Not Even Jail Can Keep Me From Here

*I made a boo-boo when sizing these, so click on the image to see it fully.*

5/7/09

I walked around today and took pictures of everything that I thought was pretty. It wasn't what I meant to do. The thought occurred to me and I was off without considering things.

I hate living in Portland until it's sunny again. Then I remember how much I love it. Double when I start taking pictures of everything, because I'm out in the sun looking for pretty things. This happens every time a camera is put in my hands.

I just realized I forgot to wear sun block. Every day, my skin gets a little redder.

My new camera is awesome, but the graininess is irritating.

Old +Dilapidated + Rusty = Prettiness.

I started to love Portland again once I was in the southeast area, specifically close to Ladd's Addition. I began to have a happy memory from my childhood, which I'll be the first to admit rarely happens.

I remembered being in the backyard of the house my dad had when I was little. It was blue and a few blocks off of Hawthorne and 37th. I sat in the grass picking dandelions and picking them apart. Not in a destructive way; I wanted to see what they were made of, what they looked like on the inside, what they did when I squeezed them between my fingers. Of course, I was a little kid, not even kindergarten age, so I was really just looking. Looking, and looking, and looking. I was too young and mentally undeveloped to be aware that something was wrong, that reality was pinched at the edges. I couldn't differentiate my reality from everyone else's; I thought the pinched vision feeling was...well, I didn't think about it. I just looked and absorbed knowledge.

It was when I was sitting in the grass under the sun picking dandelions apart that I was truly happy. Not just happy, good. Everything felt good, and right, and healthy.

Someone was there with me. I think it was one of my aunts. I don't remember the conversation leading up to it, but I told her that dandelions were my favorite flower and that I wanted to grow them. She told me that I couldn't because they were ugly and needed to be pulled. She also said that they couldn't be my favorite flower because they were a weed. My stomach ached for a moment as it did when I forced myself to be something I wasn't, and I spent a lot of mental energy after that trying to like roses, or tulips, or something that was an actual flower. I didn't realize until today that I had been stopping myself from liking dandelions since then. For the first time since the time of that memory, I let myself love them. I love how they look like little suns with green stems. I love how they smell, and I have a vague memory of how they taste. (I ate dirt when I was a kid. Eating dandelions wouldn't have been too much of a stretch.) I especially love it when they turn into white poofs. The more I heal from the past, the more I let myself pick them and make a wish before blowing the seeds away. The wishes I make have changed as I have; gone are the days of "I wish I had a pony.". Now I think...well, I can't say it because then it won't come true. Remember how you were supposed to blow away all the seeds at once or your wish wouldn't come true? Well, I don't worry about that anymore. Now I think that if it takes me a couple tries to blow all the seeds away, then it will take a couple tries for me to make my reality what I want it to be.

I realized that the warm glow this memory gave me has been there all my life, even if it was buried under yucky gooey grossness a good part of the time. It made me hopeful, hopeful without the usual pit of doubt surrounding it.

Now that I think about it, I don't think I could live in a place that doesn't have dandelions.

Tulip Island">
I have the strength to disagree with people now. I'm aware of my right to protect myself, more than I ever have been in my life.

See above equation.

This sign is initially what made me take out my camera. I was utterly delighted by it. I'm delighted that there's someone in Portland who took the time to do this.

And now, clouds.

LOOK AT THAT! Look at how they seem to make a ceiling for the city. It's just so damned beautiful. I heard someone say that the clouds in Portland sometimes make them feel like they're on acid. Anyway. I got bubble tea.

This is going to be my Summer of Love. I can feel it in my tummy. I'm going to make a lot of wonderful things happen this summer. I can say that without immediately falling into a swamp of doubt and self-hatred. I'm going to look in the mirror every day and see this face:

And I'm happy with that.

The bands of the day are Interpol and Shadowy Men on a Shadowy Planet. The flower of the day is of course our friend the dandelion. The kitty of the day is Pierre:

I love this city so damn much. I can't wait to get the fuck out of here.

Enjoy The Weather, Simon

I guess I'm pretty happy right now. Or, I should say, circumstances are pleasant at the moment. I'm at the Fat Straw sipping my usual strawberry green tea with green apple jellies. The weather is nice, which is good because I pretty much begged for a sunny day today. My back and arm pain wouldn't withstand the weight of my laptop, but that's okay because this place has computers for use. I have a few bucks to spend because I sold an old computer I don't use anymore and my GTA games, which make me too nauseous to play. I don't have any responsibilities for the day. I slept in until 1:30PM. I might go catch a movie later, which I've been wanting to do for a while.

So what's with all this fucking dread?

My stomach knots at the idea of having to go back to the shelter. At some point I'll need to. I need to tell my caseworker about overnights at least a day in advance. Even if I had the okay, I can't think of any place I could spend the night.
I guess that's it. I've slept in that poison pit every night since January 5th. No breaks. I don't have full control over my activities, that's part of living there. I don't have control. One misstep could get me kicked out or into a worse situation. It's a little like living at home, and I hate it. They keep telling me, "You're an adult. You're here to be self-sufficient." But who the hell can feel like a self-sufficient adult when they need to get a piece of paper signed to verify all of their activities and ask for permission to spend a night or a weekend away? Who can feel like they have control over themselves when even a shadow of suspicion can get their piss inspected? I feel like I keep running for the horizon but walls keep appearing in front of me and I'm too focused on my activities to stop before I crash into them.
Part of me wants to blame the PTSD and be done with it. The other part is aware enough to know that this situation would piss off a lot of people, PTSD'd or not. My anger is building up again and I feel like I'm at the adult version of boarding school.
Oh right, this is my happy blog. So I'll do a little reminder: It's only temporary. This will only last as long as it needs to, and then I can move out and start my life properly. In a matter of months, I'll be on my own and there won't be anyone around to make me feel like a delinquent teenager. For the first time in my life, I know it's possible, even though it doesn't always feel that way. (I haven't been here for the longest time and the same music still plays. What the hell.) "No one can make you feel inferior without your consent." But my, they try hard, don't they?

I don't remember whether I'm wearing a tampon or not. I really hope I am.

I decided that I'm sick of only blogging when something is really bothering me. Um. Yeah. I've had coffee today. It's easy to think but difficult to write, as it is when caffeinated, at least for me. I officially have a guilty pleasure, something that I don't particularly think is bad but other people might. Nothing dirty. I don't know why having things like that brings me some sort of joy, it doesn't make any sense. Like I get happy when I do things everyone else does, but. I don't know. Now that I'm here and trying to write about happy things instead of just think about them, the urge is to bring everything back to something sad, or weird, or whatever.

So I change the subject.

I had my admission interview at Marylhurst this morning on two hours of sleep, one cup of coffee, and two pieces of toast. I was doing okay until the scenic part of the bus ride came along, and then part of me tried to panic about it. But then I reminded myself that if what the admissions advisor said was true, this was nothing more than a formality and I really didn't have anything to worry about. Also, I'm getting used to the idea that I'm likable and well-spoken, and as long as I don't give into the urge to panic, I can pretty much accomplish anything I want. It's hard not to feel like I'm being arrogant when I say nice things about myself, but that's slowly fading away as well. I dressed well for the occasion, meaning of course that I looked like a total tool. I'm not used to owning suits made for my gender and jackets that I'm not supposed to sew things on to. It's uncomfortable. I started my period yesterday and was unknowingly very bloated when I tried on the pants I got, so they're a little big. The jacket I wore, a lovely shade of green, is a little too small. One of the slip-on brown leather shoes, while nice, gave me a limp in my left foot because the way the leather bends digs into the joint of my big toe. So yeah. I changed into jeans and my beat up sneakers the moment I returned to my room.

Anyway, the interview. One of the women seemed a little nervous, but she was also nice. (It strikes me as odd that everyone I've spoken to on that campus has been nothing but polite and helpful. I'm used to at least one life-hating grumpy butthook getting in the way, and it's almost creepy how there doesn't seem to be any.) On the way up the stairs to the conference room where the interview would take place, she asked me if Redge was short for Regina. I said no, it was for Reginald, and assured her that LOTS of people thought my name was Regina. We then spent a few minutes discussing what other names Redge could stand for. We agreed that Registration McGee is an awesome name. So they asked me questions, I answered honestly. Cramps had me bent at the waist, but the moment I noticed my shoulders slouching, I straightened my back as secretly as I could. (Old job interview paranoia. I doubt they noticed or would have cared.) At the end, they assured me that besides formalities, I was pretty much in. One more signature and a phone call and it will be complete. There are two classes I already have in mind for summer term: An intro to astronomy class, focusing primarily on red dwarfs, white dwarfs, and cannibal galaxies. The other is a screenwriting class, though I'm not entirely sure on that one. I'd like to give screenwriting more of a try before I let someone show me how to do it.

It all started with an acid trip. But more on that later.