Monthly Archive for November, 2007

Dear Fox News Sports Reporter (Black KKK)

Published
by
Austin
on November 29, 2007
in General Chatter, Mental Health and Soapbox
. 0 Comments

Your article on the death of poor black child turned football player is only partially correct. While statistics do point to the fact that a black man pulled the trigger and statistics do show that violence between blacks is high you seem to have overlooked a strong point concerning this “black on black violence” or as you said the “Black KKK.” I find the term “black on black” violence to be rather strange. I find it odd that the study of black on black violence even exists and that people try to prove their own little points with those statistics. Let me ask you this? How many times in the US news do you hear the phrase “white on white violence” “Hispanic on Hispanic violence” “Arab on Arab violence”? You don’t, those phrases don’t exist. You might be saying, it’s because they don’t kill each other at the rate we do. My point is this, when you use phrases like “black on black” you single us out as a group saying that our biggest enemy is us, that stats say we can’t turn our backs on one another, that our biggest concern in life isn’t morally based but colour based. Our own people are the ones we should worry about. Such phrases as “black on black violence” are set up as morale killers and are also part of the whole propaganda scheme our people continue to stay in an uproar about.

You, sir, are as guilty as others when it comes to propaganda but yours is quite subtle. It appears to be for racial unity and advancement but when you toss in your stats and your quotes like “Does Soulja Boy want an education?” and “Black KKK” you find yourself guilty of pressing forward the idea that we as a racial group have ourselves to fear and have ourselves to blame for falling behind as an ethic group.

My other concern with your article is this, you said that students back in the 60’s risked their lives to go to school but we can’t get our kids to go now. Shame on you for saying such a thing. What has been handed to them on a silver platter has not been handed to them without conflicting ideas of trust and equality. Changes in the books doesn’t mean trusting that any real changes will come in their life or that they’ll have an equal chance on a leveled playing field. Might I remind you that we as a people have only recently begun to have open freedoms that we don’t lose our life for? For instance, as an ethnic group we were not legally able to vote until 1965. For 42 years we have LEGALLY been able to vote, voting SAFELY didn’t come for years upon years later. My point is that things change on the books but public life and private life changes take much longer. A person can legally be given an opportunity but privately see that opportunity as a threat or a waste of time because its real benefit might be undermined by others. I can vote legally but can I vote safely and equally and have it count, be worth something? Private influences and change on a private level prevents people from accepting silver platter opportunities. This phenomenon of change and acceptance without influence crosses all ethnic boundaries.

Sincerely,

Austin of Sundrip Journals

,, ,.

Dear Fox News Reporter (Glorified Violence)

Published
by
Austin
on November 29, 2007
in General Chatter, Mental Health and Soapbox
. 0 Comments

Another point you’ve missed concerning the plight of football player Sean Taylor is that he was moved from one form of violence to another and expected to control and contain it. You can not move a lion from The Bronx Zoo to a The Posh Zoo and tell him not to be wild. A zoo is a zoo is a zoo. The rules and animals are the same, it’s wild. (Keep in mind the above is an example of wild behaviors – the rough and tough Bronx compared to what is considered luxury and exclusive or The Posh Zoo.)

What you asked Sean Taylor to do was go from running the streets wild with weapons and plenty of “bitches” to running with a different form of gang and their form of violence. His old form of violence could have lead him straight to prison. This new form put him in the lime light, gave him cash flow and respect. It gave him freedom but it didn’t give him an opportunity to make a real difference in the quality of his life because the one factor not removed from the scenery is violence.

How can today’s football players early on exposed to gang activity not see the similarities between football and gang activity? If they go from wearing the same colours on the street to wearing the same colours as a team that goes out and mows down the next man for possession of pig skin, money and glory how are they to ever make any real separation from the old and new life? The main connection between their old life and their new life is violence. The glory is much the same. They make the news almost equally. The similarities are striking.

My experience with violence is that it is never really controlled. But you’ve asked these young football players early exposed to street violence (the kind that doesn’t include pig skin) to see and understand the differences in mowing down the man that doesn’t belong to their gang/ football team. You yourself have commented on how some players have to take themselves to a very violent place in their mind to play the game, to block so those with good executing skills can make a play. But tell me how a person who is routinely taken to such levels of violence can contain and control it, turn it on and off like a light switch and contain that light always in socially acceptable ways?

Mr. Whitlock, you cannot confuse a man routinely, so thoroughly and expect him to make the right decision every time.

Sincerely,
Austin of Sundrip Journals

Thursday, November 29, 2007-11:47AM EST   ,, ,.

Session Review - Identifying With The Aggressor

Published
by
Austin
on November 28, 2007
in Dissociative Identity Disorder, Morton's Pride and PTSD
. 0 Comments

Boy oh boy I should have just kept up the appearance of only being a victim. Damn! Lord knows he’s not going to want to sit in a room w/ Robert unattended. Robert earned the reputation he has but the boy doesn’t … he’s not the old Robert but he still holds onto the guilt from when he was. That was the point of us telling him that stuff. Now I worry, we worry we may have said too much. Robert wants very badly to go to therapy and talk to Dr. D but wants to do it honestly. He doesn’t want to act as if he has no violent yet consensual past.

We talked again about identifying w/ the aggressor. I seem to be able to hear that and not want to toss my cookies but we don’t hear it without seeing Dr. D tie us up…….we don’t hear it w/out seeing him do what our mother did to us. Actually, Robert sees it. The whole time Dr. D is talking he sees him seconds from leaping from the chair to show just how weak he can make us, just how weak he can make is in a short period of time. He can make me beg in 4 seconds flat.

We talked about the mother maybe having fears that caused her to control others. He asked if we wonder why she did what she did. Um, part of me says it was our fault and part of me says there is no answer to that question other than that she’s evil. I said she was born w/ out a conscience. He asked if that was possible. I said maybe her mother beat it out of her. I told him when he says she was afraid I hear it as an excuse for her behavior. He said no it just might explain it a little better. For me explaining it is the same as making an excuse for it. I have a really hard time w/ giving her slack for any thing at all. What really could explain her reenacting scenes from the movie The Green River Killer or Ted Bundy on her children? I don’t give a flying flip what she was afraid of. I don’t even try to understand why.

On the way home the sun went down just as beautifully as yesterday. At that moment I wondered why. I wondered why it even bothers to be so beautiful over such an ugly world. It reminded me of driving along the high way when I was a kid. The clouds formed like snow capped mountains but what was so exceptional was how the sun beamed down rays right through the clouds. It seemed like each ray was caught in a cloud. My sister looked out the window and said, “Mama, look, Holy Spirit.” It is such beauty that makes me ask why, why hang there so effortlessly, so delicately in splendor while we suffer mostly silent, mostly fearful and mostly without hope? Why? That’s when I start to wonder. But I’m taken in by it’s beauty so very much that I’m just happy it does hang there. The mother, ugly and violent, the sunset effortlessly beautiful. Why? Who cares why. It is what it is.

Goals for today: Dinner and Spiderman 2. I think we may be addicted to Spiderman movies. I’ve already walked the dog and taken out the trash. The main goal is to get some sleep. We got to bed at 10Am only to get up 2 hours later to deal w/ therapy. That’s crap if I’ve ever heard it.

Austin’s August

Identifying With The Aggressor
Wednesday, November 28, 2007-5:10PM EST

***comments are close*** ***the reason comments are closed for session review entries is because the notes are specifically for Pride members. It makes it easier for us to come and read our notes without the complication of comments. When we come and look at our therapy notes we want to be able to focus on the notes and not the comments. If you have something you’d like to add or comment on you can do so via email or even on a different entry or the guestbook. I don’t care where just not here. ***

Dear Beauty and others involved in the conspiracy

Published
by
Austin
on November 27, 2007
in Art, General Chatter, Humor and Relationships
. 8 Comments

Beckoning not BECONNING

HOW COULD YOU? How could you let the title of an art piece show up on several web sites misspelled? Not only did the painting appear on this blog, on the dot com and on the wordpress site but it also showed up misspelled on Flickr and on every feed associated w/ Flickr and every feed associated w/ Wordpress. How could you?

You , my friends who can spell let this happen. It’s not my fault. I accept no responsibility for that mistake, none at all. I’m supposed to have people, nay friends watching my misspelling back but no, nope you let me publish it that way and let it stay up there for days….days I say days! Then you rubbed my lack of spelling skills in by telling me you talked to Sissyface about it. Should you tell me? Hell yes you should tell me. When it comes to art TELL ME. Don’t leave me in the misspelled dark. No, there is no new slang expressing called beconning. That word is BECKONING. For the love of all that is artistic and holy someone could have told me.

Don’t think that JAGA or Kathryn (a school teacher okay…a.school.teacher) are off the hook for letting this thing go on for days. DAYS. Y’all conspired didn’t you? It’s one huge conspiracy against innocent, quiet, soft spoken Austin who never, ever rocks the boat and who is always soooo kind to others…sickeningly sweet as a matter of fact….so sweet she could give you diabetes, toss you into a diabetic coma of sorts she’s so sweet. I can’t go on….oh but I must. Where will the strength come from when I’m out here unsupported? Did I spell that right? Un-sup-port-ed.

Maybe a clue about my spelling ability came in when I did a test of the education level required to read my blog. Now how sad is this?

Check your reading level here.

I haven’t decided if this is a good or bad thing. Elementary school? Does this mean any level of education can understand my blog? Am I that versatile OR does it mean my inability to spell decreased my blogging status?

The Cheesemeister got Post grad College. Puts me to shame it does, puts.me.to.shame.

I Just Wanted A Nice Dinner

Published
by
Austin
on November 27, 2007
in General Chatter, Humor and Relationships
. 5 Comments

Me: Amy made it to one year old. It’s been so cool to see her grow up. She made it through the diaper rash and everything.
Holiday: Do we have to talk about diaper rash while I’m eating. Whose Amy?
Me: Haven’t you been paying attention? She’s the girl from the blog next door.
Holiday: You know they caught that guy who killed the cab driver the other day.
Me: Can we not talk about murder while I’m trying to eat.
Holiday: How is diaper rash better dinner conversation?
Me: A girl can’t properly digest like this.
Holiday: But diaper rash is better for your digestion?
Me: I’m just sayin’
(silence)
Holiday: Just eat okay.
Me: (under my breath) I was just sayin’ is all.

Another real moment in the Austin household. So what was on the menu? Baked Rosemary & Thyme pork chops served next to small pumpkins cut in half, baked then filled with wild rice and mushrooms. Made for good eating during our great dinner conversation. She’s not a coffee drinker so she had soda. Who has soda after a meal like that? I worry about that girl.

Austin

The Perfect Family

Published
by
Austin
on November 26, 2007
in General Chatter, Relationships, Soapbox and Therapy
. 2 Comments

In therapy today we talked family and children and the ideal parents have of how their children’s lives will turn out. She talked about how her grandchildren would do this and that. She had the typical ideal for her children but that got interrupted when I went down my own path. Even when I had foster children I didn’t allow them contact w/ her. Even w/ foster children she didn’t get what she called “make believe grandchildren.” With focus on family and tradition right now, it being the holiday season, it’s no wonder the subject of family is on my mind.

Some of the family ideals were of my own doing. I mean heck, even though she taunted me about liking boys, made fun of me, the idea of marriage always appealed to me. I thought of it as another form of service. I was good at service. I’d be good as a wife I figured. I figured it would be perfect. We’d have the perfect house, the perfect children. I’d be the perfect wife and we’d all be…well, perfect. I loved the idea of keeping a home and raising children but I hardly ever spoke of it. On one hand she made fun of me for liking boys, on the other hand she said never to marry and then other times it was all she talked about, grandchildren and family w/ her at the helm. She’d build a house for me and my husband but she’d have mother-in-law quarters. She’d be right there w/ me to raise the children. Whatever! I still thought about marriage but there was no way on earth she’d be part of my household.

All of this makes me wonder if anyone can ever be prepared to let go of hopes they have for their child or if anyone can ever really come to peace with the fact that the ideals their family had and they themselves had won’t really come to pass now that they’re not in the closet? Can that really be something people accept, that what they want for their kids on a personal level won’t happen as they planned it? The picture won’t be as perfect as they imagined.

I understand why people make such a big deal about coming out. I understand why it’s on their mind front and center. There is pressure to conform in so many ways, but most of all cultural conformity, falling in line with what the rest of society wants for you holds pressure many yield to. That’s why we marry, why we settle down and have a family only years later to go, I can’t do this anymore. Then the family we started is hurt, our friends and our birth family are stunned, disappointed, angry because we lied to them all those years. Why wouldn’t we? Telling the truth means letting down so many people. It’s not that I’m in favor of staring a family w/ the opposite sex when you know full well you’re gay. I’m just saying I understand why it’s done. I understand not wanting to have to come out and go, “Um, remember all the plans you had for me as a child? Remember all the jokes you made about my kids treating me how I treated you, all the payback comments and things like that? Well, forget it cause I won’t be having any kids naturally.” Or, “I’m an only child and you wanted the bloodline to continue but unless we go surrogate that’s not going to happen. Sorry to disappoint you mom and dad, sorry to embarrass you before the church and your friends but all the plans you had for me are going to pot cause I’ve chosen to not go down the path you laid for me.”

When you tell someone you’re gay you also have to contend w/ what happens at parties and get togethers. Is someone going to feel uncomfortable changing in front of you now? Will there be jokes about the need to change in separate rooms? Will your girlfriend’s no longer want to have little get togethers with you? Will there be jokes made as they try to come to grips with how you’ve suddenly decided to not lie about your preferences? It happens. It happened to me. I wonder how many other people experienced this? Sometimes the jokes are to help ease their own transition but it doesn’t mean the jokes don’t sting. Sometimes the jokes are to say, “I’m okay with your decision to come out” but it doesn’t mean the jokes don’t sting. Understanding doesn’t make my discomfort level decrease.

There is more to being gay than being attracted to the same sex. You have to deal with dashing hopes and ideals and you have to somehow accept that you can’t live up to their ideals anymore. This is why coming out is such a big deal and why so many people take so long to do it. Ideals, family, culture, disappointment in self and disappointing others, I struggle with that. I’ve yet to make peace with it. It’s a little bit hard to find it when all I see of families on TV are the husband, wife, child and little puppy dog. That’s the family picture I see on TV. That’s what is widely accepted as family.

Now I’m going to go a little off topic and discuss how it as that people say they don’t care if I’m gay as long as I don’t toss it in their face. On a daily basis heterosexuality is shoved in my face. I doubt it would matter if said I don’t care if you’re heterosexual as long as you don’t toss it in my face. I can’t get away from it. Your songs, your movies, your commercials, your billboard advertisements shove it in my face every second of every day. Hell, your laws are even written to protect you, they don’t but they’re written for heterosexual couples. Try going to the police w/ a matter of domestic violence with same sex couples and be taken seriously. Try having a union and get medical insurance to cover you and your loved ones. Have your partner die and be told you don’t get anything at all because you’re not legally seen as his or her wife/husband. I may keep my homosexuality out of your face but every single part of my day involves dealing on some level w/ heterosexually biased materials and laws. I may keep it out of your face but you sure as heck don’t know how to keep it out of mine. And people wonder why coming out is so hard.

That’s all I got to say about that.
Oh, wait, there is one more thing. I finally got the nerve up to ask the cab driver to take a different route so we don’t pass Blossom’s house twice a week. That was getting kind of old. It makes missing her and staying away from her even harder when I pass her house twice a week.

J of A

A Walk To The Dumpster

Published
by
Austin
on November 26, 2007
in Borderline Personality Disorder, Mental Health, PTSD and Relationships
. 4 Comments

So and so took three minutes out of her busy life to complete a task for me. What can I do to show my appreciation? I could thank her a thousand times but it doesn’t seem like enough. I could offer some selfless act followed by another selfless act but pretty soon my feeling of accomplishing true gratitude will wane meaning I have to keep proving just how grateful I am.

I can trace it back, trace back where my fears of being ungrateful start. I can go back and see the look of disappointment on my mother’s face and hear her use those words, “Disrespectful, ungrateful, disloyal.” After all she did for me, after all she gave up for her children and I’d have the nerve for one second to forget it. I had to prove minute by minute that I understood her sacrifice for lowly me. I still do it today, try and prove that I’m grateful for small and large gestures.

For me, there is fear in receiving gifts. Don’t get me wrong, I like receiving gifts, gifts I can touch, put my hands on and put in a safe place where you can’t take it back. In my family if they knew you liked something it became a target. One particular thing you’d think I’d let go of is when I’d done something, who knows what, and the mother had me walk my favorite 45 out to the trash and toss it. I had a life size Jukebox in my bedroom. It had flashing lights and was so cool. I don’t remember why she bought it but I remember bringing it home from Service Merchandise. I thought it was the coolest thing ever. It played 45’s and the big LP things. The only record I had in it was “The Rose” by Bette Midler. For some reason that song touched me. Whatever I did wrong she decided the perfect punishment was to have me walk it out to the dumpster and toss it. Not just any dumpster mind you, the dumpster where she said my body would be found with its skin removed one square inch at a time. What I learned was that if I like it, if I loved it it was a target. If I showed appreciation, if my eyes brightened, if I smiled when viewing it, it became a target. How was I suppose to balance my true appreciation and still keep the item safe? And how on earth could I understand why she’d go out of her way to give such huge gifts to someone so lowly? How do I express appreciation to a superior when that superior makes it clear my expressions are worthless and will be used to hurt me later?

I caught on real quick that if I liked it it was a target. Once standing in my grandmother’s driveway I tossed a Mickey Mouse glass on the ground. It was better to get rid of it on my own terms than to watch my mother crash it against the pavement. It was another way to keep control of an out of control situation. I can’t count the number of items I destroyed before my mother could.

All of this spills over into my life now. Don’t act too happy about it because it’ll go away. Show as much appreciation as possible but keep your distance. This is all going to go away. And why on earth would anyone take even a small bit of time from their day and give it to me? What’s the catch? How much is this going to cost me? I can only think of walking to the dumpster with dashed hopes and letting go of an old 45 record.

I own a Mickey Mouse glass like the one I dashed to pieces long ago. It’s in the cupboard, up high, in the back behind a Norman Rockwell glass. I hardly ever touch it for fear of breaking it. We might break it just to prove we can endure it. Maybe if I show just how grateful I am to have it back and complete one selfless act after another I’ll take my eyes off the target.

A Walk To The Dumpster
Monday, November 26, 2007-1:35AM EST

Uproar – A Ramble

Published
by
Austin
on November 26, 2007
in Borderline Personality Disorder, Dissociative Identity Disorder, Mental Health, PTSD, Soapbox and Therapy
. 7 Comments

Anger is one of those emotions that I tend to spill. Because I spill I start to withdraw, clam up and rage inside.

I don’t do dependency very well. Any kind makes me feel weak; it makes me feel like I don’t exist as an individual, something I fought hard and long to get. The other night on Criminal Minds the Latin detective said about Penelope, “She wears her individuality like armor.” WOW. He could have been talking about me. One of the things Morton says about the Pride is, “I am here. This is mine.”

Last week in therapy we talked about how the mother kept telling the sister and me that she owned us. She out right said she owned us but then there were phrases like, “I’m your mother” and “You’re my daughter” which she explained meant we had no choice in the matter. It’s just how it was. She owned us. We depended on her for every single thing. I didn’t like that idea at all so I butted heads with her.

As with many abused children we didn’t have a lot of contact with the outside world. We didn’t bring many friends home, didn’t go to their house with permission. As a matter of fact, outside was pretty much off limits. If we went outside and were caught (she came home from work and caught us) there was blood to pay for that. she would smell our clothes to see if they had that outside smell on them. If they did, we got our asses beat. I figured, well hell, it doesn’t matter if I stay in or go out she WILL find something to hit on us for. So I started going outside. I showered, changed my clothes and tried to get that outside smell off of me. But that wasn’t good enough. I wasn’t the sneak behind your back type. That was my sister and since I saw her as my mother’s with no backbone at all I didn’t want to be like that. So, I stood outside waiting for her. Even if I didn’t play outside that day I still opened the door and stood on the porch so she could see me. I knew very well I was going to be in trouble. The point was, I DO NOT BELONG TO YOU. I EXIST WITHOUT YOU. I just wanted her to know I could take her punches and still not cave to her every demand. I could have saved myself some trouble had I just stayed in the house.

My need to prove my point got stronger as I got older and saw more of the outside world. In high school when she was still sexually assaulting me, still beating the crud out of me I decided I’d let her know I knew she was dead wrong for it all. I’d been reading the book “The Right To Innocence.” There’s a part in there that lists survivors rights. I wrote those rights on poster board then cut it in half and placed them on both sides of a picture of a little girl walking down a dirt path towards who knows what. They sat up there like the 10 Commandments they did. There’s a part in the book where a girl in group wanted to join the group in writing the names of their abusers on the board. She was embarrassed because she had 13 names to write. I took her lead and wrote on my wall the names of family and non-family members that took part in hurting me. I didn’t title the list. I just wrote it on the wall next to my rights. There was no way on earth she could come in my room and not see it. She came in, as usual and as usual we pretended nothing was out of the ordinary. I was just trying to prove I could feel something and think thoughts that she didn’t control. I wanted to prove that I was an individual and I didn’t need her to dictate my thoughts, my existence.

I don’t want to go to therapy tomorrow. I don’t know what I’ll say other than I’m angry. Lord knows I don’t want to sit there and cry for a full hour saying nothing at all, just sitting there, hugging that germ filled pillow. Because I don’t want to spill I end up shutting down, clamming up. I’m angry and embarrassed.

Enemies

Published
by
Austin
on November 23, 2007
in Art and General Chatter
. 2 Comments

I’ve been all over Redbubble, Flickr and Etsy today. I’ve seen some amazing stuff but I’ve also seen artists tear their art to shreds just like I do. Sometimes I look at my art and think, this is junk! Who on earth will want this? Despite selling work I worry the buyer will find every single solitary flaw ( real or imagined) that I make.

After reading entries and comments by artists for the last few hours and knowing how I feel about my own art I’m left with one thought -

Who needs enemies when I have myself?

Joan of Arc

Lupus

Published
by
Austin
on November 23, 2007
in General Chatter and Soapbox
. 7 Comments

What I find disheartening is that I can’t use my hands like I use to. Cutting a piece of chicken the other day I was so frustrated I just stopped. My left hand froze up while holding the knife. But you know what else? What hurts the most is that I can’t paint like I use to. I’ve said ti before, I know, I long to paint again and it bugs me to death that I can’t.

I guess I’m writing to say all this in a non-humorous way. No jokes, just plain and simple. I talk about the ugly bruises, about rashes and I even wrote a poem about dancing to the sound of my grinding joints. But really, my head hangs low. Some days it hits me so hard. I think to myself, “I can’t believe I survived childhood just to deal with this!” No, it won’t kill me but feels like it’s taking everything I love. I use to be a chef. Let me try getting through a meal holding a fork now. I use to paint, real paint. I can’t hold a pencil for 5 min without excruciating pain. I am so pissed, pissed beyond belief.

Part of me wants to know more about Lupus, part of me wants to hide in denial and make it not real.

Please hear me when I say, if you choose to comment do not tell me I’m feeling sorry for myself. The last thing I need right now is your foot in my teeth. If I’m feeling sorry for myself right now then so be it.

Austin