Damn, I’m so stupid. I’m reading this book called False Memory by Dean Koontz (since when did he drop the “R”, by the way? I distinctly remember there being an R in between Dean and Koontz.) Without giving away too much, the people in the book are getting their heads fucked with. I read it before going to sleep, and dreamt that They (you know, that undefined They that’s always after you in dreams, or maybe just in my dreams) were coming to get me and DO stuff to me, and to conceal that I knew what They were up to, I had to hide the book so They wouldn’t know I’ve been reading about what They were doing to people. I found the book shoved in under the mattress this morning. But my glasses are fucking GONE. I guess I must have decided to hide them, so They wouldn’t know I’ve been reading at all. I’ve searched everywhere in the bedroom, and they’re just not there. And everything is BLURRY. Argh. I’m going to have such a bad headache before I find them.

We’ve been clicker training SillyDog, which seems to be a pretty good way of training him. Yesterday Boyfriend found him trying to bury something in a pile of laundry, looking extremely guilty. Turns out SillyDog had found one of the clicker-thingys, and tried to hide it from us. I assume he’s connected the clicker-thingy to treats, and decided that he should be the one in control of the Magic Treat Clicker-Thingy.

Here’s a free interpretation of what might have gone through SillyDog’s silly little head:



When I was 12 or so, I  vowed never to fight with my parents the way I’d heard teenagers did. This vow didn’t last very long, naturally, and I’m not really sure why or how it started, but we started fighting. And how we fought. I think it started off pretty innocently, with just the frequency of quarrels going up. After a while mom and I could hardly be in the same room without having vicious scream-fests. Dad was rarely involved in the actual fighting, since he hates when people fight. Sometimes mom would go and have a talk with him about me after fights, and he’d always, unquestioningly, take her side. The fighting in itself was pretty bad, but what was worse was that we never talked things over afterwards. Mom, or dad, depending on the extent of the fight, would come and say “We’re not fighting anymore, okay”, and if I didn’t say I was sorry there’d be another day of terse conversations and uneasiness. I can’t ever remember talking things through with less heated feelings. Leaving the problems unsolved like this made the fights pile on top of each other, so that each fight was merely a continuation of the previous one, turning the periods of time in between into tense cold wars that could turn into full-blown nuclear warfare at any time.

My parents didn’t trust me at the time, either. Except for the fights, I was a goody two-shoes who did her homework, always went to school, never stayed out late on school nights (well… I didn’t have any friends to stay out late with for a while, but that’s beside the point). I didn’t even taste alcohol until the fighting was a regular occurrence. I didn’t smoke when the fighting started, and I didn’t touch drugs (and still don’t). Despite all this my parents were convinced that the only explanation for my behaviour was that I was high. They tried to make me tell them about the drugs I did, and every time I was late home mom would sniff my breath. I think she once even looked at my arms for needle marks. I was 15 and didn’t even know anyone using anything else than tobacco, alcohol and sometimes weed. Being constantly distrusted is a great incentive to start doing a lot of things you’re not supposed to. I figured, what the hell, they think I’m doing this anyway, I might as well start. Around the same time I started hanging out with a group of girls who were not the best company for anyone. At 15, I started drinking, smoking and making out with strange, older boys at parties were we flirted and wore revealing tops to score booze. It’s a fucking miracle I wasn’t raped then, or got robbed, or got otherwise exploited.

Sometimes during the fights, I’d have out-of-body experiences. I’d see myself kinda from the side, hearing me yell and cuss and rant, unable to do anything to stop it. I was so angry my anger took on a life of its own, completely controlling me. I could only watch what it’d make me do, and hope it would subside eventually. One incident I remember especially, was when we had a huge fucking row in the upstairs hallway. I can’t remember what it was about, but I remember seeing myself from outside my body, angry tears running down my face, arms gesticulating wildly, my voice almost cracking as I bellowed obscenities at my parents. I remember thinking, What the fuck am I doing? I felt backed into a corner, and fought like a trapped animal. Once when we started fighting while I was cutting bread, I almost stabbed my dad. The impulse was so strong I nearly did it, but instead I put the knife down and walked away. That still is, to this day, one of the scariest moments in my life.

One morning when mom and I had had another run-of-the-mill-fight the previous evening, dad came and wanted to talk to me while I was having breakfast. Mom came too, and stood behind him. I don’t think I’ve ever seen my dad so angry before. He explained what mom had told him I’d done, and warned me to never do it again. Problem was, mom’s version of events when we fought always greatly differed from mine. And my version never counted for anything. I’m not saying he should have listened to me without questions, but the way my version of the happenings always was forcibly ignored made me question if what I thought I had experienced really had happened. This time, I started to explain, but he cut me off, saying he didn’t want to hear my lies, and that all I ever did was lie.

It was like he struck me in my face. I knew mom’s and my versions differed, but I never knowingly lied about what I’d done. I started crying, trying to tell him that it wasn’t like that, I wasn’t lying. I looked at mom to back me up, to somehow dampen his anger. She looked me in the eye and said he’s right, you need to stop lying about our fights. I’ve never felt so alone in my life. I was pretty sure things had not gone down the way mom said. I knew I hadn’t dreamed my version of it. But standing there, with my parents telling me all I thought I’d seen happen hadn’t happened made me doubt my perception of the events. Maybe they were right? They seem to think so, I thought. It felt like balancing on the edge of a bottomless pit, like maybe the entire world, all I thought I knew, wasn’t like I thought it was. It felt like the walls billowed around me, the room shrank, all there was was me on the chair, not knowing what was true and what was false. The realization that my word was worth nothing horrified me. It still does, to this day.

I think the constant questioning of what I had seen had really happened or not that I had to do during those years still is haunting me. It landed me in a abusive (psychologically, not physically) relationship with a controlling SOB for three years (more on that another day). It still, eight years later, makes me question if I really share the same reality as others when I strange things happen. I’m still not sure if the things I perceive is real or not.

I still spend time with my parents. I like them. I just don’t like our history together, or the fact that these things were never discussed. I think my mom sometimes blame herself for me being mentally unsound now, and I don’t have the heart to tell her that I think those years contributed to how I feel today. This is a lonely place to be.

I got a letter from my doctor the other day, that basically said I didn’t have to go to group therapy anymore. I didn’t know I had to get her permission not to go, since it’s voluntary and all, but I guess I should be glad I don’t have to go there again. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with group therapy per se, it’s just that this particular group was… ugh. I’ve never seen such a mis-matched group of freaks in my life. Naturally, I’m not really allowed to talk about anyone in that group, but some sweeping generalisations of what might have happened can’t hurt anyone, right?

See, the thing is, I really don’t have any trouble with confiding in strangers. Actually, I prefer strangers to confide in; they don’t have any preconceived notions of what I’m going to say, and if I’m really lucky I never have to meet them again. And as long as I’m in a social setting where it doesn’t really matter what people think of me, I’m pretty open. So, theoretically, I’d be pretty good in a group therapy setting, confiding in equally crazy semi-strangers.

Only problem was, these crazy people we’re stuck with some sort of normalcy-complex. They refused to recognize that they were crazy. They stubbornly hung on to the notion that they could be normal if they only “tried a little harder”. Now, I don’t believe there is such a thing as absolute insanity, seeing as insanity in and of itself is heavily dependent on context, which lead to me going in to this group-thing with a somewhat… different point of view. I don’t think that these people were absolutely crazy, I think they (and I) are having a very reasonable reaction to a society that isn’t really fit for people, which makes us contextually, and perhaps relatively insane. So these would-be fellow crazy-people were, in fact, irritatingly normal, and trivialized the entire thing. They wanted to be assimilated, I wanted to find a way to cope with this shitty reality without changing who I am too much.

(Sidenote: Oooh! Data from Startrek in a completely different role on TV! And a midget!)

It’s not the easiest thing in the world to get psychiatric help here, unless you’re prepared to pay for it out of your own pocket. So these people, and I, who were weeded out to actually receive this sought-after psychiatric treatment, we really need it. There’s no place for moderately depressed people. You need to be in pretty bad shape to get any kind of counselling through the public health care system.

And that’s why I was thoroughly pissed off when they started to whine about utterly trivial things, like “I sometimes feel bad after drinking too much alcohol, which I did this weekend on my trip to [city far, far away]”, and “my boyfriend left me and it sucks”. Now, I don’t dispute the fact that these things can be very, very hard to deal with. The day-after-paranoia sucks, getting broken up with sucks, life, in general, can be pretty sucky. But I take offense when I hear someone talking about flying halfway around the world, and then whining about being hung over, when I can’t even get on the subway to visit friends on the other side of town. There’s a slight discrepancy of problems, there.

It’s not that I doubt that these people have genuine problems for which they, apparently, need psychiatric help. It’s just that when they waste their, and my, time with droning on about these god-damn BORING problems, I get pissy about it. If they’re in the group, they need to be there, and they probably have worse problems than they shared. I just don’t get why they even bother to go there if they’re not going to take it seriously. Srsly.

Oh, and also, there was the ganging up on, the fighting, and the fact that when I shared stuff like my ex controlling me and threatening to commit suicide if I left him, they all shut up and then changed subjects. It’s a very strange feeling to out-misfit the other misfits.

To be honest, it wasn’t like I didn’t participate in the fighting. There was this one guy in the group, who constantly spouted cliche’s, sounding like an inspirational poster, no matter what anyone said. I called him on it, and we got into a fight. The last time I went to a session, I spent the entire time trying to stare him down, amused by his squirming.

Anyway, my defection from the group therapy means I’m bumped down to the bottom of the waiting list again, and get to go without any kind of help until I get a new therapist assigned to me. It’s wonderful. I suppose I only have myself to blame, because if I only “tried a little harder”, I could be “normal”, too. 

I feel it’s time to leave the old, and start anew with a different blog. Posting at the old place was starting to feel stale and, well, old. Hardly anyone of my old friends still post there anymore, they too have changed to blogs. My first post there was in December 1999, and I guess that almost eight years will have to be enough. Enough I say!

 Anyway, I find the evolution of internets diaries amusing. In the beginning everyone had their own homepage, then moved to communities, and now we’re splitting up again, to personalized “blogs”. That damn word. I was around when it was still “internet diary”, and adult people scoffed at us for writing about personal stuff at “that internet”. Now they do it, too. I call bandwagon.

This, by the way, is the first time I try to keep up a blogthing in English since I was, oh say, 16. Let’s see how this goes.

That’s all. Hiya.