Sand of times

I'm in the middle of reading a book, a story about Charles Manson, half of it fictional, half of it actual, but all of it intriguing. Seeing as by the time I was born the world had already exhaled in relief, seeing him locked up safe in prison, I grew up not knowing what he and his followers had done. He was old news, and the majority of the world was probably eager to forget. I didn't grow up reading the papers and watching the television, seeing the horror that is now automatically associated with his name. But I knew his name. After all these years, it turns out people aren't at all that eager to forget. Because people still talk about him, he's still the "legend" he was then.

This book made me curious to know why he still stirs the hearts and minds of people the way he does, so I started searching the internet. You gotta love the internet, all you'll ever want to know, and all you'll never want to know at your fingertips.

After a short but reasonably extensive search I determined for myself that if I ever was a supporter of capital punishment, I'm now certain that the best way to deal with someone like Manson, is by keeping him alive as long as possible. I know that he still has means to communicate with people, that he still reaches out to the world beyond his prison walls, but I think there are fewer people that still want to listen to him. I've seen interviews and speeches he gave in his younger years, and couldn't help but to be... well.. intrigued. There sat a young, handsome, charismatic man, who said things few people had ever dared say out loud, who made sure he remained an enigma up to some point, and who knew how to keep an audience at least as captive as he actually was. He was the legend. He spoke to the world, and the world listened. Some in awe, most in horror, but they all listened.

But judging from later pictures and interviews, the years in prison hadn't treated him kindly. Solitude must have been like oil on that not-so-small spark of madness in the man, because his ramblings in later days... Not very impressive, disturbing maybe, but easily dismissed as the ramblings of a madman.

If he had gone to death-rowe, he would have always been that young enigmatig personality, his followers are fanatic enough to never have let that flame die out, they'd have made him a martyr and a hero. They still attempt to do just that, but let's face it. An old (And peculiarly balding) man who makes funny faces at the camera, who jumps up at random intervals to start a strange little dance, and who bursts out in sudden songs that aren't really songs, more like noises. It's getting increasingly difficult to see him as that legend. He's becoming more and more of an ordinary freakshow.

Honestly, death rowe isn't the way to put this self-proclaimed legend down. A severe case of senility might do the job though. Hard to worship someone who defecates in his pants, has a nurse wiping drool off his chin and only cares about whether there's tapioca or jell-O for dessert.

Little wench...

One evening, Marino and I were just slacking around on the couch, watching tv and doing nothing much in general, when we looked at each other and said; Let's get a friend for Pica! He seems so alone...

That was months and months ago.

So, last week we went to the animal-shelter to get a cat that we saw on the internet. A 3 year old female named Kitty, who was taken out of "crazy old cat-lady's " house, where there were 13 cats living together. She was extremely sweet to us, wanting to cuddle and be petted. So we took her home with us. Put her in a smaller room, to get her used to her new environment, and to prevent her and Pica from meeting each other too soon, because we didn't want the encounter to be too stressful.

Unfortunately, my lack of patience took over, and the next day we introduced the two (We had been advised to wait much longer with that, but other people told us that they had always introduced their cats rightaway and it had never been a problem, so we decided to go for it.)
There was much growling, hissing and spitting, mostly Pica's. But they didn't go after each other, Kitty appeared to have a healthy respect for Pica's personal space, and it seemed she handled the situation very well. One day later we let the door open, so Kitty could go out and explore the house a bit, which she didn't really do until another day later. Then she came to the living room, and cuddled with us like she had never done otherwise.

Pica was still growling and hissing at the sight of her though, but she stayed out of his way and did her best not to seem too threatening to him. That evening she was chilling on the sofa, when Pica walked under the table and started growling at her some more. At that point she must have had enough of his constant threatening, so she decided to chase after him for a bit, just to show him not to push his luck. Unfortunately, that was the moment when she found out Pica is really a big wuss, cause he ran away and cowered in a corner, waiting for a chance to get out safely.

Kitty decided at that point she'd make a run for president of the house, and started attacking Pica at sight. Not all the time at first, but the attacks became more and more frequent, until he really couldn't show his face anywhere without having Kitty bitch-slap him out of the room again. (And shredding our curtains to pieces in the process) She didn't use her nails on Pica as far as we could see, but she made enough of an impression on him anyway.

So now she's locked in her room again, Pica is strolling happily around the house, probably thinking he got rid of her... but we'll have to find a way to let them live peacefully together in this house. So we'll try a slow re-introduction, and hope for the best.

Jeez, apparently the biggest pussy in this house is Pica. Maybe we should sign him up for karate or something...

Update

Things have certainly improved after I stopped using the effexor, it's not great yet, but it's better. I feel more like myself again, so when things get bad I can at least try to figure out where it's coming from. My sisters and I still have an extensive mail conversation going, maybe that's one of the reasons I haven't been writing here that often. It's good to have siblings that know where you're coming from. We can relate to each other's problems, and we can sometimes fill in some of the others' blanks, which has proven to be quite valuable.

I probably won't be back on the job-market for a while though, because I'm simply not ready. What worries me, though, is that I've been at home for quite a long time now. And I've always had problems adjusting to jobs in general, so I'm expecting that to be worse when I do go back. But I'll worry about that when it comes my way. At least I know I'll get help with that.

Some of the simplest things still are a big problem for me. Getting out of bed for instance. Taking care of the household, showing up at the DAC at the agreed times, lots of stuff actually. I'm trying to figure out why I'm having so much trouble with that. Seeing as my therapy has stopped for a while now, I'll have to figure most of these things out by myself. But I also found out that it wasn't much different when I still had therapy. I'll get by.

Sleeping problems are still there, but I figured out that drinking coffee during the day is a sure way of staying awake all night. Maybe I'm just sensitive to caffeine, I don't know. But Decaf tastes just as well. And it really helps.

I'm doing better when it comes to alcohol and cigarettes by the way. There have been periods where I needed a glass of wine in order to get some sleep, and I needed almost a pack of cigarettes a day to calm down a bit. I still drink, and I still smoke, but I really cut down on the "drinking-at-home", same for smoking. When there's a party I sure won't skip any of the booze, but I know when to stop, and sometimes I drink just one beer, or nothing at all (Although the latter only occurs in rare situations, but hey, I'm trying here!) I rarely smoke at home anymore, only when I'm out, or at parties. And I'm trying to cut down a bit on that as well. Sometimes I can go a week without a ciragette, or only 2 or 3. Sometimes I smoke more, it kinda depends.

Marino and I are now in counselling for our relationship. I'd have to say things were pretty bad a while ago, but we both really want to work things out. The reason things got so bad was my depression, for a large part. We're both stubborn, proud, hard-headed. And that would have caused problems even in the most positive of circumstances. But with the depression (and the medication mostly) I practically turned into a zombie, so Marino had to take over. He did take over, because that just comes natural to him, but he crossed some very important boundaries with that, which he didn't know. And I wasn't strong enough to defend those boundaries. I tried, but I simply coulnd't. Now that I'm feeling more like myself again, I'm trying to win back that territory, but we both don't want this relationship to turn into a battlefield, and apparently we got stuck there. We have very different ways of communicating, and we really need to learn to understand each other, so counselling seemed like a good idea. We have had 2 sessions so far, but things look very promising.

Another thing I really need to work on is getting some physical exercise. And, fair enough, so does Marino. So we bought a hometrainer. That we both used twice or so, in the nearly 2 months we have the thing. Typical. And I did see that one coming, because we're both... well.. lame :P
But I haven't given up yet, I really want to try. Just trying to figure out the best way to do that. Because it feels great to know you're doing something to improve yourself, and after a 40-minute exercise I'm too tired to think of stuff that doesn't matter anyway. It's good in more than one way. Maybe I just need some encouragement. *grin*

Then again....

There have been lonelier days than these. Times have been less kind and days have been longer.

It's amazing what a person is able to forget when they want to forget, and it's amazing what torment people can bring upon themselves. And what torment we can endure. It all just depends on what you're used to. And there's quite a lot I've gotten used to.

Maybe the ghosts are there to remind us to count our blessings...

From Scratch

Today I had an appointment with someone from a reintegration bureau for people with psychiatric problems, to see what the options are for me. I don't expect the government to be patient with me much longer, seeing as I have been ill for over a year now. And when they tell me I need to get back to work, I want to have a plan of my own, because they won't care much about what kind of work I do, as long as I don't cost them any more money.

The woman who took today's interview was very nice, and she managed to reassure me on some points that I was slightly worried about. Especially the government doctors' office. She called it "little Lourdes, you walk in with a disease or handicap, and you walk out healthy" because they'll just say you're not sick anymore, and that's final.

But when that happens I'll tell them I'll be working with this reintegration bureau, and they will get me up and running in a way that won't have me back in their office within a month. One step at a time.
So that was good. (Little Eddie Izzard-pun for anyone who knows him ^^)

She asked me what exactly the main problem was for me, because I'm going to a "daily activity centre" (DAC), which is more or less on a voluntary basis, and all I have to do there is fun things like painting, drawing, making music or other creative things. But even that is a problem for me as soon as the word "obligation" is mentioned. I just panic when that happens.

This is something I've been thinking about for some time now, because it's a big handicap for me. And the most logical explanation will probably be one from my childhood. The fact that my parents were always working hard, and we were expected to help out. Whenever we tried to get out of having to do annoying chores, we'd get lectured by our family, who were always around the corner, waiting for an opportunity to criticize anyone of us. They'd tell us we ought to be ashamed of ourselves, that our mother (yes, our mother, because according to them, our father was a worthless piece of shit, and they didn't hesitate to tell us that as well) worked so hard for us, and we did NOTHING to make things easier for her, that we were lazy and bothersome... Well, they had many variations, but it all boiled down to that.

What I saw was two people working their asses off, and it was killing them. Especially my father, who never dealt well with stress. The lesson I learned as a child was that working will make you extremely miserable, but it has to be done, and if you don't keep up, you have failed in the worst way and you should die in a cold and dark hole somewhere, to not be a burden to the ones that could keep up. When we were younger, we always wanted to stay up late with the grown-ups, like any kid wants. Back then my mother always used to say "Just wait, in a few years you'll be begging for permission to go to sleep!"
How right she was...

Work for me meant -literally- running hard to keep up with the pace, doing the most annoying chores because we weren't good enough to do the more fun things. And staying up late, because everyone did. Sometimes we'd also be allowed to help prepare the food, and even better, the garments and decorations around it, because we were all quite creative, and we always made sure that the food was a feast for the eyes as well.
But most of my time was spent doing the dishes, or looking after the garderobe, making sure all the guests' coats were neatly organized, and returned to them when they left.

But the worst one, and the most frequent one, was washing the glasses. I'd spend all evening behind the bar, while the waiters kept a steady supply of used glasses that needed to be washed, so they could be used again. There was a sink with continually running water, and it was freezing cold. After five minutes of rinsing the damn glasses my fingers were bright red and cold, after that they went numb for a little while, but eventually they would just hurt like hell. As would my back, because I'd stand slightly tilted forward all the time, which put a lot of strain on the muscles in my back. I was never allowed to sit, which was impossible anyway because there simply was no space. And even if there was, there just wasn't time. No five-minute break, just keep going for hours at a time. And it was worse when my uncle was working, because he couldn't handle stress either, and he took it out on whoever was closest. Which meant I'd have to take in all his insults as well, while the only thing that kept me awake was the pain in my hands and back and the cold water that seeped though my sleeves. (At some point he called me a stupid cow, and I just walked out, and told my parents I wasn't going to work near him ever again, and I didn't. I'm glad they understood, and took my side on that one..)

I know this sounds really dramatic, but it really was for me at that time! And it's still a dreadful memory, I think my sisters would agree.

So... ehm.. the point I was trying to make -I guess- is that I have very negative associations with work because of this, and I have to find a way to change that.

And instead of thinking a year of my life has been wasted because of my situation, I want to try and believe that it might just have been necessary that I was torn down to the ground like this, so that I could start rebuilding things from scratch, and do it right this time.
It's a starting point, and I have a lot to do, but I can do great things!

*tries to hold that thought*

Memories

My parents have been trying for years to sell their house. The house all but one of their children were born in. (We moved somewhere else for 5 years, my sister was born, and we moved back)

The thing is, it wasn't just a house, it was a family business. Built and run by my great-great-grandmother, and been in the family for some 100 years. But by the time it was my parents' turn, times had changed. We used to have the only big hall in the village we grew up in. Weddings, funerals, matinees, dance-evenings, and the annual "carnaval" which is pretty big where we grew up, we took care of it all. Every year, children would receive their first communion down at the church, and the more wealthy ones would get a big party, that's right, at our place.

Apart from how is was for us growing up there (I've done my share of ranting and complaining here), there was always work to do, my parents worked day and night, literally. My mother slept maybe 3 or 4 hours per night, almost every night. The rest was spent working or taking care of us and daily housekeeping-chores. My father was always in the pub, always talking to the same people, having to pretend to still like the same old stories, and laughing at the same old jokes.

Ofcourse, we had a lot of new stuff happening there, too. Irish season-workers who stayed in the neighbourhood, coming to our pub after work, we'd talk about how things were back in Ireland, and how things were here, we'd make music, had a lot of laughs, let them stay until long past closing time because we were still in the middle of a conversation. But one by one, they all left again, to another town, or home. They all promised to call, but we never heard from anyone again. The one family that stayed is doing nicely, from what I heard. I run into them every now and then, and we always have a laugh, and on good days, we have a beer to go with that.

The older I got, the less work there seemed to be. The locals would stay home, because who goes to the pub every night these days? They've got tv now, and supermarkets who sell cheap beer. And the younger people all went to the city when they went out. Because a small-town pub wasn't enough, they needed to mingle with the cool people in clubs, and we had a pub, the music was loud enough to hear, but it didn't rule out any form of conversation.
Weddings and funerals, that still went quite alright. But the new and improved community-hall took a lot away from that as well. Cheaper. My parents tried to get more customers by opening the restaurant again, bargain prices, my mother always loved to cook (She still does, she's the chef where she works now) And that went alright for the few steady customers we got, and when the weather was nice, there'd be some people ordering something simple like soup, or sandwiches, had a little break from whatever tour they were taking.

But I guess it wasn't enough. Even renovating the toilets, because they were rather antique... Business kept going downhill... My grandmother, and my aunts and uncles all said someone had to take over the family business, that is was a shame my brother and sisters wouldn't do it (Me neither, hell no, I'd seen the kind of life it was) but no-one else would do it either. So my parents kept doing it.

Until, a few years ago, one day my father got a near-heart attack, as the doctor called it. (Scared all of us to near-death as well)
My dad had suffered from different illnesses all his life, peptic ulcers, severe burnouts... He definitely couldn't handle the stress. So it shouldn't have been that much of a surprise, in retrospect. Actually, I'm guessing he was lucky, that it was just a warning.

That happened in the autumn, and my parents closed the pub that year. The first of januari the doors were closed, and would stay closed. My parents both went out to get a "normal" job, and I remember my mother working some 60 hours per week and looking nothing but relieved because she had so much free time now!

I moved to an apartment of my own, as my sisters had already done before me. My parents and my brother were left to live in that big house, which has only been deteriorating ever since. My parents have been trying to sell it for at least five years now, and every time they have a chance of selling it, the government jumps in with some sort of moronic rule, saying they can't. I've been on the verge of throwing a molotov-cocktail into their office more than once. One person makes a rule, my parents have to blow off the deal, and some other person comes in and says "oh, no, that rule was bullshit, you can go right ahead" But by then, they have to find a new buyer! It happened more than once, I tell you! In the meantime, my parents live in a building that is way too big, it costs them a fortune in insurance, and heating, and they can't seem to get rid of it.

The past few months there was finally some progress, things had been going rather smoothly, and plans were made, designs for new houses that would replace the one big "temple" it is now. Then the government jumped right back in. They had to do an archaeological research, because they had reason to believe the site would be of archaeological interest. When I heard it, I thought it would be another bullshit-thingy they came up with, and my blood started to reach a boiling point once more.

Last week my dad called, said they had found remains of a settlement from sometime in the iron age. Burnt charcoal, loam that they had used for building, and even human remains!
Ofcourse this will probably mean another delay in selling the house, but the people who are going to buy it already invested a lot of time and money in it, and this probably isn't big enough to scare them off.

But my dad and I already agreed that when they would start digging, we were gonna be there, looking at everything they find and keeping the archaeologists from their work with our questions, because right now, we don't care about the damn house anymore, we're just dying with anticipation to see what they dig up!

Kiwi's!!!!

Got this from a random link on a not so random forum, and for some reason it nearly made me cry.. so sad...