Thursday, Feb. 24, 2011
One of the smaller reasons I keep a journal currently is to keep track of what day it is, so I know when to check back with the gardening place across the street to see if they’re interviewing yet. [Note: the house where I lived did not have internet, and I did could not afford a cell phone.]
In thinking about my sister, I realize how important the “wounded healer” is. You can bet your ass that there’s a difference between someone who’s “been there before” and someone who hasn’t—even if they both mean well and both want to sincerely help. You can just tell, in the way they speak and what words they say, that the person understands—or doesn’t understand. I see, now, that it makes a huge difference.
At this point in my life, I really do consider myself to be a “wounded healer,” although I don’t like the label “wounded.” I prefer to think of myself as healed, not damaged. However, I often do think that my sexual desire is wounded beyond repair. I don’t think I’ll ever enjoy sex… at least not as this worldly culture likes to portray sex.
Anastasia’s line of thinking suggests we’re only supposed to have sex for producing children. So I guess I’d be ok, there. And not a “sexual anorexic.”
Ever since my experiences with the Sex Addicts Anonymous groups in 2009, I’ve felt like I can help people heal. It wasn’t just those Anon. groups, but the whole process of being hurt and learning to heal. I think I could help a lot of people. I wouldn’t want to be a therapist or psychologist, though—those line of professions are like a scam artist, in my opinion. I’d rather help people as their friend—not giving advice but just encouragement. And more importantly, give a friendly ear from someone who actually understands where they’re coming from and not just try to appear supportive by saying bland, generic comments like my sister: “Well, everyone’s got to choose their own path,” or “Sometimes you’ve gotta do what you’ve gotta do,” or even “Well, there are two sides to every story, I guess.” [In 2014, I’m still kind of bitter about those words coming from my sister’s mouth, at times when I needed support from her. I felt betrayed deeply, in those moments.] Blech. Utter bullshit.
I’m trying to think of the best way to sell these 11 little cat toys I made: knock on apartment doors (apartments are more likely to have cats than dogs, I think), or stand in front of a grocery store, movie theater, library or recreation center. Or, of course, I could just ignore the phone bill, as it’s only 8 or 9 bucks anyway. But I don’t like having out-standing debt. Even the thought of a mortgage makes me cringe, as well as this little phone bill.
I’ve been back in this [US] state for about a month now. I’m already sick of the snow. The southwest was in US Gardening Zone 9 and here I’m in Zone 5 or 6. These are too extreme—too hot on one end and too cold on the other. I want to live in a place where it doesn’t really now (at least not for 6 freaking months out of the year!! Maybe one month would be ok). Maybe a Zone in between—7 or 8. Some place where I could grow mango and banana trees AND apple and pear trees AND orange and lemon trees!
That would be my paradise. A place without volcanoes or tornadoes or tsunamis. A place where we can each have our own little section of land for life, without mortgages or taxes or bills.
Shall I continue to dream? Is imagery powerful enough to give me what I want? Or is that “nonsense?”
What action can I take to make the dreams and thoughts become reality in the physical world? I mean, besides sending letters to politicians, asking them to give us free land (which I doubt they’d do, anyway).