I write pretty much the same way I speak. Not only do my speech patterns show up in my blogging, but so does my attitude towards life. Positivism is my greatest tool for survival. Okay, yes, I’m guilty of being tempted to get on WordPress and bitch and complain about things. But I don’t do it in real life unless someone specifically asks me my opinion on something (the weather may just be the exception to that rule), and I don’t like doing it here.
Thing is, we can all be different people online than we are in real life. Not only can we appear to be who we’re not, we can put forth a persona for ourselves that masks our true feelings. I reserve the ‘who I’m not’ part of my personality for my fiction – in most cases. There’s a certain part of me that thrills in writing horrible villains, which I’m not in real life.
Is it worth asking you all if who you write on your blog is who you are? Would you admit it if you weren’t? What I’d really like to know though, is whether or not you’ve ever analysed the content of your posts to see if it reflects your true self.
In light of recent events, most of which include having my mother live with me for more than a week while she waits for her room in the retirement home to be ready, I’ve been thinking about the saying: “Be nice to your kids – they may be looking after you one day.” And the conclusion I’ve come to is, depending on your nature, chances are it’s not going to matter whether or not they were nice to you. You’ll probably do it anyway.
I moved out of my mother’s home at the tender age of sixteen because I couldn’t stand living with her anymore. We’ve never been what you could call friends – she’s of the old school way of thinking that she’s not my friend, she’s my mother. She said so many times when I was a kid. In more recent times, when she has come to stay with me and the kids it’s been hell – she can’t communicate with Alex and he takes advantage of the fact that she can’t effectively explain to him why he shouldn’t do the annoying things he does: he laughs at her when she’s angry. I, usually, end up breaking up the fight as I might between two siblings.
And yet despite all this, I find myself calm now. I have more patience than I’ve ever had. She’s going through a transition in her life that is probably irreversible – going from living alone for the past 30 years, on and off, to going into a place that is scary in that it’s an unknown entity.
It’s funny the things I’ve found myself being able to handle when put to the test. Whether or not my mother and I have ever been able to get along, let alone live together, is put aside – it’s become irrelevant. The more difficult and challenging things get, the more I’m able to cope with. I just take it one step at a time.
I would wish what I’m going through right now on anyone – and yet I wouldn’t. Yes, it’s hard. But it’s teaching me something – that whatever I may have to deal with, my nature will allow me to deal.
Still, it doesn’t hurt to be nice to your kids. And while you’re at it, help them to discover their true nature.
Most of us have jobs. Some of us have careers. We all have bad days. You know bad days, right? The sort where you stub your toes on anything available that doesn’t move; your hair won’t do what you want it to; you put your shirt on inside out and don’t realize it until you hear the guy in the next cubicle who you hate with a passion, sniggering… One of those days.
I was cruising around Facebook, wondering what in the world I could write about today, and I came across a picture which has no relevance to this post other than that it inspired me to think: would I want to go to the dentist when he’s having a bad day? The answer, still in my head, was a resounding NO. If you’re wondering, yes, it did resound, and yes, just imagining the idea of a sadistic dentist hurt me in ways that my imagination should not be allowed to hurt me.
Then I pondered other professionals with whom I would not want to deal on their baddest days: a mechanic, a chef, a radiologist whose job was to perform a breast x-ray, a journalist doing an interview… the list goes on.
All this led me to wonder if there’s a good job to be doing on a bad day. I suppose if the job is solitary, there’s only oneself to harm. But even as a writer – a job that can’t get any more solitary – I abuse the hell out of my characters.
So, what do you think? Is there a professional you would feel safe with if they’re having a bad day? Can you think of anyone worse than a dentist?
Davey Jones: (with an Indian accent so thick, I could barely understand him) Is this Ms. Hill?
Me: (with my usual response) No I’m sorry, she’s not here right now. Can I take a message?
DJ: Are you a family member?
Me: Yes.
DJ: My name is Davey Jones and I’m calling from Windows operating system about your computer.
Me: I don’t have a computer.
DJ: Oh… well maybe you have a laptop?
Me: (looking at two laptops on the table) I don’t have a laptop either.
DJ: Oh… well maybe you have a PC?
Me: I don’t have a computer at all.
DJ: How old are you?
Me: That’s none of your business.
DJ: Are you a virgin?
Me: (hangs up, laughs out loud)
The phone number he called from is 607-723-1168. If you see this number on your call display, and you’re speaking to Davey Jones, please please please! tell him to fuck off on my behalf.
Someone, not that long ago, asked me what the difference is between blogging and journaling. I had to think about it. I love blogging because it allows me to put in black and white my thoughts, my feelings. I can show you (my followers) what I see, both by description and in pictures. I can share as much or as little of my life as I wish.
It’s like having a box – a full box – that only I can peek into. I can release the contents of my box or I can keep them hidden. There are things in my box which I will never tell – that’s one of the drawbacks of using my real name. But if I was to go undercover of a pseudonym, would I share then? Maybe. Maybe not. Sometimes I think about saying a certain thing and I’ll even sometimes type it. But then I’ll see it in the preview and I’ll cringe, or I’ll just shake my head and go back to remove it.
I think that’s the difference between blogging and journaling. If I was writing a journal I might leave it all in. All the dirt, the stuff that makes me red in the face and the things that I don’t want my friends and family to read. Whether it’s personal to me or personal to them, I don’t want them to know everything I’m thinking. Who would?
I also love my audience. Not necessarily because I want to be read, but because I enjoy the interaction. I don’t blog for likes (I know I’ve mentioned this before, but this is stream of consciousness – shoot me), I blog for our shared experience. I write to know I’m not alone and to let others know they’re not alone in our experiences of life.
We’ve all felt cold, we’ve all known pain, whether it be physical or emotional – we all know what water tastes like. Can we explain it all? No. But if enough words go out there, maybe, just maybe, a sentence or two will connect with us, and so we can say to one another: Yes! That’s exactly it!
That’s the best feeling of all.
I’m glad I blog. I have a journal as well on LiveJournal, which only about three people read. It’s also fun. It’s more personal – but I don’t have to worry about anyone I know coming across it.
I love my followers here. I wouldn’t give them up – not even for a journal.
P.S. I’m not online today, but I’ll answer all your comments when I come back tomorrow night.
I’ll be off in a couple of hours to take my mother home and spend the weekend there with her. She doesn’t have internet, so my status will be set to “offline” for the weekend. If there’s time I’ll write a post to schedule. If not, I’ll see you all Sunday night.
Take care everyone!
Oh, and here’s a pretty picture of my deck from two days ago. The two feet of snow looked like foam – it certainly kept it’s own shape!
I didn’t want to go to bed tonight without saying at least a broad thank you for all the congratulations on my blogaversary, and to all those who visited my fiction site and read the first installment of my story. I’ll be back tomorrow to say thank you in person… yes, I will be knocking at your door. 😉
I’ve been away from the computer today because I was busy retrieving my mother from hospital after a five day stay with pneumonia. Trust me, pneumonia is not a nice thing to stay with. After that, I had to drag 124 newspapers through the snowbanks around my neighbourhood to get them delivered. The good news is (apart from my mum being well enough to come home) I got a picture of the same old house I posted a photo of last week, but at night.
When I came across this statement (above) on Facebook it made me think. And then it made me think some more.
My first reaction was to recognize that I say this all the time: Everything happens for a reason. And while I do believe somewhere deep inside that it does, I believe even more the two word statement, everything happens. The other saying I often use is, Shit happens and there’s nothing anybody can do about it, which is probably the more accurate of the two. I don’t say it often to anyone but myself however, since it’s not very consoling.
Saying everything happens for a reason is a way to make me feel like I’m in control of a situation I have no control over. By considering what happened, whatever it is, and going through everything that happened as a result can be comforting, especially if the results were in some way positive. And let’s face it – you can always find something positive in something awful if you look hard enough. While it may not make up for the bad thing that happened, it’s better than nothing.
I have to realize, in the end, that there are things that are beyond my control. Whether I look for the good in them or not, they happen. Am I lying to someone when I console them with the statement above? I don’t think so, not if I can help them to find a glimmer where there would otherwise be a lack of hope.
Whether or not everything happens for a reason, you can decide for yourself. But to me it seems that simply saying “Everything happens,” is freeing. It takes the burden away of trying to control that which is out of my hands.
I’ll still look for silver linings, and I probably still won’t be telling people that shit happens and there’s nothing they can do about it. But I’ll be thinking it, now more than ever.
1. It’s never too late to join in, since the “Jot it” part of JusJoJan means that anything you jot down, anywhere (it doesn’t have to be a post) counts as a “Jot.” If it makes it to WordPress that day, great! If it waits a week to get from the sticky note to your screen, no problem!
2. If you write a JusJoJan post on your blog, you can ping it back to the above link to make sure everyone participating knows where to find it.
3. Write anything!
4. Have fun!
It must be incredibly frustrating to lose one’s memory. We’ve all been there. It’s like when you’re having a pleasant conversation with a friend and something happens to distract you, and when you turn back to continue talking, you can’t remember what you were discussing.
For my mother, at almost 84 years of age, it’s gone far beyond. It started with the memory, then progressed to logic. For instance, last weekend I came down the stairs to find her trying to drag Alex into the next room by the hand. When I asked her what she was doing, she said he’d been bugging the hell out of her, screaming in her ear but now she was trying to get him into the next room to hook him up to his feeding pump.
“It doesn’t matter what I do,” she said. “I try ignoring him, but whenever I walk away he follows me.”
“So, why are you trying to drag him?” I asked.
“Because when I ask him, he won’t come with me,” she answered. “He won’t do anything I ask him.”
“So just walk away… he’ll follow you…”
I waited for her to get it, but she didn’t–not even when she walked into the room where his feeding pump was, and he followed her.
Most of the time, all I can do is roll my eyes.
Now, however, she’s in the hospital with pneumonia. They’re talking about letting her out on Wednesday, but her memory has begun to get so bad that she can’t remember what day it is. Not a good combination when she has meds to take.
I’m going to have to seriously start looking into retirement homes, before I end up in the hospital, sick with stress. That I’m going to have to figure out a way to look after her is precisely why I wanted to have more than one child: I didn’t expect two of them would probably never be independent, let alone unable to help with my care when I get to my mother’s age. Government and community run home care is going to be an even worse state than it is now; I’m at the tail end of the baby boom, and resources and funds will surely be depleted.
Now, where was I? Oh yes. Memory. If I leave my mother on her own I’m afraid she’ll under- or over-medicate herself. Just last weekend, she forgot it was still Saturday and she took Sunday’s pills as well. She needs supervision. There’s no way Alex would let her get a moment’s rest here – so what do I do? I’m only one person. I can ask my friend, John, to help out, but he has a life and a job. I need a babysitter for my mother.
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