Suspension of disbelief

I struggle with it. (Definition here). I am so literal minded that flights of fancy elude me, or should I say flights of fanciful elude me. I have trouble setting aside reality and accepting something other, which has become the premise for the presentation – be it movie, play, novel, poem. It’s probably why I am not a fan of science fiction, or fantasy films or stories.

Lately we have sampled some tv shows that are based in previous centuries, particularly the 19th. Whatever the stories were, the thing that I focused on was – the dirt. I could not get passed how dirty everything was; how dirty the people were; filth offends me; dirt offends me. What ran through my mind, while watching what may have well been a good story, was – “Eww – how did people live that way?” “Where’s the bathroom?” “When did they last have a bath?” “How did people survive in those conditions?”  That’s all I can think about.  I can’t see past it. 
Then there is my eye for the small details which interrupt my attention on the story. You know the kind I mean. A woman gets out of a car, without a handbag, rushes into a building, and then is immediately seen reaching into her handbag! Wait, what? Where did that come from, she didn’t have it 30 seconds ago when she got out of the car. And that is a simple one. Nevermind more egregious ones, where in the space of time of a camera pan between two people, all of a sudden clothing is different, or a prop has disappeared. I see that. It annoys me. 
And my obsession with dates. The first time I read ‘Fried Green Tomatoes’ I wound up taking notes because the dates never matched up with the ages or the span of years in the story. Pages and pages of notes, which I actually typed up and sent to the publisher. 
And that is my life – seeing the details. Seeing all the itty-bits. The big picture eludes me. Yet I can follow a detail into the future. I can see all the possibilities of one little action or decision, which can then immobilize me from any further action/decision. I am not a risk taker. And it is not so much that I crave certainties as that I need to know where I’m going and how I’m going to get there before I start a journey – of any kind.
Which is probably why, after reading the first few chapters of a book, I read the end. Then I go back and read from where I left off in the beginning. 
‘It’s not the destination, it’s the journey’ – not for me. 
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You count your blessings where you find them

People reacted to yesterday’s post with a whole lot of kind words, warmed my heart.


I wasn’t trolling for compliments, just talking about who and what I am and how I feel. Whenever I talk about my less than Beaver Cleaver childhood folks are kind. And they say nice things about me. And I know all y’all know I ain’t got no halo or wings, and ‘saint’ is just a part of my last name.

My childhood, including my infancy was dominated by physical abuse. As I got older the emotional abuse was piled on, right into adulthood.


I survived.  I never actually had any broken bones. I never wound up in a hospital. Maybe she knew just how far she could go before people got suspicious. Then again, in those days, beating you kid wasn’t such a big deal, especially when there were no broken bones.

The emotional abuse? Who tells their 12 year old kid to take the entire bottle of Bufferin and kill themself? Eh…48 years of that kind of shit. Okay – not nice.


Hey, I survived! In pretty good shape. Three years of psychotherapy helped some. And then, maybe I was just born with the skills and strength I needed.

So many children don’t survive. Can’t find that strength. So I count my blessings where I find them.

I’m basically a happy person. I laugh every day. I get overwhelmed with love and joy, almost every day. I’m easy.

I get angry and pissed off – every day. Because the world sucks. Because people suck. Because nothing is fair! And I cry just about every day because that’s just how the world is going these days.

I love.  I laugh. I feel joy.  Who has it better than me?

Peace to your hearts – 
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Trying to be kind

Trolling, trawling, googling the interwebz I looked up my niece, found her FB page and in her public photos I saw one she posted in December of 2017, a mere 2 months ago, of her and her grandmother, that would be, my mother. Oh my goodness, I thought, if that picture is current then the woman is 101 years old! And that kinda freaks me out a bit.

If I think of my mother’s life, what I know of it, I think – No wonder she was not a very nice person. No wonder she acted the way she did. I won’t say I sympathize, and I don’t empathize. But perhaps there is a reason she was the way she was. There always has to be a reason, doesn’t there? But then again, maybe she was just born that way.

It doesn’t help me deal with the residual damage of her behavior towards me. But sometimes you just have to be kind. I can’t say my life was so great, but, again from what I know, neither was hers. And she was/is not exactly an introspective person. She did not very nice things because she wanted to. She knew they were wrong but she did them anyway. She said not very nice things because she got some kind of pleasurable return seeing someone else’s pain. When she was caught out, and made her lame excuses, you could see that flash of glee in her eyes – Ah, she got the result she wanted. She hurt someone.

On the other side – she needed to make other people feel small so she could feel big. Because she was hurt, she felt entitled to hurt others; she was unhappy, so should other people be. I’m sure there is some ‘technical’ psychological term for this, I could look it up, perhaps, but I can’t be bothered.

One of the drawbacks to being a Libra is that I have this tendency to see everyone’s point of view; to weigh all the possibilities and outcomes. I do not make snap decisions. (Or maybe that’s just me and has nothing to do with astrology.) All these personality tests I have taken lean to describing me as empathetic – empathy is hard. It can be exhausting. To feel your feelings AND other peoples. Too much.

Needing to understand why someone hurt you – that’s a big one. If you understand does it make it hurt less? No, but there is something about understanding that eases – not sure what to call that which it eases – but it should, and does, maybe.

Most of the time, as long as I don’t dwell on the specifics, I have managed to reach the point of pity. How sad to have been her, lived her life. I still don’t excuse her, forgive her, empathize or sympathize. But I do pity her.

Because no matter how much I have screwed up my life; no matter all the mistakes I’ve made, the wrongs I’ve done – I am not her.

And because I am not her, I have been overwhelmed with love, given and gotten; and joy – so much joy.

I don’t think she ever felt those things – how incredibly, incredibly sad.

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I'm not a sharer

Despite the fact that I am lonely, I miss being alone. Yes there is a difference. I crave social interaction but on my terms, when I want it, or need it but certainly not all the time. I don’t really like sharing space. Or much of anything really. What’s mine is mine, and what’s your is yours and let’s not mix or mingle them. Nor do I lend things. Either I will give it to you straight up, or buy you one, or flat out say – No.

I miss listening to music. While I might be quite adept at multitasking in most areas of my life, when I listen to music, I LISTEN to music. I lose myself in it and dance, or I lose myself in it and…wander around inside my head. I can only do that when I am alone. And I am never alone. But I am always lonely.

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Despite the fact

~ that it is a bright and sunshiny day I will not be going out for a walk today because it is 31º with NW winds blowing at 24 mph.

~ that my 8+ year old computer is acting wonky and being uncooperative, and that there is money in the bank to cover it, I will not be buying a new computer until the tax refund is received. (And let’s hope the refund comes in before the computer dies altogether.)

~ that I consciously count my blessings every day, inside my head I am silently whinging about almost everything.

~ that you can take the girl out of NYC but can’t take the NYC out of the girl, I just used a Britishism, whinge, instead of a Yiddishism, kvetch.

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