At this moment, I am experiencing nausea by emotion. Too many conflicting emotions, too many conflicting electrons and neutrons, so much withheld energy...
The result is:
A) An ulcer
B) A fucked-up nucleus
C) "Snap!"
D) All of the above -- Correct!
I am living within a cell, a world of extremes.
Voice my opinions confidently, free the emotional energy, and be degraded as ONE CRAZY BITCH = left side of the spectrum.
Hold in all opinions, stressors and static building, not talk at all, and live as a hermit = right side of the spectrum.
I am unable to find the neutrality. I have the inability to be modest, to be reserved, to only voice the opinions that will portray the "correct" image of "myself".
There are too many levels to the "ego". You tell me to trust myself more. How can one trust someone they don't even know and can't identify? You tell me I am a better person than I think. On one the recessive level of the ego, I know that I am an exceptional being. On the dominating level, I am doubtful.
So, how, I ask, is it so hard to understand the reason I am anxious? With such internal conflict, a cell cannot function. The future is worst at best. I can't make a living voicing such strong opinions. Example - Yesterday, I quit my job after realizing that gossip was what ran the company.
I can't depend on my husband and be bound to a house for the rest of my life.
But I refuse to fake my life.
So how will things be ok, like you say?
Where can I express myself freely without being penalized for my thoughts, philosophies, and opinions?
Politics? Too many scandals; nobody votes for the extreme liberal or conservative. They must be moderate.
Lawyering? I can't defend the guilty.
Journalism? Yes. I can express myself through strong written words for choosing eyes to read that I cannot for unwilling ears to hear through voice. I can delete words that come off too strongly that I cannot take back in conversation.
I have found my major. I have found my major!
Friday, March 26, 2010
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Education Vs. "The Real Stuff"
Skipping classes on gloriously sunny afternoons, brazen enough to simply walk off the campus. Hey, I was white, Caucasian , or “other” on the list and that was enough to be out of sight of the roaming go-carts driven by the hawk-eyed campus staff.
****
Chicken shit was not my game. Smoking the green and destructing brain cells to “broaden my senses” was a damn waste of living. Instead, I’d head off to the rich neighborhoods of town, park it, and stroll down the sidewalks looking to relate with any being encountered, be it strangers, rabbits, or squirrels.
****
I wasn’t going to miss a moment of this freedom of youth. A developing mind topped a developing bosom, and out to strut this stuff, I was bound. Class, who needed it? I had the real life at my fingertips catching soft petals from the falling apple blossoms and tangible visualizations of grandiose architecture.
****
Leisure was learning. Classrooms were prison. Why take fieldtrips as young children just to yearn for it in high school? This conspiracy was not to overcome my broadening senses. School is the institute of education, they’d say, but no further than the fences that surrounded this jail would one have to look to feel inspired and educated by our own damn resources. Resources of nature in terms of transcendentalism, resources of social interactions in terms of humanity and transaction. Resources that were enough to educate the students, who sat in their assigned seats and babbled away as the “teacher” talked of Hecate, the goddess of the crossroads, Descartes, the first philosopher to provide a framework of the philosophy of natural sciences, and the animal/ insect kingdom that frolicked closely nearby in the forests, beaches, and fields of our world.
****
Chicken shit was not my game. Smoking the green and destructing brain cells to “broaden my senses” was a damn waste of living. Instead, I’d head off to the rich neighborhoods of town, park it, and stroll down the sidewalks looking to relate with any being encountered, be it strangers, rabbits, or squirrels.
****
I wasn’t going to miss a moment of this freedom of youth. A developing mind topped a developing bosom, and out to strut this stuff, I was bound. Class, who needed it? I had the real life at my fingertips catching soft petals from the falling apple blossoms and tangible visualizations of grandiose architecture.
****
Leisure was learning. Classrooms were prison. Why take fieldtrips as young children just to yearn for it in high school? This conspiracy was not to overcome my broadening senses. School is the institute of education, they’d say, but no further than the fences that surrounded this jail would one have to look to feel inspired and educated by our own damn resources. Resources of nature in terms of transcendentalism, resources of social interactions in terms of humanity and transaction. Resources that were enough to educate the students, who sat in their assigned seats and babbled away as the “teacher” talked of Hecate, the goddess of the crossroads, Descartes, the first philosopher to provide a framework of the philosophy of natural sciences, and the animal/ insect kingdom that frolicked closely nearby in the forests, beaches, and fields of our world.
Sunday, March 21, 2010
New Vignette - Welcome to the Machine
I started work at the Family Dollar store a couple days ago in Ellsworth. It’s obviously not a job I wanted for the wages; in fact, it was to get some social experience, something suggested by my psychiatrist, which in reality, is my own suggestion.
I pay a psychiatrist twenty bucks per hour to hear her repeat back to me the things I’ve said. Oy.
So, I have this job now as a cashier, or in other words, a robot, an ATM. I had to be trained by a developmentally troubled girl named Jennifer. She acts like she sixteen, hyper and boy crazy, even though she’s twenty three in May and dating the fifty-one year old manager. I’m not supposed to know this because they could both lose their jobs, but apparently, I can be trusted in their opinions.
The job is a synch even for an agoraphobic like me. A usual transaction goes something like this:
“How are you today/ tonight?”
The customer mumbles something inaudibly, or when I can make it out, it’s always, “Exhausted” or “tired” or “long day”, emphasis on the ’long’.
Next, I slide Easter candy, discounted comforters, plastic fence decorations, or junk of that sort under the scanner, the laser light rarely recognizing the “SKU” number the first time. Several times already, I’ve held an item under the laser too long, it scans in two or three times. That’s when I push the intercom button and an assistant manager drags their feet out of the back room reluctantly and voids my mistakes.
The store smells like its made out of plastic as is everything it contains. Cheesy garden signs, tacky knick-knacks, and knock-offs of every brand of food fill the shelves in the store. Nobody would normally buy the stuff they do in this store, but its so damn inexpensive, they can’t resist having another deck of cards even though they already have four back home.
Once everything’s bagged and totaled, I count at the change and simply ask, “Do you want your receipt in the bag or in your hand?” Responded with another mumble, and I say, “Have a good day/ evening/ night.” Sometimes, I’m feeling cheery and replace the ’good’ with ’great’ or ’wonderful’.
They thank me for being their check-out machine and wander out the double doors, moving on with their lives, as I stand in that cage waiting for the next customer to mumble whether they’re ’fine’ or ’good’.
I pay a psychiatrist twenty bucks per hour to hear her repeat back to me the things I’ve said. Oy.
So, I have this job now as a cashier, or in other words, a robot, an ATM. I had to be trained by a developmentally troubled girl named Jennifer. She acts like she sixteen, hyper and boy crazy, even though she’s twenty three in May and dating the fifty-one year old manager. I’m not supposed to know this because they could both lose their jobs, but apparently, I can be trusted in their opinions.
The job is a synch even for an agoraphobic like me. A usual transaction goes something like this:
“How are you today/ tonight?”
The customer mumbles something inaudibly, or when I can make it out, it’s always, “Exhausted” or “tired” or “long day”, emphasis on the ’long’.
Next, I slide Easter candy, discounted comforters, plastic fence decorations, or junk of that sort under the scanner, the laser light rarely recognizing the “SKU” number the first time. Several times already, I’ve held an item under the laser too long, it scans in two or three times. That’s when I push the intercom button and an assistant manager drags their feet out of the back room reluctantly and voids my mistakes.
The store smells like its made out of plastic as is everything it contains. Cheesy garden signs, tacky knick-knacks, and knock-offs of every brand of food fill the shelves in the store. Nobody would normally buy the stuff they do in this store, but its so damn inexpensive, they can’t resist having another deck of cards even though they already have four back home.
Once everything’s bagged and totaled, I count at the change and simply ask, “Do you want your receipt in the bag or in your hand?” Responded with another mumble, and I say, “Have a good day/ evening/ night.” Sometimes, I’m feeling cheery and replace the ’good’ with ’great’ or ’wonderful’.
They thank me for being their check-out machine and wander out the double doors, moving on with their lives, as I stand in that cage waiting for the next customer to mumble whether they’re ’fine’ or ’good’.
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