When Love turns to Hate

Why does love sometimes turn to hate?  I guess when love isn't returned or when it is spurned, but if that happens, was it ever really love in the first place?

In the case of my freshman year of high school, I was "going out" with a boy for a couple of months, but I broke up with him. I did so in private and with care.  The boy cried and I felt horrible.  Well, I had break up remorse the next day and so I thought I should let him know how I felt.  So we got back together.  However, I realized within a day or so that he only reunited with me so that he could ignore me and be rude to me and confuse me. I assume he did this because he was still hurt. Obviously, we broke up again, but what surprised me is that he absolutely hated me through the rest of high school. I kept thinking he'd get past it even though we'd never date again. I was wrong. He was an idiot to me the next 4 years straight. Was that love that turned to hate? The love part, no - we were just kids.  The hate part though, yes!  Obviously what happened to me was on a small scale compared to what adult couples have gone through......from falling in love and getting married....... to experiencing hatred and an awful divorce. In that kind of situation, was there truly love in the first place?

There's also the expression that love hurts.  Perhaps this speaks of that feeling when you realize you truly love someone whether it is a significant other, a new friend, or a just arrived baby.  You hurt when they hurt and I'm talking about more than the labor pains!  And you miss the person if there is a separation for some reason.  But, because love is much more than a feeling, there is a big responsibility that comes with it.  It is, in part, your job to take care of the person to the best of your ability as you learn to play healthy roles in one another's lives.

Perhaps when people say that love hurts it means something else entirely.  We may not like to think about it too deeply, but it is the people that we cherish and think the most highly of who have the ability to hurt us the most.   That's how I feel anyway.  I don't want a stranger or acquaintance to hurt me either, but someone like my husband absolutely has the most power to hurt me.  Thank God he doesn't do it on purpose, but, he does hurt me emotionally on accident sometimes.  I do the same thing to him sometimes and because I feel hurt in the first place, I kind of want to not retaliate exactly, but make it known that whatever he just said, did, didn't say or didn't do, it's is not sitting well with me.  Even  our children, young or adult, have the  power to hurt us and I think sometimes they know this and sometimes they don't. 
       
So why do we sometimes hate?  I have been shocked  by the feeling at how quickly peace is replaced by a sudden harshness from someone I am close to.  I've been stunned silent sometimes, truly.  I guess when people don't understand something or have no explanation for it, or it is something that they fear,  it makes them angry. Then the only thing they know to do about it is to get mad about it and lash out.

As far as managing my own anger, I'm not calling it hate because I don't think I carry that with me, but maybe what I shoulder is lesser forms of hatred such as anger, frustration, and dealing with what I perceive as rejection.  In any case, the responsibility for the balancing of my conflicting emotions lies solely with me.  During certain periods of my life, I manage better than others.

We've all been hurt probably lots more than just one time in our lives and we've all probably done the hurting at least a few times whether we recognize/admit it or not.  I bet someone feels that way about me.  But, I don't think I hate.  I'm with Nancy Pelosi on that one even though I'm not Catholic.

As a Catholic, I resent your using the word hate in a sentence that addresses me. I don’t hate anyone ... So, don’t mess with me when it comes to words like that.’ Speaker of the House, Nancy Pelosi.

Auto Shop Depression

We can all say that there should be no stigma around mental health, but there still is.  There is more help and better understanding these days compared to 30 years ago, yes.  But, there still exists a clear signal given off by others that something is inherently wrong with you if you suffer with your mental health.  Even Michelle Obama has tried to help diffuse the powerful negative labels with her famous quote:

But, there is still something quite demoralizing when you have it yourself.  Even the brilliant, talented, loving, and very-much-missed former First Lady can't fix it, but, I'm glad she's trying.  We must all keep trying.

I often hear and use the same word over and over again when describing depression, and that word is some form of the root word "feel"... I feel, it feels like, I am feeling.......  but it's more than a feeling.  Depression really is a thing.  An ugly thing that yes, can sometimes come out of nowhere and assault you like the smell of diesel fuel smacks you right in the face as you're driving too closely behind a trailer  truck on the highway. It is spewing a cloud of grey smoke that seems to go right up a person's nose and causes an instant headache! More often than not, though, depression acts more like a vice that just gets a light hold on you, then as the days and events and stressors increase, so does the tightness of the vice.  The feeling (see, there is that word again!) of depression makes me think of the kind of vice you'd see in an automobile repair shop -- one of those red ones with a silver handle that fits on the side of your working table.  And my heart is in it.

Whether depression is an ongoing problem or a singular event that lasts too long, most of us know to encourage the suffering person to get some kind of help.  The challenge becomes greater, however, when you find yourself the one wrestling with a mental illness.  Sometimes taking yourself to the doctor compares with taking your vehicle into the auto shop.  Neither are very fun.

Sometimes you don't even want to call the "auto-shop" to get help.  You're afraid of the mechanic and his bill.  Once you drag yourself there or had a friend or family member drop you off because either you or the car had to be towed, the waiting room sure is a ball of fun.  The television is on some station airing reruns of Sally Jesse Raphael.  Nice glasses, but otherwise, no thank you.  But, you're stuck there, so you listen.  Until you remember it's 2020 and you can plug your headphones into your phone and listen to a book on Audible or Google Play.   There is a weird dingy wattage of light going on in that waiting room.  All the glass windows and scary looking tools assures me that many an automobile autopsy is currently being carried out and the guts of my car are being removed, but hopefully healthily replaced. Somehow it still smells like heavy cigarette smoke despite the fact that it was outlawed in public places years ago.  Everything and everybody looks suspicious.  I wonder what is wrong with her/his car........

As you look around the room, you're surprised by the kind of people that are there.  There is an innocent-looking elderly lady (not greasy) clinging to her purse and you hope she doesn't get ripped off.   There are guys that come in their work clothes and have put in a very hard day of their own ....... they look as if they could fix their own cars (definitely greasy.)  What are they doing here?  Then there is me.  I brought my big satchel full of things from work and home that needed my attention.  At least I could look smart with all my papers instead of just stupidly sitting there while someone fixes my car. (A graphing calculator helps to complete the look.)  Finally, some guy in dark blue overalls smeared with greasy fingerprints would call out my last name and hand me that pink carbon copy of all the crap that needed to be fixed on my car and all I can do is take his word for it.  I have a feeling that I am not the only one who has ever left there feeling screwed, and not in a good way either.  I want to say, "I hope you used lubrication first!"  but I don't.  I just think it, not realizing then that ten years later, I'd be blogging about that very moment!

So we don't really want to take our vehicles to the shop, but we have to in order to keep them running smoothly or in the very least to keep them from completely breaking down.  It's the same thing with the human body and doctors, psychological or otherwise. There have been occasions in my life where I have been across the desk from a doctor and I found myself thinking, "How in the heck did this person pass in medical school?"  Sometimes, I am fairly certain this individual is on meds himself or should be, but I'm not sharing, fella!  I don't necessarily disagree with anything he's saying, but I don't always find it helpful.  AT ALL.    But, he/she is going to refill my meds that I need to function, until I can find a better doctor, so I just sit there....waiting.....watching them type whatever into a computer and seriously questioning those diplomas framed on the wall.  Weirdos!  Windy, get a different doctor now.  Zip it, please.  I may have some anxiety and depression, but I'm not an idiot.

Not everything requires a professional.  Sometimes you just need a friend to help you jump start your battery.  Or you just need a friend or a family member so say, 'I know it's rough. You'll get through this.  Rest."  Sometimes it helps just to hear the voice of someone who cares for you.  Or to send a card, an email, or a little text that says, "Thinking of you," when you know your friend is struggling.  Often it does take a lot of work to fix a car or a psychological situation, but sometimes a little encouragement from various people goes a long way toward getting there. We all want to be happy and we want to be around and communicate with, love on, and confide in happy people.  Knowing  this, it can be very humbling to ask someone to just lend an ear or a jumper cable for a few minutes.  Please remember that about your loved ones.  Depression is a thing, humans are depressed, but people are not their depression.

Top Ten Ways Your Vagina is Like a Doorway

1.  Too many people may have been invited into it.  Whoops!

2.  Whole persons have come out of it.   Ouch! 

3.  We all have different looking entry mats.  Some are brown, wiry, and durable.  Others are black with half of the studs worn off due to overuse.  Some are completely bare and it looks like nobody is home.

4.   Some are just dilapidated and one side of  the framework is jutted out slightly further than the other side.  A few have sustained water damage and are now a little warped.  Hopefully, none are moldy!

5.  Of course, the doorbell is the clit because it should be obvious where to find it.  Even if it is found, sometimes it is pressed too hard or not hard enough.  Ding, ding! 

6. Some of us have backdoor friends.  Others keep that backdoor shut nice and tightly.  With a deadbolt! 

7. They're painted different -- They change color due to giving birth, aging and ......sun damage?   Was that too far?  LOL

8. You have to sweep around it to keep it tidy.  No crackers/cookies allowed in bed! 

9.   Every once in a while, a UPS man delivers a package to it.   (This was Storm's comment!)

10.  Occasionally, you have to take the power hose to it.  Never aim directly at the doorbell.


What's your favorite and do you have a #11 to share?

The Story of Christopher and 8 Sticks

The following is a story about how my parents recently led me astray.  Since I am half a century years old, it is beyond second nature to me to not think twice when it comes to trusting my parents on most subjects.  They love me, always have my best interest at heart, and have made mostly healthy decisions for themselves and me our entire lives, so why would I ever think they even had the potential to lead me astray?  This past November, much to my surprise, I found that I was hilariously wrong.

During the week of Thanksgiving when my parents traveled westward across our state to visit with us, we had planned that we would plant a few small oak trees and a handful of Rose of Sharon in our big, open back yard before the ground froze.  My mom brought the most pathetic looking seedlings from their yard that all fit in one five gallon bucket, but I don't complain because she is on a mission and I don't want to upset her months long plan.  Now, as I look out our back kitchen window, I see what appear to be Frosty The Snowman's dead stick arms poking out of the ground in eight different spots.  The memory of my parents planting them makes me laugh.

(Wait....... I have to watch Kate McKinnon present the Carol Burnett Award for Achievement in Television to Ellen Degeneres.... Awww!   If you watched that and didn't smile and ooooh a little, you're missing out on something in life, but I won't be rude enough to point out to you what that might be, in part, because I don't know what it is, but mostly because I have my own funny story to tell.)

My mom wanted me to show her where in the backyard that I wanted the future greenery that will certainly begin to show itself come springtime.  Four oak trees in one spot and four Rose of Sharon elsewhere.  We gathered tools from the garage, woke up my dad from the easy chair, and they made a two-person planting team.  I was preparing dinner, so I had a whole different priority to focus on. I'm in the kitchen for  just a handful of minutes when all of a sudden, I hear this rough, muffled, drawn out grandpa sounding voice outside.   It was so loud and foreign and it didn't stop, so I peeked out of the blinds to check on my parents.  Well, they were still planting, but this homeless looking fella who had a face like Popeye with no teeth was sitting in one of my wrought iron chairs from my porch facing me, but watching my parents work.  He had his arms crossed and was watching them with great interest and perhaps a little bit like a kid who got away with having his hand in the candy jar.  As I watched him and heard him talking loudly to my mom, I figured I'd better go out and see what was going on.

I'll take this moment to explain to you all that the sight before me really wasn't all that surprising having grown up with my parents who have lived an exemplary life together  serving others with Christian charity.  They have picked up strangers on the side of the road (back before we knew better), welcomed the vagabonds in church back when I was a kid and teenager in the 80's, given money to strangers, etc.  My dad being a former truck driver, although a gentleman himself, was no stranger to the oddities he encountered in other truck drivers and diners who frequented  truck stops, the occasional prostitute, etc.  I have seen my dad deal with hostile homeless people, one of which was throwing rocks at him.  My dad has a way of weeding out the crazy from the needy even when they are one and the same. Because I know this, I assumed there was a very good reason for Popeye to be sitting in my backyard at the end of November.  Laughing....

As soon as I got out there, I assessed that Popeye didn't have winter clothes on and he was quite cold.  I approach him, and my mom steps over and introduces us.  "Christopher, this is my daughter, Windy, who lives here." Should we be telling him my name and that I live here, Mom? crosses my mind, but, knowing my overprotective mother would never introduce me to danger and would shield me from even the good people of the FBI if needed, I ignore this thought.  A big toothless grin breaks out across Christopher's face, he stands up to greet me with a loud, drawn out voice kind of like a yawn, "Hello, Windy!  I'm sorrrrrrrrrry!"   That is the one thing he kept saying, that he was sorry for  being a bother.  My mom explains, "His friends left him here.  He's trying to get to (insert very large city 30 miles from here).   So Dad and I are going to drive him there as soon as we're done planting."  Okay, so my dad is in on this, too, got it.  I ask Christopher if he is cold.  My mom, "Yes, do you have something warmer for him to wear?  He's been out here for days."   Wow.  I go and get one of my larger plaid fishing shirts and an in-between type thinly lined coat of Storm's that he wears in the Spring and the Fall, but I figured he wouldn't miss it and I asked his permission anyway. 

I go back outside and Christopher greets me again with, "I'm sorrrrrrrrry, Windy."   And since he has a phyiscal handicap in his arms and legs that is obvious, he asks me if I can help him put the shirt on and button his sleeves.  I do so with no problem whatsoever, but in the back of my head, I thought,  please don't get a boner, Popeye.  I don't want to be physical, but I choose to because from one human being to another, I need to gladly do this for this poor man.  It's just he and me now in close proximity.  The parenting planters are still planting.   He says to me, "My sissssssterrrrr is a biiiig faaaaat  D.A., Windy.  Dumb ass! "   Okay, here we go....... I tell him not to say that loudly because it would offend my parents.  He assured me that he would only say it to me.  Laughing.  Really?  And then he adds, "My sister is a stupid slut."   Okay....... I shush him.  My mom yells over, "He's been out here for 4 days."   Immediately I worry about his hunger and before I can even take more than a few steps back toward the house to go get some food, my dad steps in as he puts one arm around me like he is going to confide in me.  "Windy, I want you to go into the house and  fix this man a plate of food.  He hasn't eaten in 4 days."   Again I am thinking, my dad must be in on this whole drive this guy 30 miles away thing and in the meantime, let's clothe him, and feed him.   I get it, Dad, the one who knows weirdos from the struggling, con artist from  the true blue....... Off I go into the house to do as I am told.  And happily so.   Christopher is hilarious and quite adorable.

I go back in and prepare a couple of things we have had for dinner the night before ........ (tonight's dinner isn't ready yet as I am still cooking it.)   First, I take a thick towel and drape it over the glass table on my porch.  Next, I place a matching towel on the remaining wrought iron chair.   I go back in the house and prepare a plate of home made egg rolls and bring it out to the table.  Christopher comes to the porch and reaches out for me to help him up because he isn't quite strong enough to do it himself.  I lead him to his table and present him his food.   I tell him what is being served.   Christopher goes, "No," and shakes his head vigorously back and forth as he makes a face.  "I don't like these, Windy. I'm sorrrrrrrry, Windy.  I don't like egg rolls."   Okay........ so, I bring out different food for him and he eats a little bit of it, but says he doesn't want anymore.   I'm a decent cook, so something is up here.  I didn't say it but I was thinking are you sure you haven't eaten for 4 days?   I ask him what kind of food he likes and his answer is, "Livvvvver and onions, Windy!!!"   Well, I certainly don't have any of that lying around.  He tells me that his mother used to make that for him, "Everrrrry day, Wiiiiiiindy!"  So, I ask him if he would like chocolate chip cookie and a cup of coffee.  Not only does he say yes, but he asks if he can have a little bit of miiiiilk in it.  I bring back to him what he ordered, he takes a sip of his coffee, slaps his knee as he grins really big, "Forgive my language, Wiiiiindy, but that is a daaaaaaaamn fine cup of coffee."   I'm glad the man is warm and happy.  I go back into the house to check on our own dinner preparations and about a minute later I hear a loud,  "NOOOOOOOOO!  NOOOOO!" and it's Christopher's voice.  Worried about my parents' safety and wondering what the heck is going on, I hurry through the back door.

I see Christopher about 50 yards out of my yard by now, running as best as he can, and I see my mom waddling as quickly as her little legs can carry her after him, "Christopher!!!!!!  We'll take you to the city!"   I cannot believe my 73 year old mother is chasing a homeless man.   I notice a silver van has pulled up on the side of the road that our yard butts up against.  A lady comes running out of the van and yells to me, "Call the police, please! He needs to come with me.  He got out of the car and ran and I couldn't find him." 

So I call the police and quickly explain the situation to the best that I currently understood it.  I suck when it comes to directions and my parents are arguing if it's north or south at one another.  Laughing!  Meanwhile, Christopher is outta there like a bat out of hell and the lady chases him with her van trying to coax him into the van and he finally gets in.  I relay this information to the emergency operator and she informs me loudly, "Ma'am!  Don't let them leave!"   What the heck am I supposed to do, grab onto the back of the bumper as they drive back by?  So I approach the van and she stops instead of driving by me.  She explains he lives with her but she has to go get her kid at the next  bus stop, so she has to go.  I tell her the police want her to stay.  She tells me to tell them to meet her at the bus stop.  I look in and see Christopher in the backseat and I ask him if he is okay.  He hides in the hood of Storm's coat and says he's embarrassed.  She drives off.   The operator is still yelling for me not to let them leave and I give her the license plate number and state of the plates.  Within another minute, the  police pull up, I give them the quick rundown and point out the van that is a couple hundred yards down the road by now.  I hang up the phone.

I then turn around and look at my parents in disbelief.  I start laughing and I say, "Mom, you were chasing him down the road! All I saw was your big fat butt waddling after him like you were going to catch him!"  She's dying laughing and she said she was also yelling to him, "Christopher, it's me, Becky!  We'll drive you to the city!"  And that he yelled back, "Go away, Becky!"  OH MY GOSH.  Hilarious.  Until.  I look over at my father.  He isn't laughing at any of it.   My mom goes back to work in the yard to finish up and my dad comes in with me.  He huffs out, "I wasn't taking him to the city.  No way.  I'll drive him to the bus station and buy him a ticket to the city if he wants, but I wasn't driving to the city."   And he was on a roll.   "He's not sorry!  He's sorry because he was trying to pull one over on us and being a pain in the butt!"   I am laughing and tell my dad, "YOU told me to make him some food, I thought you were in on all of this."  He says he knows his homeless people and this one was lying.  Laughing.......  "I told your mother I ain't taking him to the city.  He wasn't out there 4 days.  Four days???  He wouldn't even eat what you were feeding him...... He wasn't sorry for nothin'!  Don't tell me....."

So that's my story about Christopher.  Apparently he lives with the lady in the next subdivision over from us and does not live in the big city. He was  missing for about half an hour, not 4 days, and he now has my fishing shirt and Storm's jacket.   "Well," I say to my dad, "Thanks for planting the oak trees."  My dad says, "Oak trees?  Don't tell your mother, but those aren't oak trees.  Every sapling she brought is a Rose of Sharon.  I told her, but she wouldn't listen to me and we fought about it when she was digging them up, so don't say anything!" 

Hardly recovering from the shock that my parents were suckered into Christopher's story and then they sucked me in, I am stunned at this newest fiasco.  "Don't say anything?  You just dug holes in my yard where I wanted four trees and four Rose of Sharon.  You knew that NONE were  trees, and you planted them anyway? And I can't tell this to Mom?!!!"  My dad huffs, "She'll find out what they are in the spring!"   I guess we all will.  My prediction is that they will remain 8 dead sticks.

When Change Hurts

Some really good things have happened in our household in 2019, and for all of that, I am truly grateful.  However, the struggles it took to get those good things this year have absolutely exhausted me physically and mentally.  I am glad that it is the last days of December of '19 and not the first few days of January when Storm and I had some big decisions to make -- the kind where you truly need to be on the same page as parents, but we just weren't.  As lovers?  Yes. As people committed to each other and our marriage?  Of course.  Spiritually?  Yes.  As best friends?  Yes.  As parents ?  Nope.  Not that we didn't try really hard though, and we still are.  And to do all of this while navigating and negotiating major changes in our ttwd dynamic as we set out to do in January of 2019?  GAH!  Are we crazy?  Don't answer that!

Sometimes things irritate in me in life.....duh.....whether or not I share that with anyone is another matter, but either way, I feel it.  I am not used to being an angry person  and I don't think overall that I am, but this year I have probably experienced the most anger that I ever had..... and the reasons are not many.  It's just one.

I do not care whether or not a friend, my spouse, or a family member takes any of my advice, period, even when it is asked of me.   But, when someone repeatedly doesn't listen to me about the way I am feeling, it truly makes me angry because it makes me feel small and dismissed.  Just like it is in Whatever This Is, a big part of the answer to many things in life is probably communication.  Almost all of  us have claimed such on our blogs. Well, I have communicated until I am blue in the face.  And red.  And purple. And ROYGBIV with tears and snot and a few near nervous breakdowns!  And there have been spankings where my rear end is a a shade of one or two of those colors because of it. Eek!

I have said to those near to me when I want them to know that I am right there, attentive, "I hear you," or if the situation calls for it, "I need you to hear me."  I think I say that because I have done a lot of writing to friends the past couple of years as a primary way of communication.   So I guess I offer so many words sometimes that I feel perhaps they get lost or maybe I failed to make my point.  My way of saying either of those two phrases is me letting someone know that I am right there with them in the moment or that I need them to be right there with me in the moment.  It's powerful to connect with someone like that while being kept apart by a whole lot of geography.  Those connections are rare and precious to me.  I won't ever forget them.

This may surprise a few of you, and now that I have thought it through as I share my thoughts with you, it kind of surprises me, too --  If I had to do the whole decision making process of de-lurking, joining in the comment sections on newfound ttwd blogs, and then becoming a blogger myself, I'm not so sure I would do all of it over again in the exact same way that I did.   The main reasons for my thinking this way is because all of the above organically brought some major changes in my life.  Some of the changes have been good, some of the experiences have been negative, but the issue is that change hurts.  It can be a good hurt or a bad hurt or both!

For me, blogging and all the activity around and behind it which goes way beyond what I could ever begin to share here played a huge part in my coming back to life.  I was very freshly feeling healthy enough to consider jumping back into things and I was also rebounding after a family member's difficult illness.   So to come through both of those things while trying to convince an unknown to me blogland that I could write a little and be a bit entertaining from time to time was challenging. Blog land and its potential for saying the wrong thing to the wrong person on your own blog let alone behind the blog will put THE FEAR OF GOD into a new blogger.  Yeesh!  I'm laughing because we all know it is true despite the fact that we have thrown our ovaries around and claimed, "It's my blog and I can say whatever I want!" 

What about the friendships I've made?  Again, friendship is another thing that can hurt in a good way and then hurt in a bad way, too.   Overall, I think about just the positives, but there are drawbacks here in this community just like there is in every community.  And if all you have experienced here are positive things, then hip hip hooray for you and keep up the great work.  I'm a thinker, a feeler,  a sharer, an analyzer, and a worrier with chronic illnesses .......... those things sometimes make different aspects of blogging and friendship difficult for me.  I can't always keep up.

Sometimes the seriousness of being a human being makes you not be able to join in the trivial, the surface things, and the lightheartedness of life. If you're known as someone who is funny or has a good sense of humor, there is a pressure to often present yourself that way no matter what is going on behind your own individual curtain.

I know this is a domestic discipline type blog, but I also want to write about all kinds of topics, not just spanking.  I am drawn to writing about true stories and relationships whether it is centered on friends, family, or is that of which only takes place within myself and my own heart.  I don't always enjoy analyzing relationships, however, because I often find fault in myself and in others when I do that.  So I often spend a lot of my writing time trying to "write around" a topic because I don't want to offend others.  Sometimes I think about starting a vanilla blog and I grapple with whether I would use a pen name or if  I would write as myself.  But, that would mean another change in my life, some good and some painful and I'm just not ready for that.  In the meantime, I find it interesting that I have started 2020 here with a classic, long-ass Windy post, and I kind of like that.  :)