the dumb broad show (2)
note: i mistakenly saved this entry as a draft. i have to find a way to change the "draft" status here on ds, so i have taken to copy/pasting the content into a new entry which i can then "publish" outright. this entry is originally from june 29, 2023.
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wow! ! ! i didn't realize this entry from september, 2017 was so old. i was a wandering retiree playing river rat way back then. rather than pasting the links which donae seem to be working so well, i decided to copy and paste.
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The shrink who intoduced me to "Personification" as a formal therapy tool was working with me on the deep conflicts I was experiencing between my engineering career and my wife role. Hubs and I were in our first separation and the sons were still too young to have many opinions on what a wife should be. I remain ambivilent on how well the exercises worked. The disparity remains substantial, but it is a complex disparity, partly me and partly cultural.
"The Dumb Broad" persona evolved from the disociative episodes I was experiencing in the face of adamant opinions in either camp.
"The only option is________." I'd rather argue with a fence post, thank you. When I can remain objective, it isnae a big problem. The world is chock full of adamant opinions. Silence is typically enough to let the adamant opiner grow bored enough to go away in search of another place to opine and I can get back to problem solving.
The disociative episodes are something else, entirely. I am essentially paralyzed during these episodes, all the way to stuttering painfully if I attempt to speak. The paralysis comes rushing back when I attempt to get back to the disputed task. In Texas, my life was fraught with these pockets of paralysis. The husband, two middle-aged sons and two daughters-in-law are a veritable mother lode of adamant opines on how the family matriarch should be doing every little thing, with not allot of consistency between the opinion sets and zero blessing to discuss the differences between the opinion sets. Add on guarenteed chaos if I attempt to respect all those opinion sets. There are solid reasons these people don't interact enough for first hand knowledge. I trust each of the grown-ups involved to keep track of their own reasons. I don't want to the job of channeling that much adult dysfunction.
Persilly's shots and vehicle maintenence on Boy Toy were solidly in Dumb Broad stasis when I left Texas in March. I had been driving Boy Toy because the boys who brought him were too busy with newer toys to care about him. He was purchased in a power struggle between ES and Hubs. I never have felt safe having an opinion there. No way I was going to get involved in the politics of the more loved vehicles. The Dumb Broad needs the path of least resistence.
Sorting. . . Awaiting the simplicity. . .
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------------------"dumbroaditis" november 2017---------------
"Personification" is a tool I learned somewhere in my psychotherapy path which I am gaining confidence with, despite the fact that I canae remember its source. I believe it comes from the alphabet soup my damaged memory has made out of the professionals I have worked with along that path, but I can only believe. Proof currently unavailable within this morning's interest. "The Dumb Broad" is the personification of my engineering and science psychosis. I was building things and conducting experiments before I began talking in early adolesence. My engineering and science psychosis might even be older and deeper than the sexual trauma psychosis. Maybe. Can the two be fairly compared?
Been hanging a magnetic knife holder into the cinderblock wall over the stove side this morning. Big surprise that the screws which came with the holder didn't handle the cinderblock well, huh? Is it an even bigger surprise that The Dumb Broad started exerting her confusion during the weeks (months?) I debated whether or not to buy the holder? As I write, I find myself wondering whether the traditional lady stores, such as the one where I bought the holder are an especially potent trigger for the Dumbbroaditis. Maybe? Chewing. . .
For now, I am celebrating the progress in recognizing and peacefully dealing with those rounds of psychosis that have herstorically crippled me in my tinkering compulsions. I believe the personification of that complex psychic mosaic has helped. Maybe? Chewing. . .
Replies
note: see above note
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5 years and a major life change later, i am still gaining confidence in the untangling of the "dumb broad" psycho snot knot. methinks the extra difficulty of this particular snot knot is it's cultural standing. empowered, painted and dyed barbies have taken the place of the bra burning extremists on the feminine side of the cultural traditions. if only law books and a makeover really could fix things. . . i still donae worry overmuch about men, plural. no one expects me to be a member of the boy's club, so i keep that processing to the individual man i am speaking with. i donae need to understand the rules in the boy's locker room.
the most significant of the individual males i need to process is my partner. the most recurring theme in my current paralysis is, "is hubs going to shoot down and/or co-opt whatever project i attempt?" of course he willnae do either openly or honestly and i believe him when he claims he doesnae do so deliberately. his style is closer to the style practiced by his birth family of training proverbial elephants to hold christmas trees. nothing sensitive is ever discussed. openly. just insert awkward silence here and mask it all.
still sorting. . . untangling. . .
Johnny Deere don't love me no more. . .
logically, that statement makes no more sense than assigning gender to machines and equipment, but. . . here we are. . . i like riding boys better than i like riding girls, so my machines have always been masculine. the riding lawn mower upon which i tamed the first of the kid safe spaces here on the farm is no exception. was it 2018 --shortly after the kids were seized into protective custody-- when johnny deere came onboard? for certain it was before hubs accepted the telecommuting position which allowed him to move here in hopes of rescuing the children from foster care. it was johnny deere who was available to listen to my heartaches and confusion over those domestic affairs. big bro loved johnny deere even more than i did. his childish enthusiasm encouraged me to mow both holding paddocks and begin testing my benevolent mowing theories here on the farm. from johnny's arrival to the arrival of the tiller in ? ? ? was it spring 2021? ? ? i did nearly all of the mowing here on the farm, including the working of my benevolent mowing theories. i have loved mowing since it earned me more money than babysitting in my preadolescence. good ol' boys complaining about the landscaping duties on their "Honey Do Lists" rang in my ears like money making opportunities. little pitchers have big ears, daddy-o. can i take that domestic torture from your martyred shoulders?
the pull-behind roto-tiller i ordered during the covidic madness was the tiller of my dreams. the covidic madness made the order a torture of delays. by the time it FINALLY arrived, i was foaming at the mouth. alas, hubby and fa (farm assistant) were as excited as i was. they are a great team and their combined enthusiasm knocked me out of the tractor seat with practiced, unified efficiency. by the time they finished their projects, i was lost in dumb broad psychosis. i just the lucky young lady feeling a bit shady in the shadow of a truly remarkable man. i tried to hold on to the mowing job, but hubby quickly began criticizing my benevolent mowing theories and. . . onward through the psychosis. in his defense, he did not really know the theories i was working. the developed on the other side of the landscaping egg shell piles and i was solidly in the habit of not discussing them with him. since he started beekeeping, he has found my theories --by other names-- on the beekeeping network and was developing his own theories from a very different library. same theories. different authors/focus. in my own matrimonial dysfunction, agreeing in different words has created some meaner tit-for-tat skirmishes than outright disagreement.
johnny deere has aged considerably since he came onboard. not so much in years as in miles. he is of the high end of the riding mower lines, but he is still designed for landscaping more than farming. his breakdown years had already begun by the time i ordered the tiller of my dreams. i felt a bit guilty adding tilling to his list of duties, but. . . please just do this one more thing for me, honey. thank you, deere.
while mowing for big bro's july 1st birthday party, johnny started chugging and stalling as if his fuel supply was not flowing smoothly. i gave thanks that i had been able to mow the most essential spots while i parked johnny and returned to the party preparations. somewhere over the following days, i mentioned the breakdown to hubs. i said nothing as he picked up the ball and ran with it. his daddy popped up on my shoulder to remind me, "that really is none of your business, is it, young lady." sir, yes sir. i simply minded my own business-according-to-FIL as hubs worked with fa and her mechanic friend to unravel the mystery of johnny's condition.
my first mow run after i received the "all fixed" advisory resulted in the same chugging and stalling. hubs and crew found no problem, whatsoever, when they followed up on my report. my very first reaction was, "johnny don't love me no more." my second reaction was to begin plying therapy tools. the dumb broad is on the loose again.
hubs and i have progressed far enough in our shared talks that i can speak to him about my psychotic breaks without breaking out in tit-for-tat skirmishes. those talks have yet to find safe, far less confident verbage, but ? ? ?
woks in progress. . .
still sorting. . .
untangling. . .
I am glad you have solutions that work for you and your hubs. I think it's great you can speak to him
about them too. Sending peace.
i'm not ready to peddle our progress as "solutions." just hopeful, strictly personal progress. . .
stepping small, praying big and letting god lead the dance.
today's flashback hell from the dumb broad show is evenly divided into two casts. male and female. the male portion is made up of the more aggressive of the coworkers, etc. the female portion are from the human resource departments, law-seekers, etc. they arenae hearing me when i scream, "quiet on the set" through my director's funnel.
the voices i am struggling to hear through the flashback psychosis are what i have come to call, "the circle of fathers." they are men of few words and generally speak softly. they are hard to hear over the chaos of the other two factions. the circle of fathers is made up of the mentors, bosses and coworkers who provided me the grounding and compassion which made it possible for me to endure attacks from the other two factions. yes, they are all men. yes, all were fathers who dreamed of a better world for their children. predictable coincidence. mere fact. explain ^it^ in whatever doctrine work best for you.
or so says my synopsis of the day. . .
still sorting. . .
methinks i need to amend the assertion that there is an all-female cast. HR and legislative campaigns have a great many male participants. methinks they are even equal to the female participants on the realities of the blue collar world.
still standing by the statement on the all-male cast in the field. the precious few female voices in that cast are at least as confused and psychotic as i am. look i need to look closely for movements in the shadows to find them.
where does the tall and handsome poet i married fit into all of this? i work pretty hard at keeping out of the show. he triggers me often, but a trigger isnae responsible for the volatile mix it hits. i fully abhor the pain i cause him with these psychopations, but he is only a trigger.
yes, there is a great deal of romantic denial in that statement. a psycho book, "men are from mars, women are from venus," was published during our near divorce years and my most intensive psychotherapy years. i wondered often what happened to that cute young poet who thought lady engineers were sexy. as i attempted to read that book on the recommendation of some forgotten member of my therapy network, i found myself wondering if my tall handsome poet had turned into a martian. in my mind's eye, he began sporting little antenna such as i had seen on the tv series, "my favorite martian." in psychotherapy, we decided to work on detaching his domestic role from the dumb broad chaos. that remains a works in progress and a works i believe in more than ever, even (especially?) when his antenna are working overtime. that happens allot to executives of both genders. methinks it is part of the job description.
in this psychosis, he is only a trigger and i am genuinely sorry for the pain i cause him when i open my psychotic mouth. it is entirely possible i willnae ever be safe to discuss this body of yaddahs with him, but? ? ? dare i dream? i keep falling into dissociated paralysis when he's the only one talking about his important business and i have to just mask myself as good little venetian. it's much easier to accomplish that feat when i have had nothing but proper venetian activities in my day.
television might be the biggest diff between my two parenting careers. in my first parenting career there was a strong consensus that too much television was counterproductive to child development. tongues clucked and heads shook over neglectful parents who made daily use of "the electronic babysitter."
here in 2023, baby sis will be issued her own district-owned laptop computer in pre-k. the support devices were on her school supply list. i still wonder about those ideals from way back when, but i hush my obsolete conscious over my daily use of the electronic babysitter.. all three children have televisions in their bedrooms and i seldom bother to monitor what they are watching beyond setting parental controls on the endless streams of options. this past four years have been about survival. moral posturing has felt like a waste of energy. i have been ever so grateful that hubs has been willing to handle the plethora of parenting apps. my resistance to the appy day mentality is still pretty staunch. go ahead and assume that i did not start my computer career in 1974. i'll even try to enjoy the show while show me all your latest greatest apps. sometimes enjoying that show is easier than other times.
while i have not actively monitored the electronic babysitter, one can't help but notice from time to time. one particular episode of a girlie toon i have yet to identify had the glitter dolls in an old west setting playing ? ? ? good/bad guy? ? ? i did not catch enough of the cartoon to catch the plot. i only caught the classic high noon showdown in front of the saloon. the glitter dolls pulled makeover guns from their glittery gun belts.
in the demented twists and turns of my dumb broad psychosis, the office worker faction seems to be acquiring the costumes and props which were used in that barely acknowledged cartoon episode. we shot them bad guys with name changes and laws, sister. you're imagining the other conflicts. just get with the program and act out your part. just just it all.
that book i attempted to read, "men are from mars. women are from venus" during my near divorce years left me with distorted visual imagery of being a martian in venetian clothing. there's nothing new there. my math and engineering proclivities ushered me into the gender confusions long before i knew what venetians, lesbian, etc., were. those confusions havenae clarified much in the 60 odd years since then. my most trusted progress on this front has been sorting the cultural psychoses(pl) from my own, strictly personal confusions. the stuffed, glittery cartoon dolls shooting one another with makeover guns are the current icon of the cultural confusion on these issues. i don't belong in the martian psychotherapy rooms, so i let that mystery be. those confusions arenae mine to sort beyond remaining mindful of macho boys armed with wrenches ready to beat some femininity into me. for my own good, of course.
within the psychotic personification of martians and venetians, hubs is still wearing the martian antennae sported by the star of "my favorite martian." the "dump the chump" faction of the dumb broad show chatter noisily when his antenna appear. that cast is predominantly female, pulling their makeover guns from their glittery holsters. sorry, ma'am. i still donae believe that the search for the next ex is the solution. we will need more than heavier makeup and new costumes to untangle this psycho snot knot.
hubs's place in this psychotic freak show is? ? ? mostly taboo topic between us. intellectually, i believe him when he tells me he is not deliberately trying to diminish my roles in our collaborative efforts. functionally, i keep falling into flashback psychosis when i attempt to participate on faith. he takes the psychoses(pl) as a reflection on him and grows fiercely angry and offended when it happens. i am comforted by the progress we have made in avoiding the tit-for-tat skirmishes within these trigger events, but. . . be it truth or psychosis, i remain leery of trusting that progress too far. the progress is far more avoidance than trust. we have both grown more efficient and aware in not pushing that needle too far. best to just let the mystery be. whatever the mystery on his side of the egg shell pile, my certainty is that it isnae safe to go there.
success is getting what you want. happiness is wanting what you get.
i didnae want ANY of the successes i achieved in science and engineering. being trapped in the crossfire of the gender wars sucked daddy dick and mommy cunt, too. during the psychiatric remediation of the 1995 breakdown where i abandoned that effort, i quite deliberately decided to go for the happiness. i am still at peace with that decision. leaving my metaphorical makeover gun in my holster, my quest for happiness has moved and is still moving, play by play, in itsy bitsy baby steps with the goal of taking life on life's own terms. i'll leave the bigger picture to the experts in the martian and venetian board rooms.
still sorting. . .
stepping small, praying big and letting god lead the dance.
i just don't know which club is the owner of the truth
i just don't know which right is the rightest of the right
i just don't know which me i should learn to be
i just don't know
i really, really do not know
and that's okay when i am walking with you.
i thank you lord
for every love in my life
i thank you for each joy, for each sorrow for each strife
i thank you for each lesson, even when it's hard
that brings me closer to you
i want to be closer to you
please let me be closer to you
it be good to see that this particular flashback psychosis is only a week old. time is among the facts which distort hideously in the fog banks of a psychosis. 'tis possible that tracking that particular fact set is the greatest value i gain from journaling. this particular episode began with that sense that johnny don't love me no more. july 31.
the agitation has calmed considerably, but i be far from trusting myself to stay rational in the discussion of anything mechanical. even cleaning out a vehicle is too deep into this psychotic confusion to risk **going there.**
"mindful avoidance" is the psychotherapy tool i started to embrace with the 1995 breakdown. **just** put on a dress and hide behind the cultural assumptions. i have been attempting to resolve the personal conflicts and continue believing in my mechanical aptitudes privately, such as the 2017 attempt recorded here, but i am ready to give that one up, as well. i am almost 69 years old and i no longer feel physically able to meet the physical demands of the career field. more importantly, i don't need the money of a low-paying blue collar job and i can afford to hire out that dirty work. more and more, hubs wants to be the one driving the vehicles to the mechanic. what a man! ! !
at present, my greater anxiety is of losing my place on the bio-web. hubs and fa are already far more expert than i. i amnae certain if their expertise has extended far enough to disregard me, altogether, but, at the very least, their collaborations are thoroughly dismissive of my own efforts. shrug-a-lug. we have the room to run independent projects.
dunno. . . still sorting. . .
the agitation seems to be maintaining its calming trend. seems. . . the inventory i garner from these predawn meditations are often proven inaccurate when my daily stresses begin opening their sleepy eyes. untested serenity often falls apart when presented with the less predictable stresses of life. for now, here in the unruffled calm of a sleeping household, the flashbacks have been reduced to mere memories. i can **remember** an incident without reliving it. i can look back without staring and/or leaving the here and now.
a catch phrase which has been floating over this particular psychosis is, "why do you keep bringing up _____fill in the blank_________?" methinks that could that be the headline of my "taboo topic list," as i review the many cast members who have used that phrase, i find myself unable to find any feminine voices in the users of the phrase. i can easily imagine coming from my mother and the elder sister i have been calling "pimp sis" here in my therapy journal, but i canae quite catch their voices among the masculine tones. for sure, the choir is overwhelmingly male.
for absolute certain, it marks hubby's taboo topic list. i'll take it as progress that his tones were less adamant when he used it during this episode. it didnae mark the beginning of yet another tit-for-tat skirmish and/or trigger another psychotic flight to anywhere but here.
stepping small, praying big and letting god lead the dance. . .
no, dear god, i donae even need to know which tune we are dancing to. in you i trust.
still sorting. . .
still taking care of business. . .
time to go wake up the roosters.
as i ponder HLP's psychic flu theories, i speculate that the linguistic snot knot episode might be resolving. maybe. psychic flu is nowhere near as easily measured as covidic flu. my measure of the whachamacallit is the return of my appetite and ability to treat rest like a productive activity. eating and sleeping have begun to feel more important than solving the economy and wars on foreign shores. in my head, of course. here in that confusing time between naps (reality), it is unlikely that even the greatest of monarchs of the universe has sustainable solutions for those whachamacallits.
methinks something might be evolving here in the dumb broad show. as the immigration issues have stormed tenants of the dreamed of education center, i've been fixing things without looking over my shoulder to see if my macho man was going to show me how to do it his way. with hubs distracted by the human side of those issues, my hands have freed up and just done what i knew had to be done. i donae feel safe to do the research, but i'll bet those gringo dollars to this bubblegummer's wishes that he hasn't noticed. he's been too busy with his first taste of that heartache to notice that his precious princess is avoiding him like a jealous child. skip-a-rope. well. . . he took notice after i started skipping rope with a bull whip. the bull whip is my psycho mnemonic that self-flagellation doesnae help, but i have quite a reputation for my multi-purposing talents.
fact, fiction or delusion?
HLP just popped up in my head to tell me, "rest and recuperate first. decide later. don't rush the convalescence." now that you mention it, my respected puppet, a nap sounds like a task i may be able to accomplish tonight. might grab me a munchie on the way to my pillow.
among the possible shiftings i see in the fog banks of "the dumb broad show" is ? ? ? am i slipping into denial again? ? ? more than one of my sibs-in-healing has nicknamed me, "sheeba, queen of denial." i hate it when the people calling me names are right. my vivid imagination, complete with puppets and soundtrack, can make a proverbial sow's ear into a silk purse with creative ease. i'm not overly fond of silk. it makes me sweat. let's see what other material i can turn that sow's ear into. or. . . is pig leather an option? nah. . . ears are more cartilage than hide in any species. back to the drawing board. donae worry, my manly man. i'm just metaphoring around. such are the dreams of the everyday housewife. just another covert operator hiding in the shadows of a truly remarkable man. does this dress make me look fat, hon?
but. . . is that a listener i hear in the shadow of my truly remarkable man. the young poet i married was a marvelous listener.
nah. . . just call me, "sheeba."
within the hubby portion of the dumb broad show, our last tit-for-tat skirmishes have been met with a shared awareness that the skirmish has begun, even within the add-on drama of rescuing his visa bride on the day of the princess birthday party. of course the princesses noticed when he stalked off to rescue his damsel in distress. "is gampy coming to the party?" how 'bout that pinata? do you think it's purty enough for both of my precious princesses?"
yes, gampy did make it to the party. he had his game face on and managed the adults splendidly. i listened to the children while they played and a splendid time was had by all.
a musical metaphor i have found useful is, "getting on the same sheet of music." even the monotone of the talking heads find that cliche helpful from time to time. hubs used to be a songwriter. i hope he will be again one day, but for now, he responds to the cliche like a man with musical training. translating that training into daily life has been challenging. he doesn't speak my first language with natural ease. he's a damned fine musician, though. i'm still nagging him to remember that. nagging's a dirty job, but somebody has to do it.
on the morning of the princess party, i tried to get hubs to suggest a sheet of music we could harmonize from, but. . . his damsel in distress was in tears. i theorated that she was a big and smart girl who could work her own way through the challenges of life. he snorted and stalked off to rescue her. i'll get the proverbial brasso out so that you can polish your proverbial armor after your battle is won, my knight. how 'bout that pinata?
in the 9 days that we have had sophisticated 8 and 5 year old princesses in the house, yet another of my psychotic comparisons has been bubbling in my psycho cauldron. what be the diff between agreeing and harmonizing?
hubs and i have learned to agree fast enough to prevent subjecting the children to trauma. dare i compare that agreement to the Treaty of Versailles? metaphorically speaking, of course. perhaps another of the muckety muck meetups would serve as a more accurate analogy. there is no shortage of such agreements to choose from. cycling back to the literals, hubs and i might even be in danger of being able to disagree without mustering the troops. maybe. enough to feel like honest progress. we see what grows.
my notion of harmony allows for the harmonies of squabble/war tones. they carry far more tonal variation than the muckety muck meetups, but remain far from my personal favorite sheets of music.
hmmmmmmmmmm
is it mere coinkidink that MMM is the acronym for the muckety muck meetup?
is it purely psychotic that that coinkidink reminds me of how i got fired from the M&M factory for throwing away w's? should i alert the internet authorities that i might start throwing away all the w's at the muckety muck meetups?
am i lost in metaphor again?