Ramble ramble responsibility ramble. Also, I hate myself a little today.

   If there is no other good thing to be said about me, and it's possible that there isn't based upon the large amount of people who vehemently dislike me, then it is this. I am well aware of my shortcomings.
   My ego walks through a door ten minutes before I do, at least when it comes to my intelligence.
 I am so bad at social interaction that I can't even tell anymore when I'm being rude or overly sarcastic. I don't care about people. "Oh, you and so-and-so are about to have your one month anniversary? That information is absolutely meaningless to me and I have no idea how you would like me to respond."
 I have a hard time faking conviviality beyond my limited repertoire of scripted and rehearsed subjects of small talk.
 I am utterly lacking in tact, and terrible at lying to make up for it. I can't even manage the harmless white lies that polite society runs on.
 I am argumentative, and hard headed, and I reach compromises only with the begrudging contempt usually only seen in small children.
 I am not now, and have never been, a nice person.
Nor do I really aim to be. There is a difference between being nice and being good, but that is a conversation for some other day.
   Despite all these things, I consider myself to have one other good quality. I have an almost obsessive need to admit when I have done wrong, even when it is to my own detriment. I believe very ardently in personal responsibility.
  Every choice that I have made, whether good or bad, has been completely my own. There is no evil twin, or devil on my shoulder that urges me to do some of the shitty things that I do. The me of the past is the me that sits here today. I am still violent and capricious. I am still manipulative and scornful. The only difference between then and now is that I control these parts of myself better now than I did then.
  There isn't a secret piece of me that is benevolent and virtuous, kept locked away by the darker aspects of myself. I am the sum of all of my actions, and I cannot discount the bad ones in order to make a better overall picture. Even when my decisions have been born of opposition, being justified isn't the same thing as being right. Good intentions are not magic spells, absolving you of the consequences of your misdeeds.
 I was responsible for those decisions then, I am responsible for them now, and I will be responsible for them until the day that I die. If I was drunk when I did something terrible, I still did something terrible. If I lashed out because of systematic abuse or antagonism, I still did something terrible. If I manipulated a situation in order to meet my own ends at the expense of other people, I still did something terrible.
   My 'recovery', so to speak, is based upon looking at myself in the mirror every day and weighing my soul against a feather, metaphorically speaking. I look at my actions and I ask myself if the person that I want to be would do the things that I do.
 I've come a long way. A lot of the time, the answer to that question is yes, and I get to feel the satisfaction of living up to my own standards, one of the best feelings in the world.
 However, there are those times when the answer is no. I don't know what law of the universe dictates that the weight of mistakes is thrice that of any satisfaction, but there are a few failures haunting me currently, staring at me from the mirror and waiting to be properly addressed. I have apologies to make that I don't think I have the stomach for, and I feel that they will be seen as yet another wrongdoing when I do get around to them.
  I'm having a hard time with my reflection at the moment. I see the strides that I have taken and my continuing progress, but still I don't know if I like who I'm looking at right now.


I guess I can add another bullet point to my list of shortcomings.
Extremely melodramatic.

Feedback?

Posting a paper I wrote for class. Do you have any critiques or comments? ( Am I the only one who thinks that blogs are perfect for beta-editing?)

    Our society, and many others worldwide, perpetuate the institution that is rape culture. There are many reasons that such an abhorrent social structure has continued to thrive, even in the face of broadening enlightenment about the widespread damage that rape and sexual assault cause. Our media is inundated with flawed perceptions heavily influenced by rape culture. Movies, magazines, books and even educational programs trivialize the ordeal of victims by portraying it as a desirable sexual act, and our opinions change as these messages are broadcast.

    We as a society allow sexual predators the ability to assault with impunity, by excusing rapists, by putting the onus on the victim to prevent their own victimization, and by refusing to reinforce our sexual education to dispel the myths surrounding assault and sexual predators. (I want to take a moment to lay out a disclaimer; I have a tendency to refer to victims as 'she' or 'her', and perpetrators as 'he' or 'him'. I do not do this to demean the experience of non female victims, or to insinuate that men are the only ones that rape, only to allow the flow of the dialogue to go uninterrupted, and as an attempt to keep this to only two pages. I will most likely go over that anyway, but alas, I am pretentious and long winded.) Feminist theory says that these behaviors stem from the subjugation of women, but I also believe that conflict and critical theory play a large part. The fact that our society has decided that men, and white men in particular, are the highest power has created an atmosphere where bodily autonomy is viewed as a myth, or as something that you are expected to surrender. Sex is a good that women can only hold and that exists to be taken from them.

    In popular media, the spectrum of sexual offenses is narrowed down to one specific definition; 'real' rape is the blushing virgin maiden who is attacked while out picking blueberries in the orchard. Any variance of that theme is rejected and labeled as something else. This happens for a variety of reasons, mostly because nobody wants to believe that they know a rapist, although the statistical data makes it overwhelmingly likely. We wish to think that we are good judges of character and that nobody we like or socialize with regularly could be a sexual predator. When someone demonstrates this behavior, we allow it and pardon it, telling ourselves that REAL predators wear long black capes and will make sure to give us the telltale mustache twirl before they savage us. When presented with claims that one near and dear to us is a rapist, the average response is to reject it out of hand.

    Of course the high school quarterback didn't rape anyone, he is such a nice boy. That mother could never have molested her children, she sold cookies at the school bake sale. I don't see a third teat on her anywhere, and we all know that rapists have a third teat. Even when presented with irrefutable evidence, we bend over backwards in an attempt to accommodate. Poor dear didn't know any better than to force themselves on an unconscious person, how can they say no when they're unconscious? That's not 'real' rape. Oh, your ex-boyfriend assaulted you? Well, you two were in a relationship three years ago. How could he possibly comprehend that your sexual relationship was also over and that you weren't just playing hard to get? That's not 'real' rape either.

    This desire to demonize the offender blinds us. A large amount of assaults are never officially reported based on the accurate assumption that the victim will not be believed. One of the most prominent ways we reinforce rape culture is by the widespread victim blaming. We excuse and condone a rapists behaviour by telling a victim she was asking for it. We ask where you were, who were you with, how much you've had to drink, what you were wearing, and every time we do this we give rapists a checklist of attributes to search for when seeking out their victims. When they go after an intoxicated woman wearing a little black dress, the public at large will act as their defense lawyers, free of charge.

    This pervading belief that there is some secret handshake one can master in order to prevent a sexual assault is insulting, and doubly so since it does a disservice to both genders. These messages wouldn't be so insidious if it weren't for the fact that they are widely believed. I can't tell you how many times I have heard someone say 'that's just how things are', as though sexual assault is a meteorological phenomena. "Best bring your chastity belt, it's looking mighty rapey today." These messages are so ingrained in us that most don't even question them. Women shouldn't dare to be a woman in public, obviously every man turns into a boner werewolf at the slightest provocation.

    Nowhere is the element of subjugation more evident than in the education we give women. We tell them to stay inside, to bring an escort, instead of teaching them how to protect themselves. I can't count the times that I've been cautioned not to fight back against an attacker, lest I get myself killed. We teach girls that they need to say no in exactly the right manner, firm and unyielding but never ever mean; just because someone is exhibiting predatory behaviours doesn't mean we should make them feel bad about themselves.

    The act of rape prevention is entirely upon your shoulders, but don't you dare exhibit yourself in a way that we might consider unfeminine while you do it. Nobody likes it when you're over dramatic. We also tell men that they are not men unless they are chasing tail, that they shouldn't take no for an answer, that the best way to demonstrate their manhood is by exerting their power over others. We tell them that they are naturally sexually aggressive, that there is no other way.

No, your first impression was correct. I really don't want you to talk to me.

    Even though I work in customer service, and have for the majority of my working life, I kinda sorta hate pretty much everyone.
    See all the unnecessary words in that sentence? That's how I talk when I'm trying to make the truth sound a lot nicer than it actually is. I hate people, as a general rule. This antisocial behavior tends to wax and wane in its intensity, some months I continually see a handful of very close friends, others I become a recluse leaving the sanctity of my loner den only for work and sustenance. I've been in the former mode for three or four months now.
    I've gone back on my medication on a better combination. As it turns out, treating only the neuroses is a perfect recipe for a backslide. My neuroses is manufactured, meant to temper the evil. Double and triple checking every decision is obsessive for most people, but useful when your first instinct is "Stabby Stabby Kill Kill". I probably would have viewed my ascending hermit level as a sign of more secondary side effects, like the prior all consuming rage, but really I just...function more happily this way.
    I don't dislike any of the people that have managed to achieve the impossible and become dear to me. I would love to spend time with them, go out and see a movie or spend hours in an all night diner. The only thing is that I recognize now that, although definitely enjoyable, those things are DRAINING. I have a very shallow well of social graces, and the damage is cumulative. If I spend a month or two really drawing on my reserves, then they are gone, and it takes a long time for the ground water of small talk and smiles to trickle back in to a usable level.
    Since I have been at low reserves for a while, I've been finding myself doing things that really reinforce my social failings. There have been multiple times that I've seen someone that I know while I'm out and about, and in all but a few instances, I have hidden before I have to speak to this person. I repeat, I don't dislike these people. Most of them have been amiable acquaintances, but a few have been people that I wouldn't hesitate to call up for a social occasion if I were so inclined. But I'm not. And I don't feel like I have anything to spare after the expenditure of work, and the upcoming drain of classes.
    I think school will be very intellectually stimulating, and if I found someone who had the same scholastic concentration I would probably talk their ear off for hours on end, but most people don't want to hear about the chemical imbalances caused by a lack of physical affection before the age of six months, or the correlation between high levels of MAO-A and serial violent offenders.
    However, I am really not looking forward to the less academic elements. I know that people will attempt to talk to me. This fills me with a strange dread. I know that I can just stare someone down until they go away, but I may have to work with someone at some point. Ah well. I currently believe that the social expenditure will be worth it. Here's hoping.
   
   

Wandering weirdo. Bleh bleh bleh.

    I am a creature of the night. I feel as though I should be holding a velvet lined cape over my mouth when I say this, but despite the overly dramatic wording, it is true. I am most active after the sun goes down. If I don't have a job or other such engagement forcing me to keep to a diurnal schedule (which I usually don't, I tend to work nights), I will always revert to my natural rhythm within a week or so. I'll generally wake up early afternoon and then go back to sleep around 8 or 9 am.
    Since Husband works days, and very early ones at that, this means that I'm just hitting my stride as he's going to bed. Husband considers this to be the most annoying thing ever, but when he wakes up in the morning, I am very often sitting alone reading or writing or obsessively annotating a book that I've previously read. Or I am Wandering. I tend to do that a lot as well.
    I walk, or occasionally drive, for hours on end. Sometimes I will create a reason for me to go out. "Oh darn, it looks like we forgot to grab this at the store earlier, I'll just go now. The closest overnight store is only two miles away, it wouldn't be environmentally responsible to take the car." Of course, I will usually add 4 to 6 miles to that simple trip, taking out of the way roads, or visiting favorite destinations that I come reasonably close to. The park, my old school, that spot by the creek, the library...Honestly, I laugh at myself a lot over the last one. Why go to the library, you fool? It's CLOSED, you can't read all the books through osmosis.
    I've been favoring a lake near my apartment recently, a nice little park with a walking path and a playground and lots of wildlife scaring the shit out of me regularly. I saw a black fox kit a couple weeks ago, and I'm a bit crazy, so I took it as a sign that this should become my new haunting ground.
    I get a lot of grief about this habit of mine. My mother and grandmother remind me at every opportunity that I shouldn't be walking alone at night. Admittedly I walk with my music on, possibly one of the dumbest things that can be done, but I know my way around my area. Any place that has previously given me a bad experience is widely avoided. Also, I carry a huge knife and serrated brass knuckles. So, there's that.


Edited to add- As it turns out, sitting in the bowl drop at the local skate park is also really nice.
 

Connection, or lack thereof.

    Recently, I've had a lot of people remarking on the fact that my day-to-day interaction with the world is markedly different than most other people. Perhaps this is coming up a lot more because I have gone off of my medication in order to quiet the rage monster. The best way that I can think to explain this is the thing that I've been hearing the most, and that is that my smile is weird.
    Aside from the fact that I've been hit in the face quite a bit, my smile is weird because I do not naturally smile the way most do. My 'natural' smile, meaning the natural expression that comes across my face when I am happy and enjoying myself is pretty much my normal face with a quirk on one side of my mouth. I don't have a strong natural connection between my emotions and my body. I remember an instance in school where I was in the midst of a panic attack over the allergic reaction I was having, and when I mentioned it to the girl who was talking at me, she responded with utter disbelief.
    Anyway, my point is that if you see me smiling with my teeth, it looks bad because it is fake. Unless I am in the midst of laughter, it is fake. I have taught myself to respond that way in social situations so that people will stop asking me to cheer up. If you are spending time with me and are wondering if I am enjoying myself, then ask me. I will let you know.
   Spending time with someone is a bit different for me too. My husband and I have butted heads over this a few times. He brings up occasionally how annoying it is for me to read or draw or complete other tasks when he gets home from work and he wants to sit and relax and 'spend time together'. This particular conversation never went well for either of us. He feels like I'm preoccupied with something else when he's seeking attention from me, which is valid and understandable, but my feeling is that if we are just sitting and watching a movie, we're already not actively conversing. We are literally touching each other, how is it possible that we are not spending time together somehow? This isn't a big problem really, we've compromised with each other by using quality time safe words, for all intents and purposes. He tells me when he feels as if I'm not involved in our activities together, and I respond honestly. If he's putting on Darkman, I let him know that I'll be reading right next to him.
   I'm even more alien with strangers and casual acquaintances. There's this huge disconnect between me and other people that I don't feel comfortable enough to call friends. I've never looked at a person and wondered what their sexuality is, for instance. It has never occurred to me to wonder who someone would like to sleep with. I generally can't tell when someone is attracted to me until they're ridiculously blatant, and although I can look at people and recognize that the organization of their facial features makes them attractive, I've only actually felt sexual attraction to four men in my life. (One a celebrity, one an ex, one my husband, and one a fucking lunatic.) I'm much more likely to be attracted to women, but I've never had a relationship with one, and only ever tried for one once. I don't form attachments to people without cost and reinforcement. There are plenty of people out there right now who speak to me regularly, see me daily, get along with me very well, but I don't consider them my friends. I know a lot of things about them, but it's very rare for me to discuss myself with people until I've known them and interacted with them regularly for a year or so.
   I don't get lonely, really. I miss people that I am close to, and I definitely go stir crazy if I'm alone without anything to do for extended periods of time but it's not based on the absence of other people, rather the absence of brain stimulation. I don't get uncomfortable in silences. Sitting with someone doesn't compel me to talk to them. I don't feel awkward when I have nothing to say to someone. I've actually concluded a lot of conversations by telling someone that I had no more on the subject. When I do speak with people I am long winded and technical, or a huge smartass. If I'm talking it's either a science lesson or a joke, with very little in between.  
   Sometimes, after someone reminds me that I respond to the world differently than they do, I get caught up and wonder if I'm doing it wrong. I wonder if other people are getting more out of their day to day interactions than I am, if there's a deeper level of enjoyment and involvement in their everyday existence that I will never have.
   But then I listen to some music or read a book and get over it. Because dammit I am not crazy.

The despised return of a not very nice person.

   I've been getting angrier. I begin to see echoes of my former self in my day to day interactions, and I am not at all happy to recognize the pattern.

   I'm not entirely certain why this has been happening, since my dosage is correct so far as I can tell, and CBT did the impossible and taught me some self control. The situation isn't helped by the fact that I notice it happening, which makes me anxious, which in turn lowers my threshold for aggravation, which leads to unfortunate circumstances like what occurred today at work.

   We were incredibly busy. I had just gotten done pulling a pallet jack that weighed 12 times my body weight to the back and then unloading it alone. A customer tried to be witty and trick me, score themselves some free merchandise. Thankfully, all I did was respond very curtly, and in a not-so-customer-friendly manner.
   'You're correct. I forgot to ask you if you were a member. I'm trying very hard to care about that as if it's important.'
    She huffed off, I tried very hard not to throw the marker I'd been using to mark the shipment at the back of her head, and when my break came around I took some extra time to shoot virtual zombies and wish that they were her, this faceless annoying customer who somehow bothered me that much.
   Thankfully I gave my notice already, and I'm out of there on Saturday. I shudder to think how I'm going to respond when my manager gets that complaint call. Probably in a very similar manner, since the demon in me is secure in the knowledge that their stupid write ups will have no impact whatsoever upon me and my remaining 12 hours.

   Since I've been saying numerous greetings to a version of me that I had hoped to be completely dead, I've been thinking a lot about my younger years. (yes, I understand that I'm 22 and I don't technically have any younger years. My life is split into two distinct timelines; Young Meghan, burgeoning pyschopath extraordinaire, and Older Meghan, she who thinks before she acts.) I shudder when I remember. I was so fucked up. I remember a dinner conversation that occurred a month or so ago, where Husband was reminiscing about some friends from elementary school and asked me if I had any special memories.

    I remember being too terrified to speak aloud my first few years at school. I would know the answer to a question or want to tell someone that I liked their shoes, and it would be like the air passing out of my lungs took some hidden shortcut past my voicebox, and only a small whimper would come out. I spent most of my time up until the fourth grade hiding under my desk, or even in one of the bathroom stalls with a bag full of books. Shockingly, children had no idea how to handle this alien behavior. I think that, combined with the fact that my first grade teacher attempted to put me into the special education class, just destroyed any chance I ever had at having friends school. (I did have numerous pen pals, however. It seems my crazy only showed in person.)

    Turns out it was a really good idea to hide from people, because I had no idea how to interact with other human beings. I would cry at the slightest frustration, and swell up with rage with little or no provocation. I'm pretty sure I growled at people, and I'm laughing so hard thinking of it now but it was so fucking crazy holy shit..
    I'm the only person I know with an extensive list of violent altercations before the age of fourteen.Luckily I only got in serious trouble for that once. (Looking back, it is probably because the teachers and administration were aware of how much bullying was happening. Not that they ever worked on stopping that, but I guess the leniency was nice.).

   There was the girl that I pushed off the monkey bars because she was calling me a retard, or the one that I hit in the face with a snow ball for pretty much the same reason. ( a quick shout out to Mrs. Durant, you old cunt. I hold you directly responsible for a lot of my school day suffering. Possibly the only reason my boiling hatred never took a more virulent form is because I was secure in the knowledge that the IQ test you ordered for me came back with a higher score than you.)There was my hit list, of course. Weekly visits with the school counselor started after that. Or when I threatened to stab the girl who was stealing from my desk and putting glue on my chair. Or the boy that I threw over my shoulder and face first into the pavement, the one I got into a fight with and pushed into the creek...the other one that headbutt me in the back of the head as I was walking away...the one who tackled me into the open  basement on a construction site.( I'm shocked I could walk home after the last one, honestly. I landed on a pile of rebar.) There was the time that I hit a boy in the head with a pool cue, and the time that I strangled my sister. (attempted homicide by a child is just cute right?)

   Thinking of all of these things literally makes my insides hurt. I remember how angry and painful they all were. I feel shame now for how long the list is, especially the times where I wasn't acting in self defense. The worst thing I have ever done isn't even on that list.
    I walked to school until I hit high school. The time it took to walk home was, hands down, the absolute worst part of every day. Even walking the way I did, jumping the creek here, shimmying across a concrete embankment there, circling through this out of the way neighborhood, I can only remember a handful of times that I was blessedly left alone. Most days, one or more people would follow me home, taunting me,or throwing rocks. Most of the fights that I got into were on the way home.
    I remember one day as I was walking a stray dog came up to me, and I pet it and continued walking. My followers that day, three boys whose full names I remember to this day, assumed that this stray must be my dog. So they began pelting it with stones, and hitting it with a large tree branch whenever it slowed down.
   I decided on that day that I was going to kill those three boys. I even carried a knife with me, for that exact purpose.

   Suffice it to say, they didn't like my explanation much when they caught me with it in my bag. Cue expulsion, and conditional behavioral therapy, and a stern warning from a worker of the state that this was my last shot, one more 'episode' and I would be removed from my home and placed in special care. I remember sitting in the courtroom, hollow, waiting for sentencing.
    They were lenient once again. They gave me the lightest sentence they could. I finally considered the option that I was a part of the problem. I committed to the CBT. I started trying to talk to people and make friends. There are a couple of people I tested my newfound social skills on in middle school who will forever remember me as the creepiest person they ever met, but I adapted to whatever lesson was thrown at me. I have friends now, and a darling husband, and a crazy ass cat. I shouldn't be regressing.

Damn it, I can't afford more therapy.
Steph, dear, since you are the only one who actually reads this, please pay no mind. Despite what you may think, I'm doing okay, just getting very...snappy.

Borks. Or books, if you're one of those crazy people that don't constantly talk in baby voice.

    Today I want to talk about something that is incredibly close to my heart.
    Books. I want to talk about books. Pull up a seat and get really comfortable. I never get to do this any other time and it drives me absolutely insane. In my life I've read probably around 3,000 books, even more if you consider all of the online publications and scientific papers. I know books fairly well, I think. After reading so many thousands of words you start to get a feel for what works and what doesn't. I secretly call this my book sense. (Secretly, yes. Posting it on the internet is very secretive.)
    When I am reading a book that is really, really good, I start to get this feeling on the back of my neck, like someone is running their fingers ever so softly against my skin. I lived for that when I was a kid, and now that I'm an adult who knows what sex and alcohol feel like, I would still say that it is one of my favorite feelings. It reminds me of reading in my closet, or the school playground, on my bed, or the fucking broom closet because I was a really strange child with no social graces.
    Reading as often and as much as I do, I have some pretty set ideas about grammar, spelling and storytelling in general. I believe that grammar is the least of your worries. (It is still a worry! I am not advocating the substitution of your for you're, don't set me on fire.) Some of the most moving and important things I've ever read were grammatically incorrect. Sometimes the intricacies of subject relation and syntax will drown out what you're really trying to say. Write your words the way they hit you.
     I'm still a huge bitch about spelling, but at least I'll admit to that one.
    My biggest opinions are about books. I can throw muster up some diatribes on other subjects, as anyone reading this should be aware, but I get involved with my books in a way that should probably be considered indecent. One of those big opinions that I carry around with me is reflected in every facet of my life. I believe that all of the best stories, in books and movies alike, are about ideas instead of characters. The characters are absolutely essential as well, don't get me wrong. One of my favorite book series is 'The Dresden Files' by Jim Butcher, and one of the reasons is how well rounded his characters are, but the overwhelming idea behind the series is what keeps the books on my mind after I've stopped reading them. Best signified for me by this quote, 'To whom much is given, much is expected.'
     It's not a new idea, there aren't really any new ideas, just old ones with new paint, but it is one of my favorites. I like wrapping my mind around the ideas of obligation and sacrifice, it leads me interesting places like the social contract and the nature of kindness. I love it when someone else's words inspire introspection and a reexamination of my previous thoughts and beliefs.
    Another example of an amazing series is 'Sandman' by Neil Gaiman. Yes, these are technically graphic novels, but I don't feel that my chosen literature is somehow lessened because it is written on top of artwork. This series is the single most influential body of work I have experienced thus far. It has so many big important things inside it, shrunk down and simplified so that everyone who reads it can understand. Neil Gaiman plays with the idea of the power of belief and of dreams, he showcases our tendency to back ourselves into corners and then snap at those around us as though they put us there. 'Sandman' gives names and identities to the chaos that is the spectrum of human emotion and somehow it makes more sense than dopamine and serotonin. I felt like I saw the world differently after I finished the 'Sandman' series, and although the characters are absolutely amazing, they are not why. The lessons they teach are more important to me than the characters themselves. (Although I still can't read 'The Kindly Ones' if I'm in anything but the highest of spirits, because damn it I will cry.)
    I've read books without an overwhelming message and enjoyed them. Sometimes I've even loved them and pledged to reread them year after year like I do with Sandman and The Dresden Files. The difference between the ones that I love and the ones that really matter to me is whether or not they've 'hit' me. If you're a bibliophile, then you know the feeling I mean. When you're sucked into a story so deeply that the world around you completely fades away, you're living the experience of these characters, feeling what they feel and then suddenly...the author snatches words out of your brain and uses it to take your breath away.
    This person that you have never met, probably will never meet, has combined words on paper in a way that you have never seen or heard before, and those words explain something that you've felt or experienced so perfectly that you can't feel it any other way ever again. This is the book sense, when you feel that connection across time and space.
I like to think that every time that happens the author sneezes, but I guess that would become rather bothersome.