Who Are You

Some buddies online posted two different stories on being "gifted" as a child. One was about how gifted or as my school called it, academically talented labels put a unintended burden on being wrong or doing things badly. Another explored how the expectations of us as a child lead to a sense of disappointment if we weren't the gifted adult everyone expected.

I see now in writing this out, they're interrelated.

I can be wrong and I can accept doing something in a less than "right" way. To be creative, requires a lot of messy preparation.

Someone gave me a charcoal pencil to draw with and at first I smudged everything I drew. I got charcoal dust all over my nose and hands too. Eventually I figured out to use less pressure and more shading and got better at the medium.

One art teacher put silverware in glasses of water and used lighting to shine and reflect off the glass and metal. We were tasked with drawing what we saw. I still have some of those pieces I drew.

I think of myself as a creative being and work at making that statement be enough. Doing art expresses a side of me for a purpose removed from the quality of the work. I do care about quality, just not enough to stop me.

As for my promise as an academically talented kid, I see now that any loss of "rising to my potential" comes from those who failed me. First, they assumed tests revealed a destination I never desired.

Because I did well on standardized and IQ tests, many teachers assumed that I should do a profession that they perceived suited me. Instead of building on what I wanted, they intimidated me into selecting law as one of my goals.

I picked interior design. I got told "you're too smart for that." All that taught me was that they weren't going to listen to what might make me happy so I quit telling "authority" much about my desires.

Not only did this make me suspicious of guidance counselors and teachers, it also distracted me from my own goals. I took a drafting class in order to try and find a practical application for my desire to be artistic.

At a high school career event, a guide suggested engineering for my talents. I knew nothing about even what an engineer did, really. I figured these "professionals" understood me and at least I'd get to do SOME things I liked. Or so I thought.

When I first went to college, I really needed really good mentoring. The most obvious guidance could have come from fellow disabled members of society, someone who survived trauma or even just someone without much family educational support.

I felt like a dismal failure. Now I look back at my first college attempt and I see a real lack of support. I did better the second time around even though I had more trouble in class.

I got onto a hard science track, switching to chemistry, and did better for a bit. Then I got overconfident and took on too much. I did ask for help from the wrong person and they confused me into tripping up. I had just turned 20. I knew they were giving me wrong advice, but I didn't know how to find a better adviser. I quit school.

My partner at the time started teaching me about computers and we ended up starting a business of our own. I love using the computer, reading about them and even building some. That was my life for many years. I even kept my eye on the industry after that partner and I broke apart.

Having diverse interests has been both a joy and a curse. This gives me many options but sometimes with that comes confusion. I love lots of things and choosing what to put my attention to leaves me in distress.

I moved in with a housemate that lived a block from a well respected community college. I decided to dip my toe in once again, about six years after my last college attempt. This time my efforts felt great.

I tried chemistry again, but it didn't quite fit my adult sensibilities. I met a lady in a magazine writing class and she helped guide me to trying my hand at journalism. I found an adviser and mentor in that department and I did well.

For me, writing gave me the freedom to pursue all my interests. I could bypass all the prerequisites and just call up some chemist and ask questions or ask about how an artistic designer found inspiration.

Still, I struggled with furthering my education. I have no degree of any kind. I'm okay with this. I see now that having a lot of varied experience creates a pleasurable life. I lived up to MY potential.

Only I didn't know what I wanted until I looked back and saw the crazy road. I'm okay with that too. I try and help others find their sips of joy. Either in recovery, resilience or just life in general.

Be a mentor ESPECIALLY if you haven't got things all figured out. Let others know that their crooked journey is as valid as any other.

Kind comments encouraged.

Lucky (Woah) Man

A few months ago I read a book by the CEO a major online retailer who said he would rather hire a person who thought they were lucky over a person who thought they were skilled. Um, I'm not getting a job there. Sokay, despite the hype about it being a "fun" place, I don't get a vibe that the hype is real.

Now I'm reading a book that analyzed a bunch of different companies. They suggests those CEOs use planning to overcome "bad luck." I'm more in this camp, but I do think there are amazing life experiences that happen from knowing when to go with the unforeseen.

The Los Angeles Times awarded me and about 30 others small scholarships at a nice dinner and talk in their building. After our meal, they brought all of us down to the newsroom. We couldn't go in very far as we were a large group. It just looked like a bunch of cubicles. Messy empty offices filled with books and papers. Not terribly impressive.

Several months later, I had a job interview across the street from that same building. I had a contact of a guy who had visual problems who worked at the LA Times moving stories to the wire service. I'd never met him, but I thought it would be cool to see what he did.

I called and arranged to meet after I had my interview. Nice man, we chatted while I watched him work and then went to lunch. Turns out his wife ran some big department and after lunch he took me up to her office. Right into the news room and even cooler, she gave me a private tour of the paste up room, explained how they sent the pages to the printer and treated me as if I could work there once I finished my degree.

I never finished my degree and I am not that into newspaper journalism, but I'm glad I got to see all that. Wish I'd known someone in the press room so I could see that too.

Neither luck nor skill made it happen. I think coincidence, the randomness and happenstance that comes with casual networking.

I've done the active planning and seeking contacts, and it seems to not come to as much as that coincidental liaison. I do think that the planning teaches us to know what we want before we see it. I don't consider it "bad" to plan. I do think it's limiting to limit anything to only the plan. Seize the day.

I think my problem with calling coincidence luck comes from growing up in Las Vegas. Yeah, some things are chance, and one can use that to "play the odds." That just seems so erratic. I don't like erratic. I don't like being thought it and living with those around me who live it.

And there's the atheism coming into play. Relying on randomness seems like giving up my power to something beyond my control. It seems like fantasy.

I've heard that when we can't predict most of our outcome, we drive ourselves nuts trying to make things work out. Why rely or even look for something that makes us crazy? Why look for employees that want to tempt insanity? I want to do what works most of the time. I want to do what matters to me.

I think I would say that I am open to the possibilities of coincidence.

How do you view luck?

Love is all you need

Big Beautiful Me!

I wrote a post in 2013 at the height of the year of hell. Everything that could go wrong, did go wrong that year. Dad died, got cancer (I'm fine), my partner lost two jobs and our business blew sky high.

I decided to "lose weight" after the cancer surgeon suggested my weight would cause healing problems. It didn't, he was wrong, a massive ass and stigmatizing.

I tried to edit the post but hit a wrong key and now I think it's disappeared. I still had the preview up and so I can cut and paste. I'll just do a new post and include bits from the original.

I love me. All of me. Yeah, I'm a big girl and there are health problems with my weight. I get that. (I no longer believe there are health problems that specifically relate to weight.) It has a purpose. I have NO IDEA what it is, but I know it's there for a reason.

Maybe it's my armor like I've said before. Maybe it's something not for me. My efforts are not working so I think there's a purpose beyond those things.

I'm not alone in loving me. That's a nice thing. I think maybe people forget that wherever they are, they are lovable. Even by other people.

I really dig Martha Beck. She writes about living our best lives. She recently wrote that we need to love ourselves. Something I wholeheartedly agree with. Then she went on to say that we cannot get love from anyone else until we love ourselves. This is where we part company.

I think it's way hard to ACCEPT love when we don't love ourselves, but certainly others can see in us what we cannot see in ourselves. Plenty of times in my life when I felt unloved, just a person being around with kind intentions, helped me get back to loving who I am.

So as I sit in all my glorious bulk, I smile at it. The universe will reveal whatever it chooses whenever it chooses. That might be never. In the mean time, I'll be grateful for being alive.

Love, peace and understanding.

We are family, Manson family

Most days being an abuse survivor doesn't even come up. Especially after years of recovery work and a great mental toolkit. Then there's today.

Today events conspired to push me toward the edge of a massive freak out. To a "normal" family (as if there is such a thing), death will create sadness and other emotional reactions. Sure there's anger in the stages of grief, I just think mine is pretty much the only feeling.

I wrote about it with my sister's dying a few months back. I was/am angry with my sister. Even still, I wish her peace. Mixed that. Angry Peace.

So when my mother died, I got all this paperwork about her estate. My sister was in charge of dealing with all that and it was pretty clear that she left only debt. I guess my sister kept doing something with their business because she started sending me tax partnership paperwork for it.

Like, my sister didn't contact me to say hello or share a moment of reminisce, but she sends me tax paperwork.

Now she's dead and I get an email from a law office trying to get my contact information so they can send me more paperwork regarding my mother.

I wanted to scream "GO FUCK YOURSELVES!" Instead, I emailed back that I want nothing to do with any of my family and they reply that they have to send me something to sigh to that effect. After I calmed down, I replied that I would NOT sign anything having to do with any of this. Still thinking "go fuck yourselves."

It all feels like somehow my family is going to try and screw me over again. Abuse doesn't stop with the death of the abuser. Abuse culture strikes again.

Yesterday, the attorney who began emailing me somehow got my phone number and called me. He left a frustrated voicemail and asked me to call him back. I figured I should get myself calm before I talk to him. I am going to try VERY HARD not to tell him... you know.. go fuck yourself...

So I didn't swear, I did express my own frustration at the whole situation. He must have taken some mad communication skills in college cuz I hung up the phone feeling heard.

It's still upsetting.

Writing it out helps. Singing "I Will Survive," at the top of my lungs helps. "I should have changed the locks, I should have made you leave your key, if I thought for one second you'd be back to bother me. Now, GO, bar the door! Turn around, you're not wanted anymore! Weren't you the one who tried to hurt me with goodbye? You think I'd crumble, you think I'd lay down and die? OH NO NOT I! I WILL SURVIVE!"

Angry. Peace.

#metoo

I posted this to Facebook and that's for friends only, I'm hoping this will reach a wider audience. Yet another #metoo story and mine has kind of a twist. I kind of forgot about it until my journalism adviser made a post commenting on her own timeline.

To say I forgot may be going to far. Indeed I do acutely remember the incident and my whole feelings about it. More accurately, I put it out of my mind as being "not as bad" as plenty of other events in my life. I thought I might be overreacting.

Two adult male students called me vile names that no one should ever call women. And they did it in an email.

That's the problem with #metoo. Women chalk up a lot of events to not being a big deal. No one showed me their penis or invited me to their private room or chased me.

I could say that in one way this was kind of worse. It attacked me inside my house with all my doors and windows securely locked. It brought up all the mistreatment I suffered at the hands of the perpetrators that were just minor skirmishes on the very real "war on women," in the society as a whole.

And it's "just an email."

A brief background for context, I went back to college at 31. I took a magazine writing class and while I did learn some valuable things, the best part was meeting a sweet linguist in her 60's with a passion for words. Felecia dragged me into taking more journalism.

I didn't like newspapers and I didn't want to work for one. I liked magazines and she asked me to take a class on that at the same time. That I LOVED.

I also really liked the journalism instructor for her no nonsense approach to teaching. I wrote a couple of stories for the paper as part of the class and made good grades.

I signed up for the newspaper class with the intent to see how I could do something with the Internet. In 1996, not that many newspapers were online. I almost dropped out in the beginning, but the adviser asked me to stay and work on the web aspect of news.

I came up with a plan for a free page and started publishing about a month into the semester. The publication site had a feature to add more data for $5 a month and my journalism instructor thought that was worth the money. I had to take the pages home to upload because there wasn't student access to the net at that time. I spent several hours on publication days collecting stories and eventually photos and arranging them for web based publication.

I started asking for the print page editors to make sure to leave their disks behind so I could collect the stories without having to hunt for the information. Some editors resented this. I also asked to be put on the masthead as web editor and pushed my way onto the editorial board. Also tense.

I hung around the newsroom on print production day to help with copyediting (looking over stories for errors) and to remind editors to leave their disks. One male page editor griped at me so harshly I left the room in tears. I don't remember what topic set me off, but I do remember it was something about my competence.

All the women in the room chased after me including the instructor. They all told me that kid had made every one of them cry. I still feel bad that "I let people get to me like that." Like I'm weak (I'm not), but that's the feeling.

 I don't think I have ever really thought about how this all went down. Working on a college paper is like trying to bail water out of a leaky boat. It's crazed and maddening under the best of circumstances, add a handful of testosterone addled males with a shitty attitude and it just sucks.

Three of those semesters I edited the opinion page from a computer in another room. I am thankful for that separation. I'm also thankful I wasn't trying to create the web publication on the same day.

Keep in mind I taught myself every single aspect of web editing. I had some help with print page editing from an awesome fellow student, but none of them could tell me out to move a story from the desktop publishing software to a text file. I was on my own.

Once I figured out how to make a text file, I had to solve a confounding mystery that they would crash the web editor every time I copied the text onto them. I figured out the desktop publishing software inserted a new paragraph code and so I had to remove them with a plain text editor before using the story. Even with search and replace, 20 some files had to be opened, searched and saved.

I asked students to help, but they rarely showed up. At one point, one of the photo students came in to help scan photos and that cut a big chunk of my time. Lovely young Asian gal, I wish I could remember her name.

So here was my day on average. Arrive 10 a.m.. Collect disks or search computers for the page files, download stories to my own disk naming them to the order, page 1 story a etc. takes about 45 minutes. Strip codes & add title and byline an hour. If I have to scan photos, 5 minutes each to scan, crop & add caption canvas to the image. Even if it's just a tiny image on the page, it still takes all those steps.

Oh, and the scanner is on Mac and the web editor is on PC. Back then, I had to make sure the file name was done precisely, no spaces, or the PC wouldn't read it. After I had the images, I would take them to the PC make the caption canvas part of the image black in color, add captions to it. This took another hour. We're about 4 hours in and haven't even opened the web editing software.

About another hour to move all the text into the web editor and get it in order and connect images to stories. Then I go home and upload and test and adjust.

Okay, typing this all out, I'm super pissed off right now. I worked my ASS off. Virtually alone and those kids had the FUCKING AUDACITY to question my competence. Two years of my life I spent and I came in summers and did it for NO CREDIT.

So the end of my last semester, I have a conversation with my adviser about who will take over the reigns of the web page and how they want to do it for next year. Some of the students had complained that I wouldn't let anyone "help" which was a bold faced lie. My adviser suggested that I invite them to come in on the last day and learn how it's done and I did that. No one showed.

She told me that they would have to work on their own and I agreed.

I wasn't even taking any journalism classes the next semester. I started writing for a local weekly and got a cover story. Things were going well.

I don't recall what was going on, but the college wanted to stop paying the $5 monthly fee to the page hosting site and move to a different server. I emailed the instructor that they'd lose the archive and she said she'd look into moving the old stories. I was busy doing other things and I didn't pay much attention to the issue.

I believe it was even Halloween night I see a strange email and I was way more trusting back then, I decided to open it. Someone from the journalism department started out saying I'll be found out for the horrible a person I was. How I'd fooled "Mrs. B"(journalism adviser). They were gonna make sure she knew. Then they used several vile words, the tamest being bitch.

I did a search for the email address and traced it to the mother of one of the students who constantly harassed me in the newsroom. My guess that he and his buddy (the one who made me cry) got drunk and were pissed off at me over the loss of the newspaper archive.

I printed a copy and took it to the journalism adviser, the photo adviser and the head of the student's services department. Mrs. B's anger surprised me with it's ferocity and she took it up with campus police. I just wanted someone to talk to those guys and maybe give them some kind of reprimand.

The college's excuse was that it was sent to my private email. So nothing was done other than a little hand wringing.

One of the guys disappeared for the rest of the semester, but he came back the next. I went to Europe to study so I just let it alone. Even when he got selected to be editor of the magazine I edited twice. I let it alone.

A few years ago, the guy who made me cry sent me a friend request on Facebook. I'm not sure if I actually messaged him or just thought it, "You're fucking kidding me right??"

#metoo for realz.

You were on my mind

I loved my daddy. I miss the ornery old coot.

It saddens me that he perpetuated abuse with my mother and my brother. I accept that deeply troubling flaw made their and his life more miserable. He also said racist things.

I've had lots of people in my life who said things that turned my stomach and made my blood boil. I value a rational take on the world more than any other viewpoint. Prejudice bugs me.

I challenged myself. It confuses me when other people choose to stay in the shitty family traditions they were raised with. If something fails to serve you and your community, why keep it around?

I lived with a guy exhibited the same kind of armchair racism my daddy held onto. I didn't realize it until he mentioned how uncomfortable he would be living in a predominately very nice black neighborhood. He learned it from his dad.

My dad, my roommate and his dad all lacked the self awareness to change their minds. None of them would be marching or hurting anyone directly. They all would speak loudly and inaccurate about the differences between races. Spouting.statistics completely out of context. I tried to find ways around their racism and failed.

Making changes to one's life has unforeseen costs and benefits. Someone may not see the advantage to opening up to diversity. To do so may set one apart from family.

When I called dad and told him I wanted to come visit him, he asked if my now husband was black. He had enough awareness of my character to know that I would date someone based on their character. I don't think he would have rejected me outright, but it sure would have caused tension between us for a while.

The first way I started challenging my own believes came from realizing that people judged me solely on my lack of pigment in my skin. Kids beat me up and adults praised me all for something I had zero input in creating. I thought that I would be hypocritical to do the same to anyone else.

Later, I started realizing that diversity builds beauty and stability. Nature made our skin different to take advantage of the benefits of sunlight. That's it. Just like nature made the beaks of finches different so they could eat the different food sources available to them.

Speaking of food, where would we be if we didn't have a tasty variety of Italian, Mexican or Chinese cuisine? What about the art and history of far flung nations? I don't believe in god and even I can see the value of Michelangelo's Pieta or David.

I want more compassion and joy in my life. I want more joy and compassion for people who happen to be black, or brown too.

When people start using history to maintain bigotry, I will call that out. My love for my daddy does not give him a pass. It does give me some hope that there are other qualities inside the hearts of people who have hate for people with different skin colors. I failed with opening dad's heart.

I'm gonna keep at it. Maybe something will get through.

Kind comments encouraged.

Hey Soul Sister

MyKathey died and I don't know what to feel. When mom went, I felt relief. Not just for myself, but for her.

My sister Kathey came into the world to a teen mom who survived terrible abuse. I'm glad she had my older siblings for company. It mixes up my own feelings because my bond with her seems mostly one way.

I know she said she loved me. When I expressed doubts, she said I didn't know what was in her heart. I will say that is absolutely true. I don't know what is in anyone's heart. I do know what actions they take and Kathey sucked at taking loving action.

There it is. My anger. I guess I do know how/what I feel.

I am angry that she called me on the phone THREE times in my adult life. Once to tell me a cousin I didn't know or remember had died, once to tell me my grandmother had died and finally to tell me my father had died.

I know. None of her failure to bond is really about her. My mother, a deeply troubled woman, raised her first. None of that understanding takes away the pain.

Okay, so now that's off my chest, about my sister... She did take care of me. I had food and shelter and she helped when she could.

She lived a long and decent life. Might be a bit soon at 68, but I'm not in charge of such things.

Peace.

Hippy Hippy Shakes

As a polymath, scanner, multi-potential or whatever name you wanna call people who have such diverse interests like me, I'll try something new just for the fun of it. A few weeks ago I started a project to tie dye some clothes. Here are my experiences.

I had a bag full of miscellaneous shirts that I'd bought at thrift stores and a few left over gray shirts from our business and because I'm a creative type, I chose to overlook a few flaws like random stains on these clothes. So I tucked them away in the hopes of figuring out how to make them pretty wearable items.

I especially like shirts with unusual collars. I had two from my grab bag, both with a coppery theme. One the main color blazed a brilliant azure or turquoise and the other sported a mainly green hue with copper, silver and gold sequins.

The green one I choose to color block to not detract from the pretty collar. Murry had the idea of using small bungee cords and that worked so well, I'll for sure use those in the future.

I bought some fabric paint, including some pens that looked glittery and some stencils and I already had some art supply stamps from long ago. I didn't end up using these on this go around, but my first tie dye experience didn't work out on every item I tried it on, so I have some tools future creative acts.

I saw some shorts and capri pants on sale at a local store I love to go to and after looking through the selection, they only had my size in white and one yellow pair of shorts. I just wanted them for pajama bottoms so I was gonna buy the yellow ones until I remembered all my used clothes in need of a bit of creative action too. I got one pair of shorts and one capri in white instead.

I had hoped to get a "cheap" package of dye in purple as that is my favorite color. I was kind of hoping they had some dye at the dollar store, but no such luck. While looking at the various dyes, I noticed a tie dye kit for the price of two of the single color dyes. I bought that and made a plan to try it out on my next day off.

Murry helped me set up a table and went out and bought a few last minute things I needed that we didn't have in the house. He's an excellent gofer and he snapped all the photos.

I carefully looked over the instructions and looked at all the various methods for how to do all kinds of neat effects. The kit came with nice thick bands, decent gloves, red, blue and yellow paint in powder form. The instructions said you could mix them for different colors. It said you had limited time once you mix the dye, so I had to tie everything up before I mixed anything.

It's very time consuming binding each piece. It came out really neat and especially great for my first try.

Next time I'll buy another kit and then I can use the old bottles to hold the mixed colors. I saved nearly everything. I'll also buy or find some really thick bands for better ties.

I experimented with clothes pins and maybe I'll use some clamps or something like that next time. I also have to remember to use gloves when rinsing the dye. I had blue fingers for a couple of days.

My boss told me that there's a wash that will make the dye keep it's deep rich colors and I think I will wait overnight before rinsing the dyes.

I might order the dye online and get extra yellow. I ran out of that pretty fast. My boss also showed me a neat effect using ice to make a neat mottled look.

As always with my blog, kind comments welcome! What are your favorite tie dye tricks and tips? I had loads of fun.

Somebody to Love

I started a Facebook Group with this title today. Here's what happened and why it's so important to me:

Somebody to Love

While watching an episode of Undercover Boss, I saw two hard working people talk about being disowned by their family. One for being gay, one for being a trans woman. I wanted to just hug them and invite them to my house for dinner. I turned to my husband and said we should adopt "kids" disowned for such a ridiculous reason. Thus was "born" the Somebody to Love project.

While no one "disowned" me, I definitely felt abandoned virtually from day one. Mom left me with sister who left me to get married and then my parents divorced and mom left me again to daddy. Then daddy got talked into leaving me to a cruel abusive babysitter, then back to mom, then back to sister, then mom. I feel like a ping pong ball and I'm not even nine years old yet!

When I finally left my family chaos and started adulting in my own world, my sister who took care of me when I was little, sent all these judgmental messages. She didn't approve of my man friend so she wouldn't call me at his house. *I* was supposed to call her. 

Oh my gosh, I just realized why I called my other sister all the time. I was following the pattern THAT sister insisted upon. Wow. I hadn't thought of that. Anyway, my mom and oldest sister wanted to hear from me not because they wanted me to have contact and be safe. They just had an idea of what they were SUPPOSED to do. How they were SUPPOSED to act.

In my adult life, strangers often treated me with much more consistent kindness than anyone biologically related to me. Well, my dad loved me. I had that. Only he had his own troubles and flaked entirely too much. 

So for lots of reasons, that include not wanting to pass along flawed genetics and flawed experiences, I chose not to have kids. Now that I'm "gramma " age, I feel the urge to have people in my life. Someone to call on their birthday, someone to bake turkey for on thanksgiving and someone to have as a kind sibling to laugh with and share that camaraderie that I've heard other families have.

So I started a group. Come check us out: Somebody to Love

Kind comments encouraged. 

So Happy Together

Nine years ago, we decided to get married on the date 6/6/06. I heard people were maligning the date because of its resemblance to the biblical number of the beast. Since I don't have a faith and I wanted to reclaim it as a quality day, we decided it would be OUR day.

Though this plan got thrown together rather quickly, I'd been with Murry for a very long time. We were already bonded in our hearts, we just decided to add the tax benefits.

The county clerk gave us a list of people who could officiate and the only one who responded quick enough was the municipal judge for the tiny town of Powers, Oregon. It sits a few miles from Myrtle Point and is about an hour car ride from our home.

I had a bad cold that day and I didn't let that dampen my spirits. When we got into town, the judge didn't want to disturb the person who held the key to the courthouse so we went into the library next door. We told the clerk what we were doing and she suggested a quiet spot around the corner from her desk.

Murry told me that it was the science fiction section. You see we met in a SF themed chat room over the internet.

In attendance were our friends Anna, Murry's friend Sandy from work and his wife Shannon. Since this was the judge's first ceremony, his dad came along and took pictures.

My friend Anna insisted on buying us flowers. After the brief ceremony we went to diner at a little place called Jacks.

We purchased our rings from a pawn shop years ago. Though they go well together they were bought seperately and sized. Murry wore a ring that belonged to his own father that he sized himself. They're all very pretty and sparkly.

When Murry's oldest sister heard we had gotten married, she couldn't contain her joy. She ran right out and bought us gifts. As she is a Jehovah Witness, she doesn't get to shop for events very often. They don't celebrate very many things in the same way other faiths and secular people do.

She bought us a very unusual lime green throw blanket, a small gray elephant bolster pillow and an overnight bag the color of blush wine.

The juxtaposition of colors and textures reflects both the uniqueness of my marriage and that of my kind sister-in-law. We treasure them and they feature prominently in our home.

We're so happy together.

Shame

Some question the concept of "rape culture" because that sounds ludicrous. Why would a social structure promote assault and violence? Why would any group systematically oppress another's right to personal safety?

What if they feel the need may be stronger to protect THEIR space? As in they feel it's important to make people aware that though something happened in this space, the space isn't to blame. And when they remove the location from the equation, sometimes the event becomes clouded in mystery.

Rape survivors go nameless to protect them. Though I respect someone's right to choose how they disclose such information, I wonder if it perpetuates shame. Plenty of car accident and other crime survivors see their names plastered across the news.

Universities would rather not discuss rape on campus to protect their community standing. Churches, specifically the Catholic church, protect priests from prosecution in order to project an image of superior morality. Yet the very act of secret keeping begs exploitation by the immoral. Perpetrators count on this.

Shame helps no one. John Bradshaw and Brene Brown both define shame as "I am a mistake. " Unlike guilt, which means, "I made a mistake." If you are shameful, it defines your natural soul, you have little chance of changing it. If you feel guilty of an action, you can decide to act differently in the future.

In the case of surviving rape, neither guilt NOR shame applies. Yet authority asks people to examine their behavior. Especially in the light of accusing in a place that wishes to protect their space and or the accused has social status.

American culture implies a value in sexual purity. They call having intercourse for the first time, "losing" virginity. Comedians joke about masturbation, unusual sexual practices and orientation as though those who partake lack character.

Many bible passages blame rape on the woman. If a college campus puts forward a rape prevention program, they put their primary focus on what women can do to protect themselves. Rarely do these kinds of programs place the "locus of control" onto men.

And men who find themselves assaulted, get shamed twice if they somehow find the courage to report their attacks. No one discusses the possibility of rape inside prisons, all boys schools, fraternity and boy scouts.

I see blaming anyone for surviving a crime as like blaming a wall for graffiti. "Bad wall! You asked for it with your clean solid color surface!"

I survived child sexual abuse. I see no need to hide that. I survived beating and neglect too. It took years, support and two good therapy people to help me understand that those who hurt me deserve to feel guilt. I deserve to be bandaged and soothed.

When we can start claiming our survival, named or not, we can start to heal. End the denial and shaming of all crime survivors. Start the conversation and include men in the discussion.

Train everyone to be aware of the rights of all to say "no thank you, " to any advance. Train everyone to discourage intoxicated people from all bad decisions.Train police and teachers to listen and observe when accusations come to light. Presume innocent for the survivors of sexual assault too.

Masochism Tango

Fifty Shades of Gray comes out today and I thought I would explore any manner of fetish methods for lovemaking. This lovely Tom Lerher song always brought a smile to my face so I decided to use it as title.

Masochism Tango  and 50 Shades both exploit the concept of pain as pleasure. Though I haven't read the book, I have know people that enjoy the practice. 

Not all bondage, dominance and submissive behavior involves pain. Some people enjoy limiting their own or someone else's movement. Wrapping yourself in nothing but plastic wrap to excite your spouse would be a form of bondage. 

Then there's piercing. While the initial studding might be painful, once the punctured area has healed, more often the stud acts as a method for enhancing pleasure. These more dense, usually metal, objects create a new sensation in an otherwise conventional sex act. Kissing someone with a pierced tongue or lip may produce a noticeable difference from a non pierced partner. 

Often when I speak of behaviors, some assume I partake. If I did, I would say so. I make no judgments on anyone else's consensual choices, but being tied up and or pain as pleasure do not excite me in any way.

I guess if have any kind of fetish, it would be creating stories sometimes involving sex. These usually have a science fiction theme so some involve alien encounters and exotic partners. I'll save such details for any future novel and short story writing. Suffice to say, I have a normal healthy fantasy life. 

Cindi Lauper wrote a whole musical based on the concept of dressing up fetishes. Kinky Boots won Lauper a Tony too. Gay men love to dress as women and many a joke has been made about guys who like to wear women's underwear. 

Some people like to dress up as characters from films like Star Wars Think Princess Leia in a chain mail bikini. Some engage in costume play featuring plush play toy like animals themes. Often referred to as "furry" by those who partake, I've know people who go so far as to pretend to BE that animal while in costume. Furries engage in sexual play and can even have sex without breaking their fantasy role. 

People may become attracted to using leather, silk, fur, rubber and latex as items for stimulation. Sometimes in the form of undergarments or specific items like leather gloves used exclusively in the bedroom.

One could go on for quite a while on the various objects and experiences people find sexually arousing. Some of these are so common place as to be somewhat "normal." Like people who find long luxurious hair on women or beards on men a most attractive feature. 

Whatever floats your boat can be found out there somewhere. So long as every adult involved agrees to the activity, I say go for it. Get your kink on. Happy Valentines Weekend. 

Somebody that I used to know

Breaking up creates stress and mess. Even the best reasons and calm decisions leave us feeling let down.

It's been over 20 years since the divorce from my ex husband became final. I know I made the right choice and yet I still feel some regret.

Once in a while I look up his name to see if there are any web pages where I can see what he might be doing with himself. I noticed a LinkedIn account. I avoided visiting it as I wanted my spying to be anonymous. I knew it would let him know that I'd viewed his profile. I didn't want to intrude.

Curiosity got the better of me and I clicked on the link. The gray haired bearded man who stared back took me by surprise. How could he age so starkly? Any second now, I expected a voice to boom from my speakers, "You kids get off my lawn!"

Yes, I'm going to be 51 years old in a couple of weeks. Old enough to be a grandmother. He's old enough to be a grandfather. I knew this, but didn't "feel" it until I saw his picture.

After a few days, another kind of curiosity took me to look at my eldest sister's Facebook profile. I wanted to see what she had to say about the death of our mother.

I unfriended her last summer, but she still posted all her posts so anyone can see them. I saw a photo of my mother that my other sister had posted on her Facebook page. I didn't even know that sister used Facebook.

In the depths of writing my book, I've been thinking a lot about family. It's slow painful work. Plus today is my sister Cokie's birthday. Because she posted the photo of my mother, I also looked at her profile.

She looked happy. Part of me hopes she is, another part feels a deep sense of... what do I call it? Rage? That's the word that first comes to mind.

I feel justified at being angry, well to some extent. My ex and my sisters all deeply betrayed me. In a sense, they did so in the same kind of letting down. My ex cheated on me and I feel my sisters chose my mother over me.

They all chose someone else, someone I feel not as "good" or "cool" as me. My friend my ex took up with had plenty of emotional problems. And I'm SURE my mother talked about any number of difficult topics.

These are the issues that I once believed caused the rifts between them and me. My ex told friends that it was "okay" for him to sleep with my friend because "my wife is frigid and crazy." My sisters constantly told me to "get over it" whenever I tried to resolve the past.

I do realize that what they say are the issues, often only touch one layer of the truth. Though that understanding often comes much later.

Why would those who use the word "love" decide to act in such disrespectful ways? I often wonder what about me makes me so unlovable. It's not a truth, plenty of people care about me, but I'm deeply confused that it doesn't seem to be those who are supposed to do it.

I keep trying to give up the fantasy of a family connection. It still hurts. I cling to the awareness that my dad loved me. And my amazing husband Murry treats me with amazing dignity and respect.

I'm trying to make that enough.

Happy Birthday Sister. I hope you are happy and do find peace.