R is for Relationships

r recycledSince this is the week dedicated to all things heart shaped (aka Valentine’s Day week), I thought I’d write a bit about my issues with relationships.

I am horrible at all kinds of relationships other than your superficial kinds. If you want to talk about stuff while at work, I’m your gal (or I would be if I was employed). I’ll talk about anything other than politics (and/or religion if you’re not able to be open-minded/respectful of others’ opinions). If you want to tell me all about your life, spill your secrets, discuss your sex life, whatever, I’m good to go. I’ve got a Bachelor’s degree in Psychology and may actually be able to give you some insight or help with whatever you’re going through. No problem. Just don’t expect me to tell you more than the superficial stuff about my own life.

Sure I’ll tell you a bit about my parents, brother, grandmother, and so on. I might tell you stories about growing up heart conversationpoor in a mostly affluent suburb or about taking care of my dying grandmother. I’ll tell you about the safe stuff in my life: career dreams, places I want to travel to or live. But I’ll never get to the meat of anything unless you divulge it first. And even then I’ll stay at the surface. For example: I’ll tell you that I suffered sexual abuse at the hands of a relative, but I won’t tell you who, what happened, or how it was resolved. I might tell you that I suffered guilt and shame over it, that I never told certain people about it, that I’m still somewhat angry about it, or that it took about thirty years for it to become a “minor” part of my life. But I’ll never tell you the details. You’ll never know that my shame isn’t that it happened, but that it hurt those who never knew about it.

In the past, when I’ve told people about some of this superficial stuff, they’ve told me that I’m “open” and that they feel close to me. I nod and thank them for their thoughts but inside I know that it’s just a sham. I know that I’m incapable of real relationships.

How do I know this? Because, to me, when it comes right down to it, real relationships are those that survive outside of the boundaries of the structures of modern life.

Two years ago I worked at a job with a woman who was having trouble in her marriage. She told me about some of her struggles with a previous marriage where her husband was abusive, verbally and sexually. She said that her past made her hesitant to trust her current husband. I divulged to her the superficial details of my own sexual abuse, correlated it to some stuff I learned in school, and gave her advice about talking to her current husband. She took my advice and said it helped. Later she told me that my openness helped her to realize certain things about her relationships. After I quit that job, I never saw or heard from that person again. To me, that was not a real relationship. Was it a worthwhile relationship? Sure, she got something out of it and I enjoyed helping her. But it was superficial. It was the only kind of relationship I am capable of. Other modern life structures that my relationships don’t survive past are school, apartment buildings, even online support groups. After I’m done with a class, graduated from college, moved from a building, left a group, those relationships don’t last. They’re gone. Like they never even happened.

I’m aware that some of those types of relationships are meant to fade away. My counselor tells me this and I read about them in school. But if those are the only kind of relationships I’m capable of, what does that say about me?

The other day I sat down and tried to think of who I’m always honest with (outside of psychiatrists, counselors, heart metaltherapists, etc). I counted seven people: my high school best friend, that friend’s parents, my brother and sister-in-law, a cousin, and a neighbor. Only one of those people is within walking distance of me. Two are in another state all together. And I only speak to one, my neighbor, on a regular basis.

Yes, all of them (and more) are Facebook friends and yes, I can text, email and/or speak to them by phone pretty much anytime. But I don’t. Even when I know I should. I’ll reach for the phone or keyboard and something will stop me. Something dark and ugly will rise inside me and I’ll put the phone or keyboard down.

Sometimes I think that dark and ugly thing is my mental illnesses (depression, anxiety, and/or the eating disorder). And sometimes I might be right because those things seem to clog up my brain and throat until I can’t communicate with anyone other than God.

But other times I think that dark and ugly thing is just me. My innards are so disgusting that I don’t want to expose them to the light, to my friends and family, to anyone with even a little bit of goodness in them. So I shove that ickyness deep down with food. I keep relationships superficial. I keep everyone away from my ugliness.

It’s safer.

Maybe for them.

But mostly for me.

I’ve accepted my inability to have real relationships with anyone other than those seven people. Mostly. Sometimes I surprise myself and make new friends. Like my neighbor, I’ve told her details about my sexual abuse, about my mental health issues, about my previous struggles with cleaning, and so forth. For some reason, I haven’t scared her away.

I think she may be Superwoman.

I know she’s extraordinary.

We’ll see if my relationship with her will last after one of us moves away. I don’t have much faith that it will last, but then again I also didn’t have much faith that I’d live past thirty either so it might. I hope it does. Because if it does, that means maybe I’m capable of a real relationship. One that lasts beyond the boundary of our building.

And then maybe, just maybe, I’ll be capable of having more of those relationships.

And then maybe, just maybe, I could date, have a romantic relationship, marry. I haven’t dated since high school (I’ll be 41 this year.)

Would you date, or marry, the circus-lady fat gal?

Maybe.

Maybe not.

I’m not holding my breath. I’ll be satisfied with becoming capable of having real relationships. Down deep, I know I’m not meant for a romantic relationship. All that disgusting ugliness may be tolerable in friendships (superficial or not) but it would be impossible in a day-to-day-till-death-do-you-part relationship. After all, you can get away from a friend and wash off that gross scum. A romantic partner (in my case, a man) is required to live with it, carry a bit of it in their heart, meld it to their soul.

I couldn’t ask any man to do that.

Does that mean I don’t miss those types of intimate relationships? Not on your life. At one point, when my biological clock was ticking with the power of Big Ben, I thought the yearning, the loneliness, would kill me. I cried at the sight of a baby, leaned toward the TV when watching romantic comedies, sobbed myself into migraines.

Even now, years after my biological clock short-circuited, I still yearn for closeness. There are days, weeks even, when I just want someone to hold me. Someone to tell me it’s gonna be okay. Someone who would worry with me about bills, broken down cars, unemployment. Someone to hold my hand under the dining room table when my social anxiety kicks in. Someone to bring me an apple when I’m binging on chocolate. Someone to look me in the eye and tell me I’m important, worthy, loved.

I want that someone. But I don’t think he exists. At least not for me. I only know one man out there who is that kind of gentleman, who would have that kind of patience, that kind of acceptance, that kind of pure-heartedness. He’s my high school best friend’s father and currently married to her mother. They have a son, but unfortunately he doesn’t take after his father. I doubt very much there’s another guy out there like him.

So I’m assuming I’m gonna live out the rest of my life alone. Slowly working on having real relationships but never having that ultimate relationship that makes life worth living.

It’ll be lonely.

It’ll suck.

But I’m used to that.

I’ll just have to content myself with a cat.

cat sofa

Happy Valentine’s Day to all who celebrate!

Blessings to all of you.

Be well.

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T is for Today vs. Yesterday (and Tomorrow)

t fancyToday was okay. Yesterday was bad (but not horrible. Horrible is when I think of death).

Today I only slept 10 hours. Yesterday I slept 18.

Today I gave myself a sponge bath (a shower was too much), got dressed, combed my hair. Yesterday I spent the day in my nightgown, unwashed, uncombed.

Today I ate something of nutritional value. Yesterday I binged.

Today I looked for a job and organized my craft supplies. Yesterday I spent the day in bed.

Today I can write. Yesterday I could not.

Today my brain is clear and my thoughts move quickly. Yesterday my brain was full of gross, green pond scum. My thoughts got stuck, dug trenches, grew poisonous roots.

If this is your picture, please let me know so I can give you credit.

If this is your picture, please let me know so I can give you credit.

Today I challenged my negative thoughts and attempted to reframe them. Yesterday I fell into the negativity abyss.

Today I can smile (but not grin). If someone calls, I can fake normalcy. Yesterday I could not speak.

Today I can feel. If it is funny, I can laugh (but not giggle). If it is sad, I can cry. Yesterday I was numb.

Today I can dream, I can plan (but not do), I can think. Yesterday I had nightmares, sludged through the day, could not think.

Today I have hope. Hope that tomorrow will be better. Perhaps tomorrow I will have enough energy to shower, to go for a walk, to be productive. Maybe tomorrow will be a day when I can grin and giggle, laugh and cry, dance and see the beauty of the world.

Tomorrow will probably not be great. Great is too much to ask for. Great days are days of belly laughs and happy tears, children and cats, blue skies and warm sunshine, unsolicited hugs and gentle kisses. Great days have boundless energy, completed projects, gainful employment. Great days are out of my reach.

Today I have hope that tomorrow will be good, not great but good. Because today was better than yesterday.

***

This post is a part my pledge of commitment to the Blog for Mental Health 2014 Project. Please click here for more information about this pledge.

 blog for mental health 2014

Blessings to you all.

Be well.

W is for Writing

letters-alphabet-cursive-wAs promised, a post on writing…

I don’t remember when I started wanting to become a writer (of fiction). I do remember when I learned to read. I was in first grade and my teacher was having each person read a bit from our textbooks. I remember finishing my section, looking up, and realizing that I had read it. With no help. All by myself. A rush of joy went through me and I thought, “I can read!” It was one of the few times of pure realization and happiness I can remember.

Somewhere between then and third grade I decided that becoming a writer was the coolest thing ever. In third grade my teacher set up these stations for independent work. My favorite station was story writing. All of my stories began with “once upon a time” and were about a “young girl” who overcame various challenges with courage and aplomb. Obviously all of my stories were fantasies about what I wanted my life to become, but I loved it nonetheless.??????????????

In fourth grade I entered our school system’s “Young Author” contest. I made it to the top three authors in my school and my story was submitted to the state contest. Another student in my school won, but I held the realization that I came close (I was in the top ten statewide) close to my heart.

Between fourth grade and high school, I played around with fiction, never really doing much but keeping my dream close. I never told anyone other than my best friend of my dream. Of course, at that time we alternating between being actresses, dancers, singers, and various other professions so I don’t think she ever took my ambition seriously. I was afraid to tell anyone else for fear that I would be mocked the same way I was when I said I wanted to be President of the United States (“you can’t do that! Only boys can be President”).

Then in high school, I did something quite stupid. I wrote a scene depicting me in the middle of a food binge then gave it to a friend for criticism. She tore it apart, pointing out everything from spelling mistakes to logic errors. Ultimately she said “it doesn’t seem real.” But it had been real, it had been me. My dream shriveled up and hid deep inside me, light deprived for years.

In my twenties and early thirties, I would occasionally drag out this dream of writing fiction, shake it out, and let it

It was just the pen, the paper, and me. Terrifying.

It was just the pen, the paper, and me. Terrifying.

soak up the sun for a bit. I’d take a workshop here, a class there. I read writing magazines and books. Open a word processing program or pull out a notebook and stare at the black screen/page. But I was always paralyzed by the fear that I’d not be able to do it right. That whatever I wrote wouldn’t “seem real.” So I’d back away, tuck my dream away, and try to content myself with my life.

Then, in my early thirties, I took a fiction writing class that gave me hope. It was taught by a man who had actually been published (not a best-seller or anything, but a book that a real publisher had bought). I had to take an upper level writing class to get my Associates degree, and this was the only class that appealed to me. So I tried, fighting my fear every step of the way. I forced myself to write at a higher level then I’d ever written before. And I succeeded. In one of my final evaluations my teacher said that I wrote better than he did. Better than a published author! I held that evaluation in my heart for years before I wrote another word.

Flash forward to 2010, many things had changed in my life. I’d survived years of suicidal depression, buried my mother and beloved grandmother, and finally decided that I could no longer put off my lifelong goal of getting my bachelor’s degree. My first semester back at a four-year university I decided to take a fiction writing class and be open to whatever came my way. The class was a revelation. I adored it. I loved the writing exercises, the students, even the deadlines. And, most importantly, I felt joy. Despite the hardships of my life at the time (financial difficulties, physical illnesses, etc), I was filled with hope. I was working toward one goal (bachelor’s degree) and doing something I loved (writing). I even got a short story published in my college literary magazine.

Since then I’ve taken another fiction class, where I also did well. I even considered attempting to get a Masters of Fine Arts in Fiction Writing, but then I got sick (hospitalized for suicidal ideation). My dream still lives within me, nurtured by the realization that my university teachers believed I could be published and/or get into a Masters program. My dream has lost most of its wrinkles and gets regular doses of sunlight.

But I don’t do as much to nurture it as I could. The fear of success and the fear of failure sometimes paralyze me. I try to remember that I’m allowed to write a “shitty first draft” (to quote Anne Lamott). I try to remember that I don’t have to be perfect, but I’m not always successful.

Regardless of my fears though, I plan to continue to work my way into being published. After all, I don’t want to write the “Great American Novel.” That novel has already been written, multiple times (see Twain, Melville, Hawthorne, Fitzgerald, Hemingway, Salinger, Toni Morrison, etc). I just want to write a novel that a hardworking person can get lost in for a few hours. A novel that lets a reader forget for a time their own troubles. I want to give a reader the same experience I get when I read.

And I will do it. I must. Writing is my passion and I can no longer ignore it.

Is this your pic? If so, please contact me so I can give you credit.

Is this your pic? If so, please contact me so I can give you credit.

Blessings to you all.

Be well.

M is for Mental Health

m recycledI promised myself that my next blog post wasn’t going to be another musing on the mental health merry-go-round, but I read this & discovered that there was a Blog for Mental Health 2014 project. If you’ve been following my posts, then you’re well aware that I’ve got a mental health condition, more than one in fact. So I thought I’d join in on the project. Here’s my pledge:

“I pledge my commitment to the Blog for Mental Health 2014 Project. I will blog about mental health topics not only for myself, but for others. By displaying this badge, I show my pride, dedication, and acceptance for mental health. I use this to promote mental health education in the struggle to erase stigma.” (Tallulah “Lulu” Stark, founder of Blog for Mental Health 2014)

Frankly this is a big step for me, as I never thought I’d be one of those bloggers who joined any kind of blogging projects &/or blog-link-along kinda thing. But mental health is a huge thing for me, so here I am. You can read more about the project here.blog for mental health 2014

To bring any new readers up to date, I have “Reoccurring Major Depressive Disorder with Suicidal Ideation”, “Anxiety Disorder Not Otherwise Specified” (otherwise known as “she’s got it but we can’t give it a category”), and “Binge Eating Disorder.” If you want to learn all the dirty details about my hospitalizations click here, here, here, and here. If you want to read a post specifically about suicide, click here, or bingeing, click here. A bit about my family can be found here, here, and here. And other bits about my mental health can be found here, here, and here.

So here’s what’s new about the state of my mental health:

1. My counselor is leaving me. Well, not just me, she’s leaving the facility I go to. Unfortunately, it’s the only place in the area an unemployed, uninsured person can go to and still get help, so I can’t follow her to wherever she ends up going. To make it worse, it’s just as we were starting to get somewhere. My last session with her is this week. I’ve no idea why she waited this long to tell me, but I hate that I don’t have much time to adjust to it. She says she has to go because she’s got to “model” what she tells us to do. I’m not exactly sure what that means, and she can’t really tell me anything else because of the whole client-counselor separation thing. I’m guessing there’s something major going on in her life and she’s gotta take care of herself in order to take care of something/someone else.

crying baby

Nope this isn’t me.

As a full grown adult, I’m happy for her that she’s taking care of herself. As a messed up person, I AM PISSED OFF!! This is gonna be the third counselor (not counting the intake and crisis counselors) I’ve been assigned at this facility. This is also following a pattern that started a couple of years ago where just when I think I’m getting somewhere with a counselor or major issue in my life, that counselor or person who is helping me leaves. And I have to start all over.

Why? Why do I have to have these problems? I don’t get it and I’m sick of it. I’m sick of having to explain myself and my life over and over again to yet another person. Frankly, I just want to throw things. This leads to:

2. My depression seems to be getting worse. I think it’s because I’ve been missing some of my meds, or it could be because my unemployment was cut off (at least until congress re-authorizes Emergency Unemployment again). Or it could be because the weather sucks. Or it could be because I suck.

Wait, I’m not supposed to say that. Okay, time to use my CBT (Cognitive Behavioral Therapy) skills: “sucks” is a negative word so I’ve gotta replace it with something positive. Um… Let’s say “it could be because I’m currently in a difficult situation that anyone would have a hard time with.”

sleeping baby

Still not me.

Not nearly as fulfilling as saying “sucks.” Sigh.

In any case, I’ve been sleeping a lot. 18 hours last night, 12 the night before. And I’ve been spending money that I shouldn’t be spending on stuff I don’t really need (this is one of my ways of distracting myself). I’m still bingeing, but not any more than before my mood started dipping. Oh, yeah, it started dipping right around the holidays. Coincidence? I think not.

3. My anxiety level has gone up. This one is easy to address. It happened because a drunk guy wandered into my building and was creeping up the stairs next to my apartment. He turned out to be harmless, but it triggered all my safety anxieties. And it doesn’t help that one of the abuse incidents in my past happened right after someone crept up a flight of stairs right next to the room I was in. I’m doing all the CBT stuff that I’ve practiced about this and I can see it working. I’m thinking at least this’ll get better soon.

Coming up next week: probably a post about writing (cause I’m sick of staring at my navel).

Kittens. Just cause they're cute.

Kittens. Just cause they’re cute. And I
LOVE cats.

Blessings to you all.

Be well.

L is for a Letter to God

l smoke blueDear God:

Over the past few days over a foot of snow has fallen and the wind won’t stop blowing. Right now, it is thirteen below zero with a wind chill of forty below. I am sitting inside, warm, comfortable, with electricity, and an internet connection. And I’m going stir crazy.

I cannot stop thinking of all the things you have given me. Things that many people don’t have or have not been given. When I was homeless, a home was opened to me. When I was unable to control my suicidal impulses, I was admitted to a hospital. When I needed a friend, one was given to me. So many times you have pulled me back from a brink: homelessness, suicidality, illness. I have a college diploma, live in America where I don’t have to worry about genital mutilation or being stoned if I get raped, have plenty of food, electricity, clean water, and a safe place to live. But I don’t know what to do with these gifts.

For the past few weeks I’ve been fighting the undertow of depression. Instead of using the tools my counselors have given me, I’ve done what I’ve always done: binge, sleep, spend money I don’t have, and yell at myself.

I feel so unworthy of all I’ve been given. God, you sent my soul onto this earth in as perfect of a state as possible and all I do is mess things up. I’ve misused my opportunities, ignored possibilities, lived in fear, and allowed my soul to become black and ugly.

Why? Why am I still here? What do you need me to do that I haven’t done already? How do I do whatever I’m supposed to do if I can’t identify it? How do I do it when I’m often too paralyzed to do even the simple things like brush my teeth, shower, cry?

I often think of an instance in my childhood where I felt your presence so completely. I woke up in the middle of the night for no reason that I can remember and opened my eyes to find that you had flooded my room with moonlight. Beautiful silvery moonlight poured through my window and hugged me. Somehow I just knew that it was you who was causing it to happen and you were telling me that you loved me.

So often God you have given me these little signs. A song played on the radio with lyrics that seem to speak directly to me. A flickering candle where there is no draft. Warmth when I should feel cold. Little signs that speak to me and tell me that you care.

I love those signs but I don’t know what to do with them. How can you care for me, love me, when I’ve misused my life? So often I think that the world would be better without me, that I’m worth less than the smallest insect.

When I was in high school, I was in the musical Godspell and had a small solo in a song called “You are the Light of the World.” In my mind, I’ve replaced those lyrics with “I am the scum of the earth.” I try not to sing these lyrics but sometimes I can’t help it. I believe that I am that green, gross, disgusting stuff that you pull out from sink traps and moldy insulation.

Logically, I know you would not bless me with all the things I have if I were so awful. I know it in my brain, but I cannot seem to feel it in my heart. And I know, God that I cannot move on in my life until I do. But I also think that I cannot move on, cannot feel worthy, cannot do what I’m supposed to do until you answer my questions:

Why am I always so scared?

Why can’t I motivate myself?

Why does food do more for me than interaction with people?

Why can’t I be content with what I do have?

Why can’t I open myself up?

Why can’t I accept love?

Why am I still alive?

Why does it hurt so much?

Why, please God, please tell me, why?

Sincerely,

Bonnie.

 

Blessings to all of you.

Be well.

R is for Random Questions

r2Hello Readers! I’m gonna do something different in this post. I know it’s the end of the year and I’m probably supposed to be writing a post evaluating my last year and promising to keep resolutions, but I just don’t feel like writing about those things. So I’m just gonna answer a bunch of “getting to know you” kinda questions. Some are questions people ask on forums, some are questions I just thought of, and some are from that interview show called Inside the Actor’s Studio. Here goes:

 

1. What one thing could you not do as a child that you can do now?

I can drive a car. My family was very traditional and skills/chores were divided by gender. My brother mowed the lawn and got taught how to drive at an early age. I did the dishes and was expected to be a passenger. Now I can drive a car and I mostly enjoy it. Except when I have to drive in a major city; too many people drive like maniacs there.

2. Do you have a motto?

Other than “breathe”, not really. Sometimes I repeat after Dory in Finding Nemo and say “just keep

Image from disney.com

Image from disney.com

swimming, just keep swimming” but that’s usually when I’m frustrated with myself.

3. Favorite ice cream flavor?

Chocolate, of course.

4. Where would you like to travel and why?

I’d like to travel to every state in the US, just to say I’ve done it. I’d like to go to every country in Great Britain, because that’s my heritage and because I’m fascinated by its history. Finally, I’d like to go the Vatican and the Holy Land, because I’m Catholic!

5. Ever met a famous person?

Nope.

6. Favorite color(s)?

Purple and blue. Sometimes green.

7. What’s the weather like outside right now?

It’s winter and we just had a day of above freezing temps followed by one of below freezing temps after a few weeks of snow, ice, and below zero temps. So all surfaces are an unpredictable combo of snow and ice (both visible and invisible) and the air is cold enough to see your breath.

8. When you were a kid, what did you want to do (as a job) when you grew up? If it changed, why did it?

I wanted to be (in order) President, a nurse, a teacher, an actress, a dancer, a writer, an interior decorator, a Mom. I changed my mind about being President when I was told that “girls don’t become President.” I decided not to become a nurse because I was sick of hospitals from having to be there with my Mom so much. I decided I wanted to become a teacher cause I couldn’t think of anything else to be when I was in grade school. I decided I wanted to be an actor/dancer/writer in grade school. I dropped dancer in high school when I found out that dancers were skinny and usually started doing it professionally, if they were female, by the time they were in their teens, so I was too far behind. I gave up acting when I got to college and realized that I’d always want to kill myself more than I wanted to have a career as a minor character (fat, depressed gals are rarely the stars of anything). The writing thing has stuck around. I wanted to be an interior decorator in high school then realized I had a hard time telling the difference between shades of peach. I wanted to be a Mom when my internal clock started ticking in my late twenties, it stopped ticking in my thirties.

9. Sports?

No thanks. I do like watching figure skating though. And dog agility competitions, if I can ever find one to watch.

10. Last movie you watched?

Image from Wikipedia

Image from Wikipedia

Bourne Identity. Matt Damon is my movie boyfriend.

11. What book(s) are you reading?

I’ve got two going on right now: The Holy Land: an Armchair Pilgrimage by Fr. Mitch Pacwa and And the Miss Ran Away with the Rake by Elizabeth Boyle. Usually I have three, one spiritual, one Romance, and one self-help or improving. I’m taking a self-help/improving break right now cause of the holidays.

12. If you had $5 million to spend in 5 days, but with the clause that you could not spend any of it on yourself or your family, what would you do with it?

Probably divide it into equal amounts and give it to various charities: animals in general, a cat rescue, mental health in general, depression research, the homeless, medical research, literacy, a couple of scholarship charities, international disaster relief, my local church, my local public library, my local mental health facility, and a couple of local food pantries.

13. If you had $5 million to spend, but with the clause that you could only spend it on yourself or your family, no saving it, what would you do with it?

I’d split $1 million in cash between various members of the family (my brother/sister-in-law, my nieces, an aunt and a cousin) for them to use however they wanted. Then with the remainder I’d pay off my brother’s house, buy myself a house, furnish said house, buy as many books as possible, then take a trip around the US and the world.

14. Were you named after anyone?

My parents decided that my Mom could name my brother and my Dad could name me. My Dad had a friend named Bonnie and always liked the name so that became my first name. My Dad’s family has a tradition where middle names are family names, so my middle name is my great-grandmother’s first name and an aunt’s middle name.

15. Do you still have your tonsils?

Yes.

16. Red or pink?

Pink, I hate red, but not baby-pink. I’m a woman, not a child.

17. Glasses or contacts?

Glasses. If God had intended we put things in our eyes our impulse to blink would be less pronounced.

18. What color is your car?

Red, but only because it was the only car in the model I wanted available in my area. Yes, I get the irony.

19. Hobbies, besides blogging?

Sleeping, eating, reading, crafts. I made a couple of ornaments for Christmas gifts this year.

20. Even or uneven?

Even. I hate it when things are crooked, even if it’s meant to be that way artistically.

Image from bravotv.com

Image from bravotv.com

And now, the Inside the Actor’s Studio questions:

1. What is your favorite word?

Peace.

2. What is your least favorite word?

Terminate. As in “we terminated the employee.” Really? You killed the employee?

3. What turns you on creatively, spiritually or emotionally?

Possibilities. I like to imagine what would happen if someone had made a different decision.

4. What turns you off?

Inflexibility and rudeness.

5. What is your favorite curse word?

Sh*t. Because when people use it, it usually means exactly that.

6. What sound or noise do you love?

That inhalation that people make when they’ve experienced wonder.

7. What sound or noise do you hate?

Engines, especially lawn mower and leaf-blower engines.

8. What profession other than your own would you like to attempt?

This would be a better question if I had a profession. Umm, let’s assume right now my profession is something in customer service. I’d like to try, just once, to be a tour guide in one of those living history museums. Just to say I did.

9. What profession would you not like to do?

Anything to do with garbage, picking it up, throwing it out, moving it around, etc. It’s just gross dealing with smelly stuff.

10. If Heaven exists, what would you like to hear God say when you arrive at the Pearly Gates?

I love you! and Great job!

new years

Happy New Year to all who celebrate!

Blessings to all of you.

Be well.

M is for Merry Christmas!

m xmas hollyFor those of my readers who celebrate (in any form): Merry Christmas!!

For those who are Christian (any denomination): Please join me in wishing our Savior a Joyous Birthday!! Also, we thank St. Mary and St. Joseph for being our Lord’s parents.

nativity birth

Image courtesy of New Line Cinema

For those who don’t celebrate and/or aren’t Christian: I hope you are having a wonderful December.

Blessings to all of you.

Be well.