Tagged: mental illness

On my mother’s lies

Giovanni_Segantini_Die bösen Mütter 1894 The Evil Mothers

My mother is an artist.  Her medium is reality.  You know how some people work with oils, or clay?  She shapes facts, events and time.  It’s folk art more than a trained thing.

She’s a liar, is what I’m saying.

The world isn’t what she wants it to be, so she makes it up to be more comfortable for herself.  But when she lies about me?  Oh no.  Fuck that shit.

Here’s the nasty truth of this particular matter: one of her cats is obese.  Morbidly so.  He’s a nice cat, sure.  (He keeps tapping me on the shoulder while I’m typing, asking politely if I haven’t forgotten to give him some extra calories.  Oh, he has as much kibble as he wants.  But lardito wants gravy.)  But he’s gotten too fat to wash his own ass.  That’s disgusting.  Today, on his normal sleeping blanket, there was cat shit.  That is so far from okay I can’t.  So I washed his blanket. I told Moms about this, because I will not be giving him treats or extra food.  He does not need to weigh seventeen pounds.  He needs to wash his own ass.  I’d get him a rag on a stick and be done with the matter, but he doesn’t have thumbs and can’t use that, so he needs to shed the three or so pounds.

I found him sleeping on something else today while my mother was talking on the phone.  (Mom has weird phone manners.  Relevant, as she will talk about me while I’m present.)

Here’s what happened:

  • Fat ass cat was sleeping on something.
  • I picked him up.  He was resistant.  He had been asleep.  He wasn’t angry, just sleepy and confused.  He held onto the pillows he was sleeping on with his claws.  (Who wouldn’t be a bit or a bunch upset?  I don’t like it when people bother my sleeping body either.  Apparently, I just wail, Why? in a sad and small and broken way.  Unfortunately for me, my lover thinks this is adorable.  Fortunately, he is not a sadist and has impulse control and doesn’t do this on purpose since the first time when he tried to smooth the furrow out of my brow while I slept.  “You looked so sad, so upset!  I was just trying to help.  You sounded like you were channeling the ghost of a wounded bagpipe.”)
  • I put fat’n’fur’n’browneye on the floor.
  • I put a protective blanket on what gingery bacon had been sleeping on.  He hopped up on it and went back to sleep.

Here’s what my mom said to her friend on the phone:

“Oh, Seer’s waking George up.  Yes, she doesn’t want him sleeping on the chair.  She wants him sleeping on a blanket.  She’s waking him up because…because she thinks he’s too fat.  Yes, she thinks he’s too fat.”

On what planet does that make sense?  There are lots of fat people and creatures in this world.  I don’t have an air horn in my hand waking them all the time.  NO…SLEEP…FOR FATTIES!  All god’s children deserve forty winks.  I’ve been a big girl too, you know.  I used to weigh about seventy more pounds than I do right now.  That’s why my belt has thirteen extra inches on it.  Because it used to fit me.  Never forget.  But why judge the obese?  Not my steez.  It was hard being fat.  And everyone has their own issues with their own weight, good, bad, and indifferent, no matter what they weigh.  I have mine, you have yours.

When Moms lies about shit like this, here’s what happens: her friends come over and ask me about these things and will hammer on me for harassing a poor fat cat.  I can either put up with their wheedling or I can tell them there was cat shit on the furniture.  Either way, I’m a horrible person.  Either for being irrational or busting Moms on her disgustingness.

I told her today not to lie about what I’m doing.  I told her it wasn’t fair.  That it gave me no space to defend myself.  She looked blank, as if she didn’t understand what she had done to wrong me.  I explained again: I tell them nothing, I’m an asshole who hates him; I say there’s cat shit on your furniture, I’m an asshole and the house is filthy.  She said the clipped, “Okay,” the one that really says, Stop picking on me.  I am defenseless.  I didn’t watch her to see if she started wiping her eyes later.  She’ll cry over that.  In my experience, those with no boundaries can’t stand having one set.

Later, I realized I got triggered by the whole thing.  It happened in the moment, the triggering, but the knowledge didn’t surface until later.  Because this has all happened before.  More than once.

The worst instance that I can specifically remember was a long time ago.  I was having terrible symptoms about twelve years ago before my medications got straight, and I couldn’t stand to go out and harvest the tomatoes in the backyard.  Every time I saw a tomato hornworm I felt them crawling on me for hours (I have tactile hallucinations when I’m really ill).  She told all her friends I was afraid of insects–they never asked, she would just bring it up, Guess what’s wrong with Seer now, the princess–and they would mention it.  So I could either tell them I had psychotic symptoms as a result of my thought disorder or be teased by her friends.  (Yes, grown adults in their fifties would tease a grown woman in her twenties who was for some reason now living at home.  Some people are assholes.)

She folds my life around hers in ways that makes her feel more comfortable.   I understand this behavior is one of her coping mechanisms.  I understand this logically.  Emotionally, it fucks me up.  I feel manipulated.  I feel used.  I feel angry.  I feel things I am not able to process or name or aware of yet because I am not an especially emotionally awake person.  I’m learning the language, but I live in my body.  I dissociate from my mind and I am not fluent in heartspeak.  I’m learning to sit in both without flinching, but I still fidget.

I doubt she’ll ever stop doing it, the lying.  And I know it’s not my job to control her.

It is my job to learn to stand up for myself and act appropriately.  I’m getting there.  Slowly.  Fifteen years in almost, and getting there.

But it is hard.  I don’t like it, and in no small part because of this: I don’t like remembering the person who gave birth to me does not or cannot or will not take care of me.  I don’t like that at all.


Next vocab word: seppuku


So the other day I was taking a nap and when I woke up the first thing that materialized in the fog of my mind was seppuku.  Yes, that’s the ritualized suicide by disembowelment of samurai.  (Incidentally, I knew what that word meant offhand.  I looked it up to confirm, though.)  No, I don’t know why this creepy vocabulary list is continuing.  All I know is that it is continuing.  And it’s really weird and that’s all the information about it I have.

So far, it isn’t hurting me or disturbing me, but these are casting further doubts on my sanity, yes, if you were wondering.  I mean, I know I’m not sane.  But I am within two standard deviations of the mean most of the time.  Most of the time.  This is three deviation shit.

This day, this life, they feel used, and I wonder if I am alive or dead

Sainte-Odile sur son lit de mort de Charles Spindle

Glory be.  World without end.

I’m not sure today if I made it.

I don’t know.  Today feels familiar, like I’ve lived it already, but it feels wrong.  Dirty shirt, smells like BO.  Gross.  Open a box of shoes: there are sweaty footprints on the insoles, and they aren’t mine.  I don’t think. Are they?  I can’t tell.  Why can’t I tell?  That’s a simple question.  Are these your shoes, Seer?

Is this your life?  Well?  Is it?  I’m asking you a question.

As it was in the beginning.

And I’m in my mother’s house, and she’s got the sutures, and they’re terrible terrible things, looking just awful, but it’s okay it’s okay it’s all okay and everything will be okay and I can forget forget about yesterday yesterday when I was fetal curled up in my own safeness crying because I had to come here it’s okay I can forget that it’s okay to be here forget if you don’t think about it you can’t smell the piss.  I have to wash my hair three times to get the ammonia out in the morning.  Forget it it forget.

World without end.

Sometimes I wonder if I really died, you know.  There were some times I came close.  When people shook the very death off of me like I had leeches on my back.  And I wonder if I came back to the world I knew I knew the world I knew was born into and of or stepped into a Purgatory version.  Am I paying off my debts now?  Do I ever get a list of what they are?  A receipt?

And ever shall be.

If I were dead, how would I know?  Do the dead know?  Would I even know.

I am the Prophet of the Spelling Test

Theo_van_Doesburg_201 Tesseract with arrows pointing inward

I got a weird flash the other day.

“What’s tesseract mean?”

“Huh?” says the man I love who more than puts up with my insanity.  This is my version of pillow talk.  He gets karmic points for being with me, yes.

(Later I asked him if we would still date if I had only one toe on each foot, but it was the entire width of all my toes combined, and had one nail, like a flipper.  This was a little much at eleven at night.  He was more confused than anything else.  I made a note to back off of the “what-if–my-body-were-shaped-like-a-plot-device” talk.  Also always interesting to me: what if all my body hair were concentrated in one place, like a rhino’s horn?  Yeah, sometimes this tries the patience, but note that I am an excellent cook.  Like really, really good.)

“Tesseract.  Is that the name of a pyramid in three-dimensional space?”

“I know that’s what they use to get energy in The Avengers.  The blue thing, remember?  The cube?”

“Oh yeah.  So is it some sort of Euclidean solid or something?”

“Why Seer?  What?  Why ‘tesseract’?”  Indeed…why…?

“I don’t know.”  I didn’t.  “I just had that word in my head and I don’t know rightly what it is.”  No voice gave it to me.  It just came through me, really.

This satisfied him.  But not me.

I looked it up today, but not until after I got another word.

A tesseract is the analog of a cube in four dimensions (square : cube :: cube : tesseract).  Look, I can’t explain it as well as Carl Sagan can, and you’d rather hear him than me, believe me.

After I took a nap today, the word torpid came into my mind.  That’s when I’d had enough and I needed to look both of them up.

Torpid means numb or slow or lazy or in stasis or hibernation.  It’s also used to describe a stupor in mental illness.

This dormouse is described as torpid or being in torpor.  He’s also snoring up a fuck.  That’s the technical terminologism.  You can look it up.  I studied biology at Science University Tech State University College, you know.  Go fighting louses!

Why am I getting a vocabulary list from somewhere?  Hell if I fucking know.  I have heard these words before, but if you had required me to define them I’d have had to have made something up.  I could have probably sounded convincing.  But I’ve already told you, my psychic powers are stupid.  Is it any wonder my prophetic ones are also for shit?  (If you want a great prophet, you want the Third Eagle of the Apocalypse.  Now there is a great man with great logic and the ability to prophesy.)

Cracking up–no, cracking open


I’ve been undeniably cranky lately.  The past several weeks.  It’s been either contagion and I got it from somewhere or I’m Patient Zero and spread it up and down to all the people who are porous around me (sorry, so sorry, I didn’t know I was giving you pinkeye on the Third one.  At least is isn’t visible and people will still sit next to you on the bus).  People I have noticed it in:

  • Little gray asshole cat in the neighborhood (has taken to shitting on the fucking sidewalk, how dickish is that, can’t even be bothered to shit in the gutter or on the bare dirt around here, fucking little asshole cat)

Okay, I had listed three other people here, but I removed them, because I’m trying not to talk about other people.  As long as you aren’t grumping at me, which they aren’t, I don’t mind.  Have your feelings.  Have away!  Don’t take them out on me and we’re totally cool.  There have been some miscommunications because grumpy people are more anxious and forgetful–this includes me–so I need to take that into account.  But it’s more than just me, it’s a lot of people, which makes me think this is an emotional virus.

I think it’s starting to shift, though.  At least for me.

I got a huge shift of creative energy the other day.  Well, I got a huge burst of toxic energy (I felt like I was dying–don’t worry, this happens not infrequently to me), and then I had to go see Moms.  But I was able to push this shit out of my psychic colon and paint this energetic poop on the walls of my own private asylum.  I can use it for creative inspiration, is what I’m saying.  So I’m onto a new, short-term project.

It’s shadow side, this project is, so I’ll be dipping my cup into the darkness a lot in the nearness.  Next few weeks or month or so.   That’s fine; it’ll give me a constructive channel for all the yechery.  Maybe I’ll be less of an a-hole.  Maybe.  No promises.

The thing about taking on a new, highly energetic project: it hurts to do this.  It’s like shedding a skin.  It’s cutting the nails past the quick and bleeding.  Losing teeth makes for the tender, bloody, pulpy spots, you know?  That’s where the energy comes from.  The energy comes from the parts of the body that don’t normally get exposed.  It comes from the humors.  The bile, blood, phlegm.  Growth and creation hurt.  If you don’t believe me, ask a pregnant lady.  Hella them are fucked up crazy people.  But you get a baby/work at the end of it, so hopefully you’re at least satisfied about the whole thing.  Not always, but you know, there was at least some sort of payoff.  Flu just sucks and then it sucks less and less until you can hold your head up without it feeling like it’s full of dirty rocks and motor oil.

This is good shit, is what I’m saying.  But it’s way potent.  I’m already having waking visions and sleeping dreams related to this project.  I’m not taking more of the project on than I can handle (I guess, but probably not, I’m probably doing too much, letting it eat too much time), and I totally know my dealer (that’s not true, really; I have no idea where this shit comes from.  Do you know the Muse?  Or the energy of the universe?  I fucking don’t.  I feel it, and have only a rudimentary understanding of it), but still: creative energy is a helluva drug, man.  Crazy-ass trip.

We’ll see how long there’s catshit on the sidewalk.  That cat is a fucking nincompoop, really.  No decency.

I’m so disappointed in you. And by “you,” I mean me

Illustration in "The Mascot" newspaper, New Orleans, 1888. "A Canal Street Scene on Mardi Gras Day"."Before the day had advanced drunken masqueraders were numerous and made themselves repugnant to people who lined the banquettes to view the parade of Rex. [...] there was a degree of immodesty exhibited by nearly all the female masqueraders seen on the streets. It seemed that nearly every woman in town who has a nice shape or uniformly nice limbs was out displaying her attractive qualities, and in many cases their conduct was disgraceful. The particular case which suggested this article and the cartoon [...was] at the corner of Canal and Bourbon streets [...] the crowd of women [...] came rushing up to the above corner regardless of the pleasure or convenience of others and pushing right and left made a general disturbance. When remonstrated by the police they only became furious and elevated their voices to such a tone that they were placed under arrest. At this juncture the scene became disgusting. The women rolled around on the banquette with clothes uplifted and scratching and biting the officers. Finally the beligerant females were overpowered and waltzed to jail."So I had my yoga and depression workshop tonight. And we had to do some visualization exercises. Don’t you hate those? When you have to look deep, deep within yourself and figure out what you’re feeling, both physically and emotionally? To begin with, they’re so cheesy. And I’m such a dissociative person, I often don’t really know. So I just lie there and try to be still and think of other things, like whether or not I’ll eat that other package of sausages despite the bone I got in the last package, but they’re different brands, but they’re still sausages, et cetera, whilst lying on the floor in a yoga “ceremony.” Tonight I did know what I felt, though, and it sucked.

I think I need to back up. It was triggered by something.

We first had to write down five things we judge ourselves for. That’s easy. They flow so quickly out of me. I fuck up so much. I get in my own way. If I would just shape up and fly right, everything would go so much more smoothly in my life and the lives of those around me. Everyone else seems to get it; why don’t I? Why haven’t I grown up yet? And we were supposed to meet the judgment with compassion. And I tried so hard to just observe it and let it be, without beating the fuck out of myself. Not a bad person, I’m not a bad person.

So then, we had to go on a fucking journey inside of ourselves, ooh, how fun and deep it all is, and see what we could find, yes, let’s, and then let’s pretend it’s gold instead of a steaming turd.

Please Seer, can I have some more?

Latest yoga trek

Sapta Chakra, from a Yoga manuscipt in Braj Bhasa lanaguage with 118 pages. 1899. Date 1899.I’m taking a workshop with a woman who has developed a program to deal with depression through yoga. Colleen Millen has been diagnosed before with depression and is a yoga teacher. She’s been working on a program to apply the skills she’s learned as a yoga teacher to deal with depression since 1998. She also has been doing her own research on depression as well.

It’s seven weeks, and started last week. There are ten people or so in the class, and she has two assistants. The materials include a lot of readings and worksheets. This week we’re focusing on toxicity. Of course, what’s toxic for me is my refusal to be present in my life. What I can do to fight this is choose to be present. I can. Will I, won’t I, will I, won’t I, will I join the dance?

Please Seer, can I have some more?