Something or another

I have spent so much time worrying over what other people might think of me and not enough time thinking about what I think of me. That sounds confusing, but in reality it is nothing more than a people pleasing, low self worth type of behavior. What makes this hard is actually seeing what needs to change and having a difficult time putting to use all the good information that I have been given.

The other night at my writers group meeting, one of my stories was critiqued. It was received well, at least I think it was, and I got a lot of new information and leads to help me with it.  Yet today as I sit down to write, actually having uninterupted time, I burrow myself into a hole of self pity. It makes me disgusted to have it happen, I can see it happening. I know what I am doing and for some sick reason cannot stop it once the wheels have begun to move. I look over what others noted on the pages of my story and wonder if they just said the things they did to be nice and not crush my feelings. I begin to doubt my abilities.  The disgusted feeling is replaced with embarrasment, wondering how in the hell I will ever face these people again. They must think I am an idiot for even thinking that I can write. The feeling then moves on to anger and depression. Realizing that I have dug myself into a hole and not doing anything to stop it.  Then begins the crawling and digging out of the balck hole I so stupidly put myself in. I read and re-read what I have written. Praising myself for the superb descriptions and fairly adequate dialogue. I work my way out, and now I find myself without any creative spark. Nothing is there, not a damn thing to add to the story. A complete and total writer’s block. So, I write here. Spilling out my frustrations. Writing so fast that my fingers are actually keeping up with my mind.  I begin to feel better. Wondering if I will save this or actually post it for others to read. Then I remember I had long ago decided that I would not just save things like this… but post them.  And hopefully someday use the advice that I am bound to get.

 

Coals and Nails

Here is another addition to my book about me….

Something I never was able to realize was that farms and bare feet just don’t mix. There are two instances that I will never forget.

Before we had moved much of our furniture into the house, we lived in a tent in the back yard. It was kind of fun.  We had only been there 2 maybe 3 days and exploring was going to take years, so every morning as soon as it was light we were off on some adventure.  I was playing in front of the shop/garage building where the steps were pretty rickety and unsafe. I don’t remember details before the event, but somehow I managed to step on a nail. I do remember wanting to scream, but nothing would come out of my mouth but little whimpers.  Not really knowing what to do, I yanked the stupid nail out of my foot and watched the blood ooze out. It had gone in pretty deep, I could tell from the red tinge on the nail. It must have been centimeters away from sticking out of the top of my foot. Realizing that I needed help, I hobbled my way into the house where mom was.  She immediately saw something was wrong and helped me to the lawn chair that was in the middle of the dining room. I layed back on the chair as she cleaned my foot and held some paper towels on it to stop the bleeding. After a few minutes she told me to rest my foot on the towels to put pressure on with the weight of my foot. I wearily complied and tried to wish the pain away. Somewhere in my delirous haze, I heard her asking to speak with Dr. Bradley’s nurse. “Oh, no. No, no no no nono.” Was all I could think.  She tells the nurse what had happened, then is obviously listening to what the nurse is saying before answering with “Yes, I already did that.” “No, it did not go through the foot.” ” Yes, the bleeding has stopped.” “Does she need a tetanus shot?” That was all I needed to hear. I flew off that lawn chair and hopped to the door as fast as my wounded foot would let me. No way was I going to get a shot. I hated them. No, I was scared witless of them. There was nothing you could say or do that would change my mind. They were evil, as were doctors. Mom caught me as I went falling out the back door. “You had one last year when you stepped on the saftey pin in the park, you don’t need another one for 9 years. Now come back inside and let me bandage it up.” That was the best news I had ever heard. Releif poured through me as I let her help me back into the chair, where I spent the remainder of the day being pampered.

The farm my parents had bought needed a lot of work. Every where there was scrap wood, metal and junk. The trees surrounding it were in a sad state of neglect. Broken branches littered the ground and hung precariously from high limbs. Dad would pile them up to dry out for burning later. One of the first times he actually lit a pile on fire I was hooked. The whoosh of the fire as it engulfed the wood coated in gasoline was captivating. I couldn’t take my eyes off it.  From that moment on I was addicted, a pyromaniac. Sort of.  I loved watching the fire slowly burn each twig and branch into nothing but hot, red coals. It was fantastic. Walking around it to see all the fire, I didn’t even think about the flaming chunks of wood that popped out of the fire to land in my path. I stepped on one of those hot coals, burning more that half my foot. It is a bit hazy to me what happened next. What I do remember is hopping back to the house and going up to my room, stopping by the kitchen for some ice first. I sat up there watching the blister form wondering how the heck I was ever going to walk again. I don’t know if I ever told mom and dad. How I managed that, I don’t know. What I do remember is that I never walked barefoot around a fire again.

Coyote Hunting

 I have been considering writing a book about my escapades as a child.  When my sister brought it up to me the other day I decided to give it a go. Here is one that I think has to go in. Let me know what you think…

My brother and his friends liked to hang out in one of the outbuildings on our farm that we called the grainery. He had moved all kinds of things in there to make it comfortable and was known to sleep in there once and a while. I secretly thought he was nuts because there were spiders and all kinds of icky bugs in there. God forbid I actually say that though, because I cannot tell anyone that I am afraid. That would make them think less of me. Anyways, one night, my younger sister and I were bored and thought we might go out there and pester him. Since he was the youngest, we felt it was necessary to annoy him on as many occasions as we could. It was just the rules.  So, armed with a flashlight, sodas and my pack of cigarettes, out we go. Walking out through the small corrall area our ears are assaulted with loud music, I think it was Metallica. Every hole in the building had a stream of light pouring out of it. Since the building was old, there were quite a few and as we got closer we no longer needed the flashlight we had brought with us.  We opened the door and climbed in finding a spot on one of the couches to have a seat. My brother continues with the insane story he was telling his friend Stephen. We listen to this story, amazed at our brothers ability to weave a tale. We knew it was untrue, but said nothing. He reaches behind one of the couches and picks up a machete that had been on the floor. One edge of it is red coated, and he swears it is from the coyote that he killed the other night. My sister and I secretly wet ourselves with laughter, knowing he was full of crap. We had seen a can of red spray paint behind the garage. The tale grows and continues to get even wilder by the minute. We look at eachother and decide to blow a hole in his little ego trip. After telling him we saw the stupid can of spray paint and that he is full of shit, he says ‘I used the spray paint for something else. This is really blood.’ We laugh at him some more and tell him that there is no way he even got close enough to the damn coyotes to hack at them with a machete. Even if he did manage to smack one, we were sure that it would either hightail it out of there or attack him in self defense. If it were to attack him, there was no way he would have a chance. Knowing that we were right, but not being anywhere near admitting he had lied, said “Fine, if you don’t believe me come with us in about an hour and you’ll see.” We agreed, wondering what kind of prank he was going to try to pull to scare us.  After an hour of drinking sodas, smoking almost all my cigarettes and a lot of teasing my brother and Stephen it is time to go. We grab our flashlight and walk out to the cornfield that almost surrounds our house.  My sister and I walk out about 75 to 100 feet and call it good enough. Neither one of us is too thrilled about being in the cornfield at midnight.  My brother and Stephen go out a little further, telling us we have to go out further if we want to see one. Secretly, neither one of us wants to see one, but we stick it out, wanting to prove our brother wrong.  After standing there for less than five minutes we begin to hear the yipping and barking of coyotes. Keep in mind, I am petrified of coyotes and no one really knew that at the time.  My sister begins to whip the flashlight around, the thin beam of light illuminating the stalks of corn. The boys shout some obscenity and then laugh. Sounds of cornstalks breaking and rustling seems way too close to be the boys, we were sure they had gone much further out. Just then the already dim flashlight decides to give out, leaving us in the middle of a freaking cornfield with our lunatic bother, Stephen and a pack of coyotes.  “Shit, oh shit.” Is all that seems to come out of my mouth. My sister on the other hand is cursing the flashlight with a string of expletives all beginning with the letter F. She could write pages on the uses of the F word.  We hear our brother and Stephen shouting, and they are pretty far away from us. Wondering what they are doing but not having the guts to go find out left us just standing in one place hoping that the flshlight would turn back on in a minute. Something runs by us a couple of rows away. We knew it wasn’t the boys, they are still shouting at least fifty yards away. Three more times something came by us. It was close enough that its movement made leaves sway and touch us. Five minutes later the boys come tromping through the rows. They were all excited. One of them had gotten close enough to a coyote to smack it with a machete. The damn thing was so dull it probably just scared the shit out of the coyote, making it run in our direction not even noticing my sister and I standing there ready to wet ourselves. In all the excitement our brother manages to make the mistake of saying that it was the closest he had ever gotten to one. We pounced. “Ha, If that was the closest you ever got, how could you have bloodied your blade last time!” He ignored us, still pumped up from his close encounter. Deciding we had still proved him wrong, we called it a night. Wanting nothing more than to go back to the house and close the very solid front door behind us.

Fear, does it really make you weak?

I told somone today that fear can make you weak. Now I am wondering if I really believe that. People that know me would probably not realize I have fears that are unexplainable. For someone that likes to think of herself as a very grounded yet optimistic person, I can’t seem to rationalize or justify my fears. After telling this person that, I thought about my own fears.  When I realized I have a LOT of them, I was disgusted. What is the reasoning behind that feeling, being disgusted? Fear is natural, maybe even instictual. But when it can stop you from doing things, what then?  When is it considered irrational behavior.  Or when is my reaction to having fears unjustified. Talking with my husband, I find that there are a quite a few things that I do that aren’t really normal. My fear of displeasing some one is over the top. When I thought about it more, with a few examples from him, I realized that I go out of my way to make sure that everyone is happy with me. And I try to make sure everyone is happy with themselves as well.  it is such a deep part of me that I will think about other people when I make decisions. I know where it comes from. I didn’t want to make my father upset with me. So, even knowing where the fear started, I continue in my ways. So ingrained in my daily life I rarely remember to take time for myself.

Then there are the ’stupid’ fears. Such as wild animals. Yes, I am serious. Me, the one that loves camping, hunting and hiking, I am petrified while in the forest. I can’t explain it, it’s just there. I rarely get a good nights sleep while camping, because I lie there all night long listening to the sounds outside my tent. “Oh, crap. That really close. What the heck was that?” “Is that something breathing?” It goes on and on and on.  While up hunting I watch the scenery for Elk, and find myself a little freaked out when a coyote runs out into the meadow. It’s a freaking coyote, for goodness sake.  And if it got any closer I would be scared stiff, unable to move. Even 100 yards away I am trembling and secretly pleading, “oh please don’t come any closer….” Lame, that’s all I can say about it.  Yeah, I know the saying… ‘They are more scared of you than you are of them…” Bull crap! Read my next post about ‘coyote hunting’ and you’ll find that I am more scared of them.