The champion sleep-hound of all times sleeps forever this day. I light a candle in his honor and grieve his passing, knowing without doubt he is worthy of a thousand tears.

I no longer feel powerless or as if I’m under constant attack. None of the problems I face today seem insurmountable. Barbie’s in the hospital. Either she’ll recover, or she won’t. We talked last July about this trip being a sort of rite of passage for her. The visit became personal for her then, and I realized it, but it has meant tormenting and bullying my father just enough to combat his resistance. I want him to have his trump card, but I also want him to know that I NEED them to be my parents, that as much as Barbie wants it, I need it and for them to play by my rules. In this case, that means allowing me to be the daughter, not the caretaker, the guardian, or the meat shield.

If Gail, my future mom-in-law, gets overly excited about some wedding detail, I sit calmly now and repeat the word “stop” until she listens to what I have to say. There are times when her energy turns frenetic and I must retreat before she exhausts me. She doesn’t get upset or take it personally, or if she does, she says something about it. We get along so well I may have to feel guilty for having a mother-in-law who’s so wicked-awesome.

I’m communicating again instead of feeling like a hostage with no power or the will to work through my own problems. My hope for the future is that I learn to recognize them for what they are much sooner than I have in the recent past. Not just recognize them, but act on them and fix them, even if that means the outcome isn’t the one I first hoped for.

When I was 24 years old, I took a job at the Inyo County Jail as a Booking Clerk. That position launched me into a 5-year career with the jail as a Correctional Officer. What disturbs me most about Officer Salvatore Rivieri’s behavior in both of these videos isn’t that it’s redundant or more prevalent than we’d want to admit, but that in watching him, I saw myself reflected in his actions. It isn’t just that he’s a power-monger, but more so that he’s a miserable wretch, and a badge has given him the power to act on his wretchedness in ways that would get most of us fired or arrested. It’s not likely that he’s sitting back on his paid vacation contemplating his actions with the sickening revelation that he SERIOUSLY needs counseling. Experience tells me he’s back there in the quiet comforts of his own home screaming at the top of his lungs about how rotten we all are for thinking HIM rotten instead of giving him an EFFING MEDAL BECAUSE SOMEONE NEEDED TO TEACH THAT PUNK A LESSON! After all, the laws that apply to the rest of us don’t apply to him.

Seriously, I’d pay to be a fly on his wall right now, complete with camera phone and a YouTube account.

Before Law Enforcement, I considered myself one of those affable fence-walking creatures, always balanced right smack in the middle of that center line. The good thought I was good, the bad thought I was bad, and the truly evil left me alone because I wasn’t above sticking a fork in one’s thigh to get my point across: if you don’t like me, fine, then don’t bug me about it. I was meek right up to being pushed too far and learned early that most bullies are all bluster when someone looks them in the eye and says with conviction, “be willing to kill me because that’s what it’ll take to stop me.” I was self-reliant enough that I didn’t care who did or didn’t like me, but not so self-contained as to forsake someone who needed a friend. It was a happy balance and one I managed to return to even after some harrowing, life altering moments (most notably facing the past, the abuse, the sexual assaults, etc.). But, working in the jail when I did (hindsight being what it is) was probably the very worst possible timing. I was open and raw emotionally, impressionable, easily manipulated and, well, just generally gullible. I walked into it feeling strong and positive, believing it was my chance to make a difference. And in small ways, I did make a difference. Mostly, though, I succeeded in turning myself into a monster — not nearly as horrific as Rivieri — but a monster, nonetheless. I didn’t like the rabid, toothy-furry thing snarling back at me from the mirror.

When I accepted the job, I didn’t understand that swearing an oath to uphold the law meant losing 95% of the friends and family I knew. In essence, I became a traitor. I didn’t realize I could never walk that center line ever again or that my personality would change irrevocably. What I did know was that swearing to uphold the law didn’t set me above it. I could never reconcile this in others — what sets most “Leos” (Law Enforcement Officials) apart from the general public is that they’ve never been caught. Believe me, I’ve read the California Penal Code. Laws are broken. Every day. No one is innocent. Of course, if one reads the bible, one already knows this to be true. WE’RE ALL SINNERS AND WE’RE DOOMED. Doomed, I say.

But, I digress. :)

Most of the men in my department and some of the women I worked with, too, suffered aggression problems. I should clarify here that working every day with a public comprised of people at their worst can erode the patience of even the nicest of souls; it is no easy task. It might be good to point out, too, that for as much as Leos must be professional and patient with the public the public doesn’t always respond in kind. Ten and twelve hour days, seven or eight day weeks are not unusual. My shortest work week was 40 hours, but my longest week was 70 and I worked overtime nearly every week for five years. Angry or frightened people can be very mean. Add to that all the drunks, drug addicts, pedophiles, rapists and murderers an officer might have to deal with in a DAY and maybe you can begin to understand why some of them might be a tad bit bleary-eyed and crabby. I don’t care how stoic some of them might seem, each one carries his daily interactions with him.

In no way is that meant to excuse gross misconduct and the behavior in the aforementioned videos is MILD compared to some of what I was subjected to while in uniform. By the time I turned in my badge and headed north, I trusted my back to the inmates more than I did my co-workers. This isn’t just run of the mill cynicism, either. I expected nasty, evil things from inmates. I never knew what to expect from my co-workers. After seeing the worst in people for so long, one just automatically assumes the worst in people. I know. It took me less than five years to start believing ALL people were vile and evil, and I was already on record for believing most of them were useless, anyhow (let me clarify that: mostly men).

I guess what I’m saying is that Rivieri’s behavior is nothing unusual. For some, it begins the moment you pin a badge on them. For others, it happens gradually over time. My transition back to the corporate world proved horrid. I was so used to telling people what to do AND making them comply that in the real world I had no idea what to do. Out here, if nobody cares about your stupid rules, what are you going to do about it? I certainly couldn’t take their television privileges away from them, or move them from C pod to D pod, or worse, lock them down in A pod. For a year, not only did I struggle to regain my health physically and emotionally, but I had to learn a whole new set of coping skills AGAIN. Customer service? The customer is always right? What do you mean, I can’t hang up on a customer who is yelling at me and calling me names? BET ME!

I’m actually pretty good at customer service. I’m honest and empathetic. While my social skills and my Southern hospitality might both be lacking, my people skills are still sharp, and I’m good at reading people intuitively. But, having been trained NOT to be a “yes-man” won’t give me the Customer Service Rep of the Year award any time soon. And, even to this day, I have a hard time caring. Whoever thought allowing employees to be horsewhipped by customers who are out of line should also be horsewhipped. Severely. I gleefully volunteer for the job of Horse Whipper-er too. No pun intended. Honest.

I made a card for you, but even full of words,
it felt empty.

I trimmed a small paper heart
and rimmed its ridges red, white, and blue.
I pressed it to the front of your card,
carefully secured: a badge with its mourner’s band.

Across the band I wrote your name
but a trembling hand shook the pen, rained
tiny silver beads too much like tears.
Ruined, I thought as I watched them dry.
Then I mailed the card anyway, addressed
it to your mother.

Your father said she had known,
had slept heartsick with premonition,
and cried herself to sleep the night before
anyone else knew. When morning came
so did the soldiers, their faces a grim confirmation:
indeed, the war had taken you.

I trace memories of you, now in bright contrast,
against the darkness of my own sorrow.
I hear the flags swing at half-mast in your name,
that the halls of our alma mater are filling;
the bereaved come together bringing
candles and wreaths, clutching little flags
and sharing their memories of you.

I’m so far from home today, unable to serve your family,
unable to serve as you’ve served me. Instead,
I’ve mailed my heart to them. And I pray
it will help see them through.

—

Note: This is a revised version of the poem I sent to Kim after hearing of Wayne’s death. I’d already talked to Randy, or rather, I tripped over my own sadness and disbelief in an effort to let him know how sorry I am. I kept thinking of Kim, though, and the worries she voiced when Yana and I visited the two of them in Lone Pine this past June. One would have to know these two to truly understand: half of their legacy is now gone. I am so heartbroken for them, but also for all the moms, dads, brothers, and sisters out there. So many lives are swallowed up by war — not just those it kills — but those left standing, too.

Dear President Bush,

I’m wondering now why it is I need to fear terrorist attacks on people within the Unites States. Tonight, as my friends mourn the loss of their son, it seems you’re doing a fine job killing off my sister’s generation all on your own.

Diann Bellamak

I deleted the last email, the one sitting in my inbox this morning. I didn’t even bother to read it. She’s always needed to have the last word; it’s her nature. I hope she feels better now, because I certainly do. I get it. I was a valuable tool. She needed to be better. Better. Smarter. Wiser. More popular. More loved. More evolved. More successful. Divine. Omniscient.

She wins.

“I know nothing except the fact of my ignorance.”

Yes, I’m also an enabler.

I didn’t understand most of these terms until I spent some time with a counselor not so interested in putting labels on me (which I often gladly, eagerly adopted) as he was in teaching me to recognize these patterns of behavior I’ve merrily embraced for so long. We invest a lot of ourselves in relationships, be they with friends, family members, or partners and there are times when that investment dictates an alarming need to avoid failure.

Failure is acceptable. I can say it, but I’m not truly comfortable with believing it, yet. Failing teaches us something about ourselves or our environment. I think it’s Thomas Edison whom Jon frequently points out as having used each of his “failures” as a lesson in what not to do next time. So, I’ve made adopting the same viewpoint a goal. Yes, I botch things up, often quite badly, but every time I make a step in the right direction, I look back to note what things I did accomplish and what things I still need to work on.

A dysfunctional friendship, however, is a whole different ball of sticky wax. I make the mistake of believing that some people will somehow always be part of my life. And in this recent experience, with a ten-year history, how could she not be? I had the same notion about my ex-husband; when the strains of responsibility are removed, when the commitment is gone, there is room for passing pleasantries, the how-do-you-dos, and have a nice days. I’m sure it stems from having to cope with my father’s good days as well as his bad, having to exchange one set of emotions for another, but today I realize it was a very bad assumption to make.

But made it, I did.

I play a PS2 game called Shadow of the Colossus and I love it. It’s not so much the game-play I value (squashing the Colossi). It’s the artwork, the depth of development in Wander’s horse, Agro, because the animal programmer took the time to really *know* how a horse and rider might interact. Yes, we get mounts in World of Warcraft, but the horses in WoW sound like they’re playing patty-cake instead of loping around. In my head, Agro is a masterpiece. He rears. He walks, lopes, runs. He jumps from high places (at least, with a little coaxing). He’ll do rollbacks and sliding stops. He’s interactive, whereas mounts in WoW are passive.

I’m sure gamers get a kick out of the SotC, but I think only a horseman can really appreciate the intrinsic value of Agro’s nature.

After a couple months of thinking she might really enjoy this aspect of SotC, too, I finally sent her a note. She responded kindly, blew off the game, and updated me on the whole of her gaming accomplishments in WoW. She even sent pictures. Hmm, well, I thought if she felt comfortable doing this, then perhaps it would be okay to share a bit of news, too. Had I known that it was committing me to a full blown relationship, I’d have tucked tail and run then. I didn’t though, and a few days later the LETTER came. The one suggesting we set aside old differences and reconstruct a friendship. Why? Well, she had even bigger news (than mine) to parade in front of me. The whale was about to swallow me. I thought, this one-upmanship shit really needs to go. Already in her words, I saw the conditions being set that would not allot for fair exchange, as if our needing a counselor was her idea all along. Already I saw someone ready to be forgiven, but not really interested in forgiveness; more so, I saw someone expecting to be excused to continue behaviors that helped us get here in the first place. I’ve already been down this road before, possibly a hundred times or more. It doesn’t work. Why do you insist I travel it again?

Hook, line, and sinker, though, I took the bait. I thought I was trying to give her the benefit of the doubt, but … I wasn’t really. I was playing the game. My defenses were already high, battle armor strapped on and locked into place. The anger and resentment returned and by the end of her second response, I had no doubt: there was no friendship to salvage. I’d never have any identity beyond Persecutor, Rescuer, or Victim. Chances are good, because my tolerance is so low, I’d be switching from Persecutor to Victim over and over again in the whole Karpman’s Drama Triangle McVoy spent a month drilling into my head.

Mind games. We all play them, but they can be difficult to identify. Even harder, is not getting sucked into playing them. What I really needed was to turn around and examine my own truths, which I did, and then try to extract myself from the situation before I was really, really out of control. I fell short of the first agreement, “Be impeccable with your word,” but I was a far, far stretch from spouting the truly malignant feelings I had.

Ever notice how damned hard it is to be nice to someone for whom you have no respect? Lack of respect breeds apathy. Apathy eradicates empathy. Empathy is my compass. I can’t say whether that’s good or bad, but at least it’s the beginning to a deeper understanding. Without empathy, I don’t function well in relationships, at all.

No respect and no empathy. Thinking about it, I can’t remember the last time I felt any respect for her, but even scarier to admit, I believe it was as long ago as the end of 2001. I’m sure, though, that it was on rapid descent even before then. I hope the next time I find myself in troubled waters, I’m able to recognize whether or not I’ve lost respect for the other party. Maybe it will be the catalyst to a healthier relationship, or the warning sign that tells me clearly that the relationship needs to end.

I wanted to be sad and torn up, but to be honest, I’m less so now than I have been for a long, long time. She’s great and valuable people. But, I want to be surrounded by the great and valuable people who don’t feel it necessary to make me less. My world has changed so drastically since I left California. It’s peaceful. There are very few fires to put out. On one hand, that’s because Jon has figured out ways to avoid fanning the flames, and in the other, I have learned not to let them burn out of control. My biggest frustration, in terms of my relationship with him, is how to stay calm when my fight-or-flight button is pushed. Beyond that, it’s simply a matter of learning how to communicate my needs more effectively and not expecting him to be a mind reader. When I can do that, I think he’ll then have even more freedom to grow and explore.

Assertion on the box of L’Oréal #6A “Light Ash Brown”: This shade has a cooler tone that will help minimize red/orange tones.

You guessed it: my hair is now a lovely shade of auburn. That’ll learn me. What the hell, I’m going purple!

The Sage of Age

It has never been my intent
to evade the encroaching gray,
but to tame the youthful flames.
Certainly everyone must know
as time unwinds for one, for all,
that silver has more class than brass.

Last evening, I went with Jon to help one of his co-workers to bring in a new crop of freshly baled hay. Before-hand, I loaded up on a double dose of Naprosyn and afterwards took Darvocet. This morning I took Darvocet right after breakfast. Other than feeling a wee bit woozy and having (normal?) stiff muscles in my forearms and shoulders, I feel okay. I wouldn’t want to go dashing out to do it all again tonight and I usually don’t get bombed until the second or third day, but I think my overall health is indeed improving.

I’m still not consistent with pacing, but I am getting better. In the last few months I worked to switch my focus from trying to work a full week to working fully for a part-time week. I still suck at including things such as being on the computer writing or working on the website because they just don’t equate to my idea of “activity”, but when I do include them, I feel I am way more productive. So, for 20 hours a week, I am a fully functioning human being. Outside that 20-hour window, don’t bug me. You’ll find I’m a crabby, can’t remember shit kinda Breece. Crabby Breeces need sleep.

I’m working my way through a stack of The Voice papers that Bill was kind enough to send me. They feature chapters from his Archie Cleebo saga. From what I’ve gleaned so far, Archie is a young boy growing up with all the young-boy concerns. It seems for young Archie, this centers on girls. :) I’ll report more later.

I’m also enthralled with the paper itself. It’s small, maybe 10 to 12 pages, and printed on regular newsprint. Lake Puett publishes and distributes The Voice quarterly (it was monthly prior to 2006). Anyone interested in subscribing should send $28 to 8906 N. Aubrey L. White Parkway, Nine Mile Falls, Washington 99026. Be sure to include your name and a mailing address. The View features stories, poetry, and art by new and up-and-coming writers or artists. There appears to be no payment (perhaps copies?), but if you’re looking for exposure or a chance to break into print, don’t poo-poo the small press!

Sierra seems to be back on her feet 100%. I haven’t heard from my folks since Barbie called to say she’d done a full turn around. As my parents’ motto has always been “no news is good news,” I feel relatively secure in saying she’s fine.

Sierra’s story isn’t short. By our best guesses, she’s now about 27 years old. In horse life, that’s a good chunk of time. She’s in my dad’s care right now, and honestly, I can’t think of better hands for her to be in, except perhaps God’s; I know she’s in his hands, too.

She might be a senior citizen, but she’s still a rapscallion; she steals Alex’s Yukon Jack when he’s not looking and knocks over the wheelbarrow while dad is cleaning her corral. I’ve loved her as wholly as anyone and have since the day dad told me she was mine. They’d bought her from Coreen to replace Grace, the mare a friend gave me for my sixteenth birthday. Grace twisted a gut a few months later and had to be put down.

Come to think of it now, Sierra has been a part our lives almost as long as my sister. She and Grace shared similar personalities (okay, disposition for you stuffy folks who think animals aren’t human, too). The one huge difference between them was that Grace was “quiet-spoken” … I wouldn’t call her timid or even shy, she just never got overly excited about anything. Sierra, on the other hand, can be the epitome of the stereo-typical blond: ditzy, excitable, and yes, she loves men. On pack trips, she never understood why she couldn’t stay in camp with all the people. After all, she’s people, too!

As I write this, Sierra seems to be doing better. Living 2,500 miles away, I feel terribly helpless to do anything for her except pray for the best possible outcome. I want her to be all right, but more importantly, I want her to be safe, loved, and comfortable; misery free.

She’s earned it.

I’m still grounded in the belief that we’re all threads in the same fabric of the universe. Thus, if you send the teeniest prayer even to a stranger you’ve never met, they’ll receive it and be better for it. Let come what may, and may everyone involved have the strength to see it through.

At last report Sunflower the giraffe was still stuck in customs. Those officials must be jealous they didn’t get a giraffe for their birthdays. Well, I suppose if Sunflower doesn’t mind keeping them company, I’ve no complaints. ;)

Barbie seems to be doing well. She’s bossing Dad and the nurses around again. She doesn’t last long on the phone, but she did sneak a call to me the other day when Dad turned his back (or so he said). I’m relieved she’s still with us but I also hope this last brush with death will provide the impetus needed for her to create a healthier way of life. It has certainly challenged mine!