Random Blips of Light on the Radar of Life

As I briefly visited a couple of resale second hand shops, I still had the Neiman Marcus "score feel"  today.  I am looking at so many Theodore Birkel-related albums on vinyl, I might as well be a 'psychic medium' or distant relative.  Seriously.  I have SIXTEEN Yiddish/Hebrew/Israeli vinyl LP albums that I found today.

I could not be happier.  Really.  These are treasures beyond treasures.  In the past I'd bought a bluetooth capable turntable.  I realized today just how crucial that piece of equipment  is.  And I joyfully loaded up each pristine vinyl LP -- even with the tinny scratch and hiss. Pure bliss.

No.  You won't change my mind.  I'm happy. I have SIXTEEN Yiddish/Hebrew/Israeli albums.

I will be busy.  I also will insult anyone who has anti-semitic responses -- because I'm a righteous bit*h.

'k?  Thx bye.

There was no way to communicate to the 'two old fur dudes' that there would be a resident intruder.  I also didn't make any drastic environment changes other than getting the traditional apple head his own fuzzy house about a week beforehand.  

When I brought the little guy in after a long drive back, I was met with angry adult males.  They were full on butthurt betrayed for a period of about twenty-four hours.  Then, they quickly adapted to the fact this little ball of chaos wasn't leaving any time soon.

Realistically the older two are pacifists who really don't care to be snuggly with each other.  They have incredibly healthy bed boundaries and won't cross each others' invisible lines.  Only on rare occasions do they go on a brotherly fight... and if you've never seen Siamese play fight over personal space it is quite hilarious.  Most will slow motion shadow box never coming close to tagging the other feline.

But wouldn't it be nice if... we hissed?  There's really no need for any words.  A hiss describes an entire range of emotions.  I think for comedic effect, I'd like to see a business meeting without any passive aggressive behavior and just coffee and hissing.

OMG she sat in my regular meeting chair.  HISS.
OMG does he really have to clip his nails here?  HISS.
Project cancelled.  HISS and guttural meowing.

You get the picture.

But right now everyone is purring along in unity.  That's a good thing.

I printed off what I wrote and took the book referenced in part one in to the PhD that I trust.  I read it aloud.

"May I see the book?"

"Absolutely."

"That's damaging."

"It is and although I despise the men who have made tons of money in law enforcement off of their sales practice, I won't burn the book.  I refuse to do what Hitler and many others have done by burning books.  I do NOT agree with the parochial 'version' of anger and if anything calling it a sin makes them money by keeping people sick and miserable.  Worst longterm gaslight tactic ever."

Gratefully, I thank the artists whose skills give us conduits, outlets and templates to work with and through trauma.

"We are not allowed to be angry because it is perceived as a gender credibility issue and/or a hysterically manageable emotion that is to be stuffed."

I'm revisiting the method my Mother taught me when I was very young to turn something into a form of art.  It involved several components of cultural tradition, cleaning, music and release.  Right now just thinking about it, I'm smiling.  I was fully allowed to discuss this relatively feared emotion but I also had to qualify it for validity before doing anything.

"I AM ANGRY BECAUSE..."

Of what?  I have four other w's and one h that need to be filled in otherwise it isn't looking at all rational.
Then I need to breathe and listen to an entirely different version from another perspective.
She trained me early that I would not experience pleasantness in this process, but it was a trait or characteristic of fairness.

"You must be willing to contain your emotion response to objectively listen to something that is entirely different from your own."

And how do I miss hearing the voice of reason in front of me, guiding me --- like a female Spock.  This is a good checklist to have engrained.  She taught me that sometimes things are completely impassable and they will not have a resolution.  I had to be willing to accept the unknown and deal with uncertainty.  Our society's dominant psychology here has two sides --- win/lose or right/wrong.  That is only how a segment of the globe functions.

A book and its corresponding audio CD was sent to me a very long time ago in a book club mishap.  While not superstitious, I like mistakes when they're not a source of frustration.  This set was allowed to collect dust for nearly a decade.  In good timing, it was an invaluable resource --- specifically honoring everything from confusion of others, my own confusion, anger as a tool of beauty and predominately opposite thinking.  I've recommended it to professional writers.  It's that good.

To keep things in check, I know exactly why I had an angry flare this past couple of days.  I am only a smaller tiny part of a larger geographical symptom of decades involving a huge number of people in similar circumstances.  There will be no apology from the law enforcement embroiled in their own political ladder climb over the destruction of my rape kit.  It's not jealousy of retirement without disability.  I don't have a jealous streak of wishing I was somebody else --- ever.  It is the process requirements of being put through hell (which I believe is other people) to qualify somebody else's irrational expectation.  Why yes!  Thanks for the expensive PTSD and then about seventeen years of 'valhalla' where nobody would qualify it where I could use my own self with a functioning intellect to deal with the aftermath.  Thanks for infantilizing me. PTSD is not a death sentence and for everything I have been through, my terribly warped sense of humor I really like.  The LEO flippant FOIA request is just a tracking method to account for their time.  It's not exactly personal, but yet it is traumatically personal just the same.   It's irrational to expect men to be brave enough to admit error let alone do anything to rectify it.  How do I know this?  Well, look at all of the sunken war ships from Ancient Greece and Rome... still there a couple of thousands of years later.  This is my own peace of mind that the damage cannot be stopped from the past, but the kids of the future simply do not have to suffer.  I am never a coward and I can indeed impact small change.

So I pull out my guidebook and I listen to the language of my emotions and I realize that this anger isn't destructive and it's okay to take it out and play with it in expression.  It's not permanent.  I'm not going to scream at anybody, break anything or do anything damaging.  Instead of 'managing' as everybody would like things all neat and tidy -- I am just embracing the normal mess of it.  Now that I am done experimenting with it being let loose... I have a schedule to keep.

Thanks for reading.  Have a good weekend.

"Rape is the only crime where the victim is interrogated as the subject of interest.  Little attention is placed on the perpetrator's behavior, if any."

Once attacked as a child, the math odds do not improve in the longterm favor of the victim.  This establishes a pattern that it's okay for silence and repeat abuse.  It doesn't matter who or what is responsible for the original criminal act, what's important is that the victim doesn't internalize the crime.  Why would I think this way?  Not only does a victim/survivor have to fight the original crime, but the aftermath of the mob.  They are mathematically -- atrocious odds.  Personally, I didn't come up with the example of math and casinos.  It was two males at Stanford who did.  That too, pissed me off.

It is an opinion that the Reid Technique from 1947 -- is part of this horrible gap in lost time, lost wages, broken families and other longterm consequences that are offloaded onto the victims.  Commercial entities also use these interview and interrogation method... but first, as a female, the religious nut jobs have to have their Spanish Inquisition jab.

"Is she diseased?"
"Is she of childbearing years?"
"Is she married?"

THIS IS STRAIGHT OUT OF THEIR BOOK, "Blame Victim (Company or Supervisor)" page 217
     "Use.  This rationalization can be used for theft or damage to property.  The victim can be blamed in almost any crime from a homicide, to a sex crime, to theft.  The guilt is transferred to the victim by the interrogator who portrays the suspect as a victim of circumstances.  The suspect became involved because the victim dressed or acted a certain way, flaunted their wealth, or made advances to the suspect."

STOP RIGHT THERE.  I want a complete list of every human who has attended this Reid course, used this method AGAINST rape survivors and bought this damned book.  While I won't burn it, I will stare holes into it.  AND I will stare holes into the website of the two men authors who are of 'lofty credentials' in this so-called fake justice nation.  I FLIPPED YOUR 1947 MONEY RETIREMENT STRATEGY SCRIPT YOU BASTARDS.

Legally, nobody is required to pass a religious test in this particular country.  Nor are they fully required to submit their body to examination without legal representation.

MIRANDA -- how odd is this warning label from a foreign rapist trial who got off on a technicality?  I have the right to scream decades later because yelling is not against the law.  I have the right to insult the academic masses who have financially benefitted off of 'rape research' but have yet figured out how to resolve the K-12 anatomical education in the classrooms.  I have the right to tell the male judge and male lawyer that they are assholes when they collude on the insensitivity bandwagon and I'm reduced to tears in a trial.  I have a right to interrogate the backgrounds of the medical practitioners who might believe my body is their evidence playground.  I have a right to make sure any documentation about me in a file contains no bias about what people think of me... but rather facts.

Most importantly, I have a right to laugh, to pursue my own path of healing and to investigate what is best for my life.  I am not to be categorically dumped into a group or groups for research purposes, nor am I to be used as a 'rape prevention' tool or mouthpiece.  I have a right to my personhood, my thoughts and my future.  I have a right to refute Stasi-like tactics from a University-backed funding pool that is propped up by extremist patriarchy political channels.  I have a right to my data accuracy and it not being propagated into a big data lake.  I have a right to my female brain which is absolutely no different than a male brain.  Mine happens to work logically and analytically and I can shut down the emotions just like a male with a light switch.  I have a right to work with my anger and find the beauty in it as opposed to the myths attached to female anger.  I have the right to my own emotions and I don't need your campy zen Corporate bunny fluff self-coddling because I came from that campy Corporate training environment and played the politics there.

Yes -- Yes, I am terribly pissed off that the former Presidential administration used the financial anti-terrorism "fine" to supposedly fund rape kits and forensics.  You filthy bastard of Ivy League might not realize some of us have been working on Iran things long before you entered the State of Illinois politics.  We had to sit in those long gas lines during the seventies while we were given that delightful shitty government education in the middle of nowhere.  Thanks for using our pool as human shields for your Middle East agenda.  (In the event you two nincompoops didn't realize that human shields are against the Geneva Convention.)  They ONLY went to where the huge foundation money goes -- Universities -- and didn't even dance in the K-12 ring.
Common sense says... if you're raped into PTSD as a kid into teens -- college isn't even in the forecast.  Thanks assholes.  That's the early childhood education your political strategy neglected.

In the event the original officers who destroyed a rape kit seven years after the first rape don't see the crime scene tape... they're not allowed to cross that line.

I am evidence.  I am not property.  You'll not stuff me in your evidence lab rat room for observation.

I am a survivor... and I also have a right to be mad as hell.

Thirty seven years ago I was raped by what I consider a stranger as a teen walking home in the rain... someone I did not know personally nor had I ever spoken to or been in proximity.  The place is small and it is a place where telephones aren't necessary for words or rumors to travel.  Everybody "knows" everybody or seemingly so is familiar with the names or families.  I'd assume this is quite typical in everywhere remote small places.

I do not remember details.  What I do remember clearly was where I was previously, what I was doing in the arcade was a very normal social activity and that there was no ride home in the rain and I was told to walk.  My mother was sick and unable to come get me.  Walking is also something that is a normal activity in a very small town.  I wasn't doing anything out of the ordinary.  There were also no taxis, Uber or Lyft for teens.  Bicycles were our only other form of transportation.  There were no drugs or alcohol involved.  I didn't run in huge social circles and being rather bookish anyway, I wasn't interested in popularity climbs.  What I do remember is the luring tactic by the perpetrator who claimed he knew the step-Dad and where I lived.

"Hey... need a ride?" seemed to be a kind gesture.  That's the lure.

An obituary or two clued me in that he'd probably seen me playing in the yard with other kids while he was visiting his uncle on the same block.  Yes -- obituaries reveal quite a bit of data that you wouldn't otherwise think would be important.  I'm equally as capable of solving my own crime scene -- because I was there.

Many months ago, I got up enough wine-induced courage to take that entire PD to task.  Yes.  Even though the statute of limitations (colorful topic) has passed, I called to re-report the crime on my own accord.  Dead parents couldn't back me, but I did it anyway.  Dead grandparents weren't there to support me, but I did it anyway.  And... the PD hung up on me repeatedly so I kept calling and screamed that they were going to listen to me.  Besides... PDs are used to screaming drunks.  Might as well temporarily use this to my cathartic advantage.  So yes, the 1981 rainy April night was re-reported and that was that.  I got my point across that I will not be silenced.  After all, telecommunication engineering is in my background.  Voila!

And wine is not a longterm solution or crutch.  I was able to reconstruct decades worth of passwords by loosening up my own cranial archives and getting inside my own head.  I'm done with that.  Mission accomplished.  I figured if it was good for the Ancient Greeks it might work for me, too.  Amazing what I was able to piece together that I thought was really permanently blocked... and this time I wrote it down!

What I did not know is that a first cousin is related by marriage to both a retired police officer as well as the perpetrator.  It's now really no wonder he walked and probably did that over and over as they do.  All of these years, she and her mother pretended to act out of concern but at my first hint of "revolt" towards her and not being her technological free support, she turned.  She also tried to manipulate me into a fake forgiveness scenario over decades probably out of her own secret guilt.  When I told her to stop sending me photos of a truck in a driveway and that it was hurtful, she kept doing it anyway.  When she's insecure about her husband sending texts to a woman, she can pay a private eye for the address sleuthing... or actually go find a shrink.

As they say, it's actually those closest that do the most longterm damage.  I just walked away.  I didn't realize that the downstream guilty cling to the victims just as hard as the perpetrators do.

In doing so, cutting those ties... I freed myself.  This is my healthy decision.

And some of that rage subsided.

Notice:  Deliberately vague in specific areas for the purpose of anonymnity where you may find yourself in similar situations

I received a phone call later in the evening on Thursday asking if I'd participate in our normal Friday evening activities.  Would I be willing... That I cannot handle at the moment, because I do not have a full grasp of the ancient language fluidly enough not to freeze in front of everybody.  I'm easing into this which under normal circumstances is out of everyone's comfort zones.  It's not at all that I'm a perfectionist - we have a tendency to critique the delivery of this portion.  I don't want to have PTSD stage fright and mess up everything else that should follow with other people.  It is the uncertainty of inner conflict.  If anxiety flares because I know my language skills in this arena are at the extreme novice level, I can prepare for this in the future.  That is why I attend classes weekly as an adult.  I'm making up for decades of lost time.

What I was capable of doing without freaking out I had done before.  Yes, please put me on the program for that.

In a perfect world, which I know is never the case... changes were made on the fly.  I was happy to do the changes even though it said something entirely different in print on the program.  So, as our kind, tender, sage fearless leader came to me about the reading I asked him to gently prod with the nod of his head so I didn't mess this up or freak out.  He smiled.  He did just that.  I also wasn't missing all other participants and their roles because I was assured and comforted beforehand.  I heard everything instead of focusing on just my small part.  That is what generally happens when I am uncertain and afraid.  I focus on "my stuff" and miss everything else.  This time... was different because I unwittingly asked for help and guidance!

When my name was called, I exited the aisle and walked confidently to the podium.  I drew in a quick breath and exhale as I picked up the microphone.  My hands did not tremble as I held the program in the left from which I was to begin reading.  Fluidly and clearly I read at an even pace these deep and meaningful words that are so beautiful.  Slowly, my other training in broadcast media came back and I read the sentences ahead and was able to speak them back to the audience while making eye contact.

These four paragraphs are about loss, good-byes, remembrances, love and memories.  It speaks of not having to say good-bye but thanks because in our hearts and minds this... never leaves us.  I was speaking... fluidly, cogently and eloquently for the love and memories of everyone in that place.  Not just my own father.

When I'd finished and walked back to my seat, a few others reached out their hands.  And I knew... I had honored all of theirs -- flawlessly.

WHERE FEAR CAME FROM
Had I not had professional training to speak in very large groups in front of an auditorium decades earlier, none of this would have creeped into my mind.  Not once.  That training wasn't even my idea.  It was a business environment and we were put through this exhaustive lengthy course because the business leaders in a different division believed technical teams were anti-social.  "We did not speak the same language."  The root of the anxiety was somebody else's opinion of me in a group --- and my obvious 'defects'.  Those same business people had a tendency to call 24/7 and screaming when their stuff broke, so the capacity for me to do my job wasn't defective.  They didn't like talking to tech people.