A Random Image

Jett Superior laid this on you on || November 12, 2005 || 3:11 am

Dear Catecholamines, I loves you but you gotsta go.

How on earth can I neglect you good and lovely Muffinasses for so long at a stretch? I posted, I turned around and eleven days had passed. What the fuck?

There has been no shortage of material, which does not help an awful lot. Keeps me from being your voyeurtainment, keeps me tied up in knots, keeps me on edge from the sheer weight of the words on my brain and emotions beneath my breastbone that clamor around and beg release. It’s been a frightfully confusing week, y’all.

Just less than a little while ago, I brought my husband to wakefulness with some murmuring here, some touching there. I confessed to him that this period of time, this whatever I’m going through, addles me; it is frustrating and difficult to articulate. Then I told him that I had dry, achey sinuses and a runny nose. Then I asked to be rocked to sleep, the summation of which is neatly boxed up by the phrase ‘all over that’. Only, the standard postcoital* sleep-magic didn’t lay the whammy to me this time. Runny nose. Headache. Sumbitchi’mabesicktomorrow.

Even those, however, could not detract from the sense of pleasure and peace I got from his cheekbone resting both heavy and gently on mine, lips lightly gracing that place on my neck. The world is a good and easily-redeemed place when such things occur. Lately I’ve made a quite conscious decision: I want to try to live in that sweetness.

Wait, maybe that didn’t come across in quite the right way. Fucking lack of tone and inflection the written word sometimes falls prey to. Again: I want to try to LIVE in that sweetness. I’m not so foolish as to believe that every moment of every day can be that way, but what’s stopping me from the attempt?

I’ve come to learn something very important in the past few weeks. That something is the fact that we become addicted to certain emotional behaviors in the way that we can be addicted to certain places, or people, or things. I mean, the logical, thinking side of me was aware of this some time ago, having been made familiar with your basic data and research. It’s one thing to have consumed information. It’s quite another to have it shake hands with awareness. Let’s come back to this here in just a minute. Once again there are rabbits to chase, for hellsakes.

Someone gifted me with a massage, so I scheduled the appointment for yesterday during my lunch break (my new boss gives a very generous –and MUCH APPRECIATED, if you are reading this, Mister Pants!– mini-day in the midst of work hours). I’ve been rolfed before, but don’t count it as your standard pleasureful rubdown because it was a little ‘owie’. So this was to be my first professional massage.

“Hello? I am submitting my naked flesh to a complete stranger of my verysame gender. She is going to rub me with her handses and ebbows, having been paid to do so. Up yours, staunch Babdiss upbrangin’!”

So, we begin the rubdown, and I’m not particularly bowled over, but then like any good ride, the bottom sort of dropped out of the boring and wheeeeeee, what a time we’s a-gonna hab, lawsy yayus. There’s me feeling eh, okay being lightly kneaded and finding a focal point on the table’s base to fixate upon when all of a sudden, sparks shot through my scalp and I choked back a sob, bewildered by its dramatic and unexpected entrance.

“You are experiencing an emotional release, Jett,” the massage therapist said to me.

“You shouldn’t hold it back, it’s not good for you.”

The dam didn’t just break, it threw shards for hundreds of miles and there I was, a mess of a sobbing thing right there on a hideous rose-colored vinyl table covered in overexpensive cotton. Kind of like me, right? The thing is, she was round about my liver when this happened. Coincidence?

I choose to checkmark the box next to ‘not’, you people, you Cyberian friends o’ me.

Lately, a certain question has been pounding and pounding through my head: ‘Why are you afraid of being fulfilled?’ It is followed closely by, ‘Why are you so fucking mean to yourself at times?’ Maybe I wasn’t a bully in school because most of that sort of energy was expended on ME. Maybe my habit of defending those being bullied was a kind of external working-out of my own inner struggle. My outrage on behalf of others’ mistreatments is sometimes difficult for even me to comprehend.

Let’s go back around the loop to the part about being addicted to certain emotional behaviors as strongly as you can be to some physical ones. I’ve found (in my own experience, anyway) that the two can be connected to a great degree.

See, just as it is difficult (but not entirely impossible) to re-shape the body, it is difficult to re-shape the brain. Studies show that you develop certain pathways and actual physical structure(s) in your noggin based on how you do things coupled with how often you do them. So to change behaviors is to stop using one pathway and begin creating another. Construction is two things, my people:

1) painful
2) a bitch

Stuff gets smashed up in the process. This results in debris. Debris gets carted off, eventually. Hell, by the time a project is finished, completely and truly finished, there is no physical evidence of the previous state of affairs whatsoever.

In the case of the human body, we have a behavior or set of behaviors that results in a wash of certain chemicals that influence/reward the body. If the next anticipated move is quashed, where does all the Somatogenic Kool-Aid (trademarked name, because I am going to be a rich motherfucker when they market that shit someday) go? It’s got to be utilized somewhere right? I imagine that this is how some people go slap nuts. They attempt change and then get stuck right in the middle of the molt, adrift in their own chemical hyperactivity with no way to burn it off.

I say all this to set you up for what follows: Lately I’ve been working on my anger no longer being my default emotion. There, I said it, and you can all hold me accountable in the future. I know you’ll do it, you cute little peckerheads. I came to the great and wondrous realization a few weeks back that the broad scope of my anger is just another extension of my chemical dependency. I reason it all down to mush like this: My favored drug of choice (I salivate even now as I merely entertain the notion of pushing the word out of my fingertips) is (WOO-WOO! BELLS AND WHISTLES, WHEEEEE!) cocaine. Cocaine, in me, produces a feeling of power, a singular form of glee, a hyper-awareness, verbal agility, sexual voracity.

When partaking of the ole Columbian marching powder, I am self-possessed and insular. I am capable and on the prowl and no-holds-barred magic. I could command armies and write soliloquies and mustard-seed a mountain four miles to the left of its original position. Seduce the unseducable (see Marc, I make up words, too), sing the unsingable and so on and so forth.

When I am angry, I feel much the same. When I am very, very angry, I feel indestructable. So now I see that I have not been managing my addictions so well over the course of the years after all, as I am an altogether angrier person now than when I first used. The anger produces a similar physiological response in me as the coke: Hyperarousal. Anger, though, flips the pharmacy: The more often you indulge, the easier it is to reach a state of arousal the next time. And, just like with the powdery business, the harder it is to lend your time to anything else.

So, I’ve been working toward chopping off this extension of the junkie in me. It is sometimes physically painful, and definitely has thrown my other emotions all over the canvas. It’s an exhausting thing, this, and sometimes terrifying. Many of the very positive moves in my life have been, as well. I am bound and fucking determined to no longer be a slave to the addictions I was deluded enough to think I was free from just because they were packaged a little differently and maybe a bit more covertly.

I can do this thing; I just know I can. But holy shit, don’t ever ask me to stop swearing.

*dude in chickskin, remember?

pee ess…I have started wearing heels on occasion once again. It is exhilerating and comforting and scary all at the same time. There’s an eensy voice at the back of my brain cautioning me with each fall of my right foot: “DO NOT, UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES, TWIST YOUR ANKLE BECAUSE YOU ARE JUST STARTING TO SHED THE QUASIMODO WALK, SASSY McPANTSERSON!” gack. My limp becomes a bit more pronounced (read: noticeable) while wearing them, but I’m getting there in the strength and range-of-motion departments. I’ll give details on recovery and such if popular vote demands it.

pee ess-ess…in ankle-related matters, the entity who shall henceforth be identified as the Tractor Fucker (or Tractor Bastard, you people decide. Again with the popular vote!) has filed suit against me. All the reasons for my righteous indignation (like him calling me five days after the accident to tell me he was fine, juuuuust fine and out in his chicken houses hard at work again the same day) will be herein outlined in the near future. My defending counsel is FUCKING HOT, rowr.

7 worked it out »

  1. skillzy 11.12.2005

    Sued, huh? Looks like you picked a bad week to give up anger. BWA-HA-HA!

    (Darth breathing)

    Tap into your rage. Feel the powah of the dark side flow through you!(/Darth)

    You’re blowing your chances of ever becoming a Sith Lord, you know. Jack-man will be very bummed.

    Now I’m starting to wonder if my tooth was rent asunder yesterday at the moment of your massage-induced release, sorta like the draperies in the temple. I shalt not gnash my teeth anymore till Monday, when they’re putting on a temp crown. It’s no fun having a woman dentist, you can’t argue when she says suck it up.

  2. cal 11.12.2005

    hey…just hey…and ‘member…4″ heels are a bitch.

  3. skillzy 11.13.2005

    Oh, and I think a much more appropriate moniker would be Chicken Fucker.

  4. Jettomatika 11.14.2005

    So nobody wants to know how very hot he was? For REAL?

  5. Coelecanth 11.14.2005

    “Anger is an energy.” J. Rotten.

    Energy in physics can neither be created nor destroyed, but it can be transformed into other forms. Sounds like you’re tranformering, er, I mean transforming, athough I’m sure there’s more to you than meets the eye. Cool.

    All right, I’ll bite: how hot was he?

  6. Jettomatika 11.14.2005

    Great, C, now I have the voice of the Decepticons rattling through my noodle. You arse.

    He is so damnably hot, that I will dedicate a whole entry to it before this whole lawsuit business is done.

  7. Jettomatika 11.14.2005

    CAL! Nooooo: Four-inch heels are FOR bitches. (g’head girl, g’head, get down)

    I can’t get that song out of my head today.


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