Prejudice

I really try not to be prejudice. If I see myself doing it, I focus on it and scrub it away. It started when I was little and saw my father making nasty comments about people who didn’t have the same skin color as us. Basically, I was rebelling against my dad. As I got older, I felt it wasn’t just a rebellion – it was the right thing to do. I still feel like that but it’s grown to include more than just race or nationality. Everyone on this planet is human. We are the human race and to hate or prejudge someone on the color of their hair or skin or eyes is ignorant. To hate a group of people on their religion is ignorant. To hate a group of people because of their culture, or job or ability or sex, or damn it, for flipping anything, is our dark side whispering to us.

When I was growing up the only time I saw black people in the movies, was the Angry Black Man. During these formative years, I was taught to fear the Angry Black Man. The Angry Black Man will hurt me. Kill me. Rape me. Probably in that order. The first time I saw a black man who wasn’t portrayed like that in the movies and television was Bill Cosby in I Spy. Even my father liked Bill Cosby! It wasn’t until I saw Will Smith, who I quite liked, that I realized I’d been brainwashed from all those movies. Mr. Smith didn’t scare me. He looked like a nice person. I had been brainwashed, and it made me angry. I didn’t hate black people, I was afraid of them. And from then on, I did my best to be ‘color blind’. Nowadays, being color blind is bad, or that’s the impression I’ve gotten. Then, being color blind meant I didn’t ‘see’ the color of their skin, I saw the person as just a person. (I actually got good at it. I remember being told: ‘You remember Debbie? The black girl.’ And it took me a while to remember Debbie was black. She was just Debbie.) Today, you should see their color, acknowledge their color, then… what? Ignore it? High five them for being black? They had no more control over them getting born black as I did being born white. If they’re a good person, they’re a good person.

I fully support the BlackLivesMatter movement. Damn, they have every right to be mad, fizzling pissed off. It’s just as dangerous today to be black in America as ever throughout history. The problem is cops are scared. Just like I was. They’re reacting in fear. It’s just got to stop. (I know, easily said, hard to do.)

But I do still have fears. These fears have built up over a lifetime. As such, I do understand where their hate is coming from. My fear hasn’t developed into hate. But my fear has developed into terror.

I grew up in a state of the US with a lot of serial killers. Men, almost always men, who abducted, raped, mutilated and dumped the bodies of women. I grew up in an environment of fear of the stranger. We were given a lot of advice on how to protect ourselves. From not leaving your window open during the night, to letting the guy rape you so he might not kill you. Don’t put your first name in the telephone book, never your address. (Even now I’m gobsmacked at the amount of transparency women give of themselves on social media. Are you fucking nuts? Why don’t you just scream ‘victim here, victim here.’ like Whoopi Goldberg in Jumping Jack Flash?)

Women were – are – targets. Soft targets. Easy to physically subdue, rape, abuse. Except for Polyana Viana who is my hero! All women should be like her. If all women could defend themselves like she did, there would be a lot less abuse.

MeToo. Oh, yes, me too. After the MeToo movement started, I made a list of all the times I’ve been catcalled, wolf whistles, molested, touched, grabbed, assaulted, propositioned, (almost) abducted, … well. I couldn’t remember every single time, as catcalls and wolf whistles were basically a daily occurrence, but the others… there were about 20 things on that list, and for weeks afterward, I remembered more and more. I’m nothing special – average pretty much. And all this stuff that happened to me, to thousands of women, it doesn’t matter if your pretty or not. Rape and molestation have nothing to do with how you look or how you’re dressed. It’s the fear of women and misogyny. It’s control. It’s assault. The weapon isn’t a gun or knife, its a penis and a fist.

So, yes, I do have fear. And a bit of prejudice, because every time I talk to a man, every time I get in a cab, or wait for a bus…if I go out at all, I have to prejudge the men around me as a threat assessment. I use prejudging as a shorthand. Not the color of their skin, not their religion, disability, scares or tattoos. Their strength…their height…their ability and opportunity to restrain me. I try to always be aware of what’s going on around me. I try to wear things that I can move in, no high heels, no tight skirts. Nothing that restrains my hands or legs. My partner goes through life like walls will move out of his way. I explained to him how I always scan my environment and he just doesn’t get it. On the one hand, he doesn’t want me going out at night, because I’m a bitty woman and some man will rape me. But on the other, I don’t need to be aware of what’s going on around me, cause I’m a sainted woman, protected by God.

So this is a prejudice I’ve noticed and I need to work on it. I know there are good men, men who would come to my assistance if I needed it. Not all men are evil, nasty, malicious persons who need to hurt you to make themselves feel better. Like my partner.

The Ellen Show

I’ve been struggling with depression. Not cut your own neck depression, but curl up in a ball and rock, kind of depression. My brain just cycled around all the things I’ve screwed up in my life. It’s a long list. There’s a person on my social media list, who is constantly posting affirmation memes. In honesty, it drives me nuts. Get over it or shut up! Which is totally the wrong thing to think, much less say. I do understand. It’s how she’s dealing with her shit. It’s not how I do. Which got me to thinking, how do I deal with it?

Up until now, distraction was my game plan. I play an MMORPG. Or, I did, until just recently. I’ve not played for a couple of months, and it really is impacting my mental health. Without that distraction, I sink deeper into depression. It was literally my only social contact (as I don’t count social media as ‘contact’). So without that distraction, what to do?

Browsing through youtube, I came across an Ellen DeGeneres show. I watched it, got a giggle, and watched another. And another. Soon, Ellen was the only thing youtube suggested to me. I’ve known of Ellen for a long time but didn’t watch her. Now I was watching a couple of hours every day. She really did cheer me up.

It wasn’t instantaneous. It took weeks. But I’m not as depressed as I was. I’ve still got a way to go. I really should see a psychiatrist. But gawd, that would require going out X amount of days, and all the prep work that means. I can’t just decide to do something and pop out the door on a whim. Two days at least, for planning. From shower to dressing to being able to breathe. I’ve tried finding someone to talk to, who would talk to me on the phone. That was a washout. That would truly be perfect for me.

So for now, I watch The Ellen Show, get some giggles, and hope it brings me up enough to stop rocking.

Egypt & The Impossible Task

This must have been about 10 years ago, now. I had a bucket list which included going to Egypt and seeing the pyramids and Valley of the Kings, you know, the usual. Partner was aware of this. One day, he says, “I’ll take you to Egypt. But only if you learn hieroglyphics, because what’s the point of going somewhere if you can’t read the language?”

This was actually kind of a silly thing to say, ’cause people do it all the time. On the other hand, I’d always been interested in hieroglyphics, and hey, trip to Egypt. So I agreed, I’d learn hieroglyphics and he’d take me to Egypt.

I got a good book and started teaching myself hieroglyphics. I actually found it kind of easy. After a couple of weeks of daily study, I was starting to be able to ‘free read’. Without needing to flip constantly to the cheat sheet. I showed him how well I was doing.

What! He says. You can’t do that! You can’t read hieroglyphics! I can’t read them and if I can’t read them, you can’t.

I’m dyslexic, I said. They’re just pictographs. It’s easier to read than English, once I know what it stands for.

No. He thinks about it for a micro-second, then continued, I’ll take you to Egypt if you stop smoking.

In that moment I knew he’d given me an ‘impossible task’. Not his fault we didn’t go, right, as I was just too stupid to learn hieroglyphics. I put my pencil away, put the book on my bookshelf, got online and did something else. I didn’t say a word. I didn’t open the book again. As far as I was concerned, the subject and goal were over, dead. He knew I wouldn’t give up smoking for this. Especially since it was pretty obvious if I did give up smoking, he’d just come up with something else.

I think I was upset a couple of days. I remember I was mad about it for a long time. Just the fact he used a dream of mine to play games with me. And it was a building block of our marriage problems. It was a stone against him that never moved. I never spoke of it, but it was always there, influencing how I perceived his motivations.

A couple of years (!) later, he comes up to me and says: You can stop yelling at me about Egypt.

I kind of snort and say, I never said a word.

I know, he says, but in my head, you’ve yelled at me every day. So I’ll take you to Egypt. Except you’ll need to get better, health-wise.

And there it was, the third impossible task. COPD doesn’t ever get better. You can stop getting worse, I’m told, but you never get better. So I patted him on the knee and agreed. When I get better. Knowing it would never happen.

I’m thinking of this because I’ve been thinking of picking up hieroglyphics again. It was fun, I did enjoy it, and I shouldn’t let his being an asshat stop me from doing something I like. And I just this second realized, it will probably remind him of his dick move every time he sees me with the book. And that will just be a side order of sweet.

Hey, I never said I was a saint. Or even very nice, although I used to be. I got over that.

Wash, Rinse, Repeat

Last three-ish months have been quite nice. It’s common for him to go a while as Mr. Nice Guy. Makes a girl relax, you know, so when the sucker punch is thrown, she doesn’t see it coming, right? Only, I’ve been expecting it.

Every few weeks he’ll mention; ‘You need something, just ask. I’m here to help.‘ So when I’m having trouble breathing, I’ll ask him to get me some tea. (Hot caffeine is good to relax bronchial constriction and I can’t drink coffee as it hurts my stomach.) Which he does, cheerfully enough. I’ve even woken him up to do it for me – sometimes a cup of tea is the difference between being okay and calling emergency.

A few days ago he started saying his back hurt. I tried not to bother him as much as I could. I was having fair days, so it was okay. I told him to wear his back brace, and he said it helped but that it was still painful. So I gave him some over-the-counter pain meds, the ‘good stuff’. 😉 Then the next day I had a spike. Couldn’t even go to the bathroom without having trouble breathing. I (breathlessly) asked him if he could get me tea. He said sure, no problem.

While he was getting me tea, I went and took a nebulizer treatment. This took about 5 minutes and I started to feel better. I felt like I could make my own tea, so headed to the kitchen. The water was heating and I told him I could do it. He said, no no, I’ll get it! I said, I’m feeling better, I can do it. Again, he said no, he’s on it.

Now, I’m not going to argue with the man over this. So I said ‘okay’, turned around and went back to my computer. I think my ‘okay’ might have been a touch too cheerful.

Five minutes later he comes hobbling into the room. He says, ‘I didn’t fill it all the way, I was afraid I’d spill it’. He sets it down and turns away. I watch. He’s bent over like he’s a 150, he’s taking baby steps like he’s hobbled. He says: ‘Im okay when I’m sitting still, but moving is painful!’* He groans, he huffs, he literally inches across the room. He’s overacting so badly it was embarrassing to watch. Once he was out of the room, and couldn’t see me (and I guess, thought I couldn’t see him) he straightened up and walked normally.

See, I was supposed to feel guilty for asking him for help. This is an old theme of emotional abuse: say he’s there to help and if you ask for help he will do or say something that is supposed to make you feel guilty for asking. It used to work, too. At one point I swore to myself I’d crawl over broken glass before asking him for help. Then I realized that’s exactly what he wanted – not for me to crawl, but for me to feel guilty. Screw that.

*This is one of the things I truly can’t argue with, as it’s something that I feel. When I’m having an attack, I’m okay if I’m sitting still, but if I have to move, I can’t breathe. And if its a pleurisy attack, the pain is indescribable. I’ve told him those exact words, I’m okay if I’m still, but it hurts when I move. The difference between us, is I’m telling the truth. Maybe he is, too. It just feels like he’s using it as a jab at my asking for help.

New Riffs on the Murder Theme?

Once you realize your partner is willing to go that extra step in inviting you to the great beyond, you have to ask yourself what limits will they impose on themselves.

So far, that I know of, he’s limited himself to trying to frighten my weak heart into stopping. This I know as well as if he’s written and signed documentation.

Last week-ish, he took the remnants of a roast chicken and made a broth. Basic broth adding the bones, boiled it a couple of hours and let it rest. And rest. I told him he needed to remove the bones and blitz the vegetable bits smooth. Three days later, it was still sitting in the pot, on the stove. Kind of a DIY salmonella kit.

On the fourth day, he drained all the bits and just left the liquid part, which, after two days, he put in the fridge. At that point, he also threw out the bones. Now, I didn’t say anything about salmonella, as JC on a pogo stick, he’s old enough to know.

I have noticed when I eat the food he prepares, my stomach hurts. And hurts for days. I’ve been trying to make sure I only eat the food I prepare but I can’t stand there for hours over it, guarding it.

He could add that broth to pretty much anything I make. It’s food poisoning waiting to happen.

He’s got a friend that comes over a lot. This guy wears enough perfume to fumigate a bus. I’ve asked my husband several times to please ask this guy not to wear so much perfume to our house as it reacts badly with my COPD causing me to stop breathing. He has literally said: I can’t do that it would be rude. I responded: Its ok for me to die, so long as you aren’t rude? What is rude about asking someone not to kill me? He didn’t say anything to that, because I think he was hoping I’d die over it. Hey, it wasn’t him! He didn’t touch me!

A New Low

About a week ago, I noticed all the icon’s on my desktop and shifted around. I’d done nothing that would do that although I had done a disk frag. I figured at the time, it’d done something. Now, I’m not too sure.

The sad thing for me is the fact this thought even crosses my mind. Today I discovered my photos, my writing, and my ebooks are all gone. When I got this computer, I transferred all those things from my previous computer, I always do. Once I saw everything successfully transferred/copied, I deleted the old files. These three subjects are very important to me. They practically define me. I had them on this computer. Now they’re gone.

I think my husband somehow got into my computer and removed them. They weren’t in my bin. They aren’t on the computer. He has stalked my computer before, using a dongle. *checks* No, no dongle today. But there are other ways for him to get in. I thought I’d closed off this computer from the family network, but he’s much more computer savvy than I am. Next, I’ll try a master password, or password protecting the log in.

I think I’ve mentioned how he tricked me into giving away my paper books. And how he tried to trick me into giving away my DVDs. Variations on the things I love. He is destroying the things I love, with the added flair of having me do it to myself. Only this time I think, he did it.

I’m also suspecting he’s reading this. If so, I think now would be a good time to mention I have things scattered all over the place. I can not be silenced from the grave, as it were.

He’s out right now. I tried calling him to see if he has any old thumb drive that would have my old stuff. He’d give them to me if he does as he’s still pretending to be a good guy. He’s not returned my call. He’d said he’d be gone for hours so it’ll be a while before I know if they are gone forever.

It will not be the first time I’ve lost everything I’ve loved. Sure, it hurts, some more than others. At the moment I have shimmering eyes and shaking hands. He will never see this, I refuse to let him see this. He would fap off over it for months.

Killing me, that’s old school. Men kill women all the time and half the time is a current or x-partner. You’d think just killing would be enough. IF he’s done this, it’s sole purpose is to wound me where the bleeding doesn’t show.

Something else occurs to me just as I’m about to publish this. A couple of days ago, he got some mega-ram in the mail. He refused to say why he got it, just wanted to upgrade (by double) his current ram. He was very defensive about it. The thought flittered across my mind that he couldn’t control 2 computers with what he had, his and mine. Now that thought has taken root and become a little more probable.

Going to A&E

It’s not easy for me to get out. Because of my breathing issues (not breathing) doing simple things become quite complicated. First I have to plan everything out, every step. I won’t go out without taking a shower first. This requires getting undressed, taking a shower, washing my hair, drying off and getting dressed again. This is such a simple thing but not when you can’t breathe. Go ahead and hold your breath from start to finish. Do tell me how that went.

So generally, not only can it take me a couple of days to take a shower and recover after, I also have to pick a day when I can breathe well enough to do it. It’s not just ‘jump in the shower’, it’s wait until I can breathe enough to do it.

Lately, when I brush my hair it has fallen out in hanks. It was horrifying to see how much hair was in the brush after. And I know if I washed my hair, it would fall out there, too. So I was very reluctant to wash my hair. It had to be done, however. I’ve spent days trying to motivate myself into washing my hair until I realized it just wasn’t going to get done. So had had my partner shave it. This isn’t a big deal to me. I’ve shaved my head 4 or 5 times. Meh. At least now, washing my hair is nothing. There’s one block gone.

Now I got to get my behind in the shower. Then I can go to A&E and get my heart checked.