Tit for Tat

Good Morrow, gentle friends.

The deed is done.

I had some fun at my now sleeping husbands expense - for instance, I suggested that perhaps he ask for a "ball lift" while he was in there having work done. Mainly to say the words "ball" and "lift" together.

Also, as the Valium took effect and he started to get silly in the car, I said it was nice to have him be so relaxed and he announced "I'm always chill, baby." Which made me hysterical, cause he is the least "chill " man ever. I'm surprised diamonds haven't popped out of his ass.

So we get there and he is a bit loopy from the Valium and he is trying to give me instructions like, "If any of my clients call, tell them I am out of the country"

?????? What?

And "Even though I am dopey, I could still kick anyone's ass if I had too"

Thank God. Roving bands of attack chipmunks will be no match for my about to be neutered spouse.

I also ran out and took this picture while he was in the "procedure room." Was this logo designed by a 9 year old boy or what? Geesh, I wonder what they specialize in here? Does the same designer draw two circles and an arrow pointing at a black triangle for a gynecologist's office?



Then I waited for them to call him in. I threatened to come in and do a photo-documentary. He did not find this funny. At all.

So I sat and waited.


I told you the waiting room was straight outta 1975


And then the doctor came out to get me. I started to smile at him. I couldn't help it.

I go in and there he is - the father o' my child, laying flat on his back with his hands over his face. His crotch is ensconced in gauze and he begins to hold his testicles. He walks out of the building...holding his testicles. We drive home, and he is laying as flat as he can in the. I run into the grocery store to purchase the bags of peas to ice him down.

we begin to drive home. He must be in pain, for he lifts up his sweatpants and places a bag of frozen peas on his testicles. The old man in the truck beside us watches a big black man shove a bag of peas down his pants. He looks a bit distraught - the old man that is. Perhaps the Conservatives are right, for right there, next to his truck is a Black man doing unnatural things to frozen vegetables.

Terrance has no clue anyone is watching him. I giggle.
I hear a new musical coming on:
"ain't nobody having sex with veg-e-tables"

But, oh.....my poor husband. He does look bad now. I just re-iced his balls with another bag of frozen peas and gave him more ibuprofen. He said "My balls are killing me" before he fell asleep.

And then I remember pushing a baby out of a certain place and think that this seems a fair trade.

Originally publish 11/4/2005

I dedicate this entry to Dr. Pap Smear

While I try to locate my sense of humor, please enjoy these older, but still hysterical pieces:

Yesterday I went with my spouse to the Penis doctor and we talked about his vasectomy. I do not have familiarity with doctors such as this, as my needs are quite different. However, I can tell you that when I have been in the office of my midwife, there are lovely paintings, fresh flowers, soft classical music, and an overall sense that things will be just fine.

This was not the case at the office of the Penis doctor. The chairs looked like something that I remember seeing in my grandmother's basement in 1975. They were that Pleather stuff with the multiple buttons punched in the cushions. There was a bucket of skanky looking toys to the side, swarming with typhoid - although why anyone would be bringing their child to this office, I can only imagine. It had a definite "Guys Bathroom" feel about it - without the obvious urine smell.

The highlight, aside from the vast assortment of car and gun magazines, was the electronic Viagra quiz display. With my husband next to me, I delightedly grabbed it, turned it on and announced that I would take the Viagra quiz. There were five simple questions to determine if I needed Viagra. The first was "Do you have trouble getting and maintaining an erection?"

My answer: Yes.

Second question: "When you penetrate your partner, are you unable to sustain an erection?"

My answer: Yes!

By this time, my husband is looking apologetically at the one other man in the office. I am taking too much joy in the Viagra quiz. I am taking this joy loudly. I finish the quiz and score a 5. Apparently if you score anything under a 21, you need viagra. My husband congratulates me on not having a penis.

The woebegone nurse calls his name. I leap up enthusiastically, my high heels and swishy skirt discordant with my surroundings. We walk back into the weird warren of rooms and are shown into a cube of a room. We sit. I announce "This is the crappiest doctors office I have ever been in!". I observe the giant posters of the penis, bladder and prostate. Terrance shrugs. I observe the giant penis related health scramble they have laminated and pasted above the exam table. While having your examine, they would like you to search out words like "vasectomy" and "prostate" and "testicle".

I express my hysteria at this word scramble! The midwife had lovely poetry and inspirational thoughts above her exam table. "Is that supposed to keep your mind off of the "finger up the butt" exam?". I am practically howling with laughter.

The doctor enters and I compose myself. He begins to give us the "Vasectomy Talk". He has a pamphlet which he opens and refers during his speech. I enjoy this speech very much. He gets to the description of the actual procedure where he explains that he will poke two holes in my husbands testicles and cut and burn my husbands vas deferens. My husband looks slightly unwell at this point. I am grinning.

We move on to the discussion of "after procedure" issues. I am instructed to examine my husbands testicles for "bleeds" and told that a cantaloupe sized sack is normal - grapefruit is not.
If I could have fallen from the chair and rolled around on the floor, clutching my sides in laughter, I would have. The doctor then sternly tells us that my husband and I must have sex a minimum of 20 times before he can bring in a sample for testing. Terrance perks us at this news.

I sign the paper giving my consent. Terrance signs the paper. We get his Valium prescription and make a date for the deed - November 4th.

Then - and this is BY FAR- the best part of the whole thing. The doctor asks to examine the husbands penal area. I feel like I have won the fucking lottery. I am fully clothed, not on an exam table, not in labor and my husband is being asked to drop his pants by another guy and I am watching. Oh, the sweet, sweet irony.

I watch, intently. I can not, truth be told, look away. My manly man stand up, fumbles with his belt and drops his pants. Another man puts on gloves and starts examining his testicles. They are chatting and the doctor announces that he has found one vas deferens, then the other. "You're perfectly normal - this will be an quick procedure", the doctor announces.

We leave. We get in the car. "That rocked!", I say. "I'm glad you enjoyed it", says Terrance.
"Happy Anniversary!", I say. "Happy anniversary to you.", says Terrance.
"Now", he says, "let's go get our daughter and go out for some margarita's at Slims."

I grin at him. "I'll even buy.", I say.

wavering

There is a sadness in me at times. I don't know what to do with it.

"Its Hormones", I tell myself. But I don't believe me. My breasts are achey and sore and I am all kinds of bitchy, but I know it isn't just the whore-moans.

My search for an apartment is exhausting. Who knew that finding a place I like and feel that my kid could grow and thrive in could be so freaking draining? Certainly not me. I swing from heady enthusiasm to abject misery with every place I look at or email or call about. Excited! Miserable! Back to Excited! Now with more moping! Gah. Even I am sick of me.

A couple of weeks ago I visited a condo which looked promising. Really promising. The location was good - nice parks, close enough to Ems school for easy transport and a nice "main street" that I love. I viewed it and came home. I had promised to pick up dinner on my way home, so I did that and weighed the next conversation with Terrance.

The "Yes, I am really moving out" conversation. Which I thought we had both agreed was good. Was best. Was the "right thing to do".

Why I didn't expect his protests, I will never know. But I didn't. I was, in fact, shocked. He recanted everything that had been said up to that point. He told me how much he loves me, that our family was the most important thing to him. That keeping our family together is the most important thing to him....but If I was set on leaving, he wouldn't stop me.

Wh-Wh-WH-WHAT? I did what any sane person would do at that moment. I burst into sobs.

"But you said you wanted to get divorced!", I heaved and hiccuped through my tears.

And then - in true Dawn and Terrance fashion - he bit into a shrimp which was hidden in his takeout Pad Thai and had to go to the emergency room. Leaving me flapping and fluttering around the house, hysterically crying and thinking "OH MY GOD I KILLED HIM WITH TAKEOUT!" and alternately mad at him for not picking up the god damn epi-pen from the last time he had an allergic reaction, and then upset because I had no liquid Benedryl in the house and I ALWAYS have liquid Benedryl in the house...

By the time he gets back, I am exhausted. Hysterical and exhausted.

Because what I want, what I crave, is this to be a joint decision. Much like we marched into marriage. But what I am getting is uncertainty. On both our parts. We waver back and forth like flames in a windstorm. How do people just do it? Just pack up one day and depart? AS much as I want this to be over, to just end so I can heal and move on, I am terrified to be without him. I love him. I just don't want to live with him anymore.

Satin is not my Master

So in the last two weeks, Emily and I went to Boston to see my brother and his family for his 5 month old sons christening.

My brother and I have often joked that in order for two of the three siblings to be in the same place at the same time, the third sibling must be forced out into the ether in a triangular manner. We are like the Highlander. We do not exist at the same time in the same place so one must observe closely when we are, as it is a rare and special sighting.

In addition to the rarity of the sight of more than one of my siblings in the presence of another is the humor factor...which gets ramped up into the stratosphere. If there is one person who "gets" me, it is my brother. I did, after all, send his newborn son a "Punisher" onesie... which freaked his wife out a little - the giant skull and all, but my brother was overjoyed.

So there we are. Me, Donnie and Emily, all looking less comfortable in church than the other. Emily is watching the statues carefully since she is convinced they plan on coming to life and touching her, I am looking up at the ceiling, hoping not to catch the eye of the priest who is going to know of my religious ambivalence and start throwing holy water on me....and then there is my brother who is clearly desperately trying to appear vaguely interested...especially as he has been seated with wife and child in the very front pew.

Having come in late, Em and I sneak into the side pews. I throw some holy water on Em as we walk into the church and do a pathetic attempt to bless her and me as we skulk down the aisle. There is deep affront on her part: "WHAT DID YOU DO THAT FOR?" she whispers fiercely.

"JUST COME ON!" I whisper back. We get seated and catch Donnie's eye to let him know his family has arrived, versus bursting into flames at the front door - which we had even money on, really.

Donnie's wife, Keri, is a gracious and lovely woman. She beckons us over to where they are sitting ( in the front of the freaking church). Donnie is looking pained.

Em - being an 11 year old - leaps up at being beckoned and hustles ACROSS the church, crossing from the extreme left of the church, across center aisle to where Donnie et al are seated. Since my child has abandoned me, I now must follow - apologizing to everyone she has trampled over to get to the front while trying to keep that hunched over stance as we are in the MIDDLE of a religious service.

I sit. Emily grabs my arm. In her rush to get to the front, she has failed to assess the potential statue strategic positioning. We are now MUCH closer to the statues in all their bloody, open heart, pained expressioned selves.

I lean into my brothers neck and whisper "Are all these people here for you?" because there are ALOT of people in this church. I mean, I assume he is a popular guy and all, but there are WAY more people at this christening then I think came to the wedding. Plus, leaning into his neck and whispering has the added benefit of not having to make eye contact with the priest who is very very close to me.

Donnie whispers back that it is a group baptism. I was unaware that the Catholic church has gone all Sams Club with it's baptisms. 7 babies for one low low price! But hey - I got the kid who is offended when I fling holy water on her, so I am no religious parenting icon.

I lean back and resume my careful examination of the ceiling and the fans. The priest, a jolly Ted Kennedy looking kind of guy decides to mix it up - get the youth involved in the service. He gives a speech about welcoming the babies into ye olde Holy Catholic family, yadda, yadda , yadda - and then he breaks this little unexpected request out.

Can the older children come up and put their hands on the baptismal font and pray over it to help make it holy water?

And he points at my daughter. Directly at her.

She is a heathen deer in the headlights. She doesn't know WHAT to do. She half stands, then sits. I am whispering to her "You don't have to go up there!", while the priest continues to point and stare at her, and she stands back up...then sits, and does this TWO MORE times. Her uncle and I are both looking at her saying "You don't have to go up there, its OK" as the nieces and nephews of my sister in law watch with astonishment.

Emily moves to her game closing move. Sit down and hide her face in my shoulder. That will teach Lord Voldemort the priest to point and stare the agnostic kid in the pews.

From here on out, the priest stayed mighty close to my brother and I in the front two rows. I resumed my ceiling watching, as the priest talked about rebuking Satan - which frankly seemed a little excessive to me. Wasn't it a bit late to be stating allegiances? I mean we WERE in a church and all. Wasn't this something that could be safely assumed? Lots of Satanists jumping up mid baptism ceremony? I now study my choice of shoes. A lovely deep brown leather slingback, stilleto heel and pointed toe. More Satan talk in front of me. Voices Rebuking behind me. Emily in my shoulder. "Aren't you glad I never subjected you to this?", I whisper.

"Those statues are creeping me out", she replies.

I hear ya sister. Kind of how I feel about all the unnecessary Satan rebuking. Now if you want to rebuke Satin, I could get behind you. In this summer heat, Satin is completely unneeded. And frankly frivolous.

We stumble towards the end of this never ending Satan rebukation. Father Voldemort decides to start the Lords Prayer - which I know having been well indoctrinated in Catholicism before I had the wherewithal to flee. I look around at the congregation thinking, "I'm pretty sure I never taught any of this to Emily" and glance down at her. She is fake mouthing words - perhaps to a Jonas Brothers song?

"What are you saying?". I whisper. She shrugs her shoulders and continues to fake mouth words.
Aw, thats my girl. Fake it till you make it, baby.


(Next post - The mother we spent the entire service mocking for inappropriate baptism garb - With PHOTOS!)

Crimeless Punishment

I am going to get in trouble for writing this. I know this already.

There is going to be fall out and anger around this, and the dual voices that modulate much of my behavior argue furiously about the words that I am typing.

This pattern of pre-emptive punishment is something I am intimately familiar with, as I spend alot of my time punishing myself for the decisions I make. Even when I know they are right. Punish, Punish, Punish.

Why, asks my new therapist. Why do you punish yourself Dawn? Why do you pick fights with people you love before birthdays or other events? Why?

I stare at her sullenly. My mouth draws into the tight lipped O that forms when I am biting back my words.

Because. Because if I punish myself first, then no one else can do anything worse to me. I have already done my best to make me suffer, so when the other shoe drops, it is a small annoyance rather than a cataclysm. No one can disappoint me.

She write notes, furiously. I am a unique beast in her life, I dare to believe. The self aware crazy. The smart crazy. The occasionally witty crazy.

For years, I have hidden one of the many things I do as punishment to myself, for my punishments are not purely emotional. For years I have done these things and carefully pushed them out of my mind as habits. It was only through the Envisage project that I started becoming aware of them, as I photographed some of the instances. I am a picker. I am a scratcher and a digger.

I do not bite my nails. I do not smoke. But when in private and nervous, I start to scratch. Usually my chest first, or my feet. If it is a very bad time, it will be my face. I will pick at skin, at toe nails, at imagined bumps or warts until the skin dissolves under my non-bitten nails. I have ripped off toenails in my compulsive worrying at my body later having to lie to pedicurists that I caught the nail on something. Because what is the alternative? the truth? That I pick,pick, pick at things until bleeding? That I scratch the hell out of my breasts where the world can't see them, often while under very hot showers?

I mean, I know this is not an acceptable habit. I know it has a big whiff of the crazy about it, so I hide it. There are whole after school specials about the cousins to this little compulsion - the cutters, so in my skating the edge between full blown and charmingly crazy, I hide it.

About three weeks ago my 25 year old sister drank antifreeze in an effort to punish herself. According to her, it was not her intent to kill herself, as she very nearly did having stopped breathing and having to be airlifted to a larger hospital with her organs failing rapidly. It was her intent to punish herself.

Magic words, those. Punish herself. Oh, I know this well.

We were raised in a house of secret keeping. Don't tell what goes on here. Don't betray, don't reveal.The consequences of stepping over the rules was punishment. Not physical punishments - no, that would be too gauche. Too obvious. Our punishments happened long after the event, when you least expected it. They got maximum benefit that way. Your guard was down, and the knife went deeper. As children of my mother, we learned to punish ourselves first. In this way, we deadened the later punishment that was coming - and it was coming, I assure you.

It is the super power of the narcissistic parent, this self punishment. Rather clever, don't you think? Get them to do it, so all you have to do is look at them? Get your children so hyper attuned to your ever changing moods that they begin the punishment without a word? And then deny that anything ever happened? Tell them they imagined it all?

And even now, writing this, I begin to pick at the skin around my nails. There will be trouble from this. I am not supposed to talk about these things, you know. Then people will know. Know the depth of the crazy. And what will they think then?

My sister is out of the locked ward, and back on her meds and doing well. We talk as much as I can get her on the phone. Survivors, I told her. Soldiers on the same field of battle like Madge said in her comment. During one of the talks while she was still in the ward, I told her that it wasn't her job to worry about our mother - to worry what she would think or say or do. Not your job, I told her. Her job? Get better. Start uncovering her triggers for the need to punish herself - and work to defuse those. I know I am.

Consequences

My past week has pushed the tenuous push and pull of choices and consequences in the forefront of my brain.

Beyond my three person family, some heavy shit has been happening in my family of origin. So heavy, in fact, that I have had to wade into that quagmire and start to pull out the debris of decades and figure out what the hell to do.

As always, I go to my adult place. It is, after all, what keeps me sane. Calm rational Dawn. You all may not be as familiar with this manifestation of myself, but she - Like Professional Dawn - is amazingly well put together.

After many, many months of my well orchestrated avoidance, my mother has burst through the citadel and reintroduced herself into my life. Yeah. There was a 7:30 am phone call today. Seven thirty in the MORN-ING. She even said "Is there something the matter" to me when I did not greet her with the appropriate amount of enthusiasm? Verve? Whatever people who are awake and alert at 7:30 in the morning possess?

Seeing me move, Coco assumed that it was time for nose rubbing and salad.

"What mom?"

rub-rub-rub, scratch, rub, nose bump, more rubbing

"oh. Ok. That sounds good"

Rub, rub, rub, rub, nose bump to demand more rubbing. Now staring, with the one unblinking rabbit eye.

"Ok. Yep. All right. Hmm? Yes. Ok. Bye"

There is stirring from the other rooms as Emily comes in to lay on top of me. This is her morning greeting. Laying directly on top of me....preferably on top of my inevitably full bladder.

"Were you on the PHONE?" she asks. She is unbelieving too. The mother she knows barely speaks to the people to whom she lives prior to 8 a.m., let alone on the dreaded phone.

In this side family drama not related to the entropy of my marriage, many things are fading in and out of focus. Who is the keeper of truth in a family? What roles do we play as adults to our siblings? Where is the line between helpful and overbearing? I am walking this line with my sister as she sorts through the consequences of her actions - and we all sort out the consequences of my mothers actions or lack thereof.

And here is the sticking point, not so much who is at fault - but who will tell the truth? Who will verify in a family of secret keepers and master chameleons? Who will be the adult?

Me. I am the adult - and not in a martyred poor me way, I get enough of that rained down on me by my mother that I don't need to replicate it. I choose to be the adult and take responsibility for my actions...or my choice to be silent.

In the utter terribleness of the last week, I am being given a way to a relationship with my sister. For that I am immensely grateful.

Oil and Water

The tide rolls in, the tide rolls out - as we figure out what to do and how to proceed.

The odd euphoric calm that has come over each of us was unexpected. We're working better as a team than we have since the days of Emily's birth.

There are many things, in hindsight, always in hindsight, that were indicators that we would not be together forever.

My need for a nest, for a home, for roots...juxtaposed with his need to wander, to travel, to GO. Our oil and water combination could only be shaken so many times until we refused to merge.

My wait and see approach to the world next to his hypervigilance. My occasional retreats into the world of crazy and his baffled watching from outside my cave. My inability to bring what he found important to the forefront of my brain and his inability to give me the things I needed, even as he believed he WAS in fact giving me everything.

To me, the dishes could wait if a book was waiting to be read. The tub could stay funky for another day if the day was a good one to garden. The other things weren't as important as the now.

There were, of course, many other things that remain in our shared locked closet of the marriage.
They are not yet available for public consumption. I am not sure if they ever will be, and this is one of the reasons I am so sure that I can never know what goes on in anyone elses marriage.

And as I cried in the garden, sobbing, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry that it didn't turn out the way we hoped"...and he held me patting my back soothing me, we try to spin the ending so that we can both pick up and move on as whole people. A bit bruised, but not broken.

I hope I will be able to write about something else - wish for it. I apologize to any of you who read this for being so one note and kind of fucking depressing. Pushing this out of my head I hope to make room for the other things, and helps to keep the fear at bay.

Can you go back once you know?

The humor comes in short bursts, in funny places. Emily's laughter triggers my own laughter, this little not quite carbon copy of me finding the absurd funny.

Last week, it came when she expected my arm to curl around her in the morning...and it was my foot, stretch out and over her side. Oh, the belly laugh as she realized it was my foot she was trying to hold hands with...which then crawled into my throat and echoed her laugh.

In some ways, this space feels not unlike the weeks before childbirth. It is quiet, and watching. I also feel able to say things - things because I simply don't care about the consequences. I mean, whats the worst he can do? Divorce me?

Gallows humor, I'll be here all week.

The temperature in the house warmed with a talk on Friday, but bedrooms remain separate.

"I don't want to get to the point where I hate you so much that I want to fuck you over for the joy of it", I said. And I don't. I really don't. For I do love him. He is the father of my child, and as such we are bound forever.

There are many things we do well together, but living isn't one of them. We are the married version of the Odd couple - and my nesting messiness irks him beyond belief, making his blood pressure rise to nose bleed levels. For me, his incessant need to clean and straighten feels like criticism - plunging a knife into the cocoon I am trying to build around myself.

I ignore. He pushes back. I ignore harder and he reacts by trying to control my options. While that gets my attention, it can not be said that it gets it in a good way. No. No, sir. If there is one thing that will get me to rise out of my lair, it is the perception that I am being bullied. Good god. Don't bully me. Don't give me ultimatums and for fucks sake, DO NOT touch my stuff.

So the cycle continues. If you threaten to divorce me for 14 years, one day I will look at you and say "Do it."

We are tangled in a foreign country, with me in school and not working, bound by the conditions of my visa that I am a student, and that we are here together because I am a student. Financially bound together in a way that feels stifling - don't want to stay together but can't extricate ourselves from one another....until I get my doctorate and a job. Nothing like a little pressure to make that writing go smoothly, right?

Can't go back. Can't go forward. Just have to wait. Staring at the bear with the cheesecake in my hand. Waiting for it all to pass.

Embers

At the risk of sounding like a complete and utter bummer, its been a hard week.

Things that have been laying like embers in the charcoal of my marriage have flared up, and words were said.

Not untrue words, but ones that indicate a change must take place - for the sake of everyone.

And so I mourn...and swing to relief....and mourn some more...and then remember when I fell in love with Terrance and think that I want to change - I want that back...and then I realize that those moments were seen with the eyes of a 21 year old girl who was willing to forgive anything, and that I am now a 39 year old woman who must care for her daughter first, and then herself.

Like anything that nears the end of its life, there can be fingers pointed, blame assigned, scorecards tallied. There is no defined winner, no TKO. Neither of us gets our victory lap, and that is disconcerting. We win or we lose - so this middle space is unfamiliar - separated by doors in different bedrooms, and polite conversation on the phone or over dinner about our shared child.

We harden our shells in preparation for the next stage, trying to remain civil, while having to stay in place for the foreseeable future.

Second Hour

So I came back for another round. Almost a month after our first time together.

“It’s been awhile” you said as I sat down. You knew that I had weighed and balanced you in my mind. My need to be in therapy with my expectation that I will never find a therapist who will challenge me.

I almost started to giggle then, you know. I am not accustomed to having others see through me so transparently. I mean, I shield most things from my husband and he sees me every damn day. I shield everything from nearly everybody. I am a chameleon. I can be whatever you want me to be or not be there at all.

To walk in and have you see me so clearly is still new. Like a scab that is still itchy.

So I sat down and began to unravel the tangled mess of yarn that is my story. You wrote nothing down this time. You remembered it all.

I became so absorbed in my self pity and justifications that I didn’t even dodge the first punch. But I felt it. And stopped talking. I looked at you. You looked back, waiting.

“You are an active author in the script that disappoints you, Dawn. Why do you keep doing that? I know you are an incredibly smart woman so it makes no sense that you are acting so helpless in the very thing that is making you so angry….”

Well. I’ll be dammed. I may have even cocked my head at you, like a puppy when their owner does something unique and unexpected.

“You’re right.” It was all I could say. You ARE right. And the first person to really call me on it. In three years, you are the first therapist that has laid it out. It IS my script and I make sure that the patterns never deviate from my expectations. Which we all know are expectations of disappointment and failure. Not my own failure, of course – but that of the other people in my life to meet my needs – or not, as the more accurate case may be. I, after all , survive. I overcome. I deal with the shitty hand that I have been made sure that I will be dealt and power through it.

To do this, though, to be able to maintain this part of my identity, I keep my eyes shut until the last possible moment. And as the point of the knife is at my neck, cutting, I scream and rage and fight back. Until that point, I freeze in place – a willing victim. An open and inviting victim. What I have categorized as patience is nothing like patience. It is the stillness of the trap being laid.

You praise me for not being defensive as you detail the façade that has taken me 39 years to cultivate. No, not defensive. Illuminated. Shaken up a bit, but not defensive. Never defensive. I know myself too well to deny a truth when it is presented to me in such a way.

“Next week?” you ask at the end of the session.

Yes. I am coming back.

The first hour

We've only spent an hour together, so I know it may be too soon to be hopeful.

But I liked you. I liked having that hour with you.

But more than that, I felt like maybe you could help me find a way out of this forest of shit I am dealing with at the moment.

I'm not entirely sure what it was - the way you kept track of the names I used, the way you did not look phased at some of the more shocking things I prance out at a first therapy meeting, the way you gently chided me for an action I deserved to be chided for and did not back down when I glared at you.

I mean - lets face it. I am a hell of an intimidating subject to take on. When you asked about my "history" and I started to laugh - finally saying "Do you want from birth - or simply the last three years?" - You took me head on. "Start with now" you said "and we'll work our way back." I've been in therapy for 19 years - that alone makes me more knowledgeable and self aware than some of the therapists I have interviewed.

You are tiny. I towered over you in my three inch heels. I also decided I hated your shoes and purse moments after you called me into your office. I can be a miserable judgemental bitch, you know. A pretentious snob, I believe is the name used.

Maybe it was when you nodded as I talked about my post partum experiences. Maybe it was when I talked about how I actively planned to kill my baby - but only held back because I didn't want to go to jail, not because I considered infanticide wrong and you didn't even lower your eyes.

Maybe it was when you asked why I had terminated the other three therapists and I told you - one didn't listen to me and was pushing lithium - one didn't challenge me enough - and one was all right, until I felt judged by him. He was the last one. Who had the good grace to at least look a little bashful when he saw me today.

I don't know. When you asked me at the end if I felt we could work well together....I was pleased. First - not a one of the others had asked that. You clearly respected my ability to judge what I needed as a patient...and it isn't a mother. I need a partner in this next part of my soul journey. It is going to be a hell of a rugged road - my resistance to going back to therapy coupled with my weird quirk of picking at spots on my skin until I am raw and bleeding which have kicked into high gear - indicate that I am ready - if not entirely willing to leap into this .

This next part is hard...and I know from hard. So when I say Hard I mean that while I want to work, I will most likely fight you - kicking and screaming - as you help me drag my sorry ass to the next level.

So I called for another appointment today, after three weeks of thinking about it. It was wise of you to leave it up to me to seek you out. I hope you're ready.

Slow Burn

I wrote this reflection after reading the book , "The Burn Journals" by Brent Runyon. It is part of my thinking about this line between childhood and adulthood , what drives adults to "forget" the experiences of being a teen. As Emily walks - no, runs - into this stage of her life, I struggle with my fears. As a parent, I use these reflections to remind me to Watch. Really watch. Not assume that no news is good news, or that her physical body in the house = everything is fine. My family is rife with depression (and other more exciting mental illnesses) and to ignore the clinical evidence that most depressions begin with the onset of puberty would be foolish.

Yes, Teenagers are kind of alien. I think it is something built into the human transitional phase that is kind of healthy. We need to experience this metamorphosis in order to emerge on the other side. It is my role as a "Guide" that I ponder. I do not want to throw up my hands and say "Oh, Teenagers - You Know How they Are!". I struggle with the distance to maintain, while never abandoning her to the durm and strang of being a teen.

One of the intriguing ideas that I have been grappling with following the Thursday evening discussion of The Burn Journals is my awareness of which “voice” I am reading.

Like many others in the group, I found myself frustrated at times with Brent's subtle refusal to look inwards as to why he attempted suicide, as well as his non-cooperative attitude towards the therapists who were attempting to draw these reasons out into the open. In my “adult reader” voice, I felt annoyed that Brent had so clearly cried out for help through the suicide attempt, and yet seemed to actively resist the help that he had finally attracted. Towards both his family members and his doctors, Brents inability to be honest about his motivations – while simultaneously taking pleasure in the attention he drawn to himself strikes my “adult reader” as incredibly self centered and solipsist.

However, once I have recognized that my irritation is coming from my reaction as an adult and parent, I must step back and look further into the source of that anger.

What is it about this young man and his internal dialogue that is rubbing me the wrong way?

If I examine Brent's story from the reading perspective of “teen Dawn”, I must admit some uncomfortable similarities in thinking. I, like Brent, believed that my events and tribulations were all encompassing and ever lasting. No mean comment, no heartbreak, no bad grade was ever going to be able to be overcome. Everything was all or nothing.

In fact, while preparing for the Picture Essay, I re-read my high school journals and was struck by the rollercoaster of my emotions. While the 38 year old woman wanted to reach through those pages and soothe the 17 year old girl, tell her that things aren't that bad, and that she IS lovely and talented and smart....I couldn't. In reading those entries in my own journal, I could once again acutely feel the turmoil of my feelings.

Frankly, the adult in me didn't like it very much. I didn't like looking backwards into that space and feeling so powerless, so out of control, and so self isolated. Upon taking up the mantle of adult, I have prided myself on my problem solving skills, my calm and my ability to weather storms. Seeing my inner teenage self laid so bare was viserally uncomfortable. I had left that person behind, and Brents' story brought her back into the spotlight of my gaze.

If I view Brents memoir through the lens of “teen Dawn”, I recognize the confusion, the lack of ability to describe the “why” of my actions. I believe that Brent is being truthful when he states that he simply doesn't know why he lit himself on fire, beyond being the result of a series of decisions which don't make a lot of sense. I believe that the pain he caused himself, and as an extension his family, seemed like a reasonable trade off to Brent at the time he did it. He made his inner pain external. Brent made it impossible for anyone to deny that he was hurting, all the while denying it himself.

This is where my discomfort lay. My role as parent steps in to reasure my inner voice that I would always know my child, and would certainly know if she was so deeply unhappy. My “teen Dawn” voice pipes up and tells me that I would ( and did) hide the depth of my despair carefully from the adults in my life. As an adult, I want to believe that I have control over my world and the people in it.

Brent's memoir, and it's connection with the inner voice of the teenage Dawn, reminds me that I don't have control, nor are there always concrete reasons for individuals behaviors.

Rethinking Yoko

I was a huge Beatles fan as a child and teen. Partially it was because I was born in 1970, to a young mom who came of age during the British invasion. I grew up handling the real vinyl albums that she had bought when they came out, pouring over the liner notes and staring at the pictures. The four men who changed from album cover to album cover were a solid fixture in my life.

When I began to come of age, I started collecting my own Beatles paraphernalia. My collection grew to include rare copies of Quarrymen tapes, and first editions of 45's (the complete set) and a first printing of Lennon's "Spaniard in the Works". In addition to all my adoration came the decision that it was indeed Yoko Ono who had broken the Beatles. Yep. Things were good until Yoko. She's the one. And then John moved to New York and got shot. Yep. More Yoko. Her fault.

This weekend, Terrance demanded that I come to the John and Yoko exhibit at the Museum here in Montreal. He had taken Emily a week or so prior and was genuinely taken with the experience.

Fine, I said. I'll go. Because it is Sunday and we should do a family thing. But I didn't promise to love it. I didn't tell him of my long history with Yoko. It was between she and I, after all.

Walking into the exhibit is a sign. Take pictures, Touch things, it exhorts. You make the art.
I parted the black velvet curtains and entered.

"John?" a voice floats out. "Yoko?", another voice responds. "John", the voice calls again - sweeter. "Yoko", the other voice responds, and sounds deeply content.

Pictures of each of them, John and Yoko as children are blown up and one the walls. Their voices surround you as they call to each other from 30 years ago.

A shift happens inside me. I know the tone of these voices. These are voices in love. These are the voices that call from the bed when you wake and wonder where the man has gone, so you call out. He mimics the tone because he doesn't realize that you are looking for him...and then crawls back into the warm bed and slides up next you you. You say his name again, happy for him to return. And He says your name, folding his arms around you.

Oh.

I move into the next gallery, where the exhibit that John met Yoko is re-created. I hammer a nail into the wall, and climb the ladder to see the word printed in tiny font on the paper.




Yes.



We move to the next installation, where the bed is revealed. The bed where they staged their protest in Montreal after their wedding. Their voices roll from the bed and ceilings - talking about peace and love. Laughing. You see John cuddling Yoko from one side of the bed. I lay down with Emily and hold her.



The exhibit moves you to New York, which became their cultural home for the rest of their lives together. The piano on which Imagine was composed is there. It asks you to sit and play.



Oh.

The hall opens and invites you to leave your own mark. I laugh when I see the sign the museum has put up "Please don't use stamps on the walls". Which have been roundly ignored and laughed at by the people seeing this exhibit. The stamps are everywhere. I ignore the stamp and use my thumb as a marker. I will leave my thumbprint. My unique and distinct stamp. One and only. I wonder if Yoko will see what has been done to the walls and laugh the same way I did.








And then we are at the end. Yoko invites us to make a wish and leave it in the wish trees.



My wish? For Bravery and Strength. Compassion and Persistence. The ability to do what is right and not just what is easy. Courage to Love and be Loved. And forgiveness.


I understand Yoko. I understand it all. Thank you for being brave enough to love and be loved regardless of opinions or what was easy. Thank you for reminding me that these rich feelings of life are not convenient or neat, and that pain is as much a part of this tapestry as the joy.

Yes.

Red Triangle

Because there is never great sadness in life without absurd silliness, I give this little vignette from my week.

After dropping La Chatte off at the vet's on that morning, I was scheduled for my "wax". Ahem. and eyebrow maintenance. That is actually how it is printed on the appointment slip.

9:30 a.m. Brazilian Wax
10:00 a.m. Eyebrows

The day before, the spa had called to say my regular esthetician was unavailable. Could they offer me an appointment with someone else?

Sure. Why not. There was no way I was missing an appointment again after my little episode this past winter where I'd missed nearly two months and the wax following that hiatus was how-shall-we-say? Bracing. If they started using Brazilian waxing as an interrogation method, we might get a lot more information.

So I show up for my appointment and am met by a small, round, grandmotherly looking woman. She is, it turns out, Russian.

And she does not care about my modesty. Nope. Not at all. Tells me to take off my undies - no attempt to give me a paper thong. She's here to do a job dammit and fiddling around with side to side thong moving only gets in her way.

Instead of being put off, I am comforted by this can-do attitude. I like a woman who has a job to do and is focused on it.

I zone out while she does her thing - and she does a good job. If one can consider themselves an "old hand" at the pubic waxing, I feel entitled. Very thorough.

But here is the moment when I crossed into new territory. We finish. She does the last "post lotion" application and asked me to take a look to make sure I am pleased.
This is, I thought, a type of polite moment - just like when the hair stylist is trying to show me the back side of my hair and I can't really see - but I am going to make noises like I am excited or pleased. You know. Social niceties.

What I didn't expect was the mirror in a place where I said "No thank you" to a mirror when I was pushing Emily out on the day of her birth.

Why hello, Labia. Long time, no see. You look.....Good? Nice? Hair free?

"Oh!", I say. "Looks Great" - as the mirror hangs over my nether region.

She moves the mirror so I can get a new angle. Dear Christ.

"You did a Great Job!", I say with as much enthusiasm I can muster.

I sit up, smiling and nodding and begin to get myself reassembled. She smiles and nods and begins to tidy up.

Perastroyka, bitches.

Au revoir, La Chatte

When she spotted us, in July of 2006, she knew an easy mark. Since her last owner had abandoned her, she'd been savvy enough to hang out in the same middle class neighborhood. Someone would feed her, she was sure.

Watching us move in, she played it cool. She would watch us from under the tree, a gray smudge in a shadow. She was friendly, but not overly so. She did not approach us to be caressed, nor did she meow to gain our attention. She simply stayed. And Watched. And Waited.

She made her initial move about a week later. We were at the back door and we were in her former home. She walked up and looked at the door. Looked at us. Looked at the door. I opened it and she walked in. Emily picked her up like a sack of potatos and she waited. Didn't fight. Didn't scratch. Didn't Meow. Just waited to be put down, then took off to find a good hiding place under a bed.

She resisted a name. We tried out lots of names. None of them ever fit. She became simply La Chatte over time as our ability to figure out her personality increased. It suited her. La Chatte. The Cat. Our Cat? I think not. She lived with us, but was not a lovey dovey lap cat. She would tolerate some rubbing, some under the chin scratching, but too much and she would stalk away, looking for a quieter room.

The shaves, oh God how she hated the winter shaves....but winter time in Montreal is hard on a cat and a long haired cat who mats makes it doubly hard. Her fur, when wet, would dread up into clumps and spread like wildfire in her fur. This would leave her doubly irritable - hating to be touched where the mats were tied to her skin.

The indignity of the shaves was only second to the appearance of the rabbit. A Rabbit. In the House. In the Bed where she slept. A Lapin meal was booting her out of her rightful place as ruler of the Human Bed. What was a cat to do? Ignore it. Maybe lick the rabbit occasionally when she was sure no human was watching.

The man was her favorite. She was crazy about him. She slept on top of him when she could get away with it, and on his feet when he got wiggly. The woman - meh, shes Ok and cleans the winter litterbox and the child should be avoided at all costs...but the Man. That one was her beloved. Her chosen. They regarded each other from opposite ends of the couch.

Just as Spring comes to Montreal, just as the days grow longer and warm enough to be outside to watch the birds and bask in the sun....She gets sick. Suddenly. On a rainy Sunday, her people watch her...thinking that she is awfully quiet..but it IS rainy and she is a mysterious cat. By Monday, the man says something to the woman. There is something wrong, he says. The woman finds vomit next to the rabbit maze, and agrees. Something is wrong. To the Vets in the morning, the woman decrees, for she thinks that La Chatte has been eating things that maybe were no good, poisoned things or dead things. Things that show up in the spring when the snow melts.

La Chatte barely moves when the woman picks her up from her sleeping spot at the feet of the man in the morning. She is responsive...but slow and musters an elusive purr as the woman rubs her body over feeling for injuries and assessing her skin. She protests - weakly - as the woman puts her in the carrier. The rabbit, though, knows something. The rabbit begins to thump - over and over again. Staring at the cat.

At the vet, the woman opens the door and gives her rubs as she describes the symptoms. She tries to purr....but doesn't quite make it. Too much energy. She dies before the end of the day.

And breaks our hearts

Mommy's Dirty Little Secret

Its a more than a little embarrassing to admit this. I've never been too much of a fan girl in many respects. Sure - funky Asian Horror films, or translated Swedish Vampire stories - Who Doesn't like these?

No - This is somehow much worse.

Much ....dirtier.

Emily caught me about a week ago. ( and no - it wasn't the "adult toys" I move those around once a month to keep from ever having her pull one out and asking "WHATS THIS!" again)

"What are ya doin'", she asked.

"Hmm? what? Oh nothing - sit down and I'll brush your hair."

"Why are you watching that show?"

"Well I wasn't really watching it - it was just on."

"You were watching it. I just saw you. Watching it."

"Oh (nervous laugh) well, I don't know. I think that the guy there reminds me of someone I used to go out with."

"What? Which one? Did you go out with him?"

"Oh, no - honey. No. But he Looks an awful lot like the guy I used to date - even down to the little soul patch on his chin."

"Do you think he's cute?"

"Huh? Ummm." Long Pause "Actually - yes. I do. I find myself strangely attracted to him"

And in this way, my daughter outed my crush on Scott from the Imagination Movers.

Tweens, Teens and Social Cognition

(Firstly - thanks to Jennifer who made a comment on the Vygotsky post which made me think about this - and flesh out some of the whys and hows, at least the way I think - which, lets face it, is always some sort of magic carpet ride)

So. You've gotten my base view on Vygotsky and why I think the concept of self talk is important. You've also had a bit of the other theories of Lev - Scaffolding, Zone of Proximal Development... Jennifer asked a question about how this theory may expand to fit high school/teens.

Now really, my Partner-in-PhD-Angst Maija should write this part. Youth culture is her forte and I've been her TA/partner for two very good literature classes. So I am blatantly ripping off some of the ideas she and I have talked about as I cobble together this "response".

Would this work in high school? Would we see a decrease of cliques and bullying behavior if kids were kept in stable groupings - with the first priority being the fluidity of their social interactions? Honestly, I don't know. I also don't think you could plop kids who had been schooled in "traditional" ways into 9-12th grade multiage classrooms and expect this could work. The children for whom this would be beneficial would have to be "grown" with the program, insomuch as they would be socialized to perform in a group learning environment. Most schools now are so Individual achievement oriented that the children who are invested in those systems would be thrown for a huge loop of we took them out of that. I am, and not a shocker here, very much in favor of starting the reforms with our youngest children as these children and families are less resistant to change and the school socialization pattern is less deeply imprinted on their learning behaviors.

Last year, Maija started the Young Adult Lit course talking about the metaphor of Teen as Alien. It remains, I think, an apt description. In addition to increase Learning demands (oh my god - get good grades or you'll never get to university...)you've got the whole physical and emotional changes that are kicking in full delta force. They are HYPER aware of themselves socially....but not in an integrated way. By this I mean, we each have an internal image of ourselves. This sharpened into focus as we transitioned into young adulthood - but it isn't a full picture of who we are. By rights, it CAN'T be, as we don't possess the full prefrontal cortex ability to see beyond the immediate. Our Teen Hurts are Whole Body and Mind Hurts. This means that when adults around us discount our pain, our loves , our thoughts as "not real", it can be intensely insulting and dismissive.

The other thing that intrigued me was the discomfort that I saw in some of the YA Lit students (mostly student teachers) when asking them to authentically remember what it was like to be a Teen themselves. For many, that door was locked and there was no way in hell they were opening it up to be vulnerable again. They'd crossed the line into adult hood and defended that beachhead like it was the last safe haven on earth.

And that is the crux of it. Vulnerability. As teens - and later as teachers - we worry about being vulnerable, about showing vulnerability. We assume it is weakness and will be judged as such. Would these worries be the same for kids who had been in the type of "social cognition" first classrooms I imagine?

As the Mom of a "tween", I can attest that this negotiation of roles is a painful thing to watch. I want to protect her...but I know she knows lots of things already. I want to keep her from knowledge of the messiness of life with its sexuality and desire and anger and depression and feelings. I don't want her to know that I - ME, her Mother - am participating in all of those things I don't want her to know about.

So we hide these parts of ourselves to our children at home, or in the classroom, because they make us uneasy. So the circle perpetuates. We are babies. We are Children, not babies. We are Teens and not children. We are Not Teens, we are Adults.

We burn down each bridge we cross so no one else can use it and pretend like we were always here, right now.

It seems like there has to be a better way.

Teacher Thoughts

My brain is full of teacher things.

This is what happens when I am immersed in this reading and research. I revert back to teacher brain, which is not a bad thing - but it means that I am thinking, thinking, thinking - all the time, trying to integrate what I know, what I have seen, what I feel - and all the bits and pieces that don't fit anywhere else. It is why I know that Academia and Research are right for me, this constant whirring in my brain.

Here are random things that have emerged as this flood gate is barely controlled.

I hate lining up. I hate asking children to line up. What an asinine policy. I stopped asking kids to "get in line" about 12 years ago, because really - what was the point? All it did was cause fights between kids as to who was standing where and wasted my time as I waited for people to get into line. As long as we all got to where we were going safely, what the hell difference did it make what formation we took? Every time I see an adult yell at kids to get into a line - or yell at them that they are waiting for a better line, or a quieter line....It makes me want to smack the adult. This isn't how kids respect you - by asking them to do stupid, pointless shit that we all know is stupid and pointless.

Emily had a parent teacher conference last week. She had told Terrance and I that she has remained on her 3's multiplication tables for months because she hasn't gotten 100% three weeks in a row. What? What kind of policy is this?

Terrance is in "charge" of Emily's math homework , and we all know that she knows her multiplication tables. She can write you out her entire thought process and problem solving. She is, however, not FAST at this. She freezes up when she thinks she is under pressure. She sometimes needs manipulatives to help her work through her problem using her tactile senses. It is just who she is.


There we were. Sitting across from the Math teacher. Who was explaining that she wants the kids to be able to simply recite their math facts, so she gives them these timed tests. Which Em sucks at. So I finally asked "What is the pedagogical reason for these tests", to which she finally admitted that there wasn't one. Its just the way that math had been taught before she was there and she adopted the same methods.

Oh My Fucking Head. All this stress, all this worry - for nothing. Who gives a rats ass if my kid needs additional time to finish a test - or needs to write the problem DOWN on paper? This kind of ridiculous repetition of teaching methods that make no sense makes me CRAZY. The idea that we have to prepare kids for some future by inflicting them with pressurized testing is absurd. An educational mentor once said to me "We don't prepare for famine by starving ourselves, Dawn" in countering the argument that we needed to "prepare" our kindergartners for something other than the process oriented curriculum that we fostered at the center.

As we left the meeting and walked to the car, I leaned in and said "It doesn't matter - she's doing fine" to Terrance. He agreed. But really? Do we really need to do this to kids? To parents?

As I once answered a student teacher is a class when he wondered if a little embarrassment might not be good for a child - make them WANT to do better in front of their peers:

"Nobody performs better when they feel unsafe. If we know that children learn best in environments where they can trust the adults, have stable routines and expectations - why would we EVER do anything to a child which would teach them that the adult CAN'T be trusted?

Make your own captions ( and a written answer!)

As part of the Envisage 365 project, I take LOTS of pictures. I try to take pictures of everything - mundane, funny, interesting, or simply there when I need to take a picture.













5. No - it can never take the place of a parent/child dialog - as this is where we initially gain all of our cultural clues as to How to communicate to another person. Our very survival depends on being competent at communicating with that primary adult. Now, children in child care have to expand or change some of their coping skills in order to be able to communicate with new adults effectively. I don't think this gives an advantage or disadvantage to the child - it simply is what it is and children are really resilient.

Does is differ between girls and boys? Usually - yes. But not in a dramatic cognitive way - by that I mean that it will differ in content the same way that boys and girls solve problems, which does have some socialized gender based tendencies but rests - I think- more in base personality style. Some of this has to do with gender based differences in our brain development, which is another thing that we have no control over or about.

Officially, it isn't a two way dialogue. BUT ( and here is where the basis of my dissertation rests) - I think it IS a way to broadcast information to peers. Both Vygotsky AND Piaget said that it was only cognitive in nature, whereas I posit that it is also social - it HAS to be social. In fact I think it is the way that children assist each other in the difficult and long journey of learning to communicate with a wide variety of people. I think they drop this when they have gained enough skill as communicators and thinkers to be able to do it without this "scaffold" from one another. And Yes, they are documented to do this much, much more when they are with other people - children in particular. When they isolate in lab situations, children don't self talk nearly at all....which is another reason I think that it has an important social function.

Stealing is not cool

A long time ago, when the blog world was young, a girl had an idea for a blog.

The girl decided to sit down one Sunday afternoon and create this blog. She then sent out emails to her blog friends to say "Hey, get a load of this idea...". The blog friends seemed excited and supportive. The girl was pleased, for she enjoyed making others happy with her ideas.

As things like this tend to go, the internet decided that this idea had some kind of merit. That this blog seemed to touch some kind of general truth in the world. The girl was pleased. The girl was flattered. The girl was a bit overwhelmed.

Within four months, the blog had grown exponentially and the notice was growing too. People with important sounding titles called the girl and asked for her content. These people said they were fans of her blog and wanted to put it on a bigger, better known uber blog. The girl, while flattered and a little bit awed, held back. She didn't want to give away her baby and the person with the impressive title wanted her to give it away for free. When it became apparent that the girl and her blog weren't so impressed with the important name of the publication and title as to let someone else absorb her blog, the negotiations stopped and the offer was dropped. The girl saved all these emails detailing how the person was a fan of her blog.

The girl fell into one of her depressions and withdrew into herself. She fell out of touch with the bloggy world in many ways. The Blog(s) she created survived and thrived despite her own condition. She crawled out of her funk long enough to attend a party and meeting of other bloggers like her in the summer of her following year. She woke one morning to find that there was a door hanger on her hotel room. Promoting a Blog with a name very very similar - all but one word similar - to the name of her own blog. She was angry. She was confused and she was hurt.

She got onto the email and wrote a pointed email to the address listed on the door hanger. Within minutes there was a response. It was from the same person from the big name publication who had claimed to be such a fan merely eight months prior. Who further claimed in a print interview to thinking up the idea and name all on her own. Phone calls were made. Angry words exchanged. The girl asserted that her idea had clearly been stolen. The other person disagreed.
The girl hung up on her.

The girl then withdrew into the hotel room for the remainder of the meeting. She was very, very hurt. Old blog friends divided into camps - those who saw the girls point of view that her core idea had been lifted and duplicated and those who did not. The girl withdrew from the blog world even more.

The girl considered legal action. Considered it hard. But she lived in a different country ... and she just didn't have enough money to sustain it. She was back in school full time, after all.

The girl tried hard to keep her playgirl mouth shut. She tried very, very hard.And she did, for a long time. Her blog continued and grew. She continued to receive attention and kudos. She refused any further offers by any entity for any piece of her blog(s) - no matter who. She refused offers to turn her blog into television shows or movie scripts. She protected her blog(s).

She tried hard to forget about the other person and the patently derivative blog. Usually she succeeded. Until an old blog friend, one who had been at that party and seen the situation unfold, an old blog friend who had been unfailing in her support for the girl sent the girl an email announcing the launch of a book by the other person. The friend told the girl "I sent an email saying fuck you and the idea you stole and take me off of your fucking mailing list." Which made the girl smile. Because in any world, day to day or internet, a friend who does that on your behalf is priceless indeed.

And then the girl decided to write this all down as a cautionary tale for the internet. With a reminder that stealing is not cool. No matter how you try to pretend the idea is yours.

The girl still believes that the karma of the internet and larger world will sort this out. Naive perhaps, but the girl has to believe.