The Passion of Jesus Diaz

I’ve been attending a latin percussion class for about a month in Oakland with Jesus Diaz, and it’s been a unique and marvelous experience for me. It’s appealing right off the bat to go to this class because it’s in an upstairs apartment of a woman artist and loaded with big, colorful paintings, many with African themes and vintage teapots. I don’t have to bring a conga and haul the darn thing up steps because there are already a bunch of them there with chairs in a circle.

There’s an affable, relaxed atmosphere which comes from the other students and Mr. Diaz himself. He doesn’t do a lot of gabbing about what to do. The class is all about playing and singing, immersion style. He sets things up, assigns parts, clues his mostly advanced students, and off we go.
If I don’t plug in and find my footing in whatever I’m assigned, he notes this quickly, either gives me something more simple, or comes over and teaches it to me by putting his hands on my drum and making sure I get it.

He often will expertly sing or recite the specific rhythm he’s assigning, much like you or I would sing a few bars of “3 Blind Mice” or “Pop Goes the Weasel” to remind someone who had forgotten them. Being new, I’m not familiar with any of the names of what we play, including “bembe”, but it matters not at all because I can get in and stay with a part, look at other’s hands, and even switch parts if I grok them while we are playing. I love it, because I learn and retain by doing until what I call my inner jukebox absorbs how it feels and sounds and plays it back to me.

The last time I went to class, we did a “bembe” which went on for quite a while at a good clip, and he sang a progression of orisha songs with perfect concentration. I could see other students singing with him in the choruses and now and then catch snatches of orisha songs I’m familiar with, thanks to a couple of cd’s my last teacher gave me that have orisha songs with bata on them. Yet I know I don’t have the concentration to sing and play at the same time yet, so I don’t strain to sing.

Mostly I can’t clearly hear the songs over the percussion, and even if I could, I have to get the playing down first. Every now and then I fall out of the rhythm I am playing and I stop for a moment. I’ve learned to be patient and not stress over building stamina and focus.

I am so grateful I have the aptitude and experience to be able to attend a class like this and partake of the passion and rhythmic bliss that occurs when the group is playing together. So different from the painful and frustrated floundering I did for too many years before in other classes. I was a percussion student who did not know how to listen, focus and learn.

There is playfulness and clear affection among the regs and Mr. Diaz, and I guess I’ve passed muster for the time being. What is so compelling about this class and Mr. Diaz is the opportunity to practice entering into a FLOW state. It’s awesome.

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The Bandanna Rebuke

This morning an otherwise peaceful and harmonious routine of helping my guy get to work was trashed at the very end just before he left.

The lunch cooler, packed with 3 Pelligreno sodas, a chopped egg salad sandwich, chips, 3 frozen bottled waters, and a bottle of Tabasco sauce, had been loaded into the truck. The breakfast oatmeal, with layered brown sugar, butter, cinnamon and a half a green apple coarsely chopped with the skin on, had been eaten. The amino acid supplements had been swallowed with milk. The stand-out-on the-porch meditative cigarette had been smoked and the cats had been fed. We’d wished each other a good day.

Then I heard his footsteps on the porch and the front door opened. He came in, not just irritated, but adamant:
“Where’s the Bandanna? I’ve got to have it.” I said “In the washing machine, it was dirty. I’ll get you another one.”
Then came the charged lecture: ” You know, I don’t have time to waste minutes like this in the morning. The ice chest is like a tool box. Whatever is in it, I need, so don’t take it out.”

I got him his God Damned Bandanna, flipping him off behind his back. The lecture was disrespectful, distorted bullshit for a number of reasons.

Number one, when he comes home, tired and covered with concrete dust and dirt, all he wants is to do is shower and have a beer. He isn’t the one who cleans the trash, leftover food, and melting ice out of the cooler, I do. Sometimes there are tools in the chest, like pliers, measuring tapes, string lines, or whatever.

Number two: He can’t stand anything that is not uber sanitary, so great attention has to be given and done around getting anything he wears besides his boots washed and clean, which I do night and day. The cooler is no exception to this rule. Any tools in his cooler have to be taken out to wipe them and the cooler off.

Number three: He cannot remember where ANYTHING is in the morning, including a)his belt b)his lighter c)his cigarettes d)his wallet e)his I phone f)his keys g)his Cross pen h) his clipboard i) his sunglasses j)his safety glasses k)or anything. At night, he puts NOTHING away. I put things in the drawer of his desk so our aged cat will not slip on them during the night when she’s busy climbing around being restless because of her aging kidneys.
Number Four: His irritability, which he calls “being grouchy” can range anywhere from the righteous speech I got this morning to a wildly hateful verbal vendetta based on some untrue idea about reality complete with name calling and threats.Though I’m no angel, 90% of what he gets riled up about is undeserved if not rampantly false. And I’m not the only target. He hates everything and everybody, even, on rare occasions, our precious cats. And this is a guy who lives for the love of cats.

For a man extremely talented(and he really is TALENTED) with tools of the construction and mechanical variety, he’s unable to manage remembering where they are located despite having two job boxes, the house, and an entire shed dedicated to their existence.

There are times when he cleans, details, and reorganizes everything to the nth degree, but in between these attacks of focus, he seems to orbit in a highly detailed but disconnected world where his inability to know where things are is a huge personal affront to his sanity and well being.
On commercial job sites where many of the workers are mad beasts who simply grab up whatever tools are in front of them to use, abuse and drop without thought, guy comes home deeply traumatized.

Yet he continues to blindly fuck things up at home for both of us by taking things apart and then never finishing/fixing them. He then keeps it that way by being obsessively impossible to please or communicate with about them. Right now, today, in my house I have a pantry door off it’s hinges, a stove top hood outside rusting, no kitchen fan or light over the oven, and an electrical outlet he took apart sitting on the floor with screws strewed around in my spare bedroom. While I can hire other people or handle it myself, he takes offense and feels left out. Someone I’ve hired for construction he cut the face off a picture of with a razor blade when he was in a raging blackout.

But then, he’s never been off pot like he is now in the entire 30 years we’ve been acquainted and been gainfully employed for more than 3 days to a couple of weeks like he is now. He’s never eaten breakfast AND dinner every night an taken aminos and slept like he is now. And yet, the chaos continues. Looks like I’m gonna be researching ADD down to the last detail and soon.

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It’s Raining ADD…..

I’m tripping today, mainly because I just watched a video showing how factory farms slaughter animals by the billions and the horrific ways that the animals raised for slaughter suffer. The woman lecturing on “Carnism” had very good points on how we continue to numb out on something as vicious and horrible as slavery and the oppression of women.

I also watched a video of three women beyond the 39 already published on the cover of the NY magazine who have now come forward to detail their experiences of being coerced, drugged, raped or sexually harassed by Bill Cosby. The man was way over the top. He had people covering for him like nobody’s business. The interesting thing now for me about all that is that Bill Cosby has only done what many white men of power have done for centuries and are still doing today.

Yesterday something was revealed about a past situation that rocked my world in the past, and I was vindicated in a way I never dreamed. It was when I finally rented a room and moved out of my mother’s house for the first time after I came home from college. I rented a room in a house of a working couple, only to be told after 3 months I had to leave. That relative, someone who says awful things about and to people because she is a chronically angry, jealous and depressed person, spied on me and trumped up a bunch of things to convince the landlord to kick me out.

I found out that said relative has been moving around and fighting with anyone and everyone where ever she goes all her life. She recently got beaten up by a neighbor because of her provoking big mouth. This woman could have a mood disorder which causes the rampant, uncontrollable negative and aggressive behavior. It could be a form of ADD which according to Dr. Amen makes people “drama driven” and “seeking excitement through conflict” to make up for the lack of energy in the frontal cortex and the inability to keep focus emotionally.

This woman has persecuted and punished her own blood for being unorganized, something that is plain not true. Which is a parallel for how my guy treats me, when he can’t, in fact, finish things or pick up after himself and has attention and memory problems constantly. My spidey journalist detective senses are tingling. Maybe the universe is trying to tell me something here.

Interesting, because I never though I’d get past my outrage over that all happening for my ex landlord, yet I did. And I have watched that person suffer for years trying to love and be loyal to the relative that has been disruptive and abusive to them, just as I have with my guy.

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The Amen ADD Corner

For quite some time now, I’ve been noting the Facebook video posts of Dr. Daniel Amen, the SPECT scan guy who is forever talking about PTSD, ADD, and TBI or Traumatic Brain Injury.

I’ve also read about how controversial he is with the clinical powers that be because he has refused to let his data base of brain scans and all his treatment protocols be clinically tested. I actually trust him a little bit just because of that. Why should he, a former child psychiatrist who discovered his profession, a very well paid and high status one, was full of shit, allow clinical testing by institutions that have long failed miserably at helping people and only increased their suffering?

But I have disliked the way he and his clinic market their testing and treatment. The brain scan costs 3 grand a pop, and the kind of winner-takes-all attitude that “they” ( a staff of technicians and psychiatrists who are unidentified and NOT Dr. Amen himself) are completely in charge of diagnosis and treatment recommendations post brain scan.

Further, I’ve spent 20 hard years trying to find out why the man I live with is chronically no functional, obsessive, addicted, abusive, and so on, and I’m not about to gamble more time and money blindly with what could finally help him definitively. I’ve lived with that impasse for too long.

Dr. Amen has a lot of stuff on ADD or Attention Deficit Disorder. This morning I saw for the second time his video on how he had ADD all around him in his family, how it took him down to his knees, and what happened when he was able to start understanding with the brain scans how to effectively treat it. He has a brother, wife and two kids with it, and he admits it was really awful to live with.

I have been uninterested in ADD because I’ve been tilting at the windmills of the Big Mental Illness Dogs. OCD(Obsessive Compulsive Disorder), Paranoid Schizophrenia, and PTSD. He is, after all the product of severe early childhood abuse and starvation. But something stuck in my mind this morning when my guy was being irritable because he didn’t know where his belt was. When I am not feeling particularly forgiving or accepting of my guy and his endless inability to put anything away, finish things, be at peace about his life conflicts and so on, a contemptuous voice wants to brand him as lazy, idiotic and stupid.

Suddenly I remembered how one of Dr. Amen’s daughters was struggling in high school. Dr Amen bribed her with a phone in her room in order to get her to come in and be scanned, then return after taking some ADD medicine to be scanned again. Apparently it changed her life for the better completely. Dr. Amen speaks often of ADD as a part of the brain which does not have enough energy in it to focus. There is also the seeking out of drama and excitement through contact with negative and dangerous people, places and things.

My guy suffers from an inability to bond with others and even when he is behaving correctly on a job sight, he attracts people who are absent, rude, highly inconsiderate, and even abusive like flies. He seems to fall into one extreme pole or another out there in the world: He is either completely submissive or grossly dominant. When he talks about what is happening, I find myself very turned off because often he often is extremely reactive to things which aren’t relevant, or somehow gets treated so poorly I can hardly believe he is telling me the truth.

One thing is certain to me after all these years: His emotional growth is mysteriously slow and nearly non existent. There are times when I feel I am living with an infant consciousness that never grows up. I used to believe it was rampant brain trauma and severe malnutrition and PTSD that was doing this He is NOT stupid or lazy. He is multi talented and adaptive to a near superhuman degree.

Today I got this flash of insight. If he can’t focus well in some key way, doesn’t have enough brain energy, that would explain so much. He hates himself and imperfection, having just enough brain to know that he’s deficient in some major way, and this is why the endless impotent rage and distorted perceptions about everything, the fixated thoughts and reactions he can’t control that spray out all over his life and me. Eating enough, supplements and no meth, coffee, cigarettes, and sugar is not enough to stop the ADD, if that is what he has.

I know from long experience I can’t assume this is the “it” that’s been eluding me in my 30 year quest, but it is an unturned stone and has potential. Now I’m a little more interested in Mr. Amen and his damned scans.

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We Shall Overcome

Today I got to watch the movie “Selma” again, and marvel at the power of the true story which happened during my lifetime but I did not really know about. It was beautifully done, ending with Martin Luthor King’s speech on the steps of the Montgomery, Alabama capitol building and real black and white footage of people marching from Selma to Montgomery.I was in 2nd grade when Kennedy was shot, and these people were beaten and killed not that many years later in order not to be prevented from voting.

And today, my guy openly drank too much again in my home.He got red, sodden, smelled of beer, and mean. Now there’s a brand new ice chest in the shed, stocked with beer and melted ice. He’s been drinking after work covertly, controlled by a set work structure for 5 weeks.I know why he is drinking. It soothes him after hard, hot dirty work on a construction site of a job he’s had and wants to keep. But he can’t control his drinking, so he’s on the road to perdition once again, and I’m once more into the breach with it, turning it over.

He’s not smoking pot anymore, a massive shock to his metabolism after at least 40 years of hitting it hard with very potent stuff and his brain focus and energy is not high.He is also, after endless years of not eating breakfast or dinner, eating breakfast and dinner.Yet I can see him eating and taking supplements is just not enough.

Last night when he got home, he brought food, and ate with me. A miracle all by itself. He wrote me a check for money he owed me, and a debt of his, I’m going to make sure gets paid Monday. He told me that I “am the MAN” and that he is nothing, because I loaned him money when he slipped back into drug use two weeks ago.
I knew he’d been drinking. And then came the defensive of his drinking,pre-emptive strike: “If we’re going to revisit the nightmare, I’ll get on craigslist right now to find another place to live, and get out to meet someone else.” The nightmare he refers to is his terror of being abandoned and is when I refuse to be abused and leave, which I now do the instant it starts.

Drinking last year after 4 years of sobriety landed him in jail on New Year’s Day. He rallied, got sober, got through the whole court process, and then got off pot.For quite some time, he was abusing coffee and sugar. Then he decided to have breakfast and take aminos I was offering him. All was quiet on the western front until I came home to him standing in the driveway in a sportcoat, clearly intoxicated and with some guy he paid to drive him home. I left. He disappeared the next day and did another substance.

Someday this dance, the one he and I are doing, will be finished. I don’t know what is going to happen to him, but I know that I’m not going to live with drug and alcohol abuse the way I have for so many years.

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The Cat Paul Newman and the Head Pet Toll

The cat Paul Newman is a beautiful wheaten gold color shorthair with vivid blues eyes, and that is why I named him Paul Newman. He’s one of four semi feral cats me and my guy feed periodically on our front porch. The Toll for being fed at our house is head pets, which I collect just before feeding them. Timing, posture and duration have to be precise, or the cats freak, but they actually like it.

The cat Paul Newman is not very big cat-wise, is not fixed, so he has a problem which is now my problem. It all started the usual way with my guy, who cannot resist needy cats. Guy let Paul Newman come inside our house and started feeding him.

He’s male, and he’s looking to establish territory, find females he can mate with, and be the king his hormones demand he try to be. This means he wants love, food, sex and dominance and therefore MUST MARK with urine the inside of our house whenever he gets the chance. My guy, true to form, has completely forgotten that he’s the cause of the stink that occurs when Paul Newman slips in and pees. When he complains about it, I ignore him, since I am footing the bill for the cat food, cleaning up the pee, and plotting a nut free future for Paul Newman.

The fact that the cat Paul Newman is unsupported in being allowed to come in and stay, discouraged from biting and clawing me after I have petted and fed him, is of course, spurious and inconsequential to his hormone induced aspirations. I now pet him with my bare hands briefly, and put on an over mitt while serving him food. This cuts down on me getting bit and scratched, and ending up having to yell and whack him.

His size is a handicap, as most of the cats in the neighborhood outweigh him and he sometimes has a scratch mark across his nose. Both of our indoor cats are spayed females, and one of them, Daisy, is twice his size and quite hunter savy, so he’s SOL on that front.

We have a humane cat trap and have spayed many cats female and male. Spaying cats in our neighborhood has been one of the smarter things we’ve done and it’s really helped stop kittens being born in droves to people who aren’t paying attention and don’t have the time or resources to take care of them. I want Paul Newman to have a safer, less traumatic life, therefore I want to get him castrated. I am biding my time, as sooner or later I will find a way to get it done.

There is a couple down the street who also take care of cats. The women loves animals and she managed to get a large and very domineering bad ass orange tomcat fixed after years of him beating the crap out any cat that he encountered. I used to throw tennis balls at Orangey to keep him from constantly attacking a semi feral we loved whom he drove away. Like many males, his nuts made him nuts. He’s one of those cats who has a large head and looks like he’s on steroids. Now, when he comes to the door, he loves to be petted more than he likes the food.

Today the cat Paul Newman showed to be fed, and I noticed he had a small wound on the top of his head, dirty ear tips, and scratches around his eyes and nose. When I see him, he anxiously meows, rushes up, crowding me and rearing up, wanting to see and know what I am bringing him. I talk to him calmly and with affection, move slow and try to be welcoming and soothing. After I have given him several servings of chicken broth, Shinto’s homemade, and some ground turkey he didn’t eat. I shut my front door. I have to, so that he will not come in and mark, or wrap his little body around my leg, biting and clawing.

I know, once his belly is full and the food thing is over, that he will get restive and end up expressing his frustration he can’t come in and stay by clawing and biting. I wonder,once again, where he came from and if he was dumped here. He really is small and alone, but I know his testosterone doesn’t allow him to feel too vulnerable.

The three other semi ferals,”Junior”, “Orangey”, and “Mr. Green” sometimes show up together and gently butt heads, rubbing against each other like brothers while they wait to get food. They are all fixed. If they weren’t, they would be yowling at each other and fighting.

“Mr. Green” is an all black cat with yellow eyes. He has some sort of chronic respiratory infection, which used to mean we could hear his choking and rasping breathing every time he approached. My nickname for him is Mister Schitz, because he is tremendously over reactive to any kind of movement which he is all too ready to interpret as a threat, darting away explosively as though I’m a giant about to grab him and put him in a cooking pot for lunch.
He looks way better now because I started marathon feeding him raw meat and anything healthy I could throw at him to stop the choking, spitting, and gasping. Now he has a faint wheeze, but he can chew and shut his mouth, miaow and breathe better. His dirty fur and runny eyes cleared up some, and he became calmer, despite his flight tendencies.

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The Portrait of Bill Cosby

I’ve finally stopped hating Bill Cosby. Current pictures of him look fucking awful. He’s practically toadlike with cropped white hair, bulging, staring eyes and moles on his face that make him look like a large fungus with a mouth. He looks both pitiful and nasty at the same time. I’m certain the shots are from live performances, and his choice of wardrobe ( a sweatshirt that says “Hello There”) just heightens the creepiness.I can’t help but think of the “Portrait of Dorian Gray” story about a man who seems immortal, handsome but who has a portrait that looks more and more horrible as he commits crimes and sinks further into debauchery and evil.

When the count of women with detailed rape stories about him got to 20, I knew he’d done it and more. The fact that he can’t be legally prosecuted by time statutes of limitation only brings the heinous nature of his addiction to violating women by drugging and raping them into sharper relief. That he could use his image as a trusted male celebrity to cover it up and get away with it all must have become part of the thrill. The women he raped need, more than anything, to be able to acknowledge what happened to them without all this appalling bullshit about his legacy. I think it’s good they can’t prove he did it, because it makes legal proof, which is and has always been skewed to protect men and nearly impossible to make conclusive of intent, Moot. HE USED DRUGS. THERE WAS NO CONSENT.

But the court of public opinion is far more exacting than legal proof. He lost his son Ennis to murder. He may remain famous, and a millionaire, living out his days, but he will never again be trusted either as a man or a performer by a critical mass of people which includes me. I loved him and his comedy, was raised on it and his comedy record alblums. He’s now just another delusional sick bastard male who’s been allowed, big time, to hate and hurt women.

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It’s Only Natural

This morning I read a post on Facebook by a man who has been sharing his life stories. He’s a published writer, and his posts have been great reading since he began doing them. I admire this guy, know of him through affiliation to a progressive type of group therapy for men and women that he and his wife helped facilitate. He’s pretty honest and straight forward in his writing, even humble.I’ve been impressed with his wisdom and transparency concerning his interesting and varied life.

But this morning I was very NOT impressed. He recounted an incident where he was distracted while driving, by a young woman in a car who was wearing a short skirt and pink panties, so much so that he ran into another driver. He exposed his feeling of entitlement for visually objectifying the woman as a fuckable sex object from the get go by adopting a more lofty, formal tone to whitewash what he was doing as noble and necessary as he began to describe her.

He left out that she was female in the first descriptive sentence, focusing only on “young and attractive”. The second sentence skipped right to not describing a person but PARTS: her panties and “milky thighs” (oh how cliche, but it could have been worse). Then it became all about elevating himself. He was, after all, a young male in his sexual prime, who doesn’t get to see these (exposed female body parts) very often, and “it’s only natural” that he would need to take a look(STARE and crash while staring) at them. I have no doubt he believed she was asking for it by wearing what she did, thereby justifying what he was doing more.

Perhaps this young woman was wearing what she was wearing to get people of both genders to react to her. Yet that is never, ever the point. It’s never about what a woman is wearing, nor is it about any human being experiencing sexual desire, attraction, or lust. It is about the deeply rooted beliefs underlying the entitlement of men to use women in every way they can get away with in dehumanizing ways. It is also about the cultural objectification of sex and pleasure as a scarce commodity that has to be stolen or forcibly extracted from women by boys and men at all cost, women’s safety and well being be damned.

Yet I have to say that it is women now who have not been willing to look at our collusion in not changing this disempowering to both genders rape culture which is why this continues. Men do not protect women, women do not protect women. The worse thing is, children are not protected of either gender. So it’s really not just about sex at all.

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The Never Ever Neverland of a real 4th Step

I’ve been going into the rooms of AA and Al Anon for years, and though I’ve embraced the 12 step philosophy and practices for some time, I’ve never, ever done a 4th step Inventory that felt like it was doing what 4th steps are supposed to do. I’ve had 4 actual sponsors, and though I can’t drink and expect to function, staying away from alcohol is not a problem for me. Living is.

Yesterday I listened to a 2 cd set in my car of an Al Anon speaker from Texas. She spoke for 2 hours and was very good. One of the things she spoke about at length was not wanting to feel her real feelings, of not knowing what they were, not being able to believe she could feel them and survive, and being afraid she would be stuck in them forever. She spoke of playing the victim, being stuck in hurt, and then finding anger.

Last night I went out to see a live music performance and too many things just did not go well. Though I prepared beforehand by looking up driving directions to Fort Mason in San Francisco, I ended up having to drive through the Presidio instead of down Marina Boulevard because they are rebuilding everything around the north end of the Golden Gate Bridge. When I got to the performance, the band was good, but the volume/decibals were so high my ears are still recovering from it. I paid for 3 hours of parking and the performance didn’t last an hour. I stupidly tried to get back to 19th Ave by taking Marina Blvd despite the construction mess around the bridge and ended up having to drive across the Golden Gate Bridge, turn around and pay toll to get back to where I needed to to go home.

This morning I was tired and irritable I ended up emotionally crashing into a place I have not been for awhile. Those cds had affected me and I’d had two different women tell me I needed to do a 4th step and talk to them the day before. I ended up crying and talking to myself and FEELING. FEELING how much I don’t understand 4th steps, and what that really translate into for me:

Having to trust someone, anyone with the truth about me, my actual life and feelings, NOT! Having to trust myself, the being that is NEVER good enough, does not matter. Why would I want to do something that I could only relate to as another confirmation of my worthlessness and degradation? Feel once again what I NEVER want to feel?

I’ve hit this inner bank of pain and confusion gazillions of time in my life without ever being able to grasp exactly what would finally help it. I’ve now seen someone who helped me start my inventory, and shared something really awful about what happened to them that they were ashamed of, which when it was finally flushed out and shared with someone else, removed the deep pain and and shame it had caused.
The 4th step is like praying for those you hate: if done right, it begins to free one up from that which is still festering within. The weird thing is, it can help take away so much that a person is not aware of in their daily functioning. That is exactly what I need.

I’m praying with all my hear that this time it will help me. I just barely started it on Monday, it’s now Thursday and there has been much occurring since.

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Mad as a Hatter

Oh My God, I’ve had a just had a power encounter I never expected. A learned, very bright woman coach just kicked me hard to the curb. She took offense at my not jumping in line to become her client. She was in a huge rush to tie me down. I felt like a target, like a calf at a calf roping. She went all sideways on me over a context, a context that was not even the real point. Big Fucking Red Flag, Lady. What was your hurry?

I was blunt in fending off her imperious pressure to get me to commit to her, by saying I would not commit to paying her prices without taking time to consider the information she’d just given me. I tend to be caught up in the rightness of my own arguments, but my instincts were telling me something was off before she took offense.

Her reaction was too quick and off center for someone without an attachment to a personal agenda. Her ego flared and she used outrage to cover whatever it was she was really feeling. She’s accustomed to using who she is and what she’s got to create a non level playing field.

We were using private message on FB to discuss the possibility of me hiring her, which I now realize in retrospect was asking for trouble. When you are talking on the phone or face to face there is communication that is impossible to have by email, text or private message. What I found out nevertheless, was that her title of “performance coach”, was not incorrect, but it signaled nothing of her counseling background, which she did not choose to get a license for. Her education was extensive, which does not, in my opinion, guarantee a thing.

She had told me the people who come to her are either extremely desperate or ready to change radically. Her two attempts to refer me to someone else indicate she assumed the former situation was mine, along with some fairly strong arm verbal attempts to make me stop talking and commit to hiring her. Her mistake was in assuming she had read me enough to know, and she did not pay real attention to what I was saying to her as we proceeded and her messages got more and more one pointed. So who was the one that was desperate? Not me this time.

I am grateful for the ease in which I was allowed to get out of this situation. My inner bullshit detector is improving, and that it was connected with my awareness of what I don’t need while I was going through this was a welcome revelation.

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