I warn you all right now... this is filled with so many tangents and so much disjointed rheteric, I wouldn't be surprised if I got a bunch of "What the hell was that all about" comments.

Enjoy

So it�s nearly three thirty in the morning and I�m sitting here at my desk, listening to Winamp and wondering if I�ll sleep tonight before work. I just had a shower and it felt really good to be under the hot spray for a long while.

Yesterday, Yes, I can call it yesterday being as how time-wise it�s now tomorrow, sort of, anyway, yesterday I was feeling rather... ill. But the way it works with me, always has, when I have the flu, if I can just purge the... nasties, then I start feeling better immediately.

but, I had purging. You know, expelling the contents of one�s stomach in a way which isn�t quite natural and doesn�t require the use of toilet paper. Oh yes, I know, you�re so eager to read my illness habits. *chuckles*

I�m not interested in purging like that for one simple fact, I have this internal fear that I will do it more. That I will get into the habit of purging for more than just being ill. I don�t know if I�ve just watched too many After School Specials or if I am just inventing yet another dragon to battle with my Don Quixote Magic Lance of Power (TM), which I got straight from the Acme company. You know, the same company Wile E Coyote always got his anvils, rockets and ropes from.

If they don�t work for him in a cartoon where you can run really fast over dead air and stay up for a few seconds, then how could an Acme product work correctly here in my own fantasy world, hmm? *chuckles*

Yeah, so, this is disjointed and strange, so sue me.

I found a diary out there that I really must comment on. I sent the author of this diary an Email stating that I was going to add her to my links and that I really identified with her, but I haven�t, as yet, received a reply.

This doesn�t surprise me, because, as I said, she reminds me so much of myself, and if she is, in any way, like me, that Email is sitting in her inbox far more patiently than I am. It�s sitting there and has been read, at least once, and she wants to reply, but can�t think of a thing to say cause it�s a little scary to have some old-chick think you�re a lot like her. And even scarier when you go read her diary and find out that... lo and behold, you ARE a lot a like. At least on the surface.

Anyway, I was extremely surprised to be reading her words and find that after two and a half hours, I�d gone through 30 or more entries and hadn�t lost interest even once. It surprised me that after reading so much of her, I could see myself. I could see the way I felt when I was 17/18 before Jonny happened in my life.

I could see so much of me. And one of the things I wanted to do was reach through this computer here and grab hold of her, stare into her eyes and beg her to never, never, never, never stop believing in the power of God. Beg her to never, never, never pretend she wasn�t important enough to say that she didn�t like something. Beg her to never, ever, ever, make the mistakes I made.

Damn, I just see so much... life, and truth and belief in this woman, this precious child of God who practically exudes generosity, kindness, honor, integrity and passion. She has this inner passion for life, and I�m sure that she has this... I don�t know... I just...

*sighs*

I�m obsessing. I�m reading her words and falling back on mistakes I made. And yet, she was raised differently than was I. Sort of. From what I�ve gathered so far, her Mom is not the woman who gave birth to her. Just like my Father is not the man who donated sperm to my genetic pool.

Damn, I just.... I see me. I see over a decade of pain, irritation and discomfort that never happened. I want, so much, to reach out and hold her and tell her that it�s okay to love. It�s okay to trust. It�s okay to believe in human kindness. It�s okay to tell her Mom when something doesn�t feel right.

But I can�t say those things. Why? Because she�s not me. Because she doesn�t have a �jonny� in her life. Because she is more confident than I was. Because she�s smarter than I was. And because she has a personal relationship with God NOW. She didn�t have to realize that there was a difference between believing in and on God, and being within the embrace of God.

That specific distinction is not made by God. It is made by humans.

I�ll steer away from that for the time being...

I just see her words and I have a hard time separating her words from my fantasy of what I would like my late teen years to have been. And I keep falling back on Jonny. I keep seeing him in my mind and asking myself why I never did just Tell. Why I practically dared Jonny to kiss me again after he promised my father that he wouldn�t touch me again unless I instigated it.

I spin off into wondering why I didn�t have the courage this woman seems to possess. I spin off into pondering what my specific damage was... why did I hold my tongue? Why did I just refuse to admit that I had the right to say �NO!�. Why did I slip into a pseudo drug so intense that even now I have trouble fighting off the addiction?

And no, I�m not talking about any natural/chemical drug. I�m talking about Power. Oh yes, Power. So raw, so complete, so.... powerful. (I really should get the Thesaurus software loaded soon)

Power. That�s why I dared Jonny to kiss me after he promised Dad. Power. Because I could make him dance to my tune by promising or denying a kiss. I could make him dance by allowing or stopping his roaming hands.

And then, when I was in so deep, when I had already been kissed and touched and tactile-ly explored, it was �too late�. The power still beckoned to me, calling to me, telling me that I could do, be, have anything I wanted. The power beckoned when the shame threatened to pull me under so deep I couldn�t even think let alone try to breathe.

I�ve been told that I should get rape counseling because the symptoms I have, are the same as someone who has been raped. And yet, he never even got my pants down, let alone got inside them. But if I�m to step back and look objectively (which is really what this diary is turning into), I would have to admit that yes, as much as I hate admitting that I didn�t really have as much power as I would like to believe, I was raped. Not physically, but emotionally and mentally.

It was the textbook abusive relationship. The cycle of abuse was so there. And why? Because the extremely fundamentalist church which taught me important and good things, things I absolutely value above most everything else in my life, also taught me some very, very bad things.

It�s called being indoctrinated. Brainwashed. Not maliciously, mind you, but though the intent, by the founder of this specific church was focused on informing, he was human. And, we, the congregants, were human (still are).

See, this is the way the church is... some of you who read this may not understand exactly what I mean because you�re not far enough through basic life development to �get it�, but I�m sure you�ll understand the gist.

Regardless (still can�t stomach �irregardless� but I�m coping), when you�re a young child, 2, 3 and four years old, you learn such lessons as, �Stove, hot! Don�t touch.�, �pencils are not chew toys�, �Do NOT run in the house�, �never carry scissors with the points up�, �do NOT go out into the street� and �Barbie will get cold if you don�t put her clothes back on right now!�

*smiles slightly, smirking*

Erm, anyway... When you�re 30, it�s okay to walk out into the street. Why? Because by 30, we�re pretty sure you understand the concept of fast car + oblivious pedestrian = smashed up pedestrian and as such can look both ways, understanding that if a car is coming, we will wait before crossing.

When you�re 30, it�s okay to touch the stove. You understand that the burner isn�t hot when it�s not on (unless you have some faulty wiring, and then you�re in deeper trouble than just �don�t touch�)

That�s not actually the comparison I meant to make, but it�ll work, I�ll get to the real comparison in a minute, just let me finish this one.

Anyway, like those little early childhood lessons in real life, there were some early religious childhood lessons we learned in this specific church which don�t really apply now. Or rather, which we are now old enough to understand more completely. For instance, when I was a little child, we had the rule which said no TV, no radio, no books on Sabbath. As we got older, that rule was explained more fully... The purpose of the Sabbath is to rest and recuperate, refueling your Spirit while honoring the day God set aside for His day of rest.

There are some people who can focus on God, refuel their Spirit and worship God while watching TV. There are some people, Me for instance, who can focus on someone else while music is playing in the background. My father, however, can not. My father gets distracted from whatever he�s doing with that confusion in the background.

TV is not evil. Radio is not evil. Books are not evil. But Dad was trying to teach us to put God first, specifically on His Sabbath. Dad just didn�t know another way to do it.

So, like Dad�s lesson of �no running in the house�, he just made a blanket statement. We were not actually conscious of extenuating circumstances. In the church, there were blanket statements made because religiously we were not aware of extenuating circumstances.

The church was very, very, very good in so many areas. I learned and built a solid foundation in the Law and in the Old Testament as a whole. For many of the churches out there, they look upon the Old Testament as �an interesting myth� as I heard said recently. If that�s your gig, so be it. It�s not mine.

I suppose one of the things I�m saying here is that I do not, under any circumstances, regret my foundation in the church. I do not regret being a member. I do not, under any circumstances, regret what I learned.

And this is where I come to the point I had intended to make in the first place. *smirks*

(This is what you get for reading an entry I wrote at now 4 in the morning)

When we are young, we learn coping mechanisms which work for us. Some people learn that if they whine a lot, they�ll get their way. some people learn that if they speak plainly and clearly, they get what they want. Some learn to cry, some to hide, some to scream and throw a tantrum. There are many different behaviors which we learn at a young age.

We keep these coping mechanisms... (I know that�s not the exactly right phrase I want... methods of behavior? Modes of operation? behavior pattern? eh), for some people, until we�re very, very old.

The thing is, eventually, you�re going to have to admit that batting your eyelashes and smiling coyly is not going to garner the same result at 50 as it is at 8.

I�m sure you�ve seen plenty of examples of this, but the main point is that most people just go on with their lives, using the same modes of operation they learned in their young childhood, when they�re in their early 20s. It isn�t until (in many, many cases, not all) approximately mid to late 20s when a person realizes that what worked at 8 and 10 and 15, doesn�t work the same way. That�s when people realize perhaps they need to come up with a more mature form of dealing with daily life.

For instance, when I was a young child and scared, for whatever reason, I would go into my closet and hide. I would literally stay in there, back in the small part, in the dark and hide for hours on end. It was something which became virtually instinctual. It was an automatic response. And, as I went through my brief time in public school, whenever something happened that I didn�t like, I would find some way to hide, I would go out for recess and go play up in the trees, hiding from the other kids.

When I got to be about 12 or so and started riding my neighbor�s horse in the 4-H group, I would hide from those kids too. There were some I desperately wanted to socialize with, but I was a scaredy cat. Massively so. I would remain very quiet and get as small as I could and try to hide within myself.

When I got to be about 16 or so, I would remain very quiet and hide unless I was in a situation where I felt safe. I would stay by myself from very early on, because I �knew� I could trust me. But I couldn�t trust anyone else. I would find a way to hide whenever something came up that I didn�t think I could handle.

By the time I was probably 10, the pattern was so ingrained I didn�t understand that I was actually making a choice to hide. It was second nature to me. Someone makes a loud noise, hide. Someone acts threatening, hide. Someone shows that they�re not happy with you or something you did, hide.

It was a subconscious habit. And I didn�t recognize it until this past summer when I was looking at that house just a little north of here. Beautiful house, I wrote about it back when we found it. I had to have that house. I just felt this intense and visceral need to have that house. The feeling took me by surprise. A lot by surprise.

I thought, intently, about what I really needed that house for. Why did I feel such an intense, almost to the point of addiction, for that specific house. Did I really, really like the shape of it? No. It was nice, but not anything all that special. Did I really like the yard, nope, big yard but not fenced and very dry and sandy looking. Was there a fantastic kitchen? nope, rather tiny kitchen. That�s a definite negative to me. And still, I felt this outrageous need to have the house. I had to have it. My life depended on it.

And then I walked around the house again, downstairs to look at the basement, and under the front porch. And that�s when I realized what it was that I �needed� so much. That was the perfect hiding place. One would be safe from strangers, so they could play outside. It was covered thus one could play without getting wet. It was dark, but not pitch black, so one could see the things outside more clearly than anyone outside could see in. (you could peek through the small spaces between the boards/siding which made up the �skirt�)

Like what happened when I read this woman�s diary, when I looked at that hidden, secret place - no one could see you from any part of the house unless they were in that secret place with you - I sort of emotionally flashed back to a place which was safe. It reminded me of my closet when I was a child. It was protected, safe, dry, warm, big enough to play in, but most of all, it wasn�t immediately easily accessible for adults.

The child in me needed that house because there was a safe place for her.

So, from that experience I realized that there were some seeds planted so deeply in my psyche that I didn�t know they were there, but I was making life decisions based on those seeds. I realized from looking at that house and finally figuring out �why� I needed it, that it was time for me to re-evaluate who and what I really was and start making adult decisions and finding new coping mechanisms which worked correctly.

What do I need in a house NOW? Big kitchen, huge bathroom with a huge-mongus Jacuzzi tub, decent parking, enough room for my stuff and my husband�s stuff when I get married again. A mortgage payment I can afford, a nice garage with a shop on one side for my myriad projects. A huge office room where I can set up my computer and other electronic gear. A closet large enough to hang my clothes in, and then, hangers.

I need a huge stereo system, perhaps house wide. *grins like Homer Simpson when he�s saying �Mmmmm, beer.�* Room for a home theater system. And most importantly, a music studio with a K. Kawaii grand piano, mixing board, mics, recording equipment et al.

I don�t need a closet to hide in. I don�t need a tiny space to get lost in. I don�t need to have a corner to escape into.

To go with the seeds planted analogy:

You have a garden which you like the idea of, but you haven�t really spent a whole lot of time examining too closely. You have the flowers you like over here and the veggies over there and the fruit over there. In your garden, there is a brick pathway laid and it looks elegant and perfect and it works to get from one point to another.

Fast forward about 15 years, the garden still looks pretty good, but a few places are overgrown and you�re only concentrating on one real spot. The trees in your garden have grown quite a bit bigger but you haven�t noticed because, well, you were busy watering your flowers and weeding between the flowers.

But one day, you�re walking back from the flowers and suddenly you stumble over a raised brick. You realize that the brick is raised because there�s a tree growing 5 feet away and the root has grown and risen toward the surface, causing your bricks to buckle. You can either ignore it, lay a new brick path circumnavigating the root, you can cut down the tree, hopefully getting the stump out, or, you can plan a new layout for your garden.

Well, realizing that I needed a place to hide was stumbling over the brick. Since this summer, I have run many different plans, evaluating removing the tree. Perhaps just cutting off and digging out that one root. Perhaps moving the path, maybe planning a whole new garden, maybe leaving it alone completely...

That�s what happens when you grow up. Most people find those roots popping up all over the place and then they have to figure out if they want to keep the tree, or find another way to deal with the problem.

In that vein, there are many, many things (many flowers, veggies, trees, fruits) which I want to keep, so just throwing away the whole garden isn�t worth it to me. There are many, many things I want to keep which I learned from the church, therefore complaining about the church and throwing away the information I received through it as a whole is not an option to me. I don�t want to scrap the whole garden. I don�t want to scrap the whole church.

I don�t go to services regularly. I don�t go into my garden regularly. But, I admire what I get out of it. And, I know that if the church had never been a part of my life, I would have been in a hell of a lot worse position now than I am. I know how to tend a garden. I know how to water the plant and how to weed and I know how to design a garden a little better than I did before I stubbed my toe on the bricks.

Does that make any sense to you? I know that it�s extremely.... weird, but hell, it�s now 5 am. Be nice to me.

Anyway... So, in life, there are things that you learn as a child, ways of dealing with life, lessons... which don�t necessarily work so well when you�re an adult. There are some lessons which work your whole life through. For me, the primary of those is that God is real and true in my life. He might not be real and true in your life. That�s your garden. Not mine. I have no right to tend your garden, nor to even tell you how to tend your garden.

But, you can watch how I tend mine and if you like what you see, you can try some of the things I do. You can ask me for specific tips. Most of the time (in regard to religion) I�ll try to keep my prattling to a minimum. But, because I�m me, I�ll often go overboard with suggestions, stopping myself only after I see your dead stare. (not as in you died, but as in you were through with the conversation a year before I was.)

So, how does all of this tie in with reading that woman�s diary?

I read her and I see a garden which looks a lot like mine. It�s not mine and hers is younger and fresher and she�s there more often than I am in mine. But, she has a different plan for her garden, and though I am caught up in her... beauty, I have to remind myself that she is NOT me. That she is NOT going to have the same problems I had. That she has a lot more knowledge than I did when I was her age.

I still admire her very much. I think she�s a wonderful, courageous and wise young woman. I think she has a power of conviction which is very rare in this day and age. And I want to watch her garden grow. I want to watch how she tends her garden, and try some of her tricks in my own. *chuckles*

We like a lot of the same flowers and veggies. But, I�m pretty sure she would actually enjoy having avacrapos in her garden. *smirks*

She is from California and those Californian�s don�t seem to understand the evil inherent in Avacrapos. But, if she likes em, more power to her. *chuckles*

Okay, so that�s wayyyyyyyy off the mark... tangent number what? 54 in this entry alone? Heh.

I wonder if anyone�s got a running tally of all my tangents. is there a record or something in D-land for the diary with the most bizarre train of thought? Or the most fatal, verbal train wreck? Heh.

A whole new meaning for the name The Fatal Tiger. *smirks*

Okay, that was cool, another bunch of tangents without even being conscious of it. Yes, I was supposed to be asleep long ago, I just didn�t do it.

And yes, I have to be awake for work in just under two hours. Will I sleep this morning? Yes, I might. It depends on how I feel after I make a little coffee for myself. But, of course, to make coffee, I�d have to get up off my ass and go into the kitchen. Which, as small as it is, is still bigger than the kitchen in the house I just had to have.

Okay, this is getting way too divergent. Eh... who cares.

I�m going to play a few games of freecell now and then I�ll post this and either grab a quick nap or go make coffee, one or the other.

Peace unto thy hearts and thank you for stumbling through this bizarrely verbose diary entry.

When I get the okay from this woman, I will link her diary from here. I actually expect some of you to comment on how similar we are.

Hell, I told Sympatico about her diary and asked him to read it, giving me his opinion. He agreed with me, saying that we were a lot a like. Heh.

Look out, honey, this is what you could turn into. *waggles her brows* And there are plenty of worse things you could become. Like.... erm... well... Uh... Oh yeah... a Lawyer. OR, an accountant. Wait, I�m doing accounting now... hrm.

Okay, I�m shutting up now. diarrhea of the mouth, very definitely.

Peace unto thy hearts, all.