by

Hans Christian Andersen

(1858)

N the forest, high up on the steep shore, and not far from the open seacoast, stood a very old oak-tree. It was just three hundred and sixty-five years old, but that long time was to the tree as the same number of days might be to us; we wake by day and sleep by night, and then we have our dreams. It is different with the tree; it is obliged to keep awake through three seasons of the year, and does not get any sleep till winter comes. Winter is its time for rest; its night after the long day of spring, summer, and autumn. On many a warm summer, the Ephemera, the flies that exist for only a day, had fluttered about the old oak, enjoyed life and felt happy and if, for a moment, one of the tiny creatures rested on one of his large fresh leaves, the tree would always say, “Poor little creature! your whole life consists only of a single day. How very short. It must be quite melancholy.”

“Melancholy! what do you mean?” the little creature would always reply. “Everything around me is so wonderfully bright and warm, and beautiful, that it makes me joyous.”

“But only for one day, and then it is all over.”

“Over!” repeated the fly; “what is the meaning of all over? Are you all over too?”

“No; I shall very likely live for thousands of your days, and my day is whole seasons long; indeed it is so long that you could never reckon it out.”

“No? then I don’t understand you. You may have thousands of my days, but I have thousands of moments in which I can be merry and happy. Does all the beauty of the world cease when you die?”

“No,” replied the tree; “it will certainly last much longer,— infinitely longer than I can even think of.” “Well, then,” said the little fly, “we have the same time to live; only we reckon differently.” And the little creature danced and floated in the air, rejoicing in her delicate wings of gauze and velvet, rejoicing in the balmy breezes, laden with the fragrance of clover-fields and wild roses, elder-blossoms and honeysuckle, from the garden hedges, wild thyme, primroses, and mint, and the scent of all these was so strong that the perfume almost intoxicated the little fly. The long and beautiful day had been so full of joy and sweet delights, that when the sun sank low it felt tired of all its happiness and enjoyment. Its wings could sustain it no longer, and gently and slowly it glided down upon the soft waving blades of grass, nodded its little head as well as it could nod, and slept peacefully and sweetly. The fly was dead.

“Poor little Ephemera!” said the oak; “what a terribly short life!” And so, on every summer day the dance was repeated, the same questions asked, and the same answers given. The same thing was continued through many generations of Ephemera; all of them felt equally merry and equally happy.

The oak remained awake through the morning of spring, the noon of summer, and the evening of autumn; its time of rest, its night drew nigh—winter was coming. Already the storms were singing, “Good-night, good-night.” Here fell a leaf and there fell a leaf. “We will rock you and lull you. Go to sleep, go to sleep. We will sing you to sleep, and shake you to sleep, and it will do your old twigs good; they will even crackle with pleasure. Sleep sweetly, sleep sweetly, it is your three-hundred-and-sixty-fifth night. Correctly speaking, you are but a youngster in the world. Sleep sweetly, the clouds will drop snow upon you, which will be quite a cover-lid, warm and sheltering to your feet. Sweet sleep to you, and pleasant dreams.” And there stood the oak, stripped of all its leaves, left to rest during the whole of a long winter, and to dream many dreams of events that had happened in its life, as in the dreams of men. The great tree had once been small; indeed, in its cradle it had been an acorn. According to human computation, it was now in the fourth century of its existence. It was the largest and best tree in the forest. Its summit towered above all the other trees, and could be seen far out at sea, so that it served as a landmark to the sailors. It had no idea how many eyes looked eagerly for it. In its topmost branches the wood-pigeon built her nest, and the cuckoo carried out his usual vocal performances, and his well-known notes echoed amid the boughs; and in autumn, when the leaves looked like beaten copper plates, the birds of passage would come and rest upon the branches before taking their flight across the sea. But now it was winter, the tree stood leafless, so that every one could see how crooked and bent were the branches that sprang forth from the trunk. Crows and rooks came by turns and sat on them, and talked of the hard times which were beginning, and how difficult it was in winter to obtain food.

It was just about holy Christmas time that the tree dreamed a dream. The tree had, doubtless, a kind of feeling that the festive time had arrived, and in his dream fancied he heard the bells ringing from all the churches round, and yet it seemed to him to be a beautiful summer’s day, mild and warm. His mighty summits was crowned with spreading fresh green foliage; the sunbeams played among the leaves and branches, and the air was full of fragrance from herb and blossom; painted butterflies chased each other; the summer flies danced around him, as if the world had been created merely for them to dance and be merry in. All that had happened to the tree during every year of his life seemed to pass before him, as in a festive procession. He saw the knights of olden times and noble ladies ride by through the wood on their gallant steeds, with plumes waving in their hats, and falcons on their wrists. The hunting horn sounded, and the dogs barked. He saw hostile warriors, in colored dresses and glittering armor, with spear and halberd, pitching their tents, and anon striking them. The watchfires again blazed, and men sang and slept under the hospitable shelter of the tree. He saw lovers meet in quiet happiness near him in the moonshine, and carve the initials of their names in the grayish-green bark on his trunk. Once, but long years had intervened since then, guitars and Eolian harps had been hung on his boughs by merry travellers; now they seemed to hang there again, and he could hear their marvellous tones. The wood-pigeons cooed as if to explain the feelings of the tree, and the cuckoo called out to tell him how many summer days he had yet to live. Then it seemed as if new life was thrilling through every fibre of root and stem and leaf, rising even to the highest branches. The tree felt itself stretching and spreading out, while through the root beneath the earth ran the warm vigor of life. As he grew higher and still higher, with increased strength, his topmost boughs became broader and fuller; and in proportion to his growth, so was his self-satisfaction increased, and with it arose a joyous longing to grow higher and higher, to reach even to the warm, bright sun itself. Already had his topmost branches pierced the clouds, which floated beneath them like troops of birds of passage, or large white swans; every leaf seemed gifted with sight, as if it possessed eyes to see. The stars became visible in broad daylight, large and sparkling, like clear and gentle eyes. They recalled to the memory the well-known look in the eyes of a child, or in the eyes of lovers who had once met beneath the branches of the old oak. These were wonderful and happy moments for the old tree, full of peace and joy; and yet, amidst all this happiness, the tree felt a yearning, longing desire that all the other trees, bushes, herbs, and flowers beneath him, might be able also to rise higher, as he had done, and to see all this splendor, and experience the same happiness. The grand, majestic oak could not be quite happy in the midst of his enjoyment, while all the rest, both great and small, were not with him. And this feeling of yearning trembled through every branch, through every leaf, as warmly and fervently as if they had been the fibres of a human heart. The summit of the tree waved to and fro, and bent downwards as if in his silent longing he sought for something. Then there came to him the fragrance of thyme, followed by the more powerful scent of honeysuckle and violets; and he fancied he heard the note of the cuckoo. At length his longing was satisfied. Up through the clouds came the green summits of the forest trees, and beneath him, the oak saw them rising, and growing higher and higher. Bush and herb shot upward, and some even tore themselves up by the roots to rise more quickly. The birch-tree was the quickest of all. Like a lightning flash the slender stem shot upwards in a zigzag line, the branches spreading around it like green gauze and banners. Every native of the wood, even to the brown and feathery rushes, grew with the rest, while the birds ascended with the melody of song. On a blade of grass, that fluttered in the air like a long, green ribbon, sat a grasshopper, cleaning his wings with his legs. May beetles hummed, the bees murmured, the birds sang, each in his own way; the air was filled with the sounds of song and gladness.

“But where is the little blue flower that grows by the water?” asked the oak, “and the purple bell-flower, and the daisy?” You see the oak wanted to have them all with him.

“Here we are, we are here,” sounded in voice and song.

“But the beautiful thyme of last summer, where is that? and the lilies-of-the-valley, which last year covered the earth with their bloom? and the wild apple-tree with its lovely blossoms, and all the glory of the wood, which has flourished year after year? even what may have but now sprouted forth could be with us here.”

“We are here, we are here,” sounded voices higher in the air, as if they had flown there beforehand.

“Why this is beautiful, too beautiful to be believed,” said the oak in a joyful tone. “I have them all here, both great and small; not one has been forgotten. Can such happiness be imagined?” It seemed almost impossible.

“In heaven with the Eternal God, it can be imagined, and it is possible,” sounded the reply through the air.

And the old tree, as it still grew upwards and onwards, felt that his roots were loosening themselves from the earth.

“It is right so, it is best,” said the tree, “no fetters hold me now. I can fly up to the very highest point in light and glory. And all I love are with me, both small and great. All—all are here.”

Such was the dream of the old oak: and while he dreamed, a mighty storm came rushing over land and sea, at the holy Christmas time. The sea rolled in great billows towards the shore. There was a cracking and crushing heard in the tree. The root was torn from the ground just at the moment when in his dream he fancied it was being loosened from the earth. He fell—his three hundred and sixty-five years were passed as the single day of the Ephemera. On the morning of Christmas-day, when the sun rose, the storm had ceased. From all the churches sounded the festive bells, and from every hearth, even of the smallest hut, rose the smoke into the blue sky, like the smoke from the festive thank-offerings on the Druids’ altars. The sea gradually became calm, and on board a great ship that had withstood the tempest during the night, all the flags were displayed, as a token of joy and festivity. “The tree is down! The old oak,—our landmark on the coast!” exclaimed the sailors. “It must have fallen in the storm of last night. Who can replace it? Alas! no one.” This was a funeral oration over the old tree; short, but well-meant. There it lay stretched on the snow-covered shore, and over it sounded the notes of a song from the ship—a song of Christmas joy, and of the redemption of the soul of man, and of eternal life through Christ’s atoning blood.

“Sing aloud on the happy morn,
All is fulfilled, for Christ is born;
With songs of joy let us loudly sing,
‘Hallelujahs to Christ our King.’”

Thus sounded the old Christmas carol, and every one on board the ship felt his thoughts elevated, through the song and the prayer, even as the old tree had felt lifted up in its last, its beautiful dream on that Christmas morn.

OK, I lied.

The Donkey Truck doesn’t have a spa in it.

No water beds, no “majiklol lubs in it.”

But she’ll rub a tired traveler’s feet, and hopes he’ll stay for some soup

and Story time.

Nope. No majick.

It’s crunch time. There no majiklol lubs. The lubs are REAL, and they

are LOVE, with a capitol L. Majiklol lubs is just a term my mind

conjures up to help the sad times a little more bearable, and help you,

dear reader, see how wonderful plain ol’ Love can be. Sorry bowt dat

little deception.

When I started this blog, I said there would be fantasies. Thank you,

dear reader, for your patience and kindness of comments, reading

some of the most wild stuff, some of the most painfully honest. I have

been selfishly honest, and you have been breathtakingly kind and

supportive. This is one that I hope comes true. If I ever win the

lottery, you’ll know where to reach me, starting on Route 66.

Here comes REAL Donkey Truck, and I’m here, taking a risk at letting

you down, telling you a little crazily ,( like I am, just a little,)  *donkey

smile*  that I believe this truck will make it on the road, someday, that

I pray this truck MAKES it on down the road, a little non-profit

venture: Little Donkey’s Traveling Salvation Truck. Or Sister Donkey, if

you’re of that persuasion….

Throw in a little Salvation Army and you’ve got the right idea, and…

(and if you ARE of the Sister Donkey persuasion, here’s a little mood music so you can get in the right mood, LOL, while I tell you about my dream, and understand the name reference… http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1fA_owKnG08&NR=1&feature=fvwp )

And there we see the big ol’ barreling truck going down the highway, (hear the

music?) with a laughing Shrek Donkey on it, and a big ol’

heart=cheezburger (you know, cheeze=the solid milk of human

kindness, and all that…and some meat for physical sustenance, and

bread which man cannot live by alone….and a pickle. Yep! Cuz life

needs a few pickles to keep it interesting! ) and some other curious

symbols people have largely forgotten and people are pointing and

laughing, and a lone walking traveler sees it whizz by, and it honks,

and he sees it take the next exit….and he begins to run,

and it pulls into a truckstop.

..

and he runs, runs down the hill, cause he’s seen it before, and his

heart is hungry, hungrier than his grumbling stomach, and he forgets

his hurting feet, and he sees her open the door, the steps coming

down, and sees that great, big, bigger than life Sista Donkey comin’

down teh stairs, laughing loud, yes! he can hear it from the field! and

people are running! running to the truck! to be Fed.

New people are staring, children are pulling on their stunned parents.

Sally the truck stop waitress is standing outside, laughing with

pleasure. She told ‘em, TOLD ‘em Donkey was comin’! They thought

she was

crazy. Look at their faces! Look at ‘em wantin’ to go in and lookin to

see if the others will first! Look at the animals, running, ignoring the

calls of the stunned owners, running up to the great big laughing

massive woman…

Look at the big man running down the hill, like he woulda missed

something! When will they learn? Nobody dat wants what the Donkey

gots to give EVER gets turned away or left behind! Donkey Truck ain’t

no Pied Piper at the gate! Everyone what wants to get There makes

it…no need worrying and having to run…

They crowd up and stare inside. They’re quiet.

Inside, there is no spa. There is no majick. Just plain old fashioned

Love.

There’s a little Chapel of Love. There will be story time there. A

Beautiful Story of Love, for those what ain’t heard it, and for those

who can’t stop wanting to hear it.

There is a little kitchen, where the beautimuss Carol, the Donkey’s

right hand is busy, Right Now! stirring some wonderful tummy

tantalizing Soup. There’s always just enough, just like the Bread.

There’s a special man who makes it, with honey, and wheat germ, and

whole wheat, and bananas, the most delicious Love Bread you ever

tasted, a man who hasn’t seen a drink in a long time and has come to

peace with the Donkey a long time ago…

(his cornbread’s not bad, either…)

There’s a little med station for the hurting, sick, and broken, and

Bread Dad mans it.

There’s a happy song on the radio emanating from the truck:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=taqLEjCVTdo

There are comfy old puffy couches, nothing an old traveler would be

afraid to plop down on, and there’s an old radio, playing music the way

it was meant to be played.

The walls are covered with pictures. Beautiful pictures. Pictures friends

drew, painted. Pictures of pets now over the bridge. Pictures of cheez

frends. Pictures of oceans, of mountains, of rivers. Posters with

wonderful things to read. Walls full of all manner of spectacular eye

candy. Pictures that make you laugh, and cry, and think.

There’s a little room, too, for the ones who need to shower, to soak,

to clean. There’s a little makeshift mini washer and drier, and clean

tee shirts and sweat pants for tired Travelers.

There’s a Need fullfilled for everyone. The room stays the same, yet

always fills the Need.

The old music player stops, and we listen in, and all we hear is a story

being told, and some happy slurps and sighs, and a little washer/dryer

unit working its little heart out, its hum comforting in the quiet room.

Bread Dad waits outside, quietly, petting Spot, puffing his cigar, while

Donkey tells the Story.

And the Donkey waits, patiently, for the day he’ll take over his father’s

job, and do his Father’s job, and the Donkey will listen, as it should be.

We have an Easter and Christmas story that’ll knock your socks off.

Dear Elka,

Now that you are a Donkette, here is your first introductory lesson.

You probably know already that Elka means consecrated to God. Elke,

I understand, means Defender of Mankind.

Your Helmet is honored to be yours! It vibrates with

Joy and excitement! It knows better than you, like

the sorting hat, what potential lies beneath!

So without further ado, I enclose the part one of what it means to

be a Donkey or Donkette.

Much Love,
Your Donkey

I. Indoctrination of the Sword for a Donkette and Would Be Donkettes

(See picture below)

Remember, Donkettes!
We must has a dilligunt!!

Always remember dat your “golden helmet is always on!” Ebben wen u r

asleep.

Always protect and keep a Watchful eye out for teh weaker peepulls

and teh animulls and childrens. Doo not let teh bullies perservere.

They must be taught with compassion, yet zero tolerance.

You will has a “sword”. (Please to be seeing teh picture.) Dis sword

has sum purposes as:

1. Sword of Word:

Be Careful how you wield teh Sword of Word. It can wound

wurrser dan a fatal stab. It can kill friendships and begin wars. It can

destroy moral and love relationships. Misusing teh sword dis way will

plant a seed ub nastiness dat will grow and vibrate hatefully, corrupt

ing yer hart until you are as rotten as an old apple, and then only Fire

and Water can cleanse you. Remember, it isn’t what you take into

your mouth that makes you unclean, it’s what comes out, and after all

is said and done, remember this:

“Spiteful words can hurt your feelings but silence breaks your heart.”

A Sword of Word can be trumped by teh Terrible Wicked Nuffingness.

But do not let it!

The Sword of Word was meant for good!

Use your Words for Love and Good. A soft word turneth away wrath.

Love those when they least deserve it, for that is when they most

need it.

When others are cruel, treat them with compassion. A kind word to

one who is hurting and alone is like precious jewels. Find a use for

your sword every day. It is an honor, and should not lay, wasting. If

you neglect it, it may leave you. Every Good Act it performs

strengthens its mettle, stronger and stronger, until it is indomitable!

Use your Sword Wisely.

2. Sword of Defense

Some situations call for immediate defense, and no delay.

When someone is being battered, bullied, treated unfairly, gather all

your strength, and do not fail them.

Take a deep breath. Say a prayer. Imagine your Sword. Imagine the

Angels. The Angels Cheer When You Face Your Fear! They do!

Life is hard down here. They know it. Close your eyes…they are there.

They are backing you…ellebenty³ strong…holding you in the Light…be

pure of heart and intention, and forge forward.

Laughter and mockery can cut and divide. It can wither. A pompous

and angry and/or prideful response will feed it like gasoline on a fire. A

gentle warm smile can turn away mockery and shame the cruel.

Beware, though. Some bullies are not just ignorant, or scared children.

Some are cruel and relentless. They will not stop until you Cut. Them.

Down. It is sad, but you must not tolerate this type, you must not

show an iota of kindness, which they will perceive as weakness and

eat you alive if they can. They require swift justice and action.

Remember your Cheeze Frends. They are hundreds strong, and we are

there behind you…

A man in San Francisco was walking up the street. He looked like a

war victim. I imagined wildly, “He was tortured by the VC.” He was

barely making it up the steep hill. He staggered as though it were his

last step, and his body was riddled and twisted.

A group of boys mocked and ridiculed him. My rage was so strong I did

not defend him. I was frozen, furious and disbelieving.

Many years ago, a nursing home patient was in my trust. My nursing

aide partner was with me that night. We were changing her sheets.

My partner said, “Watch this,” and proceeded to gently smack both

her cheeks with her palms.

The woman ,who could not speak, turned red with fury. I was

appalled.

I was in shock. I did nothing.

The pain and agony over such acts, or lack thereof, are a million times

more damaging and painful than the consequences of any act of

bravery I can imagine. The former wounds the soul and leaves a

cancerous seed. The latter can only wound the flesh.

You can redeem yourself. Remember to take the opportunities when

they come.

Make it your mantra: I’m facing my fear! I’m facing my fear! and.. The

angels cheer when you face your fear!

My poor boy managed to watch IT when he was six. He was terrified

for years. One night in our basement rooms he told me about his fear

of going up the stairs alone. I shared with him the above. I then

watched a terrified eight year old boy cry out, “I’m facing my fear! I’m

facing my fear!” as he ran alone, unassisted, up those steps, while I

cheered and yelled, “The angels are cheering!”

Wicked acts and doing nothing (Evil will prevail when good men do nothing) will harm your soul with a seed of destruction. Good acts and bravery will strengthen you like diamonds, strength of diamond, softness of a dove.

Once you succeed, it gets easier.

Always remember, our imagination can always trump reality in terms of

perception. Your perception is the most important thing you can

have. Your attitude and how you perceive a situation can make all the

difference in the world.

3. Sword of Love

Love is a choice. You can choose to love everyone. That includes

yourself. You cannot disregard this one person, or you will fail. You

can! To be donkette, you must! It is not only necessary, you must

constantly strive to achieve it. You do not have to like them. You do

not have to

approve of them. But thou mayest…you have the God-given CHOICE

to feel as you wish. You can pull back or you can rush forward,

embracing the challenge, and changing your life.

Step One, you must “clear out the slush fund.” When you harbor

resentment or hate, you allow the perpetrator to be victorious, and

to poison you from the inside out. It will grow like a poisonous seed. It

will fill you with a slush fund that will boil over when innocent people

create innocent trespasses, and you will hate yourself for lashing out

at them. When you do, the act will secrete poison that will feed the

seed .

Kill the seed with your sword of love. It may hurt, but it will be okay.

Forgive everyone who has ever hurt you. The sword of love derives

its power from your maker. It is indominable when used purely for pure

purpose. You must release all old resentments. Your maker can help

you with this. Meditate on this and ask for Help.

Step 2

Stop disrespecting your temple with vain misguided attempts to be

loved. Remember, you must love yourself, too. Your God-given

temple that your soul resides in is not to be used casually and tossed

aside, for thrills. Would you allow an Orgy in your church? How much

do you respect what it represents? Will you not treat it with

reverence?

Never confuse lust or infatuation for love.

There is love that is a choice.
There is attraction that is chemical.
There is infatuation that is addiction.

To marry the right partner, determine your common mores, ideals, and

interests. You should want to be together and enjoy one anothers

company, even if no romantic feelings are involved. Could this person

be your best friend, even if you weren’t attracted? This will need to

carry you through. Looks can fade, or be attacked by fate.

Attraction can fade. Infatuation will surely die. Choose to love

everyone, and choose your special life long partner by commonality.

The special oneness should come from the sacred connection, not as

something to be used casually, like a bag of chips, and left behind.

Infatuation comes from fear and insecurity. It is not love. When you

cannot allow those you love to be free, that is infatuation.

Some of us have spent years yearning for men and things we could

not have. The inability to have them made my fire burn hotter. When

I was able to have them, I was disgusted by them for wanting me and

allowing me to have them in return. I was not loving. I was finding a

thing or person, craving it, disrespectfully using it, and tossing it aside l

ike trash.

If you find you cannot love, only crave, I recommend what I did. Step

aside from sexual relationships.

Choose to love everyone.

People keep saying The Donkey is brave. It may sound like false modesty to say
I’ve always thought myself rather timid and cowardly. It’s one thing to give an
e-hoofing- quite another to admit that the closet door cannot be cracked and the
shower curtain must stay open. Hair washing is mildly unpleasant because I cannot
just open my eyes when I feel like it.

I’ve been that way since childhood. Up until a few days ago. (Mom called it being “goosy.”)

You know what I really hated? I hated that phenomena of laying in bed in the dark with the door
cracked so light can come through, and it looks as if the door is sloooowly moving open.

I had a dummy named Lester. It was all fun and games until Magic was published, and then it was NOT hilarious! Lester slept in the closet at night and that closet door stayed VERY tightly shut. Thank the Lord I was not a little kid when I saw IT and Poltergiest. Mom knew better than to let me see horror shows as a child.

You say, well, kids are like that, but I was like that as an adult.

Once I saw a banana peel rotting on the gate walking home from middle school. I got the idea for the sinister story, “The Buckled Goatee.”*

I recently discovered I have a terror of misrepresentation. As a child I had a horrid dream about Superman in the shower. I saw him in there, and he was bald! I was dumbstruck and awoke screaming, probably. It was the idea that he was NOT what he appeared! This always terrified me.

So back to my story. I wrote it about a man who used a buckled goatee to slip on and do his nefarious deeds. I forgot about the story’s inspiration….

dun dun DUN

As you can imagine, and may already be laughing, I then one day saw the now much more rotten and sinister looking nee banana peel, “Buckled Goatee” hanging on the fence, and almost screamed and fainted before remembering.

Now that is a pretty silly kid.

And then,

I was also like this.

1. Dunderhead-

This kid bullied me and other kids. He was a beefy sort. It was jolly times for him to toss kids in the creek, and generally be an @$$, I heard later.

One day I was walking down the bicycle path with some of the day care kids of mom’s coming home from school, and guess who was there ahead. A group of kids had gathered, watching quietly as Dunderhead had one of our day care boy’s (I’ll call him Bear) collar and was holding him in the air. I strode up and slapped Dunderhead in the face! I was probably wearing a knit polyester dress with a lace collar…snerk…and I had never slapped anyone in my life, nor been punched. He immediately dropped his prey. I importantly said, “Run.” to the other kids. The young ones did. The older ones stayed to observe. Immediately he punched me in the nose. I stood there and stared at him (it did not bleed) and thought, THAT is what it is like to be punched in the nose? THAT’S not so bad! and walked calmly away.

This caused problems solved later, deliciously, but that’s not for this day. Later that day the boy’s sister called me and thanked me. No greater glory could have been experienced….ahhhh…..

2. Singing-

In middle school, again (oh, that is a crappy age!) I was in choir, and the teacher was very nice. Some very popular girls were being real jerks and refusing to sing to blackmail/punish the teacher.

I was a very strange, self-conscious, one-friend kind of kid. A weirdo to the other kids opinion, I think. (Except that I missed first place in the school spelling bee in 8th grade, the highest grade in that school, and when I misspelled the word, it sounded like everyone said, “Awwwwwwwwwwwww”, and meant it. I stood, thunderstruck. It was too late to realize, I had been liked, my pedantic, weird little self, the whole time. They were just intimidated by me.

But I digress (as usual, LOL!) My number one fear, above and waaaay beyond Lester walking outta dat closet and staring at me with a grinning face, was SINGING IN PUBLIC. And I suuuuucked. I couldn’t carry a tune back then.

After the third round of music, and those little biatches sitting there refusing to sing (and no one else daring to, cause who wants to stand up to the popular girls in 7th grade?) ….guess what?
I started singing loud and strong as I could.

I figured there would be shouts and screams of derision and laughter. There was stone cold silence. I felt the hot, prickly, sick fear and red face. I sang.

The next rendition, those damned girls sang.

3. In the hospital the staff was insulting my friend, a schitzophrenic. He was such a sweet and lovely boy. I loved him dearly, and he came to love me, too. I knew. They were calling him roly-poly and saying, “blink” and sitting there on their asses smirking, looking at each other, and him, in the day room.

I said, “I feel like I am in high school.”

The male tech turned and said, surprised, “Why?” and that was when they got hoofed.

The schitzophrenic made his appropriate addition and regally and with great dignity, left the room.

They did not repeat the behavior.

Imagine, my first time in a locked psychiatric facility. I had a lot to lose by condemning these people. It didn’t matter. I was treated the same, with respect and kindness. I was scared, but I did it anyway.

Now, are you seeing a pattern?

I’m afraid/loathe to stand up for myself, but I’ll stand up in front of a bullet for YOU.

I think that is exactly what caused the meltdown with my father, a man i usually bow down to. He accused me of accusing HIM of lying, and then treated me with anger and disdain. I lost it.

“Speak your mind even if your hands shake.” Even if you get a hot, sick chill.

Lately, the stress and shock of what I’ve been through, including my friend’s husband dying, has left me numb. I don’t have any fears right now. I feel fearless.

My shower door stays pulled closed nowadays. If Mr. Bates shows up, he’s gonna get hoofed.

FACE MASK GETS A HOOFIN!!

No more stoopy face mask frum dummy TB test waitings! I been cleared to go to rehab.

Course, there is still teh qkweschun ub why dere bee little tiny spot on mah lung. But my retired xray tech dad says it beez nuffin, an he bee next to teh man upstairs in mah esteem ub him abilitees. So now, I just has to wait 7 weeks for the more complicated TB test. But I duzzunt has a contagious, and prolly no TB. Den, if dat shows nuffin, a stoopy CT scan. All for nuffin, prolly. Sigh. If my dad got in dere and did teh xray, dis nonsense wud be obbur.

STAT.

This was a different concept to me, and the more I turned it around, the more advantageous it appeared.

I realized it was TOTALLY to my advantage. Here’s a little psychological history on me as to why.

(Why not share it? Hell, I’ve already told you the most private stuff imaginable. This outta be a piece of cake. :/ )

As a probable result of my poor self esteem being raised by one half of my parents in a rather emotionally unhealthy manner, and the possible resulting affect of slowly growing obesity, my self-esteem has been rather poor in certain areas, as you can imagine. (In others, I am wildly arrogant…go figure. That must be from where my doting mother got a hold of me…LOL) So I spent a lot of my childhood, teen years, and adulthood till the last 2 years rejecting before I could be rejected.

I remember, with uncomfortable pain, my assy response when I showed up at Guion Creek Elementary in second grade. They called my name and everyone turned to stare. Instead of smiling and saying hi, I gave them all the buggy-eyed shaky face. They all turned back around. Who’d want to be friends with that? When Davy Albert asked me to skate, I was shocked. Who’d want to skate with me? Ewww, I replied before I could think. He skated with my friend. He was a nice, funny, friendly boy. I still remember feeling like a heel. I was mean to boys as a way of testing them. I’ll digress a minute. I have finally come to realize I fear losing people. So I would pick on them. If they could handle it, I could be attracted. Then, they had to be mean. They had to be able to take care of themselves. The possibility of losing them and suffering was too harsh to bear. I would sabotage relationships. I would either cling and then reject, or just reject.

My life is full of this crap. Full of insane crap, like when some guy refers to his wife, I automatically suspect he thinks I’m desperate and he has to head me off at the pass. Specially if I am training him and being friendly. How soon will he ohhhh-so-casually-mention his wife? Do any other women have this feeling? Then I worry that I don’t look blase enough about it when he mentions her. I fear he will mistake my fear of being mistakenly thought of as attracted as being disappointed. Can you believe this??? It’s horrible. It’s a horrible way to torture yourself and others.

My second husband told me the song Desperado fit me. I was stunned at his perception.
(Here’s a link for the unfamiliar: http://www.lyricsfreak.com/e/eagles/desperado_20044565.html )

I married my first husband, a guy like Cooter from Dukes of Hazzard. Me, a pendantic, bitter, snobbish windbag, marrying him. He was wildly attracted to me. I had no attraction to him. He was the only one I ever dated, kissed, held hands with. I cried the first time. He was like a brother and a buddy. It was ’84 when we married. I was only 18, and so childish and immature. We divorced within 2 years. I just didn’t think anyone else would want me, but found out different during my marriage and was horribly regretful.

I didn’t marry again until ’97. We were together for years, but he didn’t marry me till ’97. Then he cheated on me and asked me to leave 3 months later. I was relieved. He was verbally abusive and prone to fits. We never divorced, but I’m happy he lives with a nice woman now and has both matured and softened. We are on good terms.

That’s when I came to California, and finally began dating nice men. (Well, my first husband was exceptionally nice, but it took more than 10 years to appreciate a nice man.)

But I wasn’t ready yet. It wasn’t until a couple of years ago I burned up like a phoenix in a passionate flame for a grade A creepy weirdo, a control freak. After a few more guys I lost it and stopped dating. I was FINALLY SICK OF IT. I snapped when I guy I was seeing and having dinner with him and his son, made some comment about me not being his girlfriend. He pestered me for months after. Being pestered felt great. I never went back. I haven’t dated now for about 2 years and turned into The Donkey. I realized it was time to close the candy shop. No more being used.

It was around then I learned about Love Being A Choice. OMCC…I realized the SOLUTION TO MY PROBLEM!

I could choose to love EVERYONE!!!!!!!!!!!!! By doing this, which was what I had hungered for from my very earliest beginnings, I was freed! I no longer had to feel nervous about telling someone I cared for them, because I freely admit I care for EVERYONE. If someone said, Oh, I’m not interested in you, I can reply, “Oh it’s not sexual.” I am a Christian and I try to love everyone.

Some are easier to love than others, and it is very freeing to try to love everyone. Some people are really jerky. It is a great feeling to reject returning their attitude and love them instead. It makes me feel like such a better person, and not like a victim.

On the Internet, I really learned how true “a kind answer turneth away wrath” is. So many people need to learn to pick their battles. So many angry, petty people hopping into tempests in teapots. Let it go. Say something nice. It is important to be the big man or woman to people. Pride is a terrible thing when anger get involved. By releasing your pride and acquiescing, you reduce the tension and may even win a friend. Lucky you!

So that’s part of my psychology. I don’t know if many others are that neurotic or not, but that is what feedback is for. I would be curious to know if others have had my growing up experience.

Thanks for “listening.”

“Love,”
Kathleen
PS It’s nice to be able to just write love, Kathleen on letters, too….I do it often. If anyone objects to being loved, I will tell them I do it to everyone. NO one has objected yet.

*big grin*

This is what I wrote to Sunnyhuckle this morning, and I liked it so much I decided to share the thought with y’all.

Tell me your thoughts on the subject.

Your letter reminded me of Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs.

Unfortunately I am still slightly cognitively impaired, but it isn’t too bad. So I finally went back to work today. I notice my mood is also better. I feel calm and not annoyed and brain racing all the time. Tommorrow I go put in an application to be an actual Napa driver…meaning regular hours, insurance, benefits, not having to drive my OWN car, (that’s the big one!) and other things. I think I will be hired. Please send a little prayer/beam for me that things happen for the best…

Some of you “in the know,” know about the expression I like to spread around, “Thanks for the fleas.” This is from Corrie Ten Boom’s The Hiding Place, a story told about her experiences in a concentration camp. She tells of her sister(?) Betsy’s
penchant for thanking God for ALL things. Corrie loses her temper and snarkily asks, “Even the fleas?”

Betsy says, Yes! Let’s thank him for the fleas! And they did.

It came to their attention afterward that their Bible, the only source of hope and inspiration they had, was free from confiscation, because their barracks were flea ridden, and the guards wouldn’t come in.

Yesterday (Wednesday) was a mixed bag of fleas. I’ll get back to that later.

I got out of Woodland Hospital on Tuesday around 1:30. I really wasn’t ready to go. I knew I would have a big load of responsibilities waiting for me, the most pleasant of which would be contacting all the cheezfriends who had supported me. My family and I ended up wasting precious time going to Mercy Medical for paperwork that wouldn’t be ready until Wednesday. Then I had to go pay bills and run errands with deadlines. I had all sorts of nasty surprises awaiting me with my car, as my father and son tinkered with it. It is a ’92 Acura with, I swear, what must surely be a poltergeist inside. Methinks said poltergeist was angered by their tinkering. Nuff sed…

Here’s a synopsis of what happened to me and what I did, since January 27th.

Many of you know the dynamics of my relationship with my father. It is an extremely rare, to the point of shocking, occasion for me to talk back to him and get into an altercation. This is what happened. The details aren’t important, or this post will never end. Suffice it to say that I quickly exploded out of control and into a rage, from all the suppression, and it was ugly. Of course, he did not see this as something to stop and analyze; he merely responded with cold fury.

I was so enraged with impotent fury that I went to my room and continued to drink. (Yes, drink…more on that later, with final positive results)

Eventually, late at night, drunk and in a tunnel vision (that means, dear friends and fellow Christians, that I had no thoughts of my family, including my son, or my cheezfrends, or God. I simply had a one track mind and nothing else. Very scary…when the Bible says “…he who is deceived by it is not wise” that is not a ticket to drunkardness. It is a warning about the slippery slope that drunkardness is…) I pried off the blades of a disposable razor and cut my wrist.

It was harder than I suspected. I then thought about laying down on my arm and making it numb, and then cutting it. Thank God I was too impatient and angry to bother. I just let it slowly bleed and thought I would just go to bed and let it bleed out.

I awoke POd and severely angry to be alive. I finally went to the computer and started researching what I could do for help. I just knew it wasn’t right to be doing this, but I didn’t value myself enough to think I was worthy of going to the ER. It was a scary thought to go to the ER. I have never done anything like this before. I was afraid I’d be treated with derision and turned away. I have no money or insurance to pay that kind of bill. I knew calling an ambulance would awaken the household and might bring derision and anger and all manner of hysteria from my family. (No, I wasn’t thinking clearly…but I can still imagine my father’s face of disbelief and anger at the possibility of waking up to such a spectacle) So I got in the car and drove to the ER. At this point my wrist had a nasty cut in it, but it wasn’t oozing, so that was no heroic feat.

They were so kind at the ER. I was immediately taken into the back and they had me in a room on a bed within a few minutes. I was to end up being there from about 8 am to 4:30 pm. I cried on and off all day. I was sad, numb, and felt hopeless. I was like a zombie.

Important note: if you ever go to ER and ask them to notify your family, don’t. Ask for a phone and call them yourself. I asked them to notify mine, and was told okay (by an unknowing soul, I’m sure) and then lay there for hours and hours expecting with doom to see their faces come around the corner, peering at me, as I lay there feeling smarmy from my incredibly smarmy and selfish act. When they didn’t come, I started to wonder. Finally in the afternoon, I asked again and was told they don’t notify. I found out I could have a phone brought to my room and was told sure! and there was no time limit! I immediately got ahold of mom. I don’t know why I thought my mother would be exasperated and disgusted with me, but she was not, of course. Maybe I thought it because I was so tired of myself that I thought she was, too. She was terribly kind and warm. Unfortunately it was too late for them to get there on time with anything for me before I got transferred to Woodland at 4:30. The techs were so nice and friendly. Everyone was. It was an eyeopening experience. I figured they could all see my lame, wussy attempt at cutting myself and look at me with a pained, disgusted expression saying, “You are wasting our time. We are here for REAL victims, REAL patients, not the likes of your pathetic, whiny self. ” It was humbling to be treated so kindly by everyone.

They drove me to Woodland Hospital in Woodland, IN. It was embarrassing to be wheeled in strapped on a stretcher and knowing all the patients were checking me out. Again, met by much kindness. When I plainly (as I do, donkishly, LOL) told them the chair was too small for my big butt, and I needed another chair without arms, the sweet tech started talking about how tall I was (I’m only 5’5 1/2″, but she was tiny,) as if to say, oh, you’re not fat, you’re tall. Such a sweet lady. .

The next day my family came. I felt awkward. Not much smiling. Still zombie like. I think mom was kind of stunned. It truly was a strange thing for me to do. Sean was his normal, computer faced self. Dad was subdued and polite. He did not appear to be drunk. They brought me things.

Never during my stay did I ever feel that taboo feeling of being in a psych ward, or afraid of it. I just cocooned and felt taken care of and calm. Sometimes I cried and was depressed, but it got better.

The food was wonderful and plentiful, and the staff and patients came to care for me.

They diagnosed me with depression, BiPolar disorder, and gave me Antibuse.

Those three meds have me knocked for a loop. I’m always sleepy, and I’m confused, too. I am unable to think of simple things sometimes. I haven’t gone back to work yet. I am stressing over that. I don’t know if I can…I’m a courier. Calling the doctor tomorrow to talk about THAT problem.

I didn’t miss the alcohol when I was in there. Don’t really miss it now, either. Isn’t that strange?

WHile in the hospital, I called work and was told this coworker, a girl I feel like a mother or sister to, a very young married mom with 2 small kids, had lost her husband. He died of a brain aneurysm. His funeral was when I was in the hospital. She had no idea why I didn’t come to it. I was devastated. I called her and cried and explained what happened and how sorry I was. He was the only goodness in her life, I think, besides her kids. How incredibly heartbreaking. I keep thinking about Valentines day and how hideous it will be for her. There is always someone else to make you realize what a whiner you are being. What can I say to her? I am at a loss.

Wednesday I spent approximately 4 hours messing around with a Medical like office. You’d think I’d be about crazy. I filled out the form wrong, and basically was an idiot. Poor clerk. I was very calm though…then started crying at some point (before the paperwork fiasco) for no discernable reason. Just sat there and the tears poured down. That’s what it’s been like. This crazy behavior.

Coming home I thought about my cheezfrends, and how much they love me and support me and what a heinous, selfish thing I’d done. And I realized even given that, they loved me anyway. Then, for the first time, the enormity of God’s same kind of love struck me and I felt like a worm. I began verbally accosting myself and crying.

I started questioning my good works. I decided I was a coward who did good deeds because subconsciously I am afraid of punishment and I think being good will keep me out of trouble, not because I am a good person. I basically ripped myself several new orifices on the way home, howling all the way.

Then I decided to throw melodramic attention w…. into the mix, and that I was beating myself up so I could get my melodramatic-spike fix. I was doomed. I could think of no good intentions, no purity of motive to defend myself. By the time I got home I was exhausted from the self-attack and its resulting confusion.

That’s what I’m going through. It is very selfish. I need the positive feedback, yet I feel guilty about it.

I am staying hopeful for when the meds kick in. Right now I’m just kind of feeling strange.

More later if I think of it.

Thank you to all who sent love and concern, and posted and emailed. I love you all so much. You help get me through. Bless you and yours.

I wrote this little story this morning with that in mind, thinking about how it is human nature to utilize slippery slopes and lame excuses to our moral detriment.

I am particularly pleased to share this because I feel that it is a valuable, thought-provoking tool for everyone, whether one has a religious faith or not, because it addresses the moral issue of following spirit of the law as opposed to letter of the law.

It Wouldn’t Be Fair!-A Kafleen the Donkey Allegory

“DO EAT THE BOSTON CREAM PIE IN THE FRIJ!”

said the note on the refrigerator when they returned home from school.
They gathered round it and stared at the obvious handwriting of their
father. They were hungry, foraging for snacks, and that pie beckoned
like a lusciously-dressed siren.

“DOOOO EAT THE BOSTON CREAM PIE,” Evelyn repeated in a
chant-like tone, her nose close to the note, eyes crossed, bugged out, as though scrutinizing closely.

They sniggered wildly.

Obviously, they knew deep down, father had somehow accidentally
omitted the “NOT” in his haste-perhaps to go to the grocery store?-as there was not much in the refrigerator.

The exquisitely made-with-mother-love pie beckoned sweetly.

“Frij,” snickered Adam. “What’s a frij? Makes no sense!”

“Sounds obscene, even,” Another added.

They tittered nervously, staring at the pie. Its chocolaty goodness
seemed almost to vibrate.

“There’s one in the REFRIGERATOR,” one of them said. IT must be a
DIFFERENT pie,”

and,

“Couldn’t hurt to sniff it…”

The BC pie was carried to the counter. Their noses and eyes scrutinized it closely.

Tittering, commenting and questioning snarkily, they circled the pie like hyenas.

“It DOES demand that we eat it!”, the Other said. “And we SHOULD
be obedient children!” (nervous twitters again) “How FAIR would it be if we were punished for following the instructions?” (hands on hips, huge
innocent eyes punctuated this line of logic)

After a period of similar justifications, they soon found themselves picking at the pie.

They weren’t really eating it. Just …testing it. Why, if something brushed against it in the refrigerator, or fell on it, accidentally, the same marks
could have been made.

“Hell,” said one, “might as well have a SLICE now.”

They were almost finished with their innocent law-abiding deed, the pie
plate empty, their stomachs full, when their father suddenly appeared in the kitchen, groceries in hand, the smell of their favorite take-out dinner

food guilty pricking at their full stomachs and empty consciences.

Their smeared, chocolate faces stared in horror, frozen, mid-bite, at his furious, shocked, hurt, and disbelieving face.

Scalding, hot shame now ran through their bodies. Not a single voice
dared look in that face and smartily cry, “But you told us to do it!” Deep
inside their guilt swam boiling through their veins.

There was hell to pay.