Saturday, November 18, 2006
I've been further distracting myself...
...over at the Mom & Me One Archive. I transferred that journal over to Blogger Beta and have discovered that its template, which is a completely different amendation than the other previously transferred journals of a long defunct Blogger template, works much better in Blogger Beta than the previous templates for the sites I've switched. I continue to have minor publishing hitches, especially when adding labels to the Labels index directly on the template, but nothing like the others. And, a bit later tonight, I'll try attaching labels to posts in Safari, as per Granny J's suggestion.
It's a good thing I have something with which to distract myself, as, over the last week or so, I've realized that my "sadness" and "quiet" have a much deeper, sharper cause: Anger. I am so angry at my extended family that I cannot remember being this angry since I was in the fourth grade and became murderously angry at my father for his drinking. I use the word "murderously" because the way I worked through it was to sketch, on paper, scenarios in which I devised ways to lure him into some sort of murderous trap out of which there would be no escape.
I am not quite that angry at my extended family. I am not having fantasies in which they disappear, either literally or figuratively, so that I no longer have to deal with them as realities, thus do not have to deal with my present choking on a sense of Mom and me having been betrayed by them.
It took me awhile to realize that my profound disappointment and frustration over not being able to rely on them had morphed into rage at them. I don't think I was completely aware of it when I mentioned my "sadness" and "quiet". I am now.
I am not one who is generally afraid of anger or rage. I am, though, prone to put off recognizing it and dealing with it for a little (always only a little) while because, of course, fully acknowledged, it gets in the way of my productivity. While I've been "sad" and "quiet", though, I've found it impossible to post on several topics that I've been meaning to address. It was this problem that cased me to notice that it is anger that has been continually distracting me from getting those posts "right". Now that I've acknowledged it, welcomed it, as, what else can I do at the beginning but welcome it, it is simmering through everything. I seem not to be able to deal with other concerns regarding those posts in a civilized manner. About all I'm capable of doing, while swaying to the song of this anger, is busy work, technical stuff, habitual, fairly mindless tasks that create a moated island where I can rest while the bulk of my mind works with this anger, and only this anger. Anything else, though, is fair game for the enormous energy created by this anger.
Although I do not remember exactly how, or exactly how long it took, I managed to work through my anger with my father long, long, long before I left home. I know it took diligence. I know it took the courage to walk through the hell of, for instance, imagining causing my father's death and considering, with horror, the relationship between thoughts and reality. I know it took time. I know that a fair amount of the process took place just below my awareness, aided by the strategies I used to slog through the part of my anger of which I was fully aware. I know, too, that I finally made it through and discovered a much deeper understanding of and love for my father than I was, most of the time while struggling with the anger, able to imagine was possible. So, I know, I'll make it through this. I'm at the point, now, though, where I have absolutely no idea how I'm going to do it. Over the last thirteen years I've taken the paths of understanding, realization, acceptance, ready forgiveness, faith in everyone's fundamental good intentions, tried making it all easier on each of them by being the willow...finally, less than a year ago, when my disappointment and frustration began to develop, I voiced these, too, thinking, well, they're there, mustn't shy away from them, and, one by one, little by little, all of these paths, the high and the low, have lead me here, to this incendiary anger. It's supposed to go the other way. All of my efforts, including the last, most frustrating, least controlled efforts, have been sincere and have preceded the anger. I'm satisified that I became aware of the anger as it began to develop; and have acknowledged it when other members of my family have mentioned their fear that I "might get angry." It has not been a subterranean taint in my dealings with my extended family. It is, rather, the fruit of these endeavors. What do you do with anger when it develops after, rather than before, generosity of spirit, and you are not Jesus? Throwing the money changers out of the temple seems, in this case, inappropriate.
So, it shouldn't be hard to understand that I am flummoxed, here, now, by this anger. This is different. It's coming after the dealing strategies, rather than leading to them. A good example is the reaction to a much appreciated comment I received on the immediately previous post about the parameters of my decision to decline the Thanksgiving invitation from relatives. A couple of years ago I would have nodded in benign, amused, expansive agreement at the commenter's pronouncement that, in a similar circumstance in their family, the commenter believed that the "distant siblings" "meant well". When I read the comment today, though, I found myself unable to agree that my siblings "mean well". Ignorance, when the information exists and is easy to access, is never well meant, I found myself thinking. This is why, my mind continued, that, before the law, ignorance is rarely an effective defense.
That's anger talking, folks.
I don't know what to do with this type of anger. I'm working on it. I expect it will give way to something. I expect I will somehow become more refined by being tempered in its forge and hammered against its anvil. In the meantime, though, I'm discombobulated.
You'll notice that I have disallowed comments to this post. This is a strictly personal post. I am posting it as a form of prayer, I guess, the only form I recognize, the type of "prayer" that an injured limb screeches into the awareness of the person owning the limb. I'm not interested in sympathy. I'm not interested in recognition. I'm not interested in "support". I believe I need a miracle, I need in-spira-tion, which is especially tricky, since I don't believe in the kinds of entities whom people normally approach for miracles. So, I'm throwing the request out "there", into the void, counting on the supposition that we are mostly void, we are created out of the void and, thus, the void must be responsive to us.
It's a good thing I have something with which to distract myself, as, over the last week or so, I've realized that my "sadness" and "quiet" have a much deeper, sharper cause: Anger. I am so angry at my extended family that I cannot remember being this angry since I was in the fourth grade and became murderously angry at my father for his drinking. I use the word "murderously" because the way I worked through it was to sketch, on paper, scenarios in which I devised ways to lure him into some sort of murderous trap out of which there would be no escape.
I am not quite that angry at my extended family. I am not having fantasies in which they disappear, either literally or figuratively, so that I no longer have to deal with them as realities, thus do not have to deal with my present choking on a sense of Mom and me having been betrayed by them.
It took me awhile to realize that my profound disappointment and frustration over not being able to rely on them had morphed into rage at them. I don't think I was completely aware of it when I mentioned my "sadness" and "quiet". I am now.
I am not one who is generally afraid of anger or rage. I am, though, prone to put off recognizing it and dealing with it for a little (always only a little) while because, of course, fully acknowledged, it gets in the way of my productivity. While I've been "sad" and "quiet", though, I've found it impossible to post on several topics that I've been meaning to address. It was this problem that cased me to notice that it is anger that has been continually distracting me from getting those posts "right". Now that I've acknowledged it, welcomed it, as, what else can I do at the beginning but welcome it, it is simmering through everything. I seem not to be able to deal with other concerns regarding those posts in a civilized manner. About all I'm capable of doing, while swaying to the song of this anger, is busy work, technical stuff, habitual, fairly mindless tasks that create a moated island where I can rest while the bulk of my mind works with this anger, and only this anger. Anything else, though, is fair game for the enormous energy created by this anger.
Although I do not remember exactly how, or exactly how long it took, I managed to work through my anger with my father long, long, long before I left home. I know it took diligence. I know it took the courage to walk through the hell of, for instance, imagining causing my father's death and considering, with horror, the relationship between thoughts and reality. I know it took time. I know that a fair amount of the process took place just below my awareness, aided by the strategies I used to slog through the part of my anger of which I was fully aware. I know, too, that I finally made it through and discovered a much deeper understanding of and love for my father than I was, most of the time while struggling with the anger, able to imagine was possible. So, I know, I'll make it through this. I'm at the point, now, though, where I have absolutely no idea how I'm going to do it. Over the last thirteen years I've taken the paths of understanding, realization, acceptance, ready forgiveness, faith in everyone's fundamental good intentions, tried making it all easier on each of them by being the willow...finally, less than a year ago, when my disappointment and frustration began to develop, I voiced these, too, thinking, well, they're there, mustn't shy away from them, and, one by one, little by little, all of these paths, the high and the low, have lead me here, to this incendiary anger. It's supposed to go the other way. All of my efforts, including the last, most frustrating, least controlled efforts, have been sincere and have preceded the anger. I'm satisified that I became aware of the anger as it began to develop; and have acknowledged it when other members of my family have mentioned their fear that I "might get angry." It has not been a subterranean taint in my dealings with my extended family. It is, rather, the fruit of these endeavors. What do you do with anger when it develops after, rather than before, generosity of spirit, and you are not Jesus? Throwing the money changers out of the temple seems, in this case, inappropriate.
So, it shouldn't be hard to understand that I am flummoxed, here, now, by this anger. This is different. It's coming after the dealing strategies, rather than leading to them. A good example is the reaction to a much appreciated comment I received on the immediately previous post about the parameters of my decision to decline the Thanksgiving invitation from relatives. A couple of years ago I would have nodded in benign, amused, expansive agreement at the commenter's pronouncement that, in a similar circumstance in their family, the commenter believed that the "distant siblings" "meant well". When I read the comment today, though, I found myself unable to agree that my siblings "mean well". Ignorance, when the information exists and is easy to access, is never well meant, I found myself thinking. This is why, my mind continued, that, before the law, ignorance is rarely an effective defense.
That's anger talking, folks.
I don't know what to do with this type of anger. I'm working on it. I expect it will give way to something. I expect I will somehow become more refined by being tempered in its forge and hammered against its anvil. In the meantime, though, I'm discombobulated.
You'll notice that I have disallowed comments to this post. This is a strictly personal post. I am posting it as a form of prayer, I guess, the only form I recognize, the type of "prayer" that an injured limb screeches into the awareness of the person owning the limb. I'm not interested in sympathy. I'm not interested in recognition. I'm not interested in "support". I believe I need a miracle, I need in-spira-tion, which is especially tricky, since I don't believe in the kinds of entities whom people normally approach for miracles. So, I'm throwing the request out "there", into the void, counting on the supposition that we are mostly void, we are created out of the void and, thus, the void must be responsive to us.
