Thursday, August 7, 2014

What lures me to the blogosphere and other wild tangents about me


This is my very first post to my very first blog.  How exciting!  Surely this calls for Vueve Cliqot!  OK Maybe not.  Whatever shutup.

Brooke Jones
Introverted, reclusive hermit

I am an introverted, reclusive hermit.  No not uni-bomber introverted reclusive hermit.  I think of myself as being on the high-functioning end of the anti-social spectrum.  I figure if I am to quell any uni-bomber comparisons, all I have to do is write a book.  A good book.  A book people enjoy.  Suddenly, my whole lifestyle would make sense to those who shoot their eyebrows at me in a furrow of concern and alarm.  “Oh!”  They would exclaim with a sigh of relief, “she is a writer. Oh!  Now I see.”

It seems easy enough, to write a book.  I have learned it is super easy to start a book. I have started many brilliant works, which inevitably get abandoned under a pile of more brilliant works, cast aside in favor of the idea du jour.  The tricky part for me is the whole finishing end of the business.  So, I’m thinking, maybe a blog might work for me.  Blogs love ideas du jour.  Or, a blog could just be another brilliant work abandoned after a frenzied start.  I suppose we shall see.  Wait a minute, can I claim title to being a “Writer” if all I do is blog?  When do I get to be “Author”? 

OK I’m getting ahead of myself as per usual.  My apprehension with a blog is my inability to be consistent.  Aren’t bloggers supposed to be out there cyber-socializing and advertising their blog to get more readers?  Then what happens when I go dark, leaving my new beloved readers bewildered and perplexed as to my whereabouts?  Will they all leave me if I hang a sign that reads “On Hiatus due to extreme introversion” then take off to roam the earth?  Will they be there when I get back?  OK I guess I should focus on being productive first, before I worry about when my break is.





Yesterday You
In the throws of an
18 month depression
Going dark is a real threat to my ability to function.  As many times as I have been sucked down the drain of depression, one would think I could recognize it coming on.  I never do.  It’s a sneaky little slippery rat bastard.

It’s a dark, shadowy figure looming just beyond my awareness.  It creeps in, seeps in somehow to commandeer my existence. Then one day I find myself laying on the couch in a coma-like daze, wondering when I showered last and basing my guess on exactly how matted my hair is. I will disgustingly admit, since we’re being honest here, that more than once my hair has balled itself into one single massive dreadlock.

I’d just ball it up on my head and go back to sleep, hoping sleep would once again alleviate my self-oppression.  I have no feeling in this state.  I am numb.


The surface is smooth and she is gone. 

I don’t typically have fits of uncontrollable crying or of hating myself or cutting myself or the other types of behavior portrayed in after school specials.  Although, I am one to antagonize and mock myself internally.  It's completely internal, concealed, incognito.  I just go… blank.  Nothingness.  I have no interest in anything, and no motivation, and no concern of it.  I couldn’t care less.  No feelings of love, hate, or any emotion in between.  I stew in apathy.  I don’t even speak, because it’s just too much work.  When I am in this pit, it is only then it occurs to me hey – something is not right here.  You’re depressed.

Most times even after this revelation I wouldn’t cut myself a break, or have any interest in getting out of the depression.  Eh, too much work.  Who cares.  Whatever.  I’ll just lay here in my own filth and channel surf the crappiest reality shows ever.  Fuck it. I’d probably have suicidal tendencies if killing yourself didn't take so much work.  I'm far too lazy for such a production. Instead, I use sleep as my form of relief.  I am not miserably depressed when asleep, so I sleep as much as possible.

Taking pharmaceuticals as prescribed (instead of playing “kitchen chemist” as my doctor calls it) helps minimize the severity of my mood swings.  But I screw those up all the time.  Then I go dark.  Then my sister says Hey-You’ve gone dark.  Then I get myself back on a regimented drug routine. 


Certain people in the medical profession believe me to be one who has bipolar.  I just can’t be sold on the whole physical diagnosis of a chemical imbalance – when no one can measure said chemicals nor does anyone know what “balanced chemicals” look like.  Perhaps it is my own intellectual shortcomings, but I fail to see how they would know which chemicals are needed to balance the imbalance when they don’t even know what balanced or imbalanced chemicals look like.

It insults my intelligence.  It should insult everyone.  I would more readily accept the explanation of “You have bipolar because you’re a nut bag from a long line of crazies” over some claim of physical causes that can’t be measured physically. 

In the 19th century, blood-letting was the go-to treatment for almost all of the ailments suffered.  Of course we know it is silly now, but to them, it was a positively scientific method of medical treatment with proven efficacy.  Eerily similar to the “balanced chemicals” farce.


Self-Portrait
Hyper-focused fit
of creative impulse
I am not saying I am not bipolar.  Well, I said exactly that for over 20 years.  Any doctor that uttered those words to me was the last time they ever saw me.  Clearly they had no idea what they were doing.  I have a vivacious, rambunctious personality, and sometimes I go dark and become a recluse.  So what if I stay up all night sometimes, sometimes for two nights – doctors simply do not understand creative artists.  I must paint.  I must write.  I must create non-stop until inspiration subsides.  What the hell is wrong with that?


I don’t know.  Maybe I didn’t really rock the shit out of Chinese Restaurant Karaoke in Hudson, NH.  But, maybe I did.  I was on fire baby.  I sang loudly, I walked out into the crowd, made eye contact… I totally worked the room.  I did several numbers; incited sing a longs.  I had a fabulous time!  It’s a very happy memory of a good time for me.  Now I am supposed to believe oh no, that wasn’t a good time - that was sick.  That was mental illness.  That was mania.  Ah, no thanks, mon frère.

It’s a tough pill to swallow to be told the best times of your life were actually mental illness. 

Was it a good idea to call my psychiatrist on a Saturday night and excitedly report I could shoot sparks from my fingertips?  Then two days later announce my marriage plans to a guy I met a week prior?  To my doctor and my entire family mind you.  Probably not my best ideas.  But hey, those are stories for other ideas du jour.

Why am I telling you this anyway.  I am not like some, bipolar poster girl.  In fact, I contest the label being applied to me.  It doesn't fit.  I don't wear it.  Just because I may have unusual schedule habits and eccentric priorities... these certainly do not make me mentally ill.

Dig it. 





<br>AUG 7 2014:  Being me and all, my very first post to my very first blog ended up languishing for months among the half-ideas and brilliant delusions stuffed in a folder marked blog. While not chronologically first, it is in fact the first. Yeah, me and George Lucas. How clever to reveal the beginning decades after the middle. Maybe... but my theory is now Mr. Lucas is more ADD than clever.

I did in fact have a frenzied start, I also went on hiatus.  I relocated 1500 miles away, and I'm *almost* finished with a book I wrote, and now I am back, maybe.</br>


Wednesday, July 2, 2014

I'm Sorry You Feel That Way - The Non-Apology



We all know someone who apologizes for everything, all of the time.  If you don't, you are probably thinking "I am sorry.  I don't know anyone like that."

Stop feeling guilty and apologetic for shit you didn't do.  Go cold turkey.  Never apologize.  Never say you’re sorry.  If you feel yourself saying “Im sorry” say “I’m sorry you feel that way.”  Isn’t that cool?  You’re apologizing for nothing.  You’re accepting no blame.


Here is an example:

“When you don’t answer the phone, it frustrates me.”
The typical response may be to blame yourself and promise to do better.  “Oh I’m sorry!  I’ll try to always have my phone on me in case you call.  I didn’t mean to miss your call, I’m sorry.”

Instead, when you feel yourself begin to apologize, just keep going and add on “… you feel that way.”

“When you don’t answer the phone, it frustrates me.”
“I’m sorry you feel that way.

See?  You did not apologize for not answering the phone.  You did not set the future expectation that you are to jump when his call comes in.  You simply expressed sympathy for his frustration, while also subtly saying “I’m not changing myself for you.  Your feelings are your problem.”  

Personally, I take it too far and push back.  The Brooke Jones response is more like “Hey what’s up Velcro, smother much?”

When you say “I’m sorry you feel that way,” it deflects the emotion they are trying to give you right back at them.  Block it.  It is their frustration - let them keep it. 

When you go the “I’ll do better” route you are absorbing their frustration and taking it on in the form of
No one is perfect, so why
are you apologizing for it?
guilt and remorse.  They feel better when you apologize and repent, right?  And you feel like a shitbag for not answering the call.  

That is because you just sucked up all of their negative energy and chose to bear it’s burden yourself, to make the other feel better.


Stop.  Just Stop It.

This blog was inspired by Nia, unfortunately I know way too many people who feel sorry about everything a lot of the time. 

In business,  I took note that male superiors never, ever apologized.  They never said sorry.  Since I wanted up that corporate ladder, "I'm sorry" had to cease it's existence in my vocabulary.    I replaced it with "I am sorry you feel that way."  

For the record, I did in fact climb that ladder.



I would love to hear of your experiences of retaining your power by deflecting with "I'm sorry you feel that way."



Dig it.





Where the Fuck are the Tweezers?!?


Bubba is holding his paw up.  I realize he’s gotten a glass splinter from the glass I dropped last week.  I swept and mopped the area, then got a couple splinters myself. Meant to mop thoroughly but, forgot until just now.

I have at least five pairs of tweezers somewhere in the house.  I have been walking around in circles for days looking for them because my face is so hairy.  Bubba’s injured paw causes me to look again.

I look in the hall closet – what a mess!  I should put all of these cleaner bottles in one basket.  A basket with a handle, like the hotel maids have.  Brilliant!  Pull out all cleaners and put them in the hallway to remind me to get a basket.

I look under the bathroom sink – OMG it is WET!  I must have a leak?  Pull half of the stuff out, then leave it all over the bathroom floor when I realize Im supposed to be looking for tweezers.  Stay on task Jones.

Go into the office/guest room/storage room.  Hey!  That is exactly what I have been looking for!  A bill sorter!  Yay Laura!  I can cross that off my list.  I’ll go sort my mail right now so it’s done.

Oh – I wanted to see if I could find those Lowes gift cards I have somewhere….  Hey!  Here’s the photos from the Turks and Caicos!  OMG so funny, I should make Laura a collage.  Flip through 3 rolls and pull out the photos for the collage.  Stack them neatly on top of the corner-pile on my desk.

Bubba limps in….  shit.  Tweezers.  Right.  Maybe they are in this suitcase?  Nope, its empty.  Oh!  Yay!  This basket would be perfect for the cleaning supplies… dump the contents on the floor - then reject it because it doesn’t have a handle.

I can’t find tweezers.  I’ve looked for days.  I’ll bring the bill sorter out and do that.  Place it on the stove.  Oh I could use some coffee…dump the old coffee.  Hey how bout some tunes?  Park it in front of the PC to select a playlist.

Yes that’s better.  Now, what was I doing?  I don’t know…  I need to sort all these to do lists, I know!  I’ll make an excel spreadsheet.  What should the column headers be?  GAWD I’m so bored!  I hate this!  Stare at the ceiling for 5 minutes and space out.

I need to fold that laundry in the dryer from last week…  yawn.  Its so nice out!  I should take Bubba to the dog park…  crap.  He’s on 3 legs.  Glass splinter.  Mop the floors. NOW.


I’ll just check my email first….  Oh I have those 150.00 Target gift cards!  Look for a small desk at target.com… wait stop, finish that order on sallybeauty.com for the notching shears.  Go get credit card, focus focus focus just finish one thing, just one thing.  Omg I love this song!  Space out for another 5 minutes, hating myself and my life because I can’t get a flipping thing done….  Tell myself to start a diary and list daily achievements for moments like these…  I should also put food, sleep, and emotional state in there… oh meds too…  I think I have a blank journal somewhere in the office… oh fuck it.  This place is a mess, I will never find it.   It’s too damn much.  

I’m such a loser. Poor Bubba.  I’m such a bad Mommy.


Monday, June 30, 2014

Bi-Polar is Not an Adjective!!!!

"She is bipolar."  "You are bipolar."  "I am bipolar."

Why is the word bipolar used as an adjective?  

Does someone with cancer say "I am cancer"?  How bout "I am herpes."  LOL.  It's comical. 

Well, it would be comical if illness-used-as-an-adjective didn't convert it into an insult.  

"You're cancer."  
"You're herpes."




I am not bipolar.  You are not bipolar.  
I have bipolar.  You have bipolar.
Illness is a noun, not an adjective.

Spread the Word.


Dig it.

Brooke Jones





Sunday, June 29, 2014

Cuffed n Stuffed at 45G: From traffic violation to jail

installment 1 of 3 

How to Get Arrested in 3 Easy Steps

Right from the comfort of your own home!

  
Step 1
 Lose the traffic violation ticket you received when The Man pinched you for riding dirty.  Assume “riding dirty” means driving an unregistered motor vehicle that also lacks insurance.  I wasn’t running heroin or anything.
Step 2
Lose the court summons you received for not paying and not responding to the ticket.  Suddenly remember the court summons and court date, and mark it on your calendar.
Step 3
 On court day, decide “Ah, you know what?  Fuck it.  I just don’t feel like going.  They can send me a bill.”  Yawn.  Spend morning curled up with Cherry Garcia and watch a Teen Mom 3 marathon.  Doze off in the afternoon, wake up to banging on the door.





I’m usually more cooperative; however my out-of-town mother tends to use the local police department as her personal message delivery service.  The last time the fuzz arrived, it took ten minutes of knocking and partial entry through the back door to get my attention.  (I have a standard zero tolerance policy for unannounced visitors.  If I’m not expecting you, don’t come over.)

Transcript from my police-delivered phone message


So, that happened. True story.  You may have already guessed I live in a small town.  We got our first and only traffic light a few years back when the new supermarket opened.  It’s that small.  Coupled with my domineering mother’s unearthly power of strong persuasion tactics and the tenacity of a pit-bull, it’s only natural the police would need to fill in as my personal assistant from time to time.  I mean, it’s their job, right?   To serve?  That’s why we pay them.  To serve.  OK fine, yeah - also to protect.  OK maybe serve does not mean serve you your messages.  Whatever.





Of course I remember that day.  My eleven year old car has an inspection sticker from 2010, and the brakes were so soft I should not have been driving it at all but, the emergency brake still worked and well… it was an emergency.  I needed ciggies, bad.  Out pulls the cruiser behind me.  Fuck!  Like any human, my flight or fight instinct is strong.  
Got a siren on my tail and that ain't the fight I'm lookin for

I considered outrunning the piggie, but quickly dismissed it as a bad idea. The odds were against me. A high speed chase with the police couldn’t end well with no brakes.  I e-braked my way to the side of the road and played stunned citizen. 

He informed me my insurance had expired and in turn my registration had been suspended.   I looked surprised and shocked.  He called the tow truck and came back with my ticket.  When I saw criminal offense checked, I became elated.  Really!  Im a criminal! A CRIMINAL!  ME!! AWESOME!  Ive never been a criminal before!  

It wasn’t until the cop dropped me off at home did I realize the 4 packs of butts I just bought were still in my car.  Shitballs.

It ain't easy being me.

to be continued...



Friday, June 27, 2014

Mania in the Workplace


For about two and a half months one spring, I started showing up at work dressed impeccably, from my hair follicles to my feet.  As this level of grooming and primping requires a great deal of effort, I’d roll into the office around 10:30AM.  Ish.  Predictable to most, I drew the attention of my boss.

But, not in the way you may think.

Suddenly I had a lot more projects and a lot more meetings to attend, all of which included him.  He was the kind of guy that felt a little greasy, almost cute but, not quite.  Kinda like the cute guys brother.  Acceptable height, but at the bare minimum.  His wardrobe featured the ‘black mock turtleneck with a black suitcoat’ look, topped off with a goatee that tried to say “Yes I am a corporate drone, but I am also cool and hip, a bit of a bad boy.”  

I could tell by the way he carried himself that he thought he was a real catch. He thought he was a good looking, successful, envied BMW driver.  You know him, he’s that guy.  Sometimes that guy has a long, thin gray ponytail dangling behind a balding head. 

Side Note:  Why do people think they buy status with a older model BMW 3 series?  Do they think we will be all impressed with “BMW” and too stupid to know the 3’s are the cheapest?  All a BMW 3 says to the world is “I’m an asshole.”  Anyway -


He was interacting with me far too much, and I didn’t appreciate the extra workload.  It was really cutting into my laying around time.  I delegated what I could, but still.  He was staring at me more and more.  Then the staring pandemic expanded from meetings to include the cafeteria, then the hallway, then the gym, then business trips to Costa Rica.  Dude was on me like a heat seeking missile. 

Where-ever I turned, he was there.  I had no idea such power came from Chanel mascara and high heels.  Each morning, Gaping Mouth Hole would come slobbering around the corner to my office, unabashedly gawking and ogling me all over.   My perfume signaled my arrival.  It had become Pavlov’s bell. 

Guess who was the dog.  He would blather on about some bullshit task that didn’t need to be done, just so he could get his slimy eyeballs all over my Brooks Brothers suit. I’d swear there were times he was actually panting a little, but that can’t be confirmed. 

He would dramatically inhale, as if my perfume was a better high than huffing paint.  Not that I know what huffing paint is like, but I have seen “Intervention.”  And between you and me, I find saying “huffing paint” mildly pleasurable. 

Post-Chistmas Party After-Party
Truth be told, I couldn’t resist being the cat to his mouse.  I toyed with his affections for weeks.  When the company Christmas party came, let’s just say too much liquor instigated too much flirting.  OK FINE, I admit I kissed him.  In one night I had turned myself into his obsession.  This incident motivated me to find a psychiatrist.  Manic much?



Now the project meetings were just the two of us.  Now he started to get mean, trying to take back the power, trying to control me as my boss.  He didn’t expect me to match then exceed his tone.  We’d go round after round in a private conference room, admittedly I swore and yelled much more than he did.  My boss had no idea what to do with me.  I had yet to recognize that when my speech is in a thick Boston accent and I am swearing profusely, I am going into mania, or I’m already there. 

Kings of Leon Concert
He had yet to recognize I don’t back down.  Since force proved ineffective, he tried a different route.  He gave me two tickets to a concert, saying “You can take anyone you like.”  Clearly he assumed I’d ask him.  I didn’t.  I took my friend George and we had a blast.

The week after the concert, Mr Boss Man pulls me into a conference room and tells me I need to come in at 8AM like everyone else.  The only reason my arrival time suddenly mattered is because he suddenly lusted after me and wanted me there when he got there.  I said “Well, I’m not coming in at 8AM.  I schedule my meetings late morning, and work well into the evening.  There is no need for me to be here at 8AM.”  “Look, here’s a box” he draws an imaginary box on the table, “everyone fits in this box, we start at 8AM.”  I lost it.

“I never fit into a box Charlie that’s why you need me.  If you want some 8-5 ham n egger go hire one.  If you want the results I deliver, I come in mid-morning.  We both know you would need 2-3 new hires to replace me.  How will your numbers look then?”

“Look Brooke, it’s black and white.  We start at 8AM.”  “Shit Charlie!  God Himself could drop from the heavens and demand I be here at 8 and it still wouldn’t happen!  So, we’re at a stale mate I guess.  Now what?”

“Do we have to go to HR to discuss it?”  I exploded.  “That is a FABULOUS idea Charlie!  I have lots to report to HR!  Shall we go right now?  Let’s go right now Charlie!  You can tell them your story about boxes and I will tell them my story about harassment.  Let’s see who wins.”  Charlie declined the trip to HR.

The final act.  I had left for a dentist appointment.  He texted my cell in all caps that if I do not get him these documents in five minutes, he will start firing people and Nancy would be first.  I heavily relied on Nancy to help me run my organization.  He was going for the jugular.  I called him immediately.  “You arrogant, petty, narcissistic bastard!  How dare you threaten me with Nancy!  I am on vacation as of right fucking now!  DO NOT CONTACT ME AGAIN!  You hear me!!” Click.

I never did go back.  That turned out to be my grand exit.  Hey, at least I can say I went out with a bang.  He called and apologized to me for his behavior, which I thought was a riot given my own behavior.  During that week I had a MS Attack that left me disabled.  They held my job open for a year but, I have been unable to work following that attack. 


And that my friends concluded a successful 14 years at that company.