Love is a dog from hell.

“Truth is everybody is going to hurt you: you just gotta find the ones worth suffering for.”
Bob Marley

Fact of the matter is I really fucking hate reggae music, it sounds like the same damn thing being played in a loop. I guess it’s not that much different from the dubstep that I listen to, but at the same time it’s totally different. Bob Marley, however, is one of the grooviest dudes ever. He had hope for a brighter future, he had courage to stand up for what he was passionate about, and well gee, that hair. How awesome what that medusa like tangle of dreads that always looked like a parrot was going to pop out at any time. Bob Marley is good in my book, I’m not going to listen to the reggae channel on Sirius though. I do remember a time that I used to binge listen to Legend in my years of high school angst and wonder what the world would be like if circumstances were different.

What would I be like if my aunt were really my mom and I was raised by them instead of my mom and dad. What would happen if I were born into a family with real problems. What if I were born a boy? All of these things would twirl through my brain as I would lay in bed listening to “Three Little Birds”. I remember carrying myself through the day singing that song to myself, the haunting words “every little thing, is gonna be alright”. Nowadays I think to myself, “how the hell does he know!”

Recently, I’ve been laying in bed at night thinking. In a vague way about something, someone, and everything revolving around those. I lay in bed and think about you, but I don’t know why. It’s haunting, it doesn’t go away and I toss and turn and curse the skies for the fact that my brain is so wrapped up around a circumstance that I have no control over. I never did, I think that’s what allures me to think about the topic so much. I feel compassion, I feel passion, I feel, well, feelings, and those suck.

So I lay in bed, thinking, night dreaming without sleeping really, and try to associate this sort of thought pattern with a sort of philosophy that can help me through the tough times.

“If we train our conscience, it kisses us while it hurts”

Friedrich Nietzsche

Speaking from a life of a girl that does nothing but ramble and get into adventures, the conscience is a four legged dog from hell that brays at you every chance I get. Maybe that’s why my insomnia haunts me, it’s actually that damn dog howling my colorful past and beckoning what the future may hold. Can I live my life with the dog of conscience howling, you’re damn straight I can, because I don’t regret a single thing that I’ve done in my life, and boy some of them were shitty. I can supply lists of people that I’ve screwed over in one way or another, but at the same time I was using my own sense of self preservation. Fuck those before they fuck you.

Sometimes all that happens at once, and it gets sort of messy, but in a fun sort of way.

I lay in bed at night, thinking about you (and don’t worry, “You” isn’t really a person, its a though wrapped in a person embodying a future that will never come true). “You” don’t exist, just like I don’t really exist. That person in the fabricated world of “every little thing is going to be alright” is a fallacy. I don’t really have plans for tomorrow, I just fear the night, knowing that the preslumber thought patterns will be full of hazy recollection of something that never was and what will never be.

-cue the Led Zepplin song-

…or just throw in a long vague poem about the “you” that doesn’t exist and the “me” that never will, and dissect it to my own liking and footnotes.

“The things about you I appreciate
May seem indelicate:
I’d like to find you in the shower
And chase the soap for half an hour.(and this is where I think of soap on a rope and this becoming some weird erotic movie)
I’d like to have you in my power
And see your eyes dilate. (I’m thinking this has something to do with the roofie that was slipped into the drink)
I’d like to have your back to scour
And other parts to lubricate.(Parts, like car parts, like a lube job)
Sometimes I feel it is my fate
To chase you screaming up a tower
Or make you cower
By asking you to differentiate
Nietzsche from Schopenhauer.(Um, can’t we work on Kant and Nietzsche first)
I’d like successfully to guess your weight(bad idea, bro, bad idea)
And win you at a fête.
I’d like to offer you a flower. (for the record, guy that doesn’t exist, my favorites are white daisies and liatris, I’m not a fan of carnations and I scoff at the thought of having some damn lily in a bouquet)

I like the hair upon your shoulders,
Falling like water over boulders.(Like an over the shoulder boulder holder? classy, dude)
I like the shoulders too: they are essential.
Your collar-bones have great potential (I have to say, I’ve always like my collar bones, they’re one of my favorite parts, besides my nose…)
(I’d like your particulars in folders
Marked Confidential). (I know where you can get some of those pictures….only a few people have them…)

I like your cheeks, I like your nose,
I like the way your lips disclose (Finally, my nose. I’m telling you, it’s awesome)
The neat arrangement of your teeth
(Half above and half beneath)
In rows.(if by in rows you mean slightly irregular but still good looking yes.)

I like your eyes, I like their fringes.
The way they focus on me gives me twinges. (I do have a way with giving, you know, that look)
Your upper arms drive me berserk.
I like the way your elbows work.
On hinges …(That’s a stretch, it’d look pretty freaking weird if they worked on levers or pullys)

I like your wrists, I like your glands,
I like the fingers on your hands. (you have no idea…)
I’d like to teach them how to count,
And certain things we might exchange,(spit, can we swap that? and you know)
Something familiar for something strange.(my ex had a cat named strange….)
I’d like to give you just the right amount
And get some change.

I like it when you tilt your cheek up.
I like the way you not and hold a teacup. (lets change that one to martini glass and rhyme something else)
I like your legs when you unwind them.
Even in trousers I don’t mind them.(I hate pants, like really hate them)
I like each softly-moulded kneecap.(and all the awesome scars that they possess)

I like the little crease behind them.
I’d always know, without a recap,
Where to find them.(and well, you’re sort of the bee’s knees too)

I like the sculpture of your ears.
I like the way your profile disappears
Whenever you decide to turn and face me.(that sounds sort of spooky, like perhaps I’m some sort of weird demon that has been stalking you in your sleep)
I’d like to cross two hemispheres
And have you chase me.(I’ve actually done that one before, it didn’t work out well, so let’s save our frequent flier miles and go someplace, I dunno, not ghetto?)
I’d like to smuggle you across frontiers
Or sail with you at night into Tangiers.
I’d like you to embrace me.

I’d like to see you ironing your skirt
And cancelling other dates.(Well, I suppose so, but I really like those other dates…what are you offering)
I’d like to button up your shirt.
I like the way your chest inflates.(Um, hopefully you mean when I breath, cause I mean, I don’t think there is any sort of breast pump that actually makes them bigger with a pump)
I’d like to soothe you when you’re hurt
Or frightened senseless by invertebrates. (Those are like, bugs, right?)

I’d like you even if you were malign
And had a yen for sudden homicide. (I haven’t thought about it, am I sort of against becoming a forensic file)
I’d let you put insecticide
Into my wine.(would you like spinozad or would you rather something more toxic)
I’d even like you if you were Bride
Of Frankenstein (I wouldn’t call him frankenstein…)
Or something ghoulish out of Mamoulian’s
Jekyll and Hyde.
I’d even like you as my Julian
Or Norwich or Cathleen ni Houlihan.(we’re going to have to get back to talking about bugs and martinis, that’s a bit over my head)
How melodramatic
If you were something muttering in attics
Like Mrs Rochester or a student of Boolean
Mathematics. (I can rock some mathematics…show me your equation and we can make this work)

You are the end of self-abuse.
You are the eternal feminine.(Self-abuse no more, I’m moving on)
I’d like to find a good excuse
To call on you and find you in. (Yeah, stalkerish, I’m kinda into that thing…will you peep through my windows an…)
I’d like to put my hand beneath your chin,
And see you grin. (Smirk, I’d rather smirk)
I’d like to taste your Charlotte Russe,
I’d like to feel my lips upon your skin
I’d like to make you reproduce.(Good lord, no way, bucko, not in this lifetime.)

I’d like you in my confidence.
I’d like to be your second look. (well, I suppose you can be my first look, if you’re as good looking as some of the others)
I’d like to let you try the French Defence
And mate you with my rook. (That sounds dirty)
I’d like to be your preference
And hence
I’d like to be around when you unhook. (I already did that, it was messy)
I’d like to be your only audience,
The final name in your appointment book,
Your future tense.” (As in is gonna be…)
John Fuller

The truth of understanding

“Everything that irritates us about others can lead us to an understanding of ourselves.”
Carl Jung

Watching people move in society can be something that can either amuse or depress. Watching an old man help his wife across a busy parking lot leading her by the nook in her elbow to get into the grocery store instills hope in us that there really is a hope for true love. The younger generation driving a car they didn’t pay for, spending money they didn’t earn, and not paying attention to where they’re going and almost wipes out the old couple gives us a bitter taste of a society that doesn’t care about others. The mother that selflessly gives every moment of her life to make sure her children grow up proper and polite gives us hope for a kinder future. The man selling his food stamps in the parking lot to go buy beer and smokes makes us doubt there is really any good in the world.

Intentions are always misconstrued, of course, and even though you’re watching and taking an assessment of a situation, you really don’t know what is going on with those people. It’s very possible that old man has lost several wives and the one he’s helping across the parking lot is his fourth wife. The sorrow he has gone through losing the one he loves over and over again shows on his face. What you saw as a sweet emotion of love is actually years of pain of loss. Although the wife doesn’t know it, the old man keeps a strong facade to make her life easier. He weeps in the morning while shaving, and he never drinks a cup of coffee without thinking about the way the one he truly love and he sipped coffee on a crisp spring morning when he proposed to her decades ago. Living in pain every day, he hold his head up, but longs for a time long past.

The younger person (gender doesn’t really matter), although they don’t seem to be paying attention, really isn’t trying to be reckless. That young person, running errands for their parents who have beaten them since they were a very small child. Lacking a spine, lacking esteem, and never feeling like they were good enough zones out as they dream about a life without being a punching bag for two emotionally unstable parent. The younger person drives this car, that the parents gave to them as a “hush gift”, to keep them from going to DSS and reporting the abuse. The young person faithfully takes their ADHD medicine every day because the last time they went to the doctor pills were pushed in their direction because that’s always the answer to slacking grades. The young person, getting a small taste of freedom every time they leave the house dreams of running away, only to go back to the abuse they are used to. Their future is going to be littered with broken dreams and even more broken hearts.

The mother, shuffling her children from car seats to strollers, to carts keeps a smile on her face and children happy. She appears to be on top of the world. A shiny, big old SUV with a stick figure family on the back window indicates that financial problems don’t seem to effect this happy little family. The children are dressed smart, and the mother wears practical shoes, yoga pants, but has perfect makeup. She breezes through the grocery store parking lot like a newspaper caught up in the draft of a passing car and keeps her chin high. Designer purse on her arm, she has everything, including a husband that cheats on her with his secretary. Never would she let on that anything was wrong to anyone, if this sort of thing leaked out in their social circles she would be absolutely devastated, embarrassed, ashamed.  Therapy doesn’t help, the husband is unhappy, the wife is unhappy, they lead their phony life day in and day out. She has no choice to accept that her life is full of lies and heartbreak. She plans on a future of the children growing up in a “non-broken” home and giving her grandchildren that will dote affection on her. She focuses on the future, she focuses on anything but the pain and heartbreak she’s facing.

The man selling his food stamps in the parking lot slowly smokes a cigarette in an old pickup truck that has been rusting out for almost a decade. The truck shows signs of being used for work, hard work, for years. The truck looks as though it has never been washed, and the man looks as if he hasn’t been washed for weeks either. The man is hollow, with sunken cheeks that enhance a jutting cheek bone that accentuates his yellowing grey eyes. He listens to a talk radio station talking of the declining housing market in the area and how it shows no sign of improvement. He shakes his head and takes another long drag from his smoke. After the market collapsed he lost his home, and had no place to go. Without money and without a source of income he had no choice but to adopt a lifestyle of living in his truck. His pride was shot, his heart ached for the days he could wake up and go to a job that feed his family. There wasn’t a future for him, or at least he didn’t see one. Selling his food stamps gave him money to buy beer to help him dull the pain and gas money to keep moving his truck from one parking lot to another. It was a cyclic life, but he never gave up.

The exterior of peoples live can be very deceiving, especially if we walk around in this world with our hearts on our sleeves and judgement in our hearts. I hurt, I cry, I have feelings, but I’m not going to project them to the world around me. I could keep my head down and focus on the pain that I have, but that wouldn’t help. If I could walk around with a whiteboard, if we could all walk around with a white board, in which we could write what we’re feeling how would the public respond. If I were to say I lost my job, would somebody, a total stranger, go out of their way to help me? If I were to walk around with my board saying my heart was broken, would anybody step aside and give me a hug? If I were to walk around and say I’m battered, shattered and lost, would anybody step aside and help lead me in the right direction?

“The fact that a believer is happier than a skeptic is no more to the point than the fact that a drunken man is happier than a sober one.”
George Bernard Shaw

The skepticism in me comes from the fact that I guess sometimes I feel like I bleed in the streets but go unnoticed. At the same time, there are so many other people bleeding in the street that hide it. Are people actually happy in their misery? Do they embed themselves in a lifestyle of unsustainable emotions and pain just because it’s easier than trying to change? People who believe in something actually have hope, they have a sight for a future, they have vision. Those that are skeptical of a future bleed quietly and don’t reach out. The drunken man dulls his pain, but never actually alleviates the initial would of what the pain is coming from. No drunken person is actually happy, it’s a cry for help, it’s a cry for help healing a pain.The fake happiness that is purveyed by the jolly drunk is actually a hopeless, helpless, wounded soul in need of somebody to help guide.them.

I curl up in a ball here in a bed, with a stuffed bumble bee and lick my wounds. Four o’clock in the morning, for the second night in a row, my mind have brought me to be wide awake at this forsaken hour of the night. Quiet surrounds me, the hum of the laptop fan and the pounding of the keyboard are my music and the faint light that spills from the screen illuminates the world around me. To me it’s pathetic, but I’m not a skeptic, I do have a future…I just don’t know what it is yet. I’ll keep pushing, but I’ll keep looking deeper into those “people” in the parking lot.

“Everyone smiles with an invisible gun to their heads” -Chuck Pala…ehh…you know the guy.

we all need something to hold onto.

we all need something to hold onto.

…I don’t know why…

Sometimes when you suffer from something, even if it’s something that you don’t understand, you find yourself in pretty ugly states of mind. People that suffer with addictions, heartbreak, esteem problems, just about anything can find some days harder than other and the only thing to do is cope, try to keep your chin up and cope. All things are temporary, all things are shifting, in the grand spectrum of the world all things are just grains of sand on the beach. Why, please explain, do somethings feel like boulders as opposed to the tiny grains they really are? Is it an illusion, is it imaginations, is it reality?

The truth of the matter is that I’m having a bad week, again. There isn’t an apparent reason, except for the fact that I’m extremely uncomfortable with my current state of body. I’m just stuck in this cycle, it hurts, but I have this notion that everything is going to get better, everything is already better, just by admitting that I’m having a tough time. I struggle sometimes, for no apparent reason, but then again, we all have our own internal struggles that perhaps we don’t understand. Why am I this way, why do I do that one thing that I don’t want to do, why am I such a failure (it seems) at life.

It’s a confusing rabbit hole to fall down, especially for those of us with a deeper realm of reality. I can’t just look over and say, “oh hey look, there is a pizza there, I might have a slice”, for me it’s a ridiculously alluring temptation – like a drug – that floods my brain with ridiculous juices of urges, desires and hate. I love the things that I hate, and I hate the things that I love. Beer, french fries, ice cream, you name it, I love all of those things because they make me feel better, at the same time I hate them because they make me feel worse. I sit here right now and am hating myself because my pants are tight. I can’t focus on anything but the waistline embedding itself into by gut. Fucking gut, fucking beer belly, why can’t I have a bikini body, why oh why?

At the same time, I can look down and see a happy girl that is finally doing what she really wants with life. Instead of being pushed around to live under other peoples thumb and ideals, she’s pushing forward and being who she really wants to be. It’s uncomfortable to identify this person with myself, but I suppose “she” is really “me”, and “I” am really “her”. With this mentality, however, a confusing identity crisis ensues. The “she” is the person that wants to be happy, love unconditionally, and be love, the “me” is the person that feels bitter and afraid of being judged and hurt. The “I” is really the girl that hates every single bit of her body, especially her gut, but the “her” is the one that enjoys having a good time and laughing at silly things. In a constant tug-of-war with yourself it’s almost understandable that the brain wants to seek some sort of respite, comfort, peace, someplace, even if that place causes one half of the entity to be miserable.

Take for instance my enjoyment of Old Chub Scotch Ale, I used to enjoy it to the max. I’d be able to have one, enjoy the complexity of taste and bubbles and be happy. Now all I see is calories and the fact that it gives me a beer belly. Of course everybody says, “well, just have one”. It’s difficult though, when you find something that makes you feel better you don’t want the good feeling to stop. It’s a conundrum, and nine times out of ten the good feeling takes over and you’re left with the regret afterwards. Kind of like a really bad relationship that you choose to stay in because you like companionship, you just don’t like the particular company, but you decide to stay in it because you’re afraid to be alone.

I’m looking at my day, and venting here to try to help me understand things better, knowing that my brain wants to feel better. My brain wants to let the eating disorder come in and make me feel better.

As for me, I think I’d rather suffer. I’m scared going into this day, but just like any other thing, it’s just temporary. Tomorrow will come soon.

The world breaks everyone, and afterward, some are strong at the broken places.

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Schulenburg Car Show

Way back in 2014, I had a wild idea to throw a car show in a little bitty, quaint community in Texas. What I thought was going to be a sort of flop turned out to be something bigger than I had ever imagined. Despite chilly temps in the AM, cars started rolling in and the party started.
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Cold, scared, and cynical.

This was initially in my folder to get sent into the BMW CCA weekly newsletter, Roundel, but I decided that the content wasn’t exactly “carcentric” enough. So, instead of letting it just slip away and disappear into the great oblivion, I guess I’ll share it with the faithful following I do have.

A few things happen after every break up for me, it usually starts with a flood of tears, I gain about twenty pounds, a lot of angst and then an agonizing reappraisal of my life and who I let into it. Most of the time I usually move a couple of states away and say “see ya later alligator” to the people that I knew and became friends with in a particular zip code. This is an awesome display of my escapist mentality, but this last one was a bit different. There was no possible way for me to skip town, I actually had things to stick around for, my car club people was one of them, my car was another.

As I have several times in my past, I found myself loading up all of my prized possessions in the back of my One Series and getting really up close and personal with the past five years of my life. Most of those I had my One Series, he’s always there for me, but when it came down to hauling my life away, he fell a little bit short. I made due, taking several trips of course, and never did I consider the fact that I could easily just go rent a moving truck or something, but that would just be too easy. I’m just the kind of person that cannot accept the easy way out, and in this situation I did have to borrow one pick up truck and a couple of burly men to help me move my huge life long accumulation of furniture, which actually only comprises of a cheap desk I bought off of Craigslist and a leather chair, which I also bought off of Craigslist.
I sat in the driveway of what was going to be my new home, sitting in the One Series in the cold, and cried like a baby. I spent that night sleeping in the car with the seat warmer on, because the car felt more like home than any edifice ever could. That car was my slice of peace, serenity, hope, and I didn’t want to leave it. During the course of the first two months of my newly found solo life I spent more time in the One Series than I did anywhere else, that car was my life.
Instead of trying to nest into a new home, I found myself driving aimlessly through the mountains trying to figure out where life went wrong. My One Series was thrown around so many corners and up so many mountains in those two months I racked up almost 12,000 miles on it before year end. If there was a chunk of time that I wasn’t either working or in school I was in my car somewhere, anywhere, thinking of all the new places we could go, but more often than not the places that we had been. The One Series and I, it’s a bond unlike a relationship, even a marriage, it’s like my soul mate, he’s got a personality, he’s got a story, and he’s got a lot of pull on what I do with my life.
I now look at my, ahem, less plush lifestyle and realize that owning a BMW isn’t all about “showing up to the party in a BMW”, it’s a way of thinking. I have always has a weird connectivity with my cars, and in part I had a pretty good relationship with my Shark, but at the same time I find myself laughing, crying, and living in my One Series more comfortably than I have in any apartment I could ever rent. Actually, instead of getting a nice apartment and nesting in, I’ve decided to use my money to sustain my car payment and insurance on my One series and the Shark. Doing the math, I could have a pretty nice place, but that would mean giving up my car, which isn’t going to happen.
In the process of breaking up, my ex got a new Z4, and I couldn’t be more excited for him. In difficult times there is nothing better than a car that makes you laugh, smile, and remember what’s good in the world and not all the crappy things that people (me) has done to him. I will say this, however, that Z4 is a sexy car with amazing lines and an interior that feels like it encompasses you in a safe embrace every time you get in, but I  wouldn’t want one. The next time I’ll have to skip town there won’t be room for all my stuff.
Actually, I should just break down and get a Winnebago with a car dolly to tote my car with me. Que sera sera.
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Philosophy And Miller Lite Cans

Did you know that birds poop on red cars the most?

Did you know that if you tickle the feet of a baby it will grow up to stutter?

Did you know if you dream about a wedding, somebody is actually going to die?

Did you know that if you drop a fork a man will come to visit, but if you drop a spoon a woman is going to visit?

Useless, the internet is full of uselessness. However, there are also some important things out there too, like this page you’re reading right now. Not only does it deliver useless entertainment and a window to the world of a girl that is just trying to get by in life, but it gives that same girl an outlet to rant, rave, and crave things that probably should be left unsaid. That being said, let me say a few things.

The ole “Adventures” page has been pretty dormant, I’m not going to lie, I’ve been neglecting it just like I’ve been neglecting my very own self. Not in a hateful, self-harm way, don’t worry about that, but neglecting a certain facet of me that has been menacing and growling like a beast for the past month. Even though it growls, I neglect it. The cry for attention goes unnoticed and about my normal life I’ve gone. I’m ignoring my poor body image, and I’m neglecting the thoughts that feed it. It’s there, I know it is, but I’m moving on.

It’s not so much an epiphany as it is a realization that living that way sucks – it REALLY sucks. Imagine walking around with your head cast down to the ground but putting on a happy face so that people don’t ask you what’s wrong with you all the time. (that gets really annoying by the way, and if encounter somebody like that, just say “I’m here if you need to talk”). I spent the month prior hating my body because it wasn’t good enough for California, I wasn’t bronze, I wasn’t beautiful. I also spent a large amount of that month on ridiculous diet pills that did nothing. When I say “nothing”, I really REALLY mean nothing. They might as well have been saw dust in a #1 capsule for all I know. I was mortified, my body wasn’t changing.

I wanted it to change though, it was just there, lumpy in areas, and just kind of “bleh”. I tried eating well, I tried the gym (and still go…it’s actually sort of fun), and I tried doing all the “healthy living” tips that you can find on the internet. Nothing happened. I did refuse, however, to succumb to a nagging notion that perhaps restricting my eating would alleviate my problem. There was no way I was going to wander back down that slippery slope. I know the hell I put my family and friends through the last time I decided 200 calories a day was a winning concept. I’m not doing it again.

So I had to think long and hard about what I was going to do. The “plan” wasn’t working, I wasn’t going to starve myself. Bulimia never really makes me lose weight, so what was the answer? What was I supposed to do? Change…but what.

WHAT!?!?! For fucks sake.

As I lay basking in the sun atop a pier on a sunny lake, I realized I was laying there in broad daylight in a bathing suit. A bathing suit that I wasn’t ready for. My body was still lumpy and my belly was still swollen from the fun the night before. The fun that included excellent company, food, and beverages. All the things that I enjoy in life, and would probably have to give up if I in fact wanted to get a bikini ready body. I say there on that pier, listening to great music, talking with excellent company, realizing I’m not so bad. I’m not so bad at all. The only thing really “bad” about me is my perception.

Of course, perception is reality – and reality, what a concept.

I sat there, surrounded by Miller Lite cans in my own personal bliss. A happiness that I haven’t felt since probably childhood. A sort of wonderment with my body, almost like a baby that first find it’s toes and tries to play with them (that same baby that would stutter if you tickles those same toes). I realized that I have an awesome life, full of red cars (that will get pooped on), an awesome man that visits me (and I don’t even have to drop forks), and dreams of beaches and race cars (why the hell would I dream of weddings anyways?). All of those ridiculous things that I’m supposed to be aware of and think about.

I was aware of a few things, none of them superstition based. I’m silly, I dance even though I do so poorly. I sing, but can’t carry a tune. I write, but don’t know proper English. I’m just awkwardly me, and if anything, an awkward lumpy body almost suits me – with my awkward lumpy personality. Let’s be honest though, some of my lumps are in the right places, and others, well, it just shows that I might spend more time basking in the warmth of summer sunshine drinking Miller Lite than I do running on treadmills. It’s me, I can’t change that, just like I can’t change the fact that if your palms itch you’ll come into money.

That one is true, my Great Grandmother Reiche used to say it, so it HAS to be true.

crax crazy

It’s time for a reappraisal of the situation

“You’re human, it’s okay to be hungry” – Kristie in class

I very often forget that there are actually people out there in the world that can actually be have like normal like and listen to their guts and know when it’s time to eat and what a hunger cue is. I have destroyed my body and mind for so long I forgot what it’s like to actually be hungry, and truthfully I like it.

I sat in class, working diligently and y belly gave this rumble that rivaled something you’d hear at the zoo. Not only was it something unlike I was used to, it was uncomfortable. I realized at that moment I was treating my boy very poorly and it was rebelling. It was hungry, physically hungry. It was confusing, and of course most people know the difference, not me.

I expressed my hunger, and apparently I sounded like it wasn’t right. It wasn’t right to me, it was a shamefully out of control feeling that I had experienced before. Was this hunger going to send me into a spiral of binging, purging, excessive exercise? Was this hunger going to trick my brain into thinking ugly things and self destructing. I was scared, but I was reassured. It’s okay to feel hungry.

Acting upon it was terrifying. I felt alone, but I knew I can a cheering section somewhere  there that wanted me to do the right thing. There were people that didn’t want me to hurt anymore. I still felt like the only person in the world that has ever experienced this panic and fear of food.

So, this is my proclamation, I’m going into a treatment facility come graduation from college. I’m ready to live the way other people do. It’s going to take time, energy, and support but I think I can do it. I’m going to start a fundraising project… I’m not quite sure  is yet, but I know when to say enough is enough. Time to call in the professionals.

Zips is coming too :-)

image

The Sims And Philosophy

“If you’re lonely when you’re alone, you’re in bad company.”
― Jean-Paul Sartre

The science of being alone is an art that isn’t to be mastered by the faint of heart. To be able to sit blankly, alone, quiet, and be at peace without yourself is something that very few can master without actually taking the time to realize who they are and what they’re trying to be at peace with. Instead of grappling with reality by distracting, sitting quietly, alone, at peace, is something that everybody should be able to accomplish. Everybody with half a brain that is. I, however, cannot enjoy this peace, as many people with similar mindsets as mine often do.

Peace in chaos, that’s always been my motto, but it hasn’t always been that way. I remember a time so very long ago that I was happiest sitting at my computer playing The Sims for hours on end, escaping to a quiet place where nobody could bother me. The Sims were my salvation, being lost in a virtual world of “Hot Date”, “Vacation”, and even “Unleashed” was something that I could always look forward to. I could embrace the escapism of sitting on my own couch, with my own laptop, and running my own private little world. I could make people love, I could make then hate, I could make these people die if I really wanted to. For all that have played, remember that ability to put your “Sim” in the pool and take the ladder away? Watching them swim aimlessly and eventually beg for the ladder back was sadistic, but hey, we did it…I know I’m not alone here.

no ladder

Why, however, did the creators of that game give us the ability to kill off our Sims? Wouldn’t it just be easier to have a “delete Sim” button to remove them forever from our game play? Why are we given this supreme power of playing god even though these fake figures are nothing but pixels on the screen? Do the creators of the game not realize that in a zillion other video games your character dies and you get a new one? Death is all over the place in the virtual game world, however, it’s always somebody else killing your character. There is always a bad guy, there is always something to fight, there is always something out to get you. The Sims, however, was different. Your worst enemy was yourself and your ability to make life good.

How does that reflect on our interpersonal relationship with self, though? In the Sims, your person gets lonely, and will beg you for some company. You can of course satisfy the need for company and companionship with other people, but how does that really work? Why do people need to rely on the presence of others to make them happy? In all actuality, The Sims is probably one of the most poignent video games ever to come out, not only because it keeps the brain occupied for hours on end, it teaches us what people really want and need in life. Primarily a ladder out of a pool, but secondly, to be happy, no matter what.

“Thou wilt one day cry: “I am alone!” One day wilt thou see no longer thy loftiness, and see too closely thy lowliness; thy sublimity itself will frighten thee as a phantom. Thou wilt one day cry: “All is false!” -Thus Spoke Zarathustra

Alone, the feeling that you get when you’l without company, but for many, you can be just as alone with a room full of people as you can be all by yourself. The feeling of not relating, the feeling of inferiority, the feeling of being afraid to say the wrong thing manifests itself in every one of us, and without any apparent cause. Fear of rejection, fear of commitment, fear of actually showing love, all of these things are qualities that The Sims don’t have. They just go about their little lives, doing whatever you tell them to do, they have “free will”, but then again, you can adjust exactly how much they have. Again, the ability to play god is the ultimate ego trip, until it’s time to turn the game off. When the Sim decides he wants to do something to amplify his happiness, you can tell him not to.

Why can’t we do this same “Click To Save” action in our own lives? We find ourselves in self destructive thought patterns and even attitudes. As a culture we can sink into the tragic events of the news, of our relationships, of our lack of confidence and not stop. There is no simple mouse click to change your reactions to events, or even feelings. It would be so simple though, if we can see a Sim suffering on the screen and be able to guide it to the shower to clean, the fridge to eat, or even out on a “Hot Date” to get some attention, why can’t we implement this is real life? Easy, we’re scared.

Miserable

The miserable people that decide that they want to change their life patterns have to go through a rough patch of readjustment, much like if you were to get a new expansion pack for you Sims. There are so many new, exciting things to experience, it’s hard to know where to start. The biggest step that you have to take in personal transformation is to take that first step toward the shower, the fridge, or like noted above, the bathroom (that’s a hell of a lot of pee, and I’ve also wondered why do the Sims pee blue?). Those poor Sims can’t help themselves, you however can. A simple evaluation of where you are and where you’re going in life will assist you in making those scary first steps.

Do you really want to be the drunken sot that loses friends and respect? Probably not.

Do you really want to be the heroine addict that hocks family heirlooms to get a hit? No, not that either.

Do you want to put your best foot forward? Please do.

This morning I had a bit of a stumble, I realized that I had spent the week in a spiral of self loathing and doubt. What am I doing here, where have my friends gone, why am I so lonely? All of those things are answered simply by “bad decisions and sabotage”. I could have had it all, but all was not what I wanted. I could have a super model body again, but I blew that with bad decisions. I could have somebody at home that loves me very much that looks forward to seeing me smile. I blew that too. Or did I, it’s all a matter of perspective.

In The Sims, if you don’t show up to work you lose your job, much like in real life. Also in The Sims, if you don’t eat you get a warning bubble with food in it. In real life it’s different, you have to trust your internal signals to tell you when and what to do. These same internal signals can change your matter of perspective on where you are in life. I could have it all, I did throw it away, but who is to say that what I have now isn’t enough? I have “all” of the things I need to live and be happy. Isn’t that “all” enough? I used to have a super model body of 83 pounds and blonde, I blew that by deciding I didn’t want to be anorexic anymore. What’s to say that I’m not the same beautiful person that I was then, just a whole lot bigger? I could have somebody that loves me at home, but then again, at what cost. Can I love myself if I’m constantly worried about other people loving me?

The Sims aren’t just a video game, to me at least. They remind me that in order to make things happen you have to make them happen. It’s time to come to terms with the fact that you’re in charge of putting that ladder in your pool to get out, are you going to? Are you capable?

“Anyone who cannot come to terms with his life while he is alive needs one hand to ward off a little his despair over his fate… but with his other hand he can note down what he sees among the ruins.”
Franz Kafka