I have had a very painful, but fruitful morning. For 3 days now I have been trying to accomplish some necessary tasks and experiencing a failure to launch. I’ve been like a plane that’s stalling before it takes off. I finally sat down and deliberately entered my inner turmoil, confusion, shame, and fear. I started calling people and leaving messages after 33333333333ing tons. The 3 is the “erase and re-record” prompt. It’s a way for me to hear myself and what is trying to emerge emotionally. Underneath the shame and fear was my hurt, and I’m hurting still, but I’m glad to be feeling it.

Not three days ago I got accused of deliberately smearing fecal material on a fan switch in the bathroom of MY house, as if that could EVER be true. Whatever was actually on the switch was microscopic and IT WAS NOT MY SHIT. I told him: “Call County Health. Get a Restraining Order. Call the Police. I never,ever, want to see you again.” I left for hours,called people, went to a meeting. I missed my “safe house” connection and by the time they called me, I was at my house and didn’t want to be anywhere else because it was dark and quiet.

I want to be able to leave and not come back without losing my home. I do not want to get a restraining order to forcibly evict a man I’ve tried to nurture for 30 years, despite his insanity. I know why and where it comes from. I had a man tell me he was glad his wife divorced him or he would never have gotten sober and found out who he really was. Now I have the pain of realizing everything I have done has contributed to him not having to change for his own sake. I’m worse off because I haven’t allowed myself to feel the pain of 30 years of hell. Now I’m feeling it, and it really hurts. I know there is a matrix of grief in there which has never been let out.

I’m discovering that when I allow the hurt in, it leads me to withdrawing from everything in the fear I will be obliterated and not survive.
I don’t trust that the people who have already been supporting me will continue. If my blood family didn’t care, they why will they? I’m sure that they despise me, and there is a silent wall of unpredictable need and a compulsive desire to not show vulnerability to them and risk rejection and abandonment for good.

Now I’ve broken through the enormous, heart wrenching lie of my deep unworthiness. I’m still hurting, but I’ve spoken to people who know me and know the truth about what is happening that are willing to continue encouraging and supporting me. I’m absolutely stunned at how much I have used distraction to avoid feeling it, and stayed disconnected from ever getting anywhere in my life.
I have left messages or talked with the people I have been shunning internally in order to avoid being shunned. Wow. Feeling is very tiring work.

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Back to a 38

A few months back, I got a white Bali “Flower” bra, size 36C and I wore and wore it and wore it, until one of the small figure 8 keepers that adjusts the length of the front straps cracked. The strap came apart and I couldn’t wear the bra. The strain of it being smaller than I am really is what cracked it.

I stalled on dealing with it, and was wearing a black and green striped cup bra I got for bellydancing that was thin elastic-wise around the ribcage. It certainly created cleavage but didn’t have much support, and I began to feel too “Boobalicious” for my own comfort.

I then tried to repair my original bra going to a fabric/DIY craft store and trying to find the the figure 8 keeper. They had some, but not the right size. I tried to re-thread the strap loop onto the cracked keeper. NOT happening. After roaming through another craft store, which didn’t have anything remotely usable, I gave up, went to Sears and bought myself another brand-new, white, “Flower” Bali bra on sale, size 38C. And I feel supported, gooshy,hanging fat and all.

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Death of a Seagull

Two days ago I killed a big, beautiful, seagull. I pulled into a large parking lot behind a fast food chicken joint in my town and ran over it. The bird had been just landing, wings flapping, on the pavement between a hedge and the other cars, when I came along with my monstrous and heavy car, not fast but too close for reaction time to hit the brake. It tried to fly up but I was too close. I hated watching it rolling into a crushed, dead heap in my side mirror behind me.

I sat there and screamed and cried for some time. I was already distraught from a fight with my partner. I called my sponsor. I left sobbing and yelling messages for someone else. Then I called my guy to tell him I was going to come home and get a shovel, gloves and garbage bag to bury the bird I murdered. He offered to come help me bury the bird despite previous things said to me. I said yes, and we did it.

The seagull I killed was incredibly beautiful and large. It’s thick, soft grey plumage, danging neck and head, strong wings, perfect feet, along with strings of orange intestines hanging out broke my heart. In the parking lot where we used a flat shovel to scoop up the bird’s body, there had been a bit of red organ tossed into the bushes which had been driven out of the seagull’s body when I drove over it. I made myself look at the whole bird, place it into the large hole we dug carefully, memorize everything I had destroyed. My tears flowed onto the bird’s body and into the soil. I don’t remember when I have cried as fully as I did then. I tried to layer the soil carefully over the bird, put some sea snail shells and a delicate little white and yellow mushroom that had popped up nearby on top.

Seagulls are scavengers, and I’m sure they eat a number of things alive. They have sharp beaks which tear apart whatever they eat, and, beautiful as they are, aren’t known for being nice. They are as ruthless as us humans when it comes to eating. I wonder now if I would be able to stop eating animals if I had to witness the torture and murder they endure being slaughtered for human consumption. I don’t know how I should feel, think or be with this, but I’m clear on one thing: I hated killing the seagull just because I wasn’t paying enough attention.

I’d like to believe this somehow represents how much I have not been aware of and not paying attention to some aspect of myself, but I avoiding becoming attached emotionally to that conclusion. I know I was actively mourning and grieving more than the bird’s death.

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Unsubscribing on Giving Tuesday

I have found myself online deluged by the usual tons of emails talking about “Giving Tuesday”. The tone is that I ought to donate to whatever it is because it’s “Giving Tuesday”. I guess this is the aftermath of “Black Tuesday” which I take to mean merchants put themselves “in the black” by the after Thanksgiving sales. I’ve been unsubscribing a lot today and yesterday. I don’t know why I haven’t done it a lot sooner. The interesting thing is that I’ve been tolerating tons of email crap daily for god knows how long. Years. I’m finally clear I don’t need them anymore.

My home situation has become unbearable. Ican’t live with alcohol and drug abuse.
All my suffering, the humiliation and fear, the Al Anon meetings, the floundering and trying to get past this have failed. All my women friends have passed through this getting rid of a bad or dangerous partner thing and survived. They went through a lot of pain and anguish but they are free today. I hate this, and I hate me. I want to UNSUBSCRIBE.

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Let Me See If I Understand You Correctly

I posted a comment recently on Facebook in regard to a man I follow. He trains police, military personell and firemen in mobility and fitness. I mentioned the city Swat team he would be training, the city where they would be training in, and said that he should give them riot gear made out of Nerf balls for peaceful protestors. His response was swift. He told me not to post “such inflammatory” remarks about the men and women he trains.

I was caught by surprise because this guy posts an enormous amount of material on tolerance. I deleted my remark, but have felt icky ever since. He’s a pretty big deal, and I am one of his fitness customer/consumers. I found it disturbing he would not take my remark well because we are living in an age where policemen are now shooting and killing unarmed people without being held accountable, and they are killing mentally ill people also, with lame excuses that they felt threatened. I am resisting the urge to debate anything with him, because it is a huge can of worms I don’t feel capable of opening. And yet, what makes him so righteous about this? Just because he trains them and knows them as people does not mean what they do is above question.

I have heard of people who have been teargassed, tazed, hot pepper sprayed, arrested, hit with beanbags, beaten, and even killed. I don’t know anyone personally who has been badly harmed though I know of 2 people who witnessed some of the Occupy violence of police in San Francisco and Oakland. I don’t know what it means to be one of these people, but I do know this: They are under orders, and if they are ordered to forcibly remove or harm protestors, they must do it. And I know they serve me and everyone by risking their lives dealing with dangerous criminals. Further, these people are under the authority of politicians and officers whom they do not get to question or weigh. Their livelihood depends on their obedience to big city police departments well known for corruption.

I realize that these people also have to deal with not only dangerous criminals but abuse from common citizens, including protestors who may or may not be armed, throwing bottles and rocks, baiting them and so on. There’s not a whole lot of press about people quitting police departments because they believe what they are being ordered to do is wrong. But I do know Whistleblowers in many other levels of our society are being persecuted in this age in horrifying ways by our government. Many believe democracy as we once knew it is dead.

I can also see that I want to worship this man, have him on a pedestal. Perhaps it’s time I take a look at that and stop.
Now it is a couple days later, and I read a new share from the guy which is an article about how police die from the stress of their job. I left a couple of comments, one which recommended a book written by a police captain about the same subject and talks about new programs some police departments have to help fire and police personnel
recover from the horrible PTSD they get from overwork, the super being role they have to play on their jobs, and the toll contact with so much death and evil takes on them. I then left a paragraph about my father and uncle being military, and the fact I respect police, contrary to conclusions made. I said the remark was not meant to be inflammatory, only that I feel for police who are ordered to remove protestors forcibly. I got a smart ass retort back, saying that it sounded like I was making an indictment. I am glad I mentioned my Dad and Uncle on Veteran’s Day.

I found out I couldn’t answer back, as the original comment has been deleted. I’m glad I have no choice at the moment. If that is really him making these comments, then he ain’t the saint he paints himself to be. The good news is that it now doesn’t matter. I don’t have to like or approve of him, nor he me. We are not friends, nor is it likely we will ever be, even if I continue to study his stuff and get certified in any of it. I can be glad for what he has brought the world without having to give a damn about him personally.

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Lost in a Life of Distraction

Today I asked myself a question I have never asked myself before. It was what would my life be like if I was rarely or never in distraction. I’ve been putting off finding out how much money I have and dealing with several upcoming bills it would be advisable to pay and not ignore. Two are car insurance renewals, and two are for a traffic violation and traffic school enrollment.

I actually went to the library today and sat down at a table, deliberately DID NOT go online, where I have the habit of getting lost in emails and looking at Facebook. I was rewarded by discovering I have enough money to pay the most pressing of these looming disasters to be today. This was also a result of me finally looking at what has been plaguing me most of my life, which is an inability to focus on creating and receiving success on the work/job/life career and love level. God knows I’ve chased learning about it, but have remained lost, permanently at sea, drifting from one thing to another.

This morning, while fiercely persisting in silently meditating about everything, I felt a huge wave of an inner shout. My mind said “WAIT A MINUTE. Something is really wrong here and there must be a specific answer or set of answers as to what it is and how I can change it. All this endless never getting anywhere stuff is bullshit.” My guy, who is finally growing a little heart awareness, had gone with me to the beach and we’d gotten caught in the rain and had an actual bonding experience. We came home to a warm and secure house, stripping off our wet clothes. All was well until he started cooking one of his classic meals of tater tots, fried egg with cheese and toast. He started having toast/toaster and kitchen issues.

Everything was all wrong. The kitchen is too small. The sourdough bread is too small, doesn’t fit into the toaster right. What are we doing with this awful toaster that only toasts enough toast for 2 people? He hates cooking. He hates the house. The war with objects began looping into a self hating distorted mess of crazy, so I began contemplating fetching my car keys and leaving. He saw me going to that place amid the rain of super neggy distorted perceptual , snapped out of it long enough to say: “Don’t leave”. He said it twice.

I stayed, we ate, and he calmed down enough to leave angry nutbar land. Wonders will never cease. But there is something very wrong with me and I think it’s an addiction to confusion, aversion and distraction. This was because I have spent my entire life around unhappy, unconscious people who didn’t or don’t know how to find and face truth. I intend to break this situation for myself, come hell or high water.

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The Day I Successfullly Detailed the Kitchen Floor

Two days ago I cleaned the kitchen floor. I moved a wooden round table, two metal folding chairs, a hand made wooden bench our cat eats off of, trash and recycling containers, and a cooler out of the way, then vacuumed. The kitchen floor, which is made of vinyl, is simulated wood grain, and had spilled coconut oil, ground in pieces of food, and grease marks. After I vacuumed up spider webs, cat hair and some spilled food particles, I filled the recycling bucket with hot water and Simple Green, with only a little bit of dish soap.

I used an ordinary sponge mop and did a section at a time. After each section, I got on my hands and knees and used a scrubbie to remove any ground in food, grease stains, or whatever, then wiped it dry with terry or micro fiber cloths. I took my time. I did not use a lot of force or a Swiffer or Mop N Glo. I also wiped down the very edge of the floor, cleaned the white heater vent of grease, and wiped down the table and metal chairs where they rest on the floor.I was surprised to find how much a medium wipedown had effect on things.

You have to understand, I live with a man who is the God of Detailing. He is either completely oblivious to everything in the environment, or unpredictably obsessive compulsively unhappy about the status of things to a superhuman degree. He does not clean or pick up; he exists in a portal of extreme poles where things (mainly his vehicles, clothing, tools and teeth) are DETAILED, or they are “a) GROSS/FILTHY” or b) INTOLERABLY FUCKED UP.
While I generally regard him as a factory of delusion, there is the fact that when he details something, it exceeds the state of clean, looks and feels good. Detail God smells things I do not; and if things don’t smell right they are considered traitorous skanky shit which looks clean but is worse than dirty.

The kitchen floor had been in a state of medium dirtiness, which I elevated to to freak out level for his Analness at 3 am in the morning by spilling coconut oil on it. Itching things had been keeping me awake and coconut oil soothes inflammation. Detail God has not been spared when he got up and was making himself coffee. He had stepped in drops of white goo, gotten it on his workboots, Oh the HORROR! He offered to clean the floor himself, an offer that can only indicate hell had, in fact, frozen over. The fact that he then left and was away when I did the floor was a sign of complete divine intervention.

I knew, even before he got back, that I’d really done it. I was inspired to further feats of detailing magic. I took a small rug, brown with grease and cat hair, hosed it, scrubbed it with Simple Green. When it dried, it was a nearly brand new yellow and brown rug. I hand wiped 5 front blind slats. Only 5, you understand, and I retaped a scotch tape repair from Detail God’s flying remote control helicopter inside the house days, now thankfully past.

The secret of detailing comes down to being in a cosmic love space that is not linear oriented. You are not merely cleaning something, you are loving it by being in communion with it. You have contact through your hands, use clean rags, don’t hurry, and if you are using chemicals, they’d better be really good ones you feel comfortable with. You are willing to make whatever you are working on look good and feel good to the touch. You care about all this without being obsessively attached to anything, including the finished result.

It’s taken me years to attain this; I have failed to understand or come anywhere near meeting any standard with Detail God. My father had that sort of thing going on with his tools, his cars, and sometimes with cooking. And he was as incomprehensibly attached to the idea that detailing is superior and somehow above cleaning. I now understand so well how horribly infuriating it was for my mom to have to live with my dad and his patriarchal blind arrogance concerning her cleaning, She was, after all, forcibly coerced by her mother and our culture with the still insane expectation that women be domestic cleaning slaves from cradle to the grave for all of her married life.

And, for the first time in eternity, I have gotten repeated kudos from Detail God about the kitchen floor after years of crushing disapproval, patronizing lectures, and some really vile condemnation about the state of everything. What is really challenging about detailing is that one can easily fall from it’s true zen like state into obsessive compulsive cleaning, which seems the same physically but is not.Besides the actual rhythm of working on something to detail it, there is a serendipitous flow of moving from one project to another. There is just enough in-the moment attention, balanced by an almost mystical awareness of when to start and stop, and move on. The feeling is completely different from obsessive, specific goal driven amounts of completion.There is no overwhelm, no taking on too much, trying to work harder, faster, better. There is no hurrying, pushing oneself, straining, resisting, and feeling yucky because you don’t wanna do it.

After my miraculous experience, I was able to envision slowly but steadily doing the whole house, piece by piece, area by area, section by section. And then even beginning to repair,replace and upgrade a number of things long needing it, at last unhampered by the obstructive madness of Detail God. To actually claim my house, which Detail God has referred to as “This Shithole”, by detailing it.

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The Blinding Loop of Covert Emotional Incest

Last night, as I watched “Dead Poets Society” for the third time, I discovered I had left my stodgy old Dell PC on without realizing it. I paused the DVD player, got back on the internet, and began looking for material about fat and what it symbolizes in Jungian symbols. Years ago I bought a number of books by female Jungian analysts I could barely read or understand. The most notable of these were Sylvia Brinton Pera and Marion Woodman. Woodman had a great deal of material on women, femininity, and eating disorders. Other books examined Scapegoating, taken from an actual ancient jewish ritual, and there was more nearly incomprehensible bad news about being female and “medial” in a book called “The Cassandra Complex”.

Though it was like trying to read an alien language, I stubbornly kept on periodically reading the books and trying to use some of the ideas and images in countless process paintings. I paint concrete things, not abstract, so what I would end up painting were attempts at depicting literalized symbols. This was all an attempt to tap in to my inner archetypal self, get down to the deep inner stuff beyond my conscious mind. I also made clay masks which were molds of my face and tried to help deal with my endless inability to mature or get anywhere. Last night I had the real and current appearance of my body in my mind: My body is encased in a rounded, soft,swollen casing of water and fat. I am carrying about 50 lbs of extra weight, which hangs in folds off my body in too many places

Then I began to recall a recurring theme in all those Jungian books about “Covert and/or Emotional Incest”. I started looking that up and found it roundly defined and discussed on the web where in the past it was vaguely referred to and not very often though touched on a great deal in the Jungian texts by many women analysts. I ended up reading about some horrific examples of such abuse, which I now believe is a completely inadequate term to use for any of this kind of shit.

And I’m newly appalled at the tremendous societal, familial, cultural denial and ignorance about it, along with the secret war of women against women. I consider childrearing and parenthood in it’s present state to be one of the most barbaric, stupidy-ridden atrocities of all time. I’m now absolutely certain NOT marrying, NOT having kids and perpetrating this madness has been a must for me, despite the desperate and somewhat awful life I have had to live.I look at the man I’m with, at the people I know, and every single one of them is a product of insanity that is far from minor: alcoholism, drug addiction, severe traumatic abuse, incest, and the blind conditioning of thinking marriage is a thing to do.

I’d do paintings, read the books, have no one I could actually discuss any of it with, be roundly misunderstood and ignored, and I’d sink further into despair. It’s different for me now, I’ve grown into a better place despite great and prolonged, unwanted suffering and struggle.
I also have swam my way through clinical psychology and psychiatry and found them wanting, because there is too much playing god stuff involved with even the most minor definition of what is mental illness. Where I have finally found useful information about so called mental illness is with the orthomolecular pioneers who have learned how to treat deficient brain chemistry with mega vitamins.

Clearly now there is a critical mass of SOMEONE out there who have defined and tried to work with so called “Covert/Emotional Incest”. I’ve now seen a few actual approaches where some therapists have actually cared. Most rest in their definition of the pathology, which by the very nature of it’s terms and attitudes identifies, separates, and sets apart the “victim” from the world of the diagnoser. I call it the “Boy are you fucked” syndrome. It’s like a social quarantine for something that is so rampant and interwoven in our culture that it makes the diagnoses a fetter that the “victim”, if she or he gets healthier, eventually has to break out of and escape.

I’ve had some good help and support from therapists, but I’ve also been exploited, confused, and put down by others. I’ve wasted a lot of time and money trying to get help for me and help for my guy from therapists who had no conscience regarding their success or failure. They dont’ have to give a fuck because people who go to therapists are desperate and vulnerable. They get away with failure all the time, and they get paid regardless.
I’ve floundered in Al Anon and AA for years, lost in the even more amateur delusions of people there, many of which have no business sponsoring anyone in the deep and swirling waters of subconscious projection.

But I am clear on one thing: Our Society and human Culture is one big series of “Covert/Emotional Incests, with the attendant denial, amnesia and maintenance of the masquerade of it all being something else normal and healthy. It sheds once more a light on why I still can’t “STOMACH” a lot of things in my life, self and world.

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20 Minutes of Practice-Back to the Cuban Future

It’s been 2 days in a row now where I took my borrowed, garage sale quinto and congo drums down from their shelves, and placed them on my back porch with the blue owl kitchen timer, my bamboo contra clave’, two drumsticks and a chair. I have actually PRACTICED methodically, doing all the basic Afro-Cuban percussion patterns I’ve been learning from my pal the Shekere’ maker. I have a notebook I’ve tried to notate them in repeatedly, and get the names straight.

This is something I’ve wanted to be able to do for at least a decade! HOORAY for Me. I know now, more than I ever have, that the only way I can ever really drum is if I create enough critical mass of practice to get better. Repetition and lots of it is the key. My body and my ear get it in ways my mind cannot fathom. No amount of thinking about it, intending to practice, or fumbling around gets it done. Only actual practicing and playing does.

Last Weekend I hit a double header and got to the class of my Congolese Master to play, something I can no longer do every week because he isn’t coming to my home town anymore. The next day I attended a Cuban Festival in SF where there were a lot of dance classes and took a beginning cuban percussion class from a friend of my ex Cuban Master.

The inevitable happened: I ran across the man who used to be my Cuban Drumming Master. He was there passionately banging away, playing with his friend in the flesh. He looked right through me. That is, he didn’t let on he knew me. I gave him eye contact, smiled at him, but did not wave or approach him because he has not been visible since the relationship he had with a friend of mine ended despite still living in my home town. It’s clear to me he has roundly avoided all contact with me.

I could only reflect that he gave me much as a teacher and leave it at that. Whatever he is thinking or feeling about what happened in relation to me and what I know personally is none of my business. I supported him a lot on many levels, but that’s all water under the bridge. What I know about him is also no one’s business but my own. He was a dedicated teacher, and he had some real faults, but I made my choices, stayed his student for about 4 years, and I got what I got. I learned to focus and became three times the drummer I was before I made it through the crucible of his unrelenting drive for perfection.

When I mentioned I had seen my teacher, my guy said he’d been approached by said Cuban teacher since the split. I’m not too surprised. My guy opined that “he doesn’t want to be hated”. I have no idea if that is actually true, but the good news is that I don’t really need to know if that is true. It could easily be my guy’s projection. What matters to me is me, my playing. I’m not holding my breath waiting for my ex teacher to show me either affection or respect. In Cuba, you either play well or you’re nothing.

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Another Fine Mess: My #1 Blinding Loop

I have been praying lately, not to have my Character Defects removed, but to find out what my Blinding Loops are, so I can stop being blocked and controlled by them. Blinding loops are what Dr. Mario Martinez says are self delusions we have created around behavior patterns that keep us in deprivation. In my case I have three chronic major life disasters: My body, my guy and my nearly non-existent work/income making life. And I’m praying I will be clearly informed as to what EXACTLY is going on, ONCE and FOR ALL. I figure I’m ready for it, having reached 60 and surviving through molto hells I never thought I would.

I got mad this morning at the twitchy, poorly functioning laptop my guy has hooked up to a big screen because I couldn’t get an unsubscribe clicked on a site that keeps sending me ads by email about “FUCKBUDDIES.” I tried to update an email address and send an overdue email, only to have it bounce. I got mad because I’ve requested help by phone and email to be able to apply for a job at the Ritz Carleton in my actual choice of professions, massage, and I couldn’t figure out the crappy att email format to send them something terse because they haven’t done what they are supposed to: respond and get back to me. I got mad because I asked ATT NOT to put their blue advertising band at top of my email in my face, and THEY HAVE, ALL ALONG. I got mad because my guy clicked on some intro offer to a movie download which will automatically charge somebody 50 bucks monthly and he never cleans up his own messes. After I cried, shattered the glass, yelled etc, I calmed down and looked at it from a different angle. I have a pc that is slow, cluttered, barely functional because I keep living from the place I don’t deserve decent computer stuff, don’t want to spend the time, money, attentions, etc. I have a false idea I can’t choose to create different and better for myself, that it’s too complicated and so on. My life reflects this nonsense.

I had what my guy calls a “Tizzy” and slammed a glass cupboard door, shattering glass all over the floor, the counter below, shelves and dishes inside the cupboard, and part of the kitchen table. I was barefoot at the time and in my jammies. We have cats, not a lot of space, and I had to clean up all the shards and glass. Luckily, the guy was not around, and when he came back, I told him about it because I wanted him to know what happened, and demonstrate my concern for him, truth and our home.
He did not see the point of my talking to him, and used to this to pressure me to eat something he’d brought home which I did not want, and ask me what I’d been doing all morning to eat breakfast so late (10:30 ish). I did not allow this disrespectful treatment to fly. He yelled at me, called me names in the driveway and stormed off. He came back to overfeed the cat, glare at me while I was talking on my cell, and leave again.

Last night I watched the classic movie “Dead Poet’s Society” to see Robin Williams play the teacher who champions his students finding their own voice and life. I’m NEVER MINDING the fact the main character kills himself because of a brutally controlling father and that Robin Williams is dead.
I need to find my voice and tell the truth about somehow being so worthless that I have to be with people and situations that are shitty for me, that there is nothing else, and I’m helpless, have to stay in it.

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