I might be OK then.
Or a better semblance of OK than now.
Reparenting myself
Through thinking, growing and anxiety,
Starts again.
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