In a previous entry I described being in an abusive relationship. Naturally, I didn't describe everything. There are some things that are too humiliating to share. But today, I do want to talk about the aftermath that was the disaster called Scott.
In late summer, I reconnected with an old flame I dated in 2006. I may have mentioned him before. Let's call him A. A and I have known each other since 6th grade. We didn't get along when we first met, but our feelings changed and by the time we were 17 and 18, there were sparks. But, long-distance, and other varying factors did us in, and we parted ways.
So yes, we reconnected. It was like six years had never passed. We re-cultivated a friendship, and by the end of September, had managed to develop feelings of a romantic nature for each other once again.
As we get to know each other all over again, and reforge the bonds of passion, I often find myself feeling something akin to post-traumatic stress disorder. It's not A's fault mind you, these past months he has been sweet, and understanding. Even though we are not officially in a relationship, he has treated me more kindly, and tenderly than Scott ever did in our four years together.
So you're wondering, what's going on in my head?
Scott used to get mad at me for inconsequential things. Things, that a lover who is secure in the knowledge that they are adored, would not get angry over. He did not like it when other men flirted with me, even if I ignored their attentions. He did not like it if I mentioned, or even thought about an ex-boyfriend, because he thought it meant I wanted that person back. He wanted to know what I was thinking about all the time. He wanted me to tell him everything. For four years, I was conditioned, and dare I say, brain-washed into being a good little soldier and reporting back to him every event, every thought.
So here I am. Getting involved with someone again. And old habits die hard. I feel like I have to report to A about everything I do. If somebody hits on me, I expect him to get mad. I sit on my end of our facebook conversations, flinching, expecting a verbal blow, a command, that will never come.
But he doesn't get mad. And, after four years of verbal and emotional abuse, this is surprising, and refreshing.
It's strange, figuring out how a man is supposed to treat a woman. That the things Scott was doing didn't mean he loved me, or he wanted to protect me, but that he wanted to own me, control me.
Scott's self-hatred, also exacerbated my own self-esteem problems. With him, I felt fat and ugly. I was miserable, and you could see it in my face. Sometimes, I still feel like this, even with the ego snacks I receive from A.
At the time, I was aware that my relationship was abusive, but I was unwilling to admit it. When I eventually tried to confront Scott, he denied it, and then said I treated him far worse. This counter-accusation made me shut up and endure it.
But then I was free. It was over, and it didn't have to happen again. It wasn't going to happen again.
So imagine the surprise and agony I felt when I realized that I was getting anxious, when A was giving me no reason to feel so! He's not Scott. I don't get the same sick vibes I get that I had when I met Scott for the first time. When my gut tried to warn me, and I ignored it. When I am with A, I feel happy and safe. I feel like I'm with somebody who I can ultimately trust.
After you've been in an abusive relationship, you have to learn how to trust people again. Not only that, you have to learn how to trust yourself again. That's important. If you can't trust yourself, if you can't trust your own decisions, then you're fucked. But I'm working on these issues. Some cynics would say that my feelings of anxiety are occurring because I'm making a bad decision.These people don't know me, and they don't know what I went through. No one will ever really know what it was like to be there, except me, because it was my battle. It was my fight.
Here's the thing. This time, I listened to my gut. My gut only grumbled because I wanted a sandwich. It said nothing about A. Unless he's a turkey sandwich, then in that case my gut told me he's delicious and goes good with Miracle Whip.
A lot of people ask me why I stayed with Scott for so long. I hear the blame in their voices. They act like I'm a stupid little girl, who can't make her own decisions. Fuck that noise. The abuse was NOT my fault. Maybe I should have left, but I didn't. That was a mistake, and I paid for it. At the time, I did love Scott, and I did want to make it work. Even the strongest feminist can be felled by her chemical reactions.
So sometimes, I get scared when I shouldn't. Or have a flashback to something Scott did or said. It happens. But I'm not going to let it ruin my joy. If I let bad memories sully one of the best things in my life, then ultimately, Scott wins. He would still own me. I have gotten my ovaries back, I have reclaimed the fort and I'm not going to allow myself to be treated like shit again. I deserve respect, I deserve to be happy and I deserve to have a healthy relationship.
Wednesday, December 19, 2012
Saturday, October 13, 2012
Cemetery Review #4
I don't think we really need an introduction by now, do we?
1. Broad Street Cemetery, Claremont, NH-
Broad Street cemetery is also known as The Village Burial Ground. It is located behind the Fiske Library and the Claremont firehouse. It appears to have been founded sometime in the late 18th century. It is no longer active.
Almost all the gravestones are slate or marble. In fact, I only saw ONE granite monument! Most feature carvings of weeping willows, urns, leaves and gravestones (an etching of a grave, on a grave, how very meta!), but there are also some soul effigies, and some very interesting geometric designs and sunbursts. I didn't get to see all the graves, but I read a few interesting epitaphs, one of which belonged to a man who 'died of a burn'.
As with any old cemetery, there were several broken gravestones. Otherwise, Broad Street cemetery is in very good condition, with well-kept grounds, and mostly legible stones.
I did not experience anything paranormal in this cemetery and do not have any reason to believe that it might be haunted.
If you enjoy local history, old slate gravestones and local folk art, I would highly recommend Broad Street Cemetery. The geometric sunbursts and leaves are worth a trip, seeing as I've never seen them in any other cemetery.
2. Sacred Heart Cemetery, Bellows Falls/Westminster, VT-
Sacred Heart is a small Polish Catholic cemetery that is still active. It is on Cemetery Road, and is adjacent to St. Charles Cemetery and the high school. In fact, you can hear the school's intercom and bells from the cemetery!
The cemetery dates from the late 1920's. In fact,the earliest graves all date from 1928. The majority of early graves have Polish epitaphs. Most monuments are made from granite and cement, but there are also some marble ones.
The majority of the carvings and statues are religious in nature. There are a lot of crosses, and carvings of Jesus, Mary and the saints. There are also several gorgeous statues of the Virgin Mary, as well as lambs, and a very large monument with a statue featuring a child sitting by the holy cross.
Sacred Heart is in excellent condition. The grounds are very well kept, and ALL the gravestones were intact! There weren't any broken or damaged graves!
I do not think Sacred Heart is haunted, though I did feel uneasy a couple of times. That may have been because I was so close to the high school, though.
This is a beautiful well-kept cemetery. I was very impressed.
3. St. Charles Cemetery, Bellows Falls/Westminster, VT-
St Charles is a moderately sized Catholic cemetery next to Sacred Heart. It appears to have been found in either the late 19th century or the early 20th. It is still very active. When I visited it had three fresh graves.
Most of the monuments are made of granite and marble. There are several made of concrete. There are a lot of large crosses and two beautiful statues. The newer gravestones have very interesting etchings, some of which are very colorful. There are also a few interesting epitaphs, some of which were in foreign languages. It had less religious iconography than Sacred Heart did.
Like Sacred Heart, Saint Charles is in excellent condition. The grounds are well-kept, and I saw only two broken gravestones, and one illegible one. My favorite grave had a statue of a woman mourning by the cross.
I do not think St. Charles had any paranormal activity. It was a very calm, peaceful place, and I did not feel unwelcome. All in all, I was very pleased with this cemetery. If it hadn't been raining, I would have looked at more.
1. Broad Street Cemetery, Claremont, NH-
Broad Street cemetery is also known as The Village Burial Ground. It is located behind the Fiske Library and the Claremont firehouse. It appears to have been founded sometime in the late 18th century. It is no longer active.
Almost all the gravestones are slate or marble. In fact, I only saw ONE granite monument! Most feature carvings of weeping willows, urns, leaves and gravestones (an etching of a grave, on a grave, how very meta!), but there are also some soul effigies, and some very interesting geometric designs and sunbursts. I didn't get to see all the graves, but I read a few interesting epitaphs, one of which belonged to a man who 'died of a burn'.
As with any old cemetery, there were several broken gravestones. Otherwise, Broad Street cemetery is in very good condition, with well-kept grounds, and mostly legible stones.
I did not experience anything paranormal in this cemetery and do not have any reason to believe that it might be haunted.
If you enjoy local history, old slate gravestones and local folk art, I would highly recommend Broad Street Cemetery. The geometric sunbursts and leaves are worth a trip, seeing as I've never seen them in any other cemetery.
2. Sacred Heart Cemetery, Bellows Falls/Westminster, VT-
Sacred Heart is a small Polish Catholic cemetery that is still active. It is on Cemetery Road, and is adjacent to St. Charles Cemetery and the high school. In fact, you can hear the school's intercom and bells from the cemetery!
The cemetery dates from the late 1920's. In fact,the earliest graves all date from 1928. The majority of early graves have Polish epitaphs. Most monuments are made from granite and cement, but there are also some marble ones.
The majority of the carvings and statues are religious in nature. There are a lot of crosses, and carvings of Jesus, Mary and the saints. There are also several gorgeous statues of the Virgin Mary, as well as lambs, and a very large monument with a statue featuring a child sitting by the holy cross.
Sacred Heart is in excellent condition. The grounds are very well kept, and ALL the gravestones were intact! There weren't any broken or damaged graves!
I do not think Sacred Heart is haunted, though I did feel uneasy a couple of times. That may have been because I was so close to the high school, though.
This is a beautiful well-kept cemetery. I was very impressed.
3. St. Charles Cemetery, Bellows Falls/Westminster, VT-
St Charles is a moderately sized Catholic cemetery next to Sacred Heart. It appears to have been found in either the late 19th century or the early 20th. It is still very active. When I visited it had three fresh graves.
Most of the monuments are made of granite and marble. There are several made of concrete. There are a lot of large crosses and two beautiful statues. The newer gravestones have very interesting etchings, some of which are very colorful. There are also a few interesting epitaphs, some of which were in foreign languages. It had less religious iconography than Sacred Heart did.
Like Sacred Heart, Saint Charles is in excellent condition. The grounds are well-kept, and I saw only two broken gravestones, and one illegible one. My favorite grave had a statue of a woman mourning by the cross.
I do not think St. Charles had any paranormal activity. It was a very calm, peaceful place, and I did not feel unwelcome. All in all, I was very pleased with this cemetery. If it hadn't been raining, I would have looked at more.
Cut-Off Points and Limits
Today, I had a stranger in McDonald's butt into a conversation my sister, mother and I were having about using pillow cases for trick or treating. We were discussing it, without actually mentioning trick or treating. She wanted to know why I would need a pillow case. Feeling cornered and annoyed, I reluctantly told her that my friends and I wanted to go trick or treating this year, adding that one is never too old for free candy.
The woman primly and stiffly replied that there was a 'cut-off point' for trick or treating? I was embarrassed. It was bad enough to have this lady butt into a conversation I was having with my family, but now it seemed like she was judging me as someone hopelessly immature and stupid. Or maybe she was just expressing her opinion, but still it sounded judgmental to me.
I tried to defend myself, explaining that I lived in a town where there wasn't much else to do on Halloween. My mother backed me up, saying that she'd rather have me go out and trick or treat, than go out bar hopping. I finished the defense by adding it's either trick or treat, or do drugs with the other kids. The woman didn't reply.
Today's little event had me pondering the whole stigma of teenagers and young adults going trick or treating. It's frowned upon. Trick or treating, by the expectations of our society is for little kids. Anyone older than twelve shouldn't be doing it. Teenagers and young adults should either stay home, or go to parties.
But what if you live in a town like Bellows Falls? A small town that has few Halloween events aimed at young people? A small town where the majority of parties end in the cops showing up?
Why should I have to give up doing something I enjoy just because some people think there's a 'cut-off point'? Why should there even BE a cut-off point? Detractors will give you a lot of excuses as to why:
They'll tell you it's creepy, they'll tell tales of teen delinquents, they'll claim it's immature.
Well, I am immature. I have ASD. I am emotionally behind my peer group. I don't feel like an adult 90% of the time. A lot of people in their teens and early twenties are in the same boat I am, ASD or no ASD. Childhood is still a fresh memory, and adulthood seems strange. So it's easier to fall back on doing something familiar, doing something you know and love. At least that's how I worked it out in my head.
Regardless of my own excuses, the point is, no one should tell you that you're too old, too young, to fat or thin, too this or that to do what you want. If you love doing something, then do it. No matter how old you are, or what you look like, or if you have a learning disorder, whatever. Do it. Go ahead and do it. Me, I'm going to celebrate Halloween the way I want, no matter what some busybody in McDonald's says, or what's considered socially acceptable.
As Eric Cartman says:
"Whateva, whateva, I do what I want."
The woman primly and stiffly replied that there was a 'cut-off point' for trick or treating? I was embarrassed. It was bad enough to have this lady butt into a conversation I was having with my family, but now it seemed like she was judging me as someone hopelessly immature and stupid. Or maybe she was just expressing her opinion, but still it sounded judgmental to me.
I tried to defend myself, explaining that I lived in a town where there wasn't much else to do on Halloween. My mother backed me up, saying that she'd rather have me go out and trick or treat, than go out bar hopping. I finished the defense by adding it's either trick or treat, or do drugs with the other kids. The woman didn't reply.
Today's little event had me pondering the whole stigma of teenagers and young adults going trick or treating. It's frowned upon. Trick or treating, by the expectations of our society is for little kids. Anyone older than twelve shouldn't be doing it. Teenagers and young adults should either stay home, or go to parties.
But what if you live in a town like Bellows Falls? A small town that has few Halloween events aimed at young people? A small town where the majority of parties end in the cops showing up?
Why should I have to give up doing something I enjoy just because some people think there's a 'cut-off point'? Why should there even BE a cut-off point? Detractors will give you a lot of excuses as to why:
They'll tell you it's creepy, they'll tell tales of teen delinquents, they'll claim it's immature.
Well, I am immature. I have ASD. I am emotionally behind my peer group. I don't feel like an adult 90% of the time. A lot of people in their teens and early twenties are in the same boat I am, ASD or no ASD. Childhood is still a fresh memory, and adulthood seems strange. So it's easier to fall back on doing something familiar, doing something you know and love. At least that's how I worked it out in my head.
Regardless of my own excuses, the point is, no one should tell you that you're too old, too young, to fat or thin, too this or that to do what you want. If you love doing something, then do it. No matter how old you are, or what you look like, or if you have a learning disorder, whatever. Do it. Go ahead and do it. Me, I'm going to celebrate Halloween the way I want, no matter what some busybody in McDonald's says, or what's considered socially acceptable.
As Eric Cartman says:
"Whateva, whateva, I do what I want."
Tuesday, October 2, 2012
The Most Wonderful Time of the Year...
Brace yourselves, Halloween is coming. It's going to be a long wonderful month of scary movies on TV, Simpsons Halloween special reruns and Ghost Adventures marathons. The one time of year it's perfectly OK to be obsessed with weird, creepy things. The one month of the year where I'm not a freak.
Well actually, that's not true. Unlike most people, I take this holiday seriously. So seriously, that I overthink it, get too many expectations, and end up having an anxiety attack, thus ruining my night. I've had too many Halloweens end up like this.
Last year could have been better. It also could have been worse. Instead of trick or treating as I'd been doing for most of my life, my Sassy Gay Friend, Kenny and I decided to throw a Halloween party. It was going to be in the barn. We were going to decorate the barn's creepy old loft/attic and have our friends come over. There was going to be food, music and games. We planned on having some beer and Smirnoff Ice, but no hard liquor.
It didn't turn out like that. It snowed a day or two before the big night, prompting Kenny to move the party to his heated bedroom. Most of the people we invited canceled on us, and we decided against the booze, considering the fact that some of the guests were under 21.
I exhausted myself planning the party too. I'd already- wait, why am I telling you this? Do you even give a fuck? Honestly? I mean, who reads this blog? Oh, whatever, anyway...
On cabbage night, I did indeed exhaust myself. I dragged my pumpkin in from the freezing cold to thaw it, only to find that it had begun to decompose. Regardless, I carved it anyway, despite the overpowering stench of rot. Then after giving it a happy face, I covered it in fake blood.
I also spent a good chunk of my evening baking. I made two kinds of cupcake. First I made several batches of what I considered classic Halloween cakes, white cake mix dyed orange, with vanilla frosting dyed black. I used too much black dye however, and the runny mess ended up tasting like vanilla ink. I also made a few batches of 'Totally Hardcore Goth cakes'. Red velvet cupcakes with cream cheese frosting dyed purple. I decorated all the cupcakes with Halloween themed sprinkles.
Then, back aching, hands stained with fake blood and food coloring, I cleaned up and went to bed at 4 in the morning.
The next afternoon, I went to Kenny's house to help him set up the party, and get into my costume. Besides cupcakes and a jack o' lantern, I had the punch bowl and ingredients, more decorations and some party games. And on top of THAT, I had my costume pieces, and overnight gear.
Kenny's Aunt Jean had decorated the porch in high style, complete with a caged skeleton that screamed and shook. Kenny was not to be outdone, for he had decorated the stairs and his room with lights, cobwebs, caution tape and spiders. Everything looked good. The goodie table was laden with candy, Halloween themed jello wigglers, and more. I put the cupcakes on the table. As the evening progressed, I would make the punch.
After putting final touches on the decorations, Kenny and I got ready to put on our costumes. I was going as an evil fairy, he was going as a flapper.
I'm sure you don't give a shit, but first I did my hair. I put it up in a half bun, let curls run down my back. I sprinkled it all in gold glitter, then sprayed it down with hairspray. The makeup took some time. The eye makeup: eyeshadow primer, then a coat of glitter green liquid eyeshadow. I lined my eyes with black liquid liner, putting swirls and streaks down my cheeks. Then black glitter mascara (lot of fucking glitter here) And gold glitter eye creme on my brow bones. After five harrowing minutes, that part was done.I finished up by adding gold glitter to my cheeks, and then putting on black lipstick, followed by a coat of black lip gloss.
Then the dress, a black and green confection, made in stretch velvet, brocaded polyester, and fishnet. The wings, black, glittery, curling. Jewelry followed, and I was finished. It looked good. I felt good. I felt gorgeous. Kenny and I showed off to his aunt. She took pictures. Then she fed us dinner. She makes a kale and sausage soup that will send you into fits of rapture.
Our guests all seemed to be running late, so we helped Aunt Jean give out candy. It was fun. A lot of kids had very creative homemade costumes. One little girl bitched at Kenny for wearing a dress. It was chilly.
Our first guests arrived. Allison, dressed as a vampire. Then Arielle, wearing an upside down sign that said "I am Australian. This is my Costume". Ryan, wearing bloody scrubs.
The party could finally start.
We danced, we ate pizza. We played Apples to Apples. But the air was tense. Ryan and Arielle had broken up, and Arielle was ready to move on, while Ryan wasn't. Things turned miserable after an awkward game of Never Have I Ever. Allison bailed on us, needing to get home in time for curfew. I did a few tarot readings, we played with glowsticks.
The night was over before it really started. The party was a bust. The fighting was part of it, the lack of guests was another.
After Arielle and Ryan both went home, Kenny and I settled in to watch some horror movies. We watched Pet Sematary and Sleepy Hollow. Then we feel asleep.
I don't want Halloween to be a disaster again. I don't want another Halloween filled with awkwardness and tension, the fun fizzling out quickly. No fights. No hurt feelings. That's not what Halloween's about. Halloween is supposed to be about celebrating the veil between worlds, it's about food, drink and costumes. It's about magic, and feeling scared. It's the best day of the year, better than Christmas.
This year, I'm going to relax. I'm going to do what I love, with people close to the shiny red organ I call a heart. I won't promise myself that this year will be fun or perfect. If I do that, then I set myself up with expectations, which will only lead to disappointment. It'll be what it'll be. I'm gonna dress up, get free candy, have some vodka. How that will turn out, is up to fate.
Well actually, that's not true. Unlike most people, I take this holiday seriously. So seriously, that I overthink it, get too many expectations, and end up having an anxiety attack, thus ruining my night. I've had too many Halloweens end up like this.
Last year could have been better. It also could have been worse. Instead of trick or treating as I'd been doing for most of my life, my Sassy Gay Friend, Kenny and I decided to throw a Halloween party. It was going to be in the barn. We were going to decorate the barn's creepy old loft/attic and have our friends come over. There was going to be food, music and games. We planned on having some beer and Smirnoff Ice, but no hard liquor.
It didn't turn out like that. It snowed a day or two before the big night, prompting Kenny to move the party to his heated bedroom. Most of the people we invited canceled on us, and we decided against the booze, considering the fact that some of the guests were under 21.
I exhausted myself planning the party too. I'd already- wait, why am I telling you this? Do you even give a fuck? Honestly? I mean, who reads this blog? Oh, whatever, anyway...
On cabbage night, I did indeed exhaust myself. I dragged my pumpkin in from the freezing cold to thaw it, only to find that it had begun to decompose. Regardless, I carved it anyway, despite the overpowering stench of rot. Then after giving it a happy face, I covered it in fake blood.
I also spent a good chunk of my evening baking. I made two kinds of cupcake. First I made several batches of what I considered classic Halloween cakes, white cake mix dyed orange, with vanilla frosting dyed black. I used too much black dye however, and the runny mess ended up tasting like vanilla ink. I also made a few batches of 'Totally Hardcore Goth cakes'. Red velvet cupcakes with cream cheese frosting dyed purple. I decorated all the cupcakes with Halloween themed sprinkles.
Then, back aching, hands stained with fake blood and food coloring, I cleaned up and went to bed at 4 in the morning.
The next afternoon, I went to Kenny's house to help him set up the party, and get into my costume. Besides cupcakes and a jack o' lantern, I had the punch bowl and ingredients, more decorations and some party games. And on top of THAT, I had my costume pieces, and overnight gear.
Kenny's Aunt Jean had decorated the porch in high style, complete with a caged skeleton that screamed and shook. Kenny was not to be outdone, for he had decorated the stairs and his room with lights, cobwebs, caution tape and spiders. Everything looked good. The goodie table was laden with candy, Halloween themed jello wigglers, and more. I put the cupcakes on the table. As the evening progressed, I would make the punch.
After putting final touches on the decorations, Kenny and I got ready to put on our costumes. I was going as an evil fairy, he was going as a flapper.
I'm sure you don't give a shit, but first I did my hair. I put it up in a half bun, let curls run down my back. I sprinkled it all in gold glitter, then sprayed it down with hairspray. The makeup took some time. The eye makeup: eyeshadow primer, then a coat of glitter green liquid eyeshadow. I lined my eyes with black liquid liner, putting swirls and streaks down my cheeks. Then black glitter mascara (lot of fucking glitter here) And gold glitter eye creme on my brow bones. After five harrowing minutes, that part was done.I finished up by adding gold glitter to my cheeks, and then putting on black lipstick, followed by a coat of black lip gloss.
Then the dress, a black and green confection, made in stretch velvet, brocaded polyester, and fishnet. The wings, black, glittery, curling. Jewelry followed, and I was finished. It looked good. I felt good. I felt gorgeous. Kenny and I showed off to his aunt. She took pictures. Then she fed us dinner. She makes a kale and sausage soup that will send you into fits of rapture.
Our guests all seemed to be running late, so we helped Aunt Jean give out candy. It was fun. A lot of kids had very creative homemade costumes. One little girl bitched at Kenny for wearing a dress. It was chilly.
Our first guests arrived. Allison, dressed as a vampire. Then Arielle, wearing an upside down sign that said "I am Australian. This is my Costume". Ryan, wearing bloody scrubs.
The party could finally start.
We danced, we ate pizza. We played Apples to Apples. But the air was tense. Ryan and Arielle had broken up, and Arielle was ready to move on, while Ryan wasn't. Things turned miserable after an awkward game of Never Have I Ever. Allison bailed on us, needing to get home in time for curfew. I did a few tarot readings, we played with glowsticks.
The night was over before it really started. The party was a bust. The fighting was part of it, the lack of guests was another.
After Arielle and Ryan both went home, Kenny and I settled in to watch some horror movies. We watched Pet Sematary and Sleepy Hollow. Then we feel asleep.
I don't want Halloween to be a disaster again. I don't want another Halloween filled with awkwardness and tension, the fun fizzling out quickly. No fights. No hurt feelings. That's not what Halloween's about. Halloween is supposed to be about celebrating the veil between worlds, it's about food, drink and costumes. It's about magic, and feeling scared. It's the best day of the year, better than Christmas.
This year, I'm going to relax. I'm going to do what I love, with people close to the shiny red organ I call a heart. I won't promise myself that this year will be fun or perfect. If I do that, then I set myself up with expectations, which will only lead to disappointment. It'll be what it'll be. I'm gonna dress up, get free candy, have some vodka. How that will turn out, is up to fate.
Saturday, September 22, 2012
Fifty Shades of Fail
This week, I tried reading the pop culture phenomenon Fifty Shades of Grey. For those of you living under a rock, Fifty Shades is an erotic novel that originally started off as a Twilight fan fiction. Really. I am not joking. This mysterious housewife, named E L James, wrote a long dirty story about Edward and Bella bumping uglies and spanking each other. Some asshole thought that if it weren't a fan fiction, it would sell decently on the sexy fuck stories market. Unfortunately, they were right.
The revamped story now features a plain, clumsy but oddly intriguing young dumbass named Anastasia Steele. Who stupidly signs a contract making her the love slave of a mysterious, sexy CEO named Christian Grey. Sounds hot, right? Apparently some people thinks it's hot.
So why did I hate it so much? Oh, let me count the ways...
1. The prose is atrocious. E L James tries to be descriptive and witty, but just falls flat. It reads like it had been penned by a naive 13 year old girl. Or an uneducated housewife with no writing skills. The characters are bland and predictable. Especially the milk toast protagonist, Ana. Of course she likes to read British literature. Of course she's clumsy. That's the cliche flaw of every boring, helpless heroine these days, thanks to the popularity of the Queen of Klutz, Bella Swan. Of course she's a shy virgin. Oh, and Ana's inner monologue? Redundant. It's always "Holy fuck" or 'Holy Hell" or "Oh my God". She's about as exciting as going to the DMV. You can tell this was originally a Twilight fan fiction, there's a definite lack of smooth transition from dirty internet smut to dirty commercial smut.
2. The sex scenes are hilariously awful. This ties in with the bad prose. E L uses the anatomically correct terms during all of her sex scenes. Penis, vagina, clitoris, pubic hair. She doesn't use any euphemisms or slang terms common in erotica. Using all these clinical terms makes me think of biology class. It's like my old biology teacher is telling us about sex while he's wearing black lace lingerie. That's how unsexy it is.
What's more, is that her scenes are unrealistic. Sex is not usually good the first time. At least it isn't for most people. And very few women actually have orgasm from having their breasts fondled, but not having any genital stimulation. Like I said earlier, it sounds like a naive teenager wrote this. I understand that it's supposed to be fantasy, and maybe if it were written better it wouldn't be so horrendous.
Also the tampon sex scene near the end? No. Just...no. Having a guy yank out your tampon and fuck you is not erotic. It's just creepy.
3. From what I've heard, the relationship between Ana and Grey is inaccurate as far as Dom/Sub relations go. Grey would lead one to think that all doms are controlling, abusive and are this way because mommy didn't love them or some shit. Frankly, FSG makes BDSM look bad. The lifestyle already gets a bad enough rap, why make it worse, E L, why? I don't think the author knows too much about BDSM. Many have pointed out that a lot of the sadomasochistic practices in this book are portrayed in an unsafe manner. Ana is ill-informed of the things she must do, and according to an blog I will post at the end of my entry, ill-cared for in the aftermath. I also get the feeling that most doms and subs leave the commands and the orders in the bedroom. Grey controls every aspect of Ana's life. I am concerned for the idiots who think that FSG is an accurate depiction of the BDSM lifestyle.
4. Like the series it was inspired by, FSG seems to glorify the idea that control equals love. That true love will soothe the hurts of having an asshole partner. It does not. Having been in abusive relationship, I know love conquers shit, and soothes nothing. Grey is abusive. He pretty much brainwashes an innocent girl (though she was bland to begin with, so there's not much to wash away in THAT brain pan.), and makes her his slave both in the bedroom and out. He keeps her like a fucking pet and does not allow her to make her own choices or have any control. She is utterly dependent on him, just as he wants it.
What concerns me is that there will be stupid women who think that these things are OK in a relationship, or that this how BDSM works.
I couldn't even finish this book. I was that disgusted. I tried reading from the beginning. I was bored by the bland prose. I tried reading the sex scenes. I was disgusted, and amused by how badly written they were. All in all, I found Fifty Shades of Grey to be bland, cliche, misogynist drivel. Anyone who thinks it's well-written or sexy needs to get their head checked.
Maybe I wouldn't hate this book so much if it were well-written. If it were well-written, the concept of a naive girl selling herself into erotic slavery would be an interesting read. Especially if, when she leaves Grey at the end (whoopsie, spoiler alert) she stays gone, and doesn't go crawling back to him in the sequel.
But alas, FSG is badly written, cheap smut and Ana's 'Inner Goddess' (she uses this term erroneously in my opinion) is really just an inner doormat, so none of that shit is gonna happen any time soon.
The end. If you disagree with my harsh opinion of a ridiculous attempt at literature, and actually think Fifty Shades of Grey is hot shit, please leave my page and promptly fuck yourself. Probably while pretending you're Ana and your vibrator is Grey. You sick wanker.
The revamped story now features a plain, clumsy but oddly intriguing young dumbass named Anastasia Steele. Who stupidly signs a contract making her the love slave of a mysterious, sexy CEO named Christian Grey. Sounds hot, right? Apparently some people thinks it's hot.
So why did I hate it so much? Oh, let me count the ways...
1. The prose is atrocious. E L James tries to be descriptive and witty, but just falls flat. It reads like it had been penned by a naive 13 year old girl. Or an uneducated housewife with no writing skills. The characters are bland and predictable. Especially the milk toast protagonist, Ana. Of course she likes to read British literature. Of course she's clumsy. That's the cliche flaw of every boring, helpless heroine these days, thanks to the popularity of the Queen of Klutz, Bella Swan. Of course she's a shy virgin. Oh, and Ana's inner monologue? Redundant. It's always "Holy fuck" or 'Holy Hell" or "Oh my God". She's about as exciting as going to the DMV. You can tell this was originally a Twilight fan fiction, there's a definite lack of smooth transition from dirty internet smut to dirty commercial smut.
2. The sex scenes are hilariously awful. This ties in with the bad prose. E L uses the anatomically correct terms during all of her sex scenes. Penis, vagina, clitoris, pubic hair. She doesn't use any euphemisms or slang terms common in erotica. Using all these clinical terms makes me think of biology class. It's like my old biology teacher is telling us about sex while he's wearing black lace lingerie. That's how unsexy it is.
What's more, is that her scenes are unrealistic. Sex is not usually good the first time. At least it isn't for most people. And very few women actually have orgasm from having their breasts fondled, but not having any genital stimulation. Like I said earlier, it sounds like a naive teenager wrote this. I understand that it's supposed to be fantasy, and maybe if it were written better it wouldn't be so horrendous.
Also the tampon sex scene near the end? No. Just...no. Having a guy yank out your tampon and fuck you is not erotic. It's just creepy.
3. From what I've heard, the relationship between Ana and Grey is inaccurate as far as Dom/Sub relations go. Grey would lead one to think that all doms are controlling, abusive and are this way because mommy didn't love them or some shit. Frankly, FSG makes BDSM look bad. The lifestyle already gets a bad enough rap, why make it worse, E L, why? I don't think the author knows too much about BDSM. Many have pointed out that a lot of the sadomasochistic practices in this book are portrayed in an unsafe manner. Ana is ill-informed of the things she must do, and according to an blog I will post at the end of my entry, ill-cared for in the aftermath. I also get the feeling that most doms and subs leave the commands and the orders in the bedroom. Grey controls every aspect of Ana's life. I am concerned for the idiots who think that FSG is an accurate depiction of the BDSM lifestyle.
4. Like the series it was inspired by, FSG seems to glorify the idea that control equals love. That true love will soothe the hurts of having an asshole partner. It does not. Having been in abusive relationship, I know love conquers shit, and soothes nothing. Grey is abusive. He pretty much brainwashes an innocent girl (though she was bland to begin with, so there's not much to wash away in THAT brain pan.), and makes her his slave both in the bedroom and out. He keeps her like a fucking pet and does not allow her to make her own choices or have any control. She is utterly dependent on him, just as he wants it.
What concerns me is that there will be stupid women who think that these things are OK in a relationship, or that this how BDSM works.
I couldn't even finish this book. I was that disgusted. I tried reading from the beginning. I was bored by the bland prose. I tried reading the sex scenes. I was disgusted, and amused by how badly written they were. All in all, I found Fifty Shades of Grey to be bland, cliche, misogynist drivel. Anyone who thinks it's well-written or sexy needs to get their head checked.
Maybe I wouldn't hate this book so much if it were well-written. If it were well-written, the concept of a naive girl selling herself into erotic slavery would be an interesting read. Especially if, when she leaves Grey at the end (whoopsie, spoiler alert) she stays gone, and doesn't go crawling back to him in the sequel.
But alas, FSG is badly written, cheap smut and Ana's 'Inner Goddess' (she uses this term erroneously in my opinion) is really just an inner doormat, so none of that shit is gonna happen any time soon.
The end. If you disagree with my harsh opinion of a ridiculous attempt at literature, and actually think Fifty Shades of Grey is hot shit, please leave my page and promptly fuck yourself. Probably while pretending you're Ana and your vibrator is Grey. You sick wanker.
Saturday, August 11, 2012
"I'll Love You Until You Fuck Up"
When I was 18, I feel in love. Not a crush on a boy at school, or an infatuation with an actor, but what I thought to be true love.
His name was Scott. I met him at Anime Boston. We were both at the rave hosted by the convention, when I spotted him across the room. Our eyes met, and we shared the same shy smile. I wasn't going to approach him though, I was too flustered, too surprised by this beautiful boy dressed as a catboy (Go ahead and laugh. In hindsight it is rather ridiculous). I was saved, though, when my friend Becca went up to him, asked him about the large bell he wore. This gave me the courage to ask him to dance. To my surprise and pleasure, he said yes.
In the flashing, colored lights, Scott was the most beautiful creature I had encountered. He was tall, with a full, sulky mouth, and soulful green eyes. I didn't notice his weak chin, or his large nose. I was too caught up in the moment. He smelled divine, musky and sweet. I never really forgot that smell, though it doesn't mean the same things to me now. It means nothing much, now.
As we danced, I began to feel the stirrings of attraction, of desire. This frightened me, for it had been months since I had felt so strongly about the opposite sex. It reminded me of the intense feelings I had for Robert, a.k.a The One That Got Away.
Just two months before, I had briefly dated a young man named Robert, or as I called him, Robbie. I had never wanted anyone so strongly in my life, and was struck by a wave of lust and puppy love. When he suddenly ended it, I was heartbroken. Devastated.
So here I was, on a dance floor in Boston, having sudden, strong feelings for a man I had only known for fifteen minutes. I panicked, and ran away from him.
But I didn't escape. He followed, and we resumed our dancing, me dropping not-so-subtle hints, he holding my closer and closer. I wanted to kiss him, but was too afraid.
Finally, it was he who took the initiative. I turned my head, and suddenly, his mouth was on mine. It was his first kiss. He was 20, and had never kissed a girl, never had a girlfriend. Like me, he was a virgin.
Even five years later, even after all the bullshit he put me through, remembering our first night together leaves me feeling a strange sort of nostalgia. He seemed a beautiful stranger then, and even now, for the boy he was at Anime Boston, was nothing like the man who would come to bring me four years of misery and hurt. They were two different people.
That night, I made him my boyfriend. It was a rash move, but I was so young, so besotted, how could I have done anything else. It didn't matter that I lived in Vermont and he lived in New Jersey. We spent the con together, inseparable, except for the times when I had to be with Becca and my sister. Around them, I spent the con being peevish, and frustrated. But around Scott, I was all smiles and giggles.
Yet something about him bothered me. From the beginning, I knew something wasn't right. Something in my gut told me that this was wrong. Yet I ignored it. I ignored my gut, and I ignored the warnings from my sister, my friend, and even the over the phone warnings from my mother. I had a new boyfriend. I had a new boyfriend, and I showed him off like new puppy.
When the con was over, and we were separated by state lines, everything changed. He was emotionally and mentally abusive from the get-go, playing head games with me.He was a misogynist, too.
And yet, a couple of weeks into the relationship, I dropped the 'L' bomb. It was very special. We were chatting on Yahoo, while I was on the phone with an Auntie. Another fight was starting between Scott and I, and I played a trump card. I said "If I told you I loved you, how would you feel?". He loved me too.
It was cheap. It was a cheap, dirty way to say I love you. I don't even know if I meant it at the time.
But I did love him. He was the first boyfriend, that I wanted to marry, have a family with.
And yet, we treated each other like shit. I realize now, that I treated him badly, in reaction to how I was being treated. It was automatic. I didn't like being hurt, so I hurt back. At the time, I was also having problems with my mental state. I was being treated for the wrong disorders, with the wrong medications. The whole thing was a disaster.
And I yet, I loved him. Fiercely. I loved him and I trusted him with all my secrets. I reveled in having a boyfriend I could share things with. One night, when were were snuggling in bed together during one of our rare visits, I told him I'd love him forever. His reply? "I'll love you until you fuck up".
Those four years together were hell. Love simply wasn't enough to make it work. Love is never enough.
He was verbally and emotionally abusive. I was scared of him. My heart would race whenever he called. He always made me feel bad and guilty.
The names he used to call me:
-Whore
-Slut
-Bitch
-Dumb Bitch
-Retard
-Cunt
Once, when I wasn't walking fast enough for him, he shoved me. That was the only time he ever laid a hand on me. I however, lost my temper and shoved him once or twice. He brought out the worst in me, the very worst.
We were together for four years, and it was sexually unsatisfying. At least for me. Every time we tried to make love, he'd panic and chicken out, leaving us in virginity limbo. And, he was an inconsiderate lover to boot. If I said 'no' to something, he'd keep asking and begging, wearing down my will and defenses until I finally said yes. I won't go into any further details. I don't want to talk about it. It's too humiliating. I think that was the point. I think he wanted to humiliate me. He hated women.
It wasn't until after we broke up that I found out that wearing down someone's defenses is a form of sexual abuse.
He used to forbid me from talking to friends, accuse me of cheating, threaten to leave me. We'd split and reunite, split and reunite.How did I let him exert all this control over me, despite the distance?
Because I was scared. I was scared of losing him, of getting dumped again.
I made excuses. He was messed up because his parents were abusive. I treated him just as badly, blah blah blah blah blah.
There's too much to talk about. Too many details. As I write I remember more and more. There's not enough room in my mind to share them all. What can I tell you? Some of this stuff is too weird and embarrassing to even think about it. It was a dark time, and it was a dark relationship. Why did I love him? All I can ask myself is why, over and over again. No answers. People do stupid shit when they're in love. Love is a bitch. Fuck love.
As the years passed, my love and desire for him faded. Yet I tried to keep it going for as long as I could, a futile effort. Finally, when he dumped me in a fit of pique right before my birthday, I'd had enough. For two months we negotiated a reunion. But by June, I realized I was done. I'll never know what prompted me to stay gone. The pretty boy from Anime Boston didn't exist, and I was no longer the sweet, shy thing. I was a woman now, a woman who'd finally grown a set of ovaries and had had enough. I was tired of his illogical logic, and blind hatred. I was tired of his paranoid delusions. I was tired of suffering, and making my family suffer. I was tired of hurting him. The best thing was to to leave, and stay gone.
When he'd call, I'd panic. I was afraid if I talked to him, I'd slip right back into the old ways. But I stood strong.
It has been over a year. I have not heard from him, I have not looked him up online. I wonder about him once in a while though. I wonder if he's alive. I wonder if he's moved on.
But I do not love him anymore. I will never love him again. I used to miss some things about him, but not so much anymore. I'm over the romance, but I'm not over the abuse. That'll take a long time. Some people never heal completely.
Once upon a time, I told a boy I would love him forever. But I lied. I only loved him until he fucked up.
His name was Scott. I met him at Anime Boston. We were both at the rave hosted by the convention, when I spotted him across the room. Our eyes met, and we shared the same shy smile. I wasn't going to approach him though, I was too flustered, too surprised by this beautiful boy dressed as a catboy (Go ahead and laugh. In hindsight it is rather ridiculous). I was saved, though, when my friend Becca went up to him, asked him about the large bell he wore. This gave me the courage to ask him to dance. To my surprise and pleasure, he said yes.
In the flashing, colored lights, Scott was the most beautiful creature I had encountered. He was tall, with a full, sulky mouth, and soulful green eyes. I didn't notice his weak chin, or his large nose. I was too caught up in the moment. He smelled divine, musky and sweet. I never really forgot that smell, though it doesn't mean the same things to me now. It means nothing much, now.
As we danced, I began to feel the stirrings of attraction, of desire. This frightened me, for it had been months since I had felt so strongly about the opposite sex. It reminded me of the intense feelings I had for Robert, a.k.a The One That Got Away.
Just two months before, I had briefly dated a young man named Robert, or as I called him, Robbie. I had never wanted anyone so strongly in my life, and was struck by a wave of lust and puppy love. When he suddenly ended it, I was heartbroken. Devastated.
So here I was, on a dance floor in Boston, having sudden, strong feelings for a man I had only known for fifteen minutes. I panicked, and ran away from him.
But I didn't escape. He followed, and we resumed our dancing, me dropping not-so-subtle hints, he holding my closer and closer. I wanted to kiss him, but was too afraid.
Finally, it was he who took the initiative. I turned my head, and suddenly, his mouth was on mine. It was his first kiss. He was 20, and had never kissed a girl, never had a girlfriend. Like me, he was a virgin.
Even five years later, even after all the bullshit he put me through, remembering our first night together leaves me feeling a strange sort of nostalgia. He seemed a beautiful stranger then, and even now, for the boy he was at Anime Boston, was nothing like the man who would come to bring me four years of misery and hurt. They were two different people.
That night, I made him my boyfriend. It was a rash move, but I was so young, so besotted, how could I have done anything else. It didn't matter that I lived in Vermont and he lived in New Jersey. We spent the con together, inseparable, except for the times when I had to be with Becca and my sister. Around them, I spent the con being peevish, and frustrated. But around Scott, I was all smiles and giggles.
Yet something about him bothered me. From the beginning, I knew something wasn't right. Something in my gut told me that this was wrong. Yet I ignored it. I ignored my gut, and I ignored the warnings from my sister, my friend, and even the over the phone warnings from my mother. I had a new boyfriend. I had a new boyfriend, and I showed him off like new puppy.
When the con was over, and we were separated by state lines, everything changed. He was emotionally and mentally abusive from the get-go, playing head games with me.He was a misogynist, too.
And yet, a couple of weeks into the relationship, I dropped the 'L' bomb. It was very special. We were chatting on Yahoo, while I was on the phone with an Auntie. Another fight was starting between Scott and I, and I played a trump card. I said "If I told you I loved you, how would you feel?". He loved me too.
It was cheap. It was a cheap, dirty way to say I love you. I don't even know if I meant it at the time.
But I did love him. He was the first boyfriend, that I wanted to marry, have a family with.
And yet, we treated each other like shit. I realize now, that I treated him badly, in reaction to how I was being treated. It was automatic. I didn't like being hurt, so I hurt back. At the time, I was also having problems with my mental state. I was being treated for the wrong disorders, with the wrong medications. The whole thing was a disaster.
And I yet, I loved him. Fiercely. I loved him and I trusted him with all my secrets. I reveled in having a boyfriend I could share things with. One night, when were were snuggling in bed together during one of our rare visits, I told him I'd love him forever. His reply? "I'll love you until you fuck up".
Those four years together were hell. Love simply wasn't enough to make it work. Love is never enough.
He was verbally and emotionally abusive. I was scared of him. My heart would race whenever he called. He always made me feel bad and guilty.
The names he used to call me:
-Whore
-Slut
-Bitch
-Dumb Bitch
-Retard
-Cunt
Once, when I wasn't walking fast enough for him, he shoved me. That was the only time he ever laid a hand on me. I however, lost my temper and shoved him once or twice. He brought out the worst in me, the very worst.
We were together for four years, and it was sexually unsatisfying. At least for me. Every time we tried to make love, he'd panic and chicken out, leaving us in virginity limbo. And, he was an inconsiderate lover to boot. If I said 'no' to something, he'd keep asking and begging, wearing down my will and defenses until I finally said yes. I won't go into any further details. I don't want to talk about it. It's too humiliating. I think that was the point. I think he wanted to humiliate me. He hated women.
It wasn't until after we broke up that I found out that wearing down someone's defenses is a form of sexual abuse.
He used to forbid me from talking to friends, accuse me of cheating, threaten to leave me. We'd split and reunite, split and reunite.How did I let him exert all this control over me, despite the distance?
Because I was scared. I was scared of losing him, of getting dumped again.
I made excuses. He was messed up because his parents were abusive. I treated him just as badly, blah blah blah blah blah.
There's too much to talk about. Too many details. As I write I remember more and more. There's not enough room in my mind to share them all. What can I tell you? Some of this stuff is too weird and embarrassing to even think about it. It was a dark time, and it was a dark relationship. Why did I love him? All I can ask myself is why, over and over again. No answers. People do stupid shit when they're in love. Love is a bitch. Fuck love.
As the years passed, my love and desire for him faded. Yet I tried to keep it going for as long as I could, a futile effort. Finally, when he dumped me in a fit of pique right before my birthday, I'd had enough. For two months we negotiated a reunion. But by June, I realized I was done. I'll never know what prompted me to stay gone. The pretty boy from Anime Boston didn't exist, and I was no longer the sweet, shy thing. I was a woman now, a woman who'd finally grown a set of ovaries and had had enough. I was tired of his illogical logic, and blind hatred. I was tired of his paranoid delusions. I was tired of suffering, and making my family suffer. I was tired of hurting him. The best thing was to to leave, and stay gone.
When he'd call, I'd panic. I was afraid if I talked to him, I'd slip right back into the old ways. But I stood strong.
It has been over a year. I have not heard from him, I have not looked him up online. I wonder about him once in a while though. I wonder if he's alive. I wonder if he's moved on.
But I do not love him anymore. I will never love him again. I used to miss some things about him, but not so much anymore. I'm over the romance, but I'm not over the abuse. That'll take a long time. Some people never heal completely.
Once upon a time, I told a boy I would love him forever. But I lied. I only loved him until he fucked up.
Friday, June 22, 2012
Cemetery Review #3
Here we are, a third cemetery review. This time, I've got two from Manchester, New Hampshire and one from Alburg, Vermont. Enjoy!
1.Bush Cemetery, Alburg, Vermont
Bush cemetery is a very small cemetery off the highway, outside the small farming town of Alburg, Vermont. It's surrounded by fields, and maybe a farm or two. It is fairly close to the Canadian border, so you often see Border Control cruisers sitting in it's tiny little parking area. It is surrounded by a low iron fence in the front, and a chicken wire fence around the back and the sides.
Despite its size, Bush cemetery is still active, at least it was when I last visited it in 2010. The oldest gravestone I could find was from 1786, so I have reason to believe that it has been active since the late 18th century. Most of the graves date from the 19th century.
Being a small cemetery, you will not find any impressive mausoleums or statuary. The most impressive grave belongs to a young man who died during the Civil War. His pink granite monument, topped with a flag draped urn, is easily the largest stone in the entire cemetery.
There is a good variety of monuments to see. There are some slate monuments from the early 19th century, carved with willows and urns. Some of these very tall. There are plenty of Victorian marble gravestones carved with flowers, wreaths and clasped hands. There are a few family stones, and a good amount of new granite ones.
The cemetery itself is in rather good condition. The grounds are very well kept, but there are a few damaged stones, mostly in the front. Whether this damage is caused by nature or vandalism, I cannot tell.
There are a few graves that stood out to me. One of them is a heart-breaking homemade monument dedicated to a little boy who died before his 2nd birthday. It appears to be made from a bulletin board, and is often decorated with lanterns, balloons, toys and flowers. I noticed a grave from the 1920's painted silver, a group of family graves from the early 19th century, surrounded by very fragrant roses and a grave made of marble and iron. I also saw a family plot where almost all their children, and the father seemed to die at a relatively young age. Of course, I wondered if tuberculosis was involved.
Some of the people buried in Bush cemetery have their photos on display at the town's little Civil War museum in the New England Via Vermont gift shop. It was very interesting seeing the museum, and then going to the cemetery to find their graves.
I don't think Bush cemetery is haunted. While I have had feelings of being watched, I have never outright experienced anything paranormal.
All in all, Bush Cemetery is a very pleasant little place to see if you're interested in cemeteries, Civil War history, and Vermont history. As always, if you choose to visit, please be respectful.
2. Manchester Hebrew Cemetery, Manchester, New Hampshire.
Hebrew cemetery is small, and appears to contains multiple Jewish cemeteries moved onto one plot of land. My reasoning for this theory, is that during my visit, I saw several small small granite plaques bearing the names of different cemeteries. It is still an active cemetery, many beautiful and heartfelt monuments. The oldest stones appear to be from the late 19th century. Some of them are entirely in Hebrew.
The grounds are extremely well kept, and I only saw a few broken stones in the back. When I visited, there were several newly dug graves. The soil is very sandy, unlike Pine Grove. I can't tell you how this affects burial.
There were a lot of monuments with verses from the old testament, loving epitaphs and photos. The best monument I saw was one belonging to an old woman that said: "You are visiting, this is my home. Please do not touch my monument". Getting scolded by a Jewish grandma from beyond the grave!
There were a lot of identical monuments, and a lot of monuments were decorated with stones, which is a Jewish tradition. Some graves even proclaimed that the deceased was a Holocaust survivor.
One interesting thing I noticed was that the walkways were lined with stone plaques bearing the names of important people from the old testament.
The cemetery was did not appear to be haunted. If it was, however, then the spiritual residents did not bother me. If anything, I felt welcome in there, more welcome than I've felt in some Christian cemeteries.
Hebrew cemetery is a very beautiful, interesting cemetery. It tells you a lot about a very ancient, and very wonderful culture, filled with resilience and faith. I can't wait to go back.
3. St. Augustin's Cemetery, Manchester, New Hampshire
This medium sized Catholic cemetery is right next toe Manchester Hebrew. They are separated by a chain link fence. The earliest burials appear to have taken place in the 19th century. It is still active, and like MHC, had recent graves displaying sandy soil.
The cemetery is in great condition. Very few broken or damaged stones, and the grounds are well-maintained.
Most of the graves belong to French Canadian families, though some Irish are interred there. There are a few very large and impressive monuments, with statues and crosses. There are lots of monuments with photos of the deceased and very interesting carvings. There are also a lot of flat iron grave markers in one section of the cemetery. This are all decorated with flowers and lanterns. Some belong to war veterans, and some do not. I am very curious about this part of the cemetery and would like to know more about it.
The creepiest part of St Augustin's was the 'Baby' section. This was a plot of land, in a shady corner, where every single grave belong to a baby or a toddler. Their markers were all tiny little squares of stone, some with carvings some without. Some of the babies were very very young. The creepiest parts of this experience was nearly stepping on a newly dug dead baby grave, belong to an infant who had died very recently. This part of the cemetery was very sad and scary.
This cemetery did not feel haunted. Even though I got a lot of sad feelings in the Baby Section, I did not feel threatened at all in this cemetery.
In conclusion, St. Augustin's is a very interesting cemetery with lots of heartfelt and gorgeous monuments. Some may think that the gold lettering and weeping Jesuses might come off as a little gaudy, but that's all the fun of being French-Canadian.
1.Bush Cemetery, Alburg, Vermont
Bush cemetery is a very small cemetery off the highway, outside the small farming town of Alburg, Vermont. It's surrounded by fields, and maybe a farm or two. It is fairly close to the Canadian border, so you often see Border Control cruisers sitting in it's tiny little parking area. It is surrounded by a low iron fence in the front, and a chicken wire fence around the back and the sides.
Despite its size, Bush cemetery is still active, at least it was when I last visited it in 2010. The oldest gravestone I could find was from 1786, so I have reason to believe that it has been active since the late 18th century. Most of the graves date from the 19th century.
Being a small cemetery, you will not find any impressive mausoleums or statuary. The most impressive grave belongs to a young man who died during the Civil War. His pink granite monument, topped with a flag draped urn, is easily the largest stone in the entire cemetery.
There is a good variety of monuments to see. There are some slate monuments from the early 19th century, carved with willows and urns. Some of these very tall. There are plenty of Victorian marble gravestones carved with flowers, wreaths and clasped hands. There are a few family stones, and a good amount of new granite ones.
The cemetery itself is in rather good condition. The grounds are very well kept, but there are a few damaged stones, mostly in the front. Whether this damage is caused by nature or vandalism, I cannot tell.
There are a few graves that stood out to me. One of them is a heart-breaking homemade monument dedicated to a little boy who died before his 2nd birthday. It appears to be made from a bulletin board, and is often decorated with lanterns, balloons, toys and flowers. I noticed a grave from the 1920's painted silver, a group of family graves from the early 19th century, surrounded by very fragrant roses and a grave made of marble and iron. I also saw a family plot where almost all their children, and the father seemed to die at a relatively young age. Of course, I wondered if tuberculosis was involved.
Some of the people buried in Bush cemetery have their photos on display at the town's little Civil War museum in the New England Via Vermont gift shop. It was very interesting seeing the museum, and then going to the cemetery to find their graves.
I don't think Bush cemetery is haunted. While I have had feelings of being watched, I have never outright experienced anything paranormal.
All in all, Bush Cemetery is a very pleasant little place to see if you're interested in cemeteries, Civil War history, and Vermont history. As always, if you choose to visit, please be respectful.
2. Manchester Hebrew Cemetery, Manchester, New Hampshire.
Hebrew cemetery is small, and appears to contains multiple Jewish cemeteries moved onto one plot of land. My reasoning for this theory, is that during my visit, I saw several small small granite plaques bearing the names of different cemeteries. It is still an active cemetery, many beautiful and heartfelt monuments. The oldest stones appear to be from the late 19th century. Some of them are entirely in Hebrew.
The grounds are extremely well kept, and I only saw a few broken stones in the back. When I visited, there were several newly dug graves. The soil is very sandy, unlike Pine Grove. I can't tell you how this affects burial.
There were a lot of monuments with verses from the old testament, loving epitaphs and photos. The best monument I saw was one belonging to an old woman that said: "You are visiting, this is my home. Please do not touch my monument". Getting scolded by a Jewish grandma from beyond the grave!
There were a lot of identical monuments, and a lot of monuments were decorated with stones, which is a Jewish tradition. Some graves even proclaimed that the deceased was a Holocaust survivor.
One interesting thing I noticed was that the walkways were lined with stone plaques bearing the names of important people from the old testament.
The cemetery was did not appear to be haunted. If it was, however, then the spiritual residents did not bother me. If anything, I felt welcome in there, more welcome than I've felt in some Christian cemeteries.
Hebrew cemetery is a very beautiful, interesting cemetery. It tells you a lot about a very ancient, and very wonderful culture, filled with resilience and faith. I can't wait to go back.
3. St. Augustin's Cemetery, Manchester, New Hampshire
This medium sized Catholic cemetery is right next toe Manchester Hebrew. They are separated by a chain link fence. The earliest burials appear to have taken place in the 19th century. It is still active, and like MHC, had recent graves displaying sandy soil.
The cemetery is in great condition. Very few broken or damaged stones, and the grounds are well-maintained.
Most of the graves belong to French Canadian families, though some Irish are interred there. There are a few very large and impressive monuments, with statues and crosses. There are lots of monuments with photos of the deceased and very interesting carvings. There are also a lot of flat iron grave markers in one section of the cemetery. This are all decorated with flowers and lanterns. Some belong to war veterans, and some do not. I am very curious about this part of the cemetery and would like to know more about it.
The creepiest part of St Augustin's was the 'Baby' section. This was a plot of land, in a shady corner, where every single grave belong to a baby or a toddler. Their markers were all tiny little squares of stone, some with carvings some without. Some of the babies were very very young. The creepiest parts of this experience was nearly stepping on a newly dug dead baby grave, belong to an infant who had died very recently. This part of the cemetery was very sad and scary.
This cemetery did not feel haunted. Even though I got a lot of sad feelings in the Baby Section, I did not feel threatened at all in this cemetery.
In conclusion, St. Augustin's is a very interesting cemetery with lots of heartfelt and gorgeous monuments. Some may think that the gold lettering and weeping Jesuses might come off as a little gaudy, but that's all the fun of being French-Canadian.
Monday, May 28, 2012
Shameful Scars Part 2: The Struggle Continues
Last year, when I wrote about my history of self-harm, I said I was never going to do it again, and I never wanted to do it again. I unintentionally lied. I can't predict the future, so little did I know that I'd scratch myself up again on several occasions. Little did I know that drumming wouldn't cure me completely of this urge to punish and scourge myself. Little did I know.
I did it last night, and I've done it on several occasions in the past year. The reasons stay the same, I'm hurt, and angry and I want to punish myself for being hurt and angry. I want to punish myself for being me. Because in that moment, I hate myself so much, I want to suffer and I want to die. Because in that moment, I finally see what others see, an ugly, awkward weirdo, who is ultimately unloved, and will eventually be abandoned by all her friends.
Maybe in a day or two, these feelings will go away. Maybe by tomorrow I'll feel good and pretty again. But right now, all I can think about is taking my Swiss army knife and carving myself up like a Christmas ham. I feel alone, and I feel unwanted, and I don't even want to say why or how these feelings happened, because I'm afraid if I do everyone will laugh at me. And that maybe if people see this words, they'll think I'm a self-pitying loser, and not a person in pain. Maybe that's the truth. Maybe I am just a self-pitying loser.
Everyone tells me to stop self-harming. As if just scolding me like a bad puppy will make it go away. No one goes to an alcoholic, and just says "Stop drinking, bad lush! Bad!".
Just telling me to stop, or telling me how bad it is isn't going to cure me. Therapy and medications only do so much. The Drum? Who cares? Nobody takes it seriously, nobody takes what I do seriously. So I can sing a couple of pretty Native American songs? In this society, I'm not doing anything meaningful. I'm just trying to keep a dying culture alive.
So here it is. No optimism. I'm a cutter, and I'll always be a cutter. There's no fucking magic spell I can wave that'll make all my pain and problems go away. I don't know why I keep forgetting that.
I did it last night, and I've done it on several occasions in the past year. The reasons stay the same, I'm hurt, and angry and I want to punish myself for being hurt and angry. I want to punish myself for being me. Because in that moment, I hate myself so much, I want to suffer and I want to die. Because in that moment, I finally see what others see, an ugly, awkward weirdo, who is ultimately unloved, and will eventually be abandoned by all her friends.
Maybe in a day or two, these feelings will go away. Maybe by tomorrow I'll feel good and pretty again. But right now, all I can think about is taking my Swiss army knife and carving myself up like a Christmas ham. I feel alone, and I feel unwanted, and I don't even want to say why or how these feelings happened, because I'm afraid if I do everyone will laugh at me. And that maybe if people see this words, they'll think I'm a self-pitying loser, and not a person in pain. Maybe that's the truth. Maybe I am just a self-pitying loser.
Everyone tells me to stop self-harming. As if just scolding me like a bad puppy will make it go away. No one goes to an alcoholic, and just says "Stop drinking, bad lush! Bad!".
Just telling me to stop, or telling me how bad it is isn't going to cure me. Therapy and medications only do so much. The Drum? Who cares? Nobody takes it seriously, nobody takes what I do seriously. So I can sing a couple of pretty Native American songs? In this society, I'm not doing anything meaningful. I'm just trying to keep a dying culture alive.
So here it is. No optimism. I'm a cutter, and I'll always be a cutter. There's no fucking magic spell I can wave that'll make all my pain and problems go away. I don't know why I keep forgetting that.
Sunday, May 27, 2012
Continuation of memoirs?
One spring three years ago, I found myself in a nostalgic mood for a school trip I had been on the year before. I decided the best way to express these feelings on this blog, by writing an account of the trip the band and choir took to Hershey Park. I had only meant it to be one post, but, I decided, in the interest of capturing every detail, to space out the story into parts. It took me a little while to write this, but I did it. And I thought that would be the end of it. I thought there wouldn't be anymore memoirs.
But as usual, I was wrong. That summer, after deciding to make a trip to The Great Escape with a friend, I began to feel pangs of nostalgia. This time, these feelings were directed towards my very first visit to The Great Escape, exactly ten years before. So, I decided to write about that, and with that informed my scant amount of followers that these 'little memoirs' would occur occasionally.
Again, I was wrong. I'd already decided to write about my trip with Acacia, not long after the adventure was over. This endeavor took me much longer to complete than either of the first two memoirs. It became self-indulgent, extravagant and florid with pointless details.
After 'The Adventures of Fox and Squirrel' was finished, I was bored. I was still ripe with nostalgia, but couldn't think of any other 'adventures' to write about. So I started excessively editing all three of this ridiculous 'memoirs', fixing mistakes, adding things, taking them out and rewording things to make them easier to understand. It took me some time, but I had fun doing it. But still, the feelings of nostalgia persisted.
When I found out that my Aunt Jenny was having her vows renewed, and the day before the ceremony my Uncle Russel would be taking me to the Great Escape. I already knew that I would be blogging not only about my excursion to the amusement park, but about the entire weekend. In a moment of madness, I decided that each day of that weekend would be a separate memoir unto itself. Friday would cover the trip there, Saturday would cover my trip to the Greats Escape, and Sunday would cover the Vow Renewal ceremony. I had intended to make a fourth 'volume' to cover the ride home, but decided that would be a step too much.
I write the first volume and the second volume with little trouble. But by the time I got to writing about Sunday, my interest in writing memoirs had suddenly flagged. I tried, but only got two entries in. Then I gave up on writing memoirs, in favor of better writing ideas. I still wanted to finish the Sunday Volume though, and refused to start another one of these accursed self-indulgent blogs until I had finished it. But frankly I don't want to finish it, it seems irrelevant now.
But I beg to ask this question. Do I want to write another memoir in the future? I'm going to Canobie Lake park this year, do I want to cover that? And why do I only write about amusement parks? And furthermore, will deciding to write about this upcoming trip taint the fun by giving me high expectations. Will it make any fun I have less genuine?
I still have to think about this. But for now, my xanax is kicking in and I need to sleep.
But as usual, I was wrong. That summer, after deciding to make a trip to The Great Escape with a friend, I began to feel pangs of nostalgia. This time, these feelings were directed towards my very first visit to The Great Escape, exactly ten years before. So, I decided to write about that, and with that informed my scant amount of followers that these 'little memoirs' would occur occasionally.
Again, I was wrong. I'd already decided to write about my trip with Acacia, not long after the adventure was over. This endeavor took me much longer to complete than either of the first two memoirs. It became self-indulgent, extravagant and florid with pointless details.
After 'The Adventures of Fox and Squirrel' was finished, I was bored. I was still ripe with nostalgia, but couldn't think of any other 'adventures' to write about. So I started excessively editing all three of this ridiculous 'memoirs', fixing mistakes, adding things, taking them out and rewording things to make them easier to understand. It took me some time, but I had fun doing it. But still, the feelings of nostalgia persisted.
When I found out that my Aunt Jenny was having her vows renewed, and the day before the ceremony my Uncle Russel would be taking me to the Great Escape. I already knew that I would be blogging not only about my excursion to the amusement park, but about the entire weekend. In a moment of madness, I decided that each day of that weekend would be a separate memoir unto itself. Friday would cover the trip there, Saturday would cover my trip to the Greats Escape, and Sunday would cover the Vow Renewal ceremony. I had intended to make a fourth 'volume' to cover the ride home, but decided that would be a step too much.
I write the first volume and the second volume with little trouble. But by the time I got to writing about Sunday, my interest in writing memoirs had suddenly flagged. I tried, but only got two entries in. Then I gave up on writing memoirs, in favor of better writing ideas. I still wanted to finish the Sunday Volume though, and refused to start another one of these accursed self-indulgent blogs until I had finished it. But frankly I don't want to finish it, it seems irrelevant now.
But I beg to ask this question. Do I want to write another memoir in the future? I'm going to Canobie Lake park this year, do I want to cover that? And why do I only write about amusement parks? And furthermore, will deciding to write about this upcoming trip taint the fun by giving me high expectations. Will it make any fun I have less genuine?
I still have to think about this. But for now, my xanax is kicking in and I need to sleep.
Saturday, May 26, 2012
Dickhats, Angsty Poetry, Jesu Complex, what what?
So here we are. I haven't posted here in months. Between recovering from surgery, moving, getting mugged and all the general stress that life brings, I've been just a wee bit busy. Nor have I been in much of a mood to write, and what I do write, is either angst-ridden poetry, or stuff I'm saving for The Book I Want Published.
So what am I thinking about? What am I reading? What am I going to do with this tiny corner of the internet that no one seems to notice?
Fuck if I know. It irritates me, that pretentious dickhats like my ex-boyfriend get all these followers, when all he does is talk utter nonsense about liberal politics. Frankly, hyper-focusing on politics is a little bit irritating. It's like, OK, Bryan, we get it, you think Republicans are basically Nazis, and that Obama has no balls, and that bunch of hipsters in the street with signs are going to change America. OK 'Neo', we get it. You're a victim in this dystopian nightmare known as America.You're going to save us all, in your magical leather trench coat and uber hip sunglasses, but we're all stupid sheeple who reject our savior. Huh, that sounds awfully familiar. Getting a bit of a Jesus Complex? 'Cause if you're Jesus, then I'm White Buffalo Woman.
Dude, call me when you drum at the JFK Library in Boston, and you're in their archives as a Native American Drummer. Call me when you've written a song to sing with the drum (you don't play the drum, it is a living entity, the heartbeat of the people) and that you're going to be singing it at powwows and it'll be on Voice of United Spirit's next album.
I'm too distracted to really write about anything else, so meh. My next entry will be about whether or not I choose to continue writing 'personal memoirs' on this blog. I'm sure you're all so excited you could piss your pants.
So what am I thinking about? What am I reading? What am I going to do with this tiny corner of the internet that no one seems to notice?
Fuck if I know. It irritates me, that pretentious dickhats like my ex-boyfriend get all these followers, when all he does is talk utter nonsense about liberal politics. Frankly, hyper-focusing on politics is a little bit irritating. It's like, OK, Bryan, we get it, you think Republicans are basically Nazis, and that Obama has no balls, and that bunch of hipsters in the street with signs are going to change America. OK 'Neo', we get it. You're a victim in this dystopian nightmare known as America.You're going to save us all, in your magical leather trench coat and uber hip sunglasses, but we're all stupid sheeple who reject our savior. Huh, that sounds awfully familiar. Getting a bit of a Jesus Complex? 'Cause if you're Jesus, then I'm White Buffalo Woman.
Dude, call me when you drum at the JFK Library in Boston, and you're in their archives as a Native American Drummer. Call me when you've written a song to sing with the drum (you don't play the drum, it is a living entity, the heartbeat of the people) and that you're going to be singing it at powwows and it'll be on Voice of United Spirit's next album.
I'm too distracted to really write about anything else, so meh. My next entry will be about whether or not I choose to continue writing 'personal memoirs' on this blog. I'm sure you're all so excited you could piss your pants.
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