Leaky Eyes
My eyes are leaking. Seriously. Leaking all over the place all week long. You know how after time passes you can talk about things with more perspective and it all makes sense? Well, that hasn’t happened yet. I’m still in the middle of it, I have no perspective, everything feels awful and that makes my eyes leaky.
If this were a movie, it would be the part where I shake my fist at the sky and scream, ‘Is that the best you can do? Bring it on!’ with my hair whipping in the wind, a wild look in my eye right before the earth opens up and I get swallowed whole. And then the chipmunks laugh uproariously, straighten their ties and go back to playing Yahtzee.
So, here’s the thing about codependent relationships = they suck, but they work. And you want them to change, but then when they do, you kind of freak out. I’ve been pleading with Joe to figure out what he wants out of his life since I met him. I am always the one with great ideas and I’m all up with the knowing what I want and everything. He has always just kind of gone along with my flow instead of knowing what his own was. And then he sits back and silently resents the hell out of me. And so I’m all, ‘Joe, just think really hard and figure out what you want out of your life. I will be so supportive!’ And in the meantime, I just keep doing what I need to do and taking care of myself, because you can’t change anyone else, anyway, all the while telling Joe that I will be SO supportive, just as soon as there is something to be supportive about.
Fast forward a couple of years, I’ve invested all of myself in ‘my great ideas’, he decides he needs something different and actually TAKES STEPS to change things. And the pain, ladies and gentlemen. The pain is excruciating. Joe is doing exactly the right thing, the thing I’ve even encouraged him to do, and it hurts so bad I want to rip my heart out.
You know that place where you know things are exactly how they should be and it hurts like hell? You would rather walk on cut glass than go through it but you know there is no other way? You feel all alone and you look around and wish someone was there with you, but when people try to help you tell them to shut up because there is no way they can understand how you feel? And you walk around with your eyes leaking everywhere for days? Yes, well, that’s me right now. Just call me Leaky Eyes.
I’m so proud of Joe. I can’t even tell you how proud I am of him. The proudness of him makes my eyes leak, too, just so you know. I’m watching him change and evolve and Become the person he wants to be. The decisions he’s making turn my world upside down. They make me have to reevaluate what I’m doing and figure out some things all over again. They make me angry. They make me uncertain. I have the strongest urges to say things to him that I never would have thought possible. I feel manipulation coming to the surface and in order to not give into those hurtful urges, I say nothing. I just leak out of my eyes. I can hardly believe it’s possible for anyone, ever, to change a codependent relationship because even though it’s what I’ve been asking him to do, I can’t stand it. I can’t even imagine if I was part of a couple where my partner started changing, I didn’t even realize there was a problem and I didn’t want him to. This sucks hard, but that would suck rockstar-style.
So, there will be no Oregon vacation this year, which over the past two days has set a record in eye-leakage. But next year, I could bet that this situation wouldn’t happen again because of the changes Joe is making. And that is something to look forward to. Heck, just being able to pay the bills is something to look forward to. You have no idea how not being able to pay the gas bill makes my eyes leak. It’s crazy.
Things Stuck in My Head
“After much deep and profound brain things inside my head…”
From Madagascar, which I didn’t see when it came out because I thought it would be so dumb, and also, my kids are older and weren’t interested in seeing it and to go to an animated movie by yourself is making a bigger commitment to my inner child than I’m willing to make unless I really, really like it. And, as I said, I didn’t think I would. Oh, how wrong I was. It’s on HBO right now and I think I’ve seen it about 15 times partially and 3 times all the way through. Ali G is the voice of the Lemur King, who says the above quote. It drove me crazy trying to figure out who the voice was, since I couldn’t quite place it but I knew I knew it. Why didn’t I look it up right away, you might ask? It’s a dumb game Joe and I play – where we try to name the voices without needing Google. I feel so much pride in my victory when I recognize the voices all on my own, and most importantly, before Joe.
“I exuberate fantastic-isms.” “Mer-man! *cough* *cough* Mer-man!”
Zoolander. I do not like most of Ben Stiller’s work. But I do love this movie.
“I remember when, I remember, I remember when I lost my mind. There was something so pleasant about that phase. Even your emotions have an echo in so much space.” and “And I hope that you are having the time of your life. But think twice. That’s my only advice.”
Gnarls Barkley, Crazy Nelly Furtado’s live version is pretty nice, too.
By the way, it’s summer. Things in my life have been turned upside down in so many ways but the best way, is that the kids are around more. Yes, they tease more. Yes, it drives me crazy. Yes, I end up threatening to ground someone, after which, we all have a good laugh because the last time I actually grounded someone was about 8 years ago, and even then, they might not have deserved it. Now when I say it, it’s a way to introduce humor. My kids are so easy going and usually exhausted by whichever sport they are in and by the increasingly alarming amounts of homework they bring home. But right now, homework and sports-less, they use their energy for evil by teasing each other. Devon, age 17 is the worst one. I know exactly where he is in the house because of the screaming coming from that direction.
In a week, we should be in Oregon on a sandy beach enjoying the vacation we’ve had planned for a year with my sister and her family. But we won’t. Extenuating circumstances have created a world with no Oregon beach in it and the loss of a $500 deposit. When I get done sobbing, wailing and gnashing my teeth I might try to figure out an alternate vacation plan. And I better hurry because if I don’t figure out what to do with my 2 weeks of endlessly open vacation time with four teenaged and very adult-sized and hungry children with bottomless energy in a positive and creative direction, someone is going to get SO grounded.
Whodoyou, Whodoyou, Whodoyou Think You Are?
Bless your soul.
Is there a writer’s group in Simi Valley or Ventura County? If so, I can’t find you. Please contact me or I will be forced to start my own. And if I did start my own, who would come?
I want to get together with people and write stuff and drink beer or coffee or something.
For a good time, call me.
Making Me Feel Old and Vulnerable
Don’t make me get out my glasses and try to decipher your secret code that keeps getting longer and longer and wonkier and wonkier. For, I am not spam. And yet, I feel for you in your quest to keep the spam out. I really do. But, man, you’re making me feel old and vulnerable. I am not a Master Decoder. I am but a mere mortal with limits. And sadly, these limits include no Decoder Ring.
Oh, Hello, Film. I'm Leah.
You may have heard that my camera broke. I finally got through to the right people and got the right clearance and have now sent the camera off to Sony, bless their little hearts, at their expense. I await its return in 3-5 weeks fully functional, or a check in the mail with an explanation that the CCD was so far gone, there was nothing they could do. Should that happen, the $179 from them is really going to go far in getting my new camera. Not. Why they gotta make crap?
In the interim, I have been reeducated in the ways of film, the likes of, I have not seen for years. And lo, I was rusty and unsure of myself. And I saw the images, and they were bad. Very bad. Aperture who? ISO what? Shutter speed where?
The camera I borrowed is lovely. It takes very nice photos when I actually set up the shot right.
And the lomo 4-lens I played with was fun. I like looking at the rusty images.
Fun. Yes. But not fast. I am an instant girl in this instant world and waiting to see what the image looks like – whaaaaa? I want to point and click. I want the camera to read my mind. I had no idea I had become so lazy.
I have tried to get back into the feeling I used to have with my Nikon F70 back in the day, before I found digital. Truly tried. And I think if I had my digital to use whenever I wanted, the film part would be more fun, because Hey! maybe I want to shoot with Fun Film today. But if I have no choice and I MUST shoot with the sloooow and slooooooooooow film that I won’t get to see for days and will cost me money I don’t have to develop, then it is. not. fun. If I HAVE to pick up the Rollei and figure out the light reading and film speed and, heaven forefend, FOCUS the lens, then I am a sad, sad Leahpeah who has been put upon to no end. What a whiner, eh?
And yet, still I persist with the whining. I know what I like, and I like to see the image right away. And I want to take photos and photos and photos until I puke without worrying that I’m blowing $20 bucks down the drain of unusable pictures.
Now, I love the look of some of the images I took with those two film cameras. And I also like the look of Polaroids sometimes. But day-to-day, give me back my digital. I have no desire to go out and buy developer and create my own darkroom anymore. Does this make me less a photographer and more a user of newer technology? Maybe. Maybe not. But either way, it doesn’t matter. Because I’ll have my images right after I take them and shoot willy-nilly the entire time I’m on vacation or at the basketball game. And I won’t waste money on developing film I’ll never use or have to spend time scanning images in to get them in digital format and remove noise from the crappy scan. So, I’m ok with that.
Dear Beth,
The emails I send you keep bouncing back. Our signup code for Basecamp is ‘crawberts’ and thanks for asking.
lpc
Good Days
I wake up in the morning and before I even open my eyes, there it is: a weight resting squarely on my chest. I cautiously feel around my thoughts to see what this weight is before jumping to conclusions. It’s possible that I just had a bad dream.
Oh, right. I’m just not quite awake yet. Sometimes when I first wake up, I have left over thoughts flying around in my mind. And some of them could be left over from years and years ago. They are just shadows, tiny endings of experiences that hurt me or things that made me very sad. But they aren’t happening right now and that is what I need to focus on.
I imagine a light. Yellow and white but not too bright. It’s warm and healthy. It’s healing. It starts in my chest and expands until it fills my body.
Some of the remaindered and leftover thoughts try to stick around. They pop up and tell me, ‘You are such a failure’ and ‘Nothing you do matters’ and ‘Nothing will ever get any better.’ Some of them go far, far back and are more like, ‘No one cares about you so you better concentrate on surviving’ and ‘People want to hurt you and take advantage of you’ and ‘Everyone is a liar.’ But as soon as the thoughts come up, I look at them, evaluate them and see if they are true or not. They aren’t. What a relief. And I send them on their way.
I know that if I think too much about what I have to do today, it will feel too hard. I’ll start feeling overwhelmed and probably not get out of bed. Once I allow myself to go down that downward spiral, it’s very hard to climb back up and could take me days. The best defense is a good offense. Some days I do better than others.
There are days when catastrophic thinking is hard to shake off, but it doesn’t happen very often. I thank God for that. And The Universe. And Love. I know my meditation routine by heart and slip easily into a place where I feel only Love and a connection to everything and everyone. It’s beautiful. I stay as long as I need to and then climb out of bed.
I don’t think about getting up or showering or even what I’m going to wear. I don’t think about any of those things because I don’t really NEED to think about them. I know how to do them all without thinking. And if I make the mistake of thinking about it, I might not do it. So, I just do it.
As I finish up washing my hair and shaving my legs, I smell the soap. It smells clean and invigorating. I’m looking forward to the coffee. I grab an outfit from the two that I laid out last night: one is for slightly warmer weather and one for colder. That way, I don’t have to think about it when it feels too hard. Of course, I can always change my mind and get something else from the closet if I want. And sometimes I do. But mostly, I stick with what I prepared the night before.
A thought of work will come up and for a second my heart starts to race. I feel behind. I feel like I’ll never be safe and secure. I feel like everything I’ve worked so hard for could be taken away in a second. My breathing gets faster and faster. I start to sweat. I can’t breathe. I’m going to die. But then I catch myself. I tell my heart to slow down. I remind myself to take some deep breaths. And I tell myself that I’ll think about all of that in about an hour when I’m more awake and I’ve eaten some protein and had some coffee.
I go downstairs to begin my day and do stuff.
Stop the Cutting
I’ve been walking around in this cloud of Irritation. If you get in my face, most likely I’ll cut you first and ask questions later but probably never feel bad about it. And you can’t do anything to fix it so stop asking me. Seriously – stop asking me.
If you are the bagger at the supermarket, don’t ask me if I want paper or plastic. You choose for me. Go ahead! Make a decision based on your carbon-based instincts! Do I look like a paper or a plastic-type person? PICK ONE! But if you are wrong, I will cut you.
If I’m at the book store looking for a specific book, doing pretty well on my own, and you come up to ME and ask ME if I need any help but then point me in the direction of someone else after I go to the trouble of explaining what I’m looking for, I will cut you. Why did you ask me in the first place? Why make me explain myself twice? Just leave me alone.
When I’m on my way out the door and I’m a little nervous for my outing and you come up to give me a hug, don’t tell me that you think the towel from my shower must be a little sour. I won’t cut you, since you are my husband, [this part has been removed at the request of my husband.] I’ll show you sour.
When you see me at the store and I look like my head it mostly detached from my body and you witness me actually bumping into the shelves because walking down the large open part of the isles has become too difficult, how about you come over and tell me that the buttons on the front of my shirt are undone too far? How about letting me know that my breasts are having a little show of their own and everyone has a front row ticket? Because if you don’t, and I notice it on the drive home, I’m going to turn that car around and come back and cut you.
Ornery much? I don’t even want to be in the same room with me.
Movie of the Week
I took Alex to see The Lake House. She liked it. I was a little bored since this was the second time I’d seen it. Although, that didn’t stop me from crying a little but that probably had more to do with my hormones and less to do with Keanu’s touching moment. The movie is pretty predictable and I knew what was going to happen about 5 steps ahead of the action* the entire movie. I’m not really surprised.
The first time I saw it, I went with Joe. It was Friday night. And you know what that means. Alas, I forgot for a second that every single freakin teenager within a 20-mile radius would be at the theater just because it’s Friday night. But even when I saw them all milling around outside, gathering in herds and carrying out their mating dances, I just didn’t think they would be in MY movie. I figured they go see The Omen or Tokyo Drifting Crap or something else that didn’t have some slow parts in the middle. So, imagine my surprise when we walked in midway though the previews to see the entire place packed. Except for two seats in the very front row on the very right side.
As we sat down in the sea of young females, we exchanged looks and made a pact with secret codes so that in case of emergency, if he made the correct hand signal and eyebrow lifting sequence, I would know to drag him out and contact life support.
About 10 minutes in, I could feel my neck starting to kink. The view from the front row is VERY LARGE. The view from the front and very most right seats is VERY LARGE and VERY SLANTED and VERY TO YOUR LEFT. I slouched down in my seat to give my neck a rest, which worked pretty well as long as I didn’t move because the girl behind me put her feet up on the back of the seat and her black flip-flops caught my hair. When I moved my head upwards, I lost at least a one-inch area of hair. And that happened three times, even when I turned around slightly to give her my ‘GET YOUR FEET OFF THE SEAT’ face, which anyone knows, I totally mean.
And then she started sneezing. And sniffing. And I no longer cared what was happening on the screen that I couldn’t really see that well anyway. Remember that kid in 4th grade that sat across from you in the quad-desk setup? That kid that hadn’t learned how to blow their nose yet so they sniffed sniffed sniffed SNIFFED sniffed all through class? Yes. That kid. And it was she, behind my seat. And lo, I was so far passed getting pissed that I laughed.
Joe nudged my arm and showed me that in his right hand he was holding napkins and he kind of motioned like he was going to give them to her. And I nodded my head vigorously in support. He turned slightly around, thrust the napkins her way and asked, ‘Need these?’ because going herself to get napkins or asking her friends that were sitting RIGHT NEXT TO HER with some in their laps just didn’t occur to her. The girl said, ‘Thanks!’ very enthusiastically, which made me think that maybe she was just a little slow and it actually hadn’t occurred to her that her nose was dripping down her shirt and I should quit being so mean. And then all the girls giggled. And whispered.
I think we totally ruined her weekend. She was probably planning on sleeping over at her friends house and her friend was all, ‘You can’t come over now because the two old people in front of you gave you napkins! You are such a tool!’ or something that I can’t fathom because I think we all know that I really don’t know the lingo…..
An aside here: does anyone else think that Sandra Bullock is looking more and more like the long lost daughter of Joan Rivers? Did she do something to her nose?
*I use the term ‘action’ in the most general sense of the word where it means that something, anything is happening, like breathing or talking or tying shoelaces.
Happy Birthday, Tony. xo
Happy Year 12.
Two Self-Image Links
I’ve noticed a couple of sites over the past few months that have to do with hard subjects.
The first one is I’m Just About to Get Skinny by Christi Nielsen. She talks about her struggles with her self-image. Her posts are very honest and moving and include a photo to help drive the point home. Susan first sent me this link because she knew it would appeal to me not just as an artist/photographer, but also as someone that still struggles with self-image and eating disorders. Now, before you freak, rest assured I haven’t’ acted on an eating disorder impulse in over four years and I doubt I ever will again. But for many years, I was a starving or binge eating or puking person. And when something is a part of your life for 12 years, those thoughts and impulses continue to cross your mind long after you stop acting on them.
The second site is 05mm.org. Photographer Keith Clark specializes in photography of architecture and built environments but his new project about self image is the one that caught my eye*. He asks people to come into the studio and pose showing and highlighting their favorite body part. And he asks them why. What a great concept. He was recently highlighted locally and invites anyone in the Indianapolis area to come over and be a part of the project.
The two images that spoke the most to me were about self-harm. This one and this one. Again, a self-harmer for years and years, I wouldn’t do it anymore but the impulses still travel through my brain. I have scars all over my body and get looks and sometimes questions but I’m not embarrassed by them anymore. And that feels good.
*I can’t remember who linked to this first. So, thanks, you.
Did You Know That I Do Commissions?
Just in case you didn’t, and you were hoping that I did, now you know. Email if you are interested.
Examples of some past commissions here.
Blogher 2006
Are you going?
I’m speaking on a panel with Danah Boyd, Jenn Satterwhite, Denise Tanton and Erica Rodman. The panel is called Outreach Blogging. Basically, we can talk about whatever you want to talk about. Anything in particular you’d like to hear discussed? Any questions?
I'm So Mad, I'm Laughing
I suck. I laugh at inconvenient times. Like when my husband is getting mad at me. But not strangers. Apparently, I only laugh when someone that I love and care about is getting angry at me and strangers? They can bugger off. I’ll return their looks and yells one for one and then somehow end up on top, walking away victoriously confident that I was just on the winning side of some serious hiney-spanking. This is, of course, if I can’t avoid the altercation all together. Which, I would seriously prefer since I promote LOVE, people, not hate.
But Joe and I have been going through our Stuff. Everyone has their Stuff and the past few months, it’s been our turn to empty out the closets and clean under the beds and ask serious questions like ‘When did I buy this shoe? I hate purple and anything made out of pleather.’ or ‘Are you sure you have to bring that up every time we talk about Frank Zappa?’ and ‘Why the hell do you always laugh when I’m getting mad at you?’ The answers are, respectively, 1. Never, I made that up for this illustration 2. YES and 3. I have no idea. None.
Can we just talk about appropriate responses for a minute?
Sad = Empathetic
Happy = Pleased
Excited = Excited
Angry = Giggling Listening and responding with ‘What I hear you saying is…..‘quickly followed by mind blowing make-up sex.
When someone is pouring out their innermost feelings about how they feel about you, your relationship and the future – not the best time to laugh. I have tried not to laugh, which has the same effect as when my parents asked me to say the prayer for dinner when I was eight. I started giggling and could not stop until I was sent out of the room. At which time, my parents would call ‘You can come back in now.’ and I would sit down at the table and immediately start to giggle again. And then I got grounded for two months.
I hate this even more than I hate that I have two really thick, black hairs that grow out of the bottom of my chin that require persistent plucking. I hate watching his eyes go from angry-at-me to hurt because I would SO prefer the angry-at-me.
I have found no plan to fix this. I would like to have a plan on the ready so this angry/laughing/me-bursting-into-tears-of-regret cycle can end.
Misc.
I finally get to blog over at Vox. Somehow, I feel like I’ve won something. (I could have felt this way a few days ago if Joe would have looked at his account a little sooner….*cough)
Completely tasteless-but-made-me-laugh cartoons at the Perry Bible Fellowship like this one and this one and this one. This one is my favorite. The art is really great in some of them.
A rather large bug hit my windshield the other day which resulted in about a two inch, slightly transparent, green gut smear to the right of my eye-line. I reached for the wipers and fluid to swish-swish him away but instead put my hand back down on my leg and had a moment of silence for him. I wonder why I did that.
Yesterday I kept smelling tuna sandwiches with green onions on soft, crustless, white bread. I realized I missed my dad.
Being authentic is one of the hardest things I do. Everyday I remember that it is completely worthwhile.
Feeling lonely and having a great life are not mutually exclusive.
Can we just all agree to leave Britney Spears alone now? Please?
I really miss having a digital camera. More on that later this week.
This game was featured on a few sites a couple of weeks ago. It is addicting. I’ve beaten it twice.
Hey There, Y'all
I got an email from China (a woman, not the place) who asked me to write about what a bad day felt like to me. She didn’t think that my bad days could be anywhere near as bad as hers because she feels so bad that she “just can’t think or feel or she might die.” I wrote back that it wasn’t a contest of any kind but if she wanted, in a few weeks, I would write about what a bad day felt like to me.
I have a bad day one or two times a month. This is what they feel like to me. I also have lots and lots of Good Days and I’ll be writing about that next week sometime. Everything I tell someone that writes me an email regarding how I get through a bad day is exactly how I do it. I’m not just making stuff up. I actually do the things that I say work, because they work for me. Of course, that doesn’t mean they will work for you. Everyone is different.
I could have not shared this with all of you. But wouldn’t that be hypocritical? To be the one always giving advice on how to work through big issues and get to a good place emotionally? To pretend that I’m always fine and never feeling depressed? Because I do. Sometimes, and this is for everyone on the planet, you have a bad day and you feel like shit. Now, maybe you don’t get as dark as I do. And I don’t even get as dark as I used to. But you probably know what I’m talking about.
Thanks for all the well-wishes and encouragement. I am so thankful to have so many readers that care about me. I sure wish that I had prefaced the entry with a little “Hey There, Y’all” so you would have known and I promise to do that in the future.
Bad Days
I wake up in the morning and before I even open my eyes, there it is. That weight laced with desperation. That sinking feeling that tells me nothing is ever going to get better and I might as well just give up now. Give up at what, I’m not really sure. Not that it matters.
I contemplate actually opening my eyes. But what is the point of that? Why would I want to see things better? Smarter just to lay here and try my best not to listen. And definitely not see, think. Anything. Maybe I can go back to sleep. It’s only 5:15am. Plenty of time to sink back in.
My brain does not cooperate. My own worst enemy. Why? Trying to not think ends up worse than thinking. Pushing away the thoughts that at first sneak around behind and then try to cover my head, soon begin simply jabbing at my gut and my thighs. Prodding sharply. I give in and acknowledge them. And then they cover me up.
Nothing will ever get any better. In fact, it’s already getting worse. It doesn’t matter what I could ever try to do. Ever. All the projects I get excited about and then plan. All the projects that I hope will somehow make a difference in someone’s life. They amount to nothing. Nothing. And no one cares. And why should they? I mean, really? Who am I to try and do anything, anyway? I’m just one more person in the world that thinks farther than they can actually reach. But realizes it too late to save themselves the public embarrassment.
I’m beginning to suffocate. If I don’t open my eyes, I’ll die.
What do I think I’m doing with my life? I should go back to school. I should want to go back to school. I should go get a regular job where I drive to an office and see normal people that do work-type things and drink coffee. I should want to want a regular job. I should make sure I have health care. I should have an IRA and heavy savings accounts. I should take vacations twice a year for 3.5 days each and be happy that I have an office to go back to. I should stop trying to make something out of nothing and give it up already. I’m not really a business owner. I’m not really a project director or designer or good at talking with clients or anything to do with what I am supposed to do. My work is crap. Total crap. No one wants to see it. No one likes it. I could never be one of the people that are talked about later as someone that contributed to something great or amazing or worthwhile because everything I do is so mediocre and inconsequential. Trying to create another place for people to get together online. Who the fuck cares? The code is crap. The design is crap. It won’t ever get done. If it does get done, it will suck and no one will want to be a part of it anyway. I’m not painting anymore but if I did, no one would buy them. And if I tried to paint again, I wouldn’t be able to. I think I’ve lost whatever talent I had before.
If I don’t get out of bed, I will never get out again.
I have spots on my arm that haven’t healed in over 6 months. I think I scratch them when I’m sleeping or nervous. I don’t know why they don’t heal. What is wrong with me? People notice them and I can see in their eyes how ugly I am. Hideous and weird. And fat. So, so fat. And my writing sucks. I write a blog that is just like a million other ones. And I write things that are of no importance to anyone. And the people that do write me, I can’t even answer. At least, not all of them. So many that I can’t even write back. So many people that need help and want someone to hear them and tell them that they are OK. And they are OK. I just don’t have the time to tell them that. I’m such a failure. I should be writing them all back so they know. But who do I think I am writing anyone? What could I possibly have to say that would make a difference? I don’t really know anything. I have no good advice. I don’t know ANYTHING. I only know what I’ve gone through and half the time, it makes no sense to me. We’re never going to have enough money. Rent will be due and we’ll be late. Projects are due and we are late. The electricity will get turned off if we don’t make it by 5pm. Can’t pay the bills. Can’t pay the bills. Can’t pay the bills. Can’t breathe.
In the shower I try to wash it all away. But I could scrub for hours and it wouldn’t work. Hours. There is just too much. Somehow, I’m supposed to go downstairs and begin my day and do stuff. Stuff that doesn’t matter and that I suck at.
13 Year Old Hormones Boys
Tyler is my affectionate kid. He always has been. He’s the one that would fight to sit next to me on the couch and not just hold my hand, but move his thumb up and down on the side in a tiny caress when he was only 5 or 8. In the car, when we were driving 4 hours each way for drop offs at his dad’s, he would run his fingers through my hair from over the back seat to keep me awake. He gives great hugs.
But that was yesterday. Today, he’s 13. He doesn’t want to sit by me on the couch. He won’t ever reach for my hand. Kissing? His mom?? No way. I’m sure he’s had some momentous Freudian revelation. I’m positive that he’s right on track and being age appropriate and all kinds of other crap but I don’t care. I miss him.
I miss his ‘Where you goin’ mom? Can I come?’ because now, if I want to have him run an errand with me, I practically have to threaten to ground him to get his hiney in the car. And let me tell you, those outings are LOTS of fun. So much openness and bonding time, it’s crazy. We don’t talk about how he feels about life, religion and politics anymore, which we actually used to because he had an opinion on everything, and surprisingly (or not. shut up!), some of his thoughts made much more sense than mine. He doesn’t ever call me anymore. I always have to call him. He answers every phone call with ‘Holla.’ Every. Time.
I miss hearing detailed accounts of how his day at school was, complete with animated impersonations of teachers, because now it’s all fine. “How was school?” “Fine.” “How did your test go?” “Fine.” “How is Red doing?” “Fine.” “What does Jessica Alba look like?” “Fin- what?” and then a heavy siiiiiiiigggggggghhhhhh, because I am SO not funny. After which, he plugs in his shuffle and we listen to Coheed and Cambria louder than I can think or drive, which is very effective in ending any further conversation. Coheed and Cambria is the most perfect angst ridden music for boys ages 12-19. The lyrics talk about everything a teen boy is worried about. It’s so relevant.
Have I mentioned I’m a Car Singer? And, once I learn the lyrics, or sounds that closely mimic whatever the real words are with semi-correct timing, I sing loud and long. I think it kind of kills the rebellious angst he’s trying to create because it irritates him so. I’m slowly trying to reprogram him with music that I actually want to sing, like Gnarls Barkley, but it hasn’t taken yet. GB has too many lyrics that make sense and not enough talking about killing your girlfriend, I guess.
He’s a winker now. When did he turn into a winker? Tell me! He’s this close to turning into a guy with a girlfriend. And I fear I will hate her. Even if she’s super sweet. I have no choice. He wears only t-shirts and only if they say things like ‘Welcome to the GUN show’ and ‘Have you seen these GUNS?’ with arrows that point to the sleeves. At this rate, he’ll be able to teach at the Brawny Academy in a few years.
First, he cut off all his curls and then all the blue and now he’s got about 1/20th of an inch all over his head. He drenches himself in Axe, a poisonous smell that as a mother used to being accosted with it by three (3) boys, can smell on other teen boys about 2 miles away. What ever happened to smells like Fresh Scent or Old Spice? I hate Tsunami and Phoenix. Those are a natural disaster and a myth respectively, neither of which I think Ty wants to be. He wants to keep it real, yo.
In his room at his dad’s, where he has his own TV, he can watch football, use the laptop to be on his MySpace and AOL and also be on the phones, house for speaking and cell for texting, all at the same time. When I went over there last time to pick him up, he was interacting with 18 people, although perhaps not particularly effectively, since there just isn’t that much of a person to go around. And there is nothing left for me! Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!
And right as I’m typing this, sharing with you my own angst-ridden tale and feeling so sorry for myself and missing him and feeling my heart ache and on and on and on…………..he calls me.
“Mom.”
“What, babe?”
“Titty caca.”
“Umm, what?”
“Titicaca. It’s a lake. It’s the real name.” laughing
“Oh. Right. Cool.”
“MOM! It’s a REAL lake. In Peru. We learned about it in school.” more laughing
“Well, Ty, that is AWEsome. Thank you SO much for calling me to let me know that you learned about -”
“Boobs and poop?” more and more laughing
I don’t know what I was talking about. He does still love me.
Thoughts and Links – Two Great Tastes that go Great Together
Yellow-jackets in the house = not as fun as I’ve been led to believe.
Barcamp meetup last night was good. Dev seemed to really enjoy it.
This is a discussion that doesn’t really need my input. I’m oddly compelled and disgusted at the same time.
Why we gotta hate?
When I went to create my first Smartpox (via Heather) I found KristyK. I like her. See also: photos!
I am enjoying Vox. I like to read and comment. I would also like to post.
I’m also playing with a 4-lens Lomo similar to this one. I’m happy about that.
"Dear Leah,
Your participle is dangling.”
Well, that explains a lot.
Tonight, Joe and I are going to the Geek Dinner. Anyone else going?
Also, I added the new front page for Project Cathartic. I’m still working on the religious survey questions, but they are SO going to get done before the end of my lifetime, I swear.
Today is one of those days that I could spend only crying and wiping my nose. Instead, I may do laundry and shower. It’s a toss up.
Weekend in Food
Friday
Left a little later than we wanted. Dropped off a painting donation to The Museum School. The poor guy has to come back to get it since it’s now 7:30 pm. As he gets out of his truck, we realize he is our across-the-street neighbor from when we lived on 21st street 2 years ago. Odd moment. Cool. Late Dinner with Matt and Margot. Instead of our usual, Turf Supper Club, we went to BJ’s so we could get giant potatoes the size of footballs to share. Sleep with Sparky and Baxter, the two best dogs evah. Baxter licks my toes THROUGH my shoes. That is how doggie his tongue is. Good times.
Saturday
Matt made taco salad for brunch. He has a secret ingredient. Awesome! He also makes the best tuna melts on the face of the planet. Went to Vons to get fish and salad for the BBQ at Jenn‘s house. Bought sushi from the deli for a quick protein punch. Bad idea and did not eat due to bad fishy smell. Had a great time with some old friends and some new ones at the BBQ. Tried not to eat roommate’s dog, Chico. Hard because he is that cute. Party games make me feel dumb. I don’t like to dance for you. I am not your monkey. Or, I am a party-pooper. Or both. Everyone else is having a great time. What is wrong with me?
Sunday
Late brunch with Mickele. Yay! Looks great as always. Smells like lavender. Yumm. Eat a pancake with bananas and whole grain. Very good. No syrup. Go to BBQ at Greg’s home. House infested with reptiles. Oh, wait. Those are pets. Also, ferrets and Skeeter, the best dog evah. We talk about channeling and quantum physics and existentialism. Greg also has a kazzillion cameras in his collection and LENDS ME A ROLLEI for a few weeks!! I get reacquainted with how a film camera works. My brain fizzes. *Pop* We leave late because I can’t stop watching the ferrets trying to hide the toilet brush up under the cabinets. Susan and Doug wait and wait and wait and then finally start dinner at Aqua Blu without us. (They have no choice. It was about survival at that point. Either eat calamari or each other.) Funny story – Aqua Blu is not The Oceanaire. Still good, but not the same. Note to Self – next time, when you make reservations for you and some friends, you might want to make sure you are making them for THE RIGHT PLACE. After a great dinner with S&D, Joe and I drive home in 2.5 hours. Awesome. I sidestep a woman that tries to hit me up for money and a ride at the gas station. We see a huge, freeway closing accident on the south side of the freeway and are so glad we are not going that way. As an after thought, we feel bad for the people in the accident thereby proving we are good people and only 78% dead inside.
The Lingo
Question: How do you get an entire room fill of kids ages 11 and up to be quiet all at the same time?
Answer: Commit the worst parentism possible and try to talk to them using their lingo.*
I walked into the living room where all my four and a few additional kids were watching tv, on the computers, talking loudly and doing all other basic kid/teenager-y stuff. This is when I tried out their native tongue.
‘Whaddup, Sdog?’ I casually asked a friend of my son. Suddenly, the room fell quiet. You could hear the inner groaning of at least three of them and the rest were still in shock. I thought we might have to call in the medics. Did I stop there? No. Absolutely not. Because, once you’ve started something, well, you just have to finish it. ‘How’s my peeps? Everyone comfortable in the Hizzouse?’ Which, I swear, is how they talk to each other all the time and then they laugh and it’s so funny. I thought if I just kept going then at some point, it would get funny. I was wrong. I threw in ‘crib’ and ‘down’ something and even ‘fo sho’ and the entire thing was met with silence quickly followed with wailing and gnashing of teeth. Someone’s head exploded.
Having teenagers is fun.
Sdog, as he is called by my son, although no longer by me because I was on the receiving end of a stern talking-to (there was extreme mortification and at least one mention of dying, if I remember right), is a peculiar kid. And I like him. He’s the kid that wears the silky button down shirt with the abstract box pattern on it made of rich reds and browns over his Pink Floyd pig t-shirt. Of course, he’s hanging out with my son who wears a reversible bathrobe to school every day that I made him out of deep purple and gray silk** for History Day when he was Confucius a week ago. I’m sure that’s not getting old to his teachers.
Once when we were driving back and forth from house to house, out of the blue, Sdog piped in with, ‘You know, I really care about the environment. I really think about it sometimes.’ And I think it continued to be quiet for a few more long seconds since no one knew what to say after that and I was kind of trying to sing along to ‘Breakaway‘.*** I mean, what are you going to do with a kid like that except be a little jealous that they are so completely themselves and seem impervious to the types of torturous peer pressure you endured in middle school?
Sdog and Tony both do that thing where they can’t really finish the story they are telling because they are cracking themselves up so much and it’s hard to get the words out. And most of the time I have no idea what they are talking about and they are laughing and giggling and I’m laughing but I don’t know why and then after 10 minutes of that they all of a sudden say, ‘huh, well, anyway.’ and then stop. I didn’t know what we were laughing about and I guess I never will.
* Just by using the word ‘Lingo”, you know I suck if you are under 19.
** It’s a poly-blend, my peeps. What do you think – I can afford real silk??
*** Damn, Kelly Clarkson, why must you speak to me so? I’m a woman of age and should be listening to more grown up music like Celine Dion.****
**** I kid! Ha ha! I hate Celine Dion’s music! I would never make it through an entire album. I would be poking my brain with sharp sticks.***** Give me Paul Anka instead. My mom knows who he is. He must be grown up music. (and I love his Rock Swings album for reals. Hearing Smells Like Teen Spirit in an upbeat and swingy tempo is awesome. I can have my angst and smile and sing at the same time.)
***** Last night I was cleaning my ear with a Q-tip and accidentally hit that one place that turns a near orgasmic experience into a very, very sad and painful one. To say that I would do it intentionally would make me insane. I’m crazy, but not insane!
Ask Leahpeah 'Questions' Edition Part II
Would you consider yourself a good mom?
Wow. That is one of the hardest questions I’ve ever been asked. Not just because of my mental history and what I had to do in relation to my kids, but because when does any mom have an easy time of saying, ‘Hell yes. I’m an awesome mom!’? You think about all the mistakes you’ve made and how inadequate you feel at times. You remember when you lost your temper and yelled and how you watched their little faces crumple in an instant or when they came to tell you something and you were busy talking on the phone to your friend and you made them wait so long that they left the room and then forgot what it was they were going to tell you. Missed opportunities. Failings. They are so easy to spot.
I guess we’d have to figure out what makes a Good Mom. I know I make a lot of mistakes but I always try to apologize as soon as I figure out that I made one. I try to make sure they eat healthy and get enough exercise and don’t spend all their time in front of the TV and computer. I listen when they talk to me and try really hard to keep the preaching and lessons to a minimum. I work hard to try and provide them with a home and the other things that every kid needs. Have I touched on all the main areas of what it means to be a Good Mom? But more than all of those things, I love my kids like crazy. And, I like them. I think they are the greatest people in the entire world. I would rather spend an evening with them playing games or hanging out that do just about anything else with anyone else. Sure – I make a TON of mistakes along the way but I don’t think that makes me a bad mom. I think it makes me human.
You talk about integration on your site, and I understand that to be the melding of all the personalities back into one. My question is: “How is that process done?”
The actual integration process was done in a therapy situation over the span of a few weeks but the preparation for that took years. There are certain values that have to be met first like no more secrets between alters and everyone being the same age. All the parts have to agree that it is the best choice and have no reservations. As you can probably guess, that sometimes takes a long time. But, once those things have been done, it’s surprisingly easy to slip everyone into the same space. I don’t think I can really describe that part because I have no idea how it happened, I just experienced it, except to say that it felt empowering and I suddenly felt strong and capable. As it turned out, in the beginning it was a slightly over-inflated sense of self, which had to be evaluated and examined to be healthy.
If you had it to do over again, would you still chose to be integrated, or would you rather be the seven?
Yes, I would choose to do it over again. I would never wish to become un-integrated. I’m much happier and healthier as one as opposed to seven. I answered this question more fully in a previous post.
I’m curious as to why you think this happened in your life? Was there a defining moment when you separated from yourself? Or did it just happen? I know that you were molested, and that often will create the separation process as a means of survival, but I’m curious as to where you feel that process began?
The reason I initially split was not because of molestation, although that did happen repeatedly afterwards. I split because of some medical procedures done to me starting at the age of 4 where no anesthesia was used.
You said you aren’t taking any medication anymore. How do you not get depressed? I think if I didn’t have my meds I would kill myself.
I do get depressed. Case in point would be yesterday. I spent the better part of the day feeling very low. Some of the thoughts in my head: “I am such a failure.” “I will never feel happy again.” “People hate me and they should. They should hate me. I hate me.” “I’m not good for anything.” If someone had handed me a loaded gun, I would have considered what to do with it for a moment.
But, I know myself too well now to not understand what is happening. The truth is: I’m having a bad day. And me having a bad day feels like that. On those days, my perception of life is all screwy and I know that. So, where earlier in my life, pre-integration, I would have felt all of those thoughts and feelings weighing on me so, so heavy and not been able to get out of that dark cloud for 2 months, literally, now I can think through it.
I tell myself the truth. So, “I am such a failure.” becomes “Today I feel like a failure.” Which is totally different. In the first one, I’m telling myself what I am and in the second one, I’m telling myself how I FEEL. The first one is a judgment that may or may not be true. But the second one is the truth because your feelings are just your feelings and aren’t wrong or right. They just are.
After acknowledging the feeling, the next step is to create something positive from it. Our minds are amazing things and we reach the potential we set for ourselves. If you can imagine something and hold that as an intention, you can create it in your life. If the message I tell myself is “I am a failure.” then it will be true. Instead, try creating something positive like, “I do many things that are of worth.” I was amazed at the stuff I was telling myself when I wasn’t paying attention. Really, awful things that you would never say to another person but there I was saying them to myself over and over. Just start paying attention to what it is you tell yourself. Jot them down in a little notebook.
Hokey? Maybe. But I really do believe in affirmations. They have changed my life. Here are two more examples of what I’ve taught myself to do in a matter of minutes.
“I will never feel happy again.”
“I feel really, super sad today.”
“I eagerly anticipate working through these feelings of sadness.”
“People hate me and they should. They should hate me. I hate me.”
“I feel like I have no friends today. I feel unworthy of love. I don’t feel love for myself right now.”
“I am learning to love myself and those around me more every day.”
Back to the loaded gun. Yes, the thought of killing myself would go through my mind. But it wouldn’t stick. I know myself too well. I know that in 5 minutes, that mamma bird is going to fly by the window and I’ll look outside and appreciate the green of the lawn. It may only last a second but it will happen. Or I’ll glance up to see what time it is and my eyes will catch the frames over the fireplace where my kids’ faces are smiling at me. I know that the deep, overwhelming sadness I’m feeling will pass if I help it along. And I would hate to miss out on the good stuff.
I think the problem for me was when I didn’t acknowledge the truth of the situation. I was not supposed to be sad so I told myself that I wasn’t. It was a lie. I knew it was a lie and once you start telling lies to yourself, you get caught up in this self-medicating and distraction nightmare. If you aren’t supposed to feel sad and you do, then go grab the meth and smoke it until you don’t feel anything anymore. Oh wait, it’s been 3 hours and I’m feeling something again. Must be time to get loaded/self-harm/fill-in-the-distraction.
You spend so much time distracting and lying that you start to not have a life except for trying NOT to feel. Things pretty much snowball and suck at that point and it could take months or years to recover both physically and mentally. I’m not willing to go anywhere near that again so I do the really hard work of telling myself the truth minute by minute. For me, it’s worth it.
However, if I felt myself getting to a place where I couldn’t talk my way through things anymore and I felt the heavy clouds moving in and camping out for the duration, you can bet I’d be putting myself back on medication in a second. Meds once saved my life and that is what they are there for. But as long as I can continue using the methods that are working for me now and I don’t consider crying for 4 hours straight while I’m feeling so awful every so often (usually not more than once or so a month) a problem, I won’t be going back to them anytime soon.
Rationalizing the Night Away
I feel like my right arm is missing and I’ve almost convinced myself that I need a new camera. I chose this one first, but the 5K+ price tag gave me the giggles since there is no way THAT would ever happen. (But, 16.7 megapixels?? Dude!)
I found this comparison between the new Rebel and the Nikon D70. I think I’m leaning slightly towards the Rebel. Anyone use either one and have feedback on pros and cons?
In order to justify a new camera as a need, which it totally, completely almost is, I’d have to have a photoshoot to go to. Doesn’t anyone need me to come shoot photos of something? Anyone? Bueller?
Link Dump
Tom Coates plays with Odeo. We don’t actually get to hear HIS voice, but we do hear some great questions like what his last meal would be. Nat Torkington asks him about his blogroll (he doesn’t have one). (Odeo)
Amalah talks about losing it around your kid. What do you do when they just keep screaming and there is no way to get them to stop? Walk away, my friend. But just the thoughts that race through your head, like throwing them against the wall, freak you the crap out. Sure is nice to find out that it is NORMAL.
Amanda speaks with Prevention magazine. Not only does she have intuition, but a pretty bad potty mouth. (Rock on!)
Dressing for Success
I dress up for my daughter. On days that I don’t see her, just showering and putting clothes on seems sufficient. Combing my hair – optional. Make-up – what? But on the days I see her, I shave, tweeze, apply makeup, coordinate clothes so that they not only match but look CUTE and make sure my nails are done. And, I curl my hair. And this just to pick her and her friend up from school and drop them off at dance.
When I was fifteen, the last person I wanted to be seen with was my mom. When I was eight, she was the most beautiful person in the entire world to me. I would sneak into her bedroom and look at all the wonderful things on her vanity and pretend to be her. I helped myself to the mysterious bottles inside the cabinet that smelled like her and brushed my hair out, looking at each angle and beyond in the infinity mirrors. By the time my image got so small that you couldn’t see it, my eyes would shift and I would work my way back to the stool I was sitting on. Yep, still not my mom.
Somewhere between then and age fifteen, my mom became one of my least favorite people. And she was SO dumb. She knew nothing about me and my life. She only wanted to hold me back and make me wear stupid clothes and go to stupid church activities with a whole room full of other people just like her that had no idea about real life. I didn’t want to go places with her. I only spoke to her when it was absolutely necessary. Basically, she had nothing to offer me. And, she wore polyester pants and floral print shirts. I mean, c’mon.
It took me until my late 20s to grow up and figure out how great my mom is. I look back on all those wasted years and feel a little gypped. She has so much wisdom to share and she’s quick witted and funny. We could have been hanging out all this time. Think of all the stuff I missed while being so dense. I mean, c’mon!
The fact that my daughter, who is fifteen, chooses to invite me into her world and routinely asks me to hang out with her, is amazing to me. I feel like I have been given this gift and I cherish it. And so, I dress for her. I want her to feel good about how I look when she takes me places. I would never want her to feel embarrassed and have that be the reason she doesn’t want me along.
I’m sure there are other reasons she might not want to include me, like when I start to sing to Bananarama while shopping in the RiteAid or try clothes on over my clothes so I don’t have to go to the dressing room on the other side of the store or when her friends want to invite boys over so they can make out on the couch and I just happen to speak to that girl’s mom totally, completely by chance that afternoon and mention that the boyfriend is coming over and she’s welcome to stop by at about 11pm and bring me that cd she borrowed. It’s a cruel summer, man. THAT kind of stuff – totally acceptable reasons for her not to want to invite me to hang.
Sometimes what I think looks good and what she thinks looks good are slightly different. I’ll come down the stairs and ask her what she thinks. Ever the diplomat, she’ll cock her head to the side, put on a little smile and say, ‘Pretty good! Ummm, do you have a shirt that is a little less old-woman looking and a little more, oh I don’t know, cute?’ And in that moment, I want to apologize to my mother for making fun of her floral-print shirts. But, I smile at my daughter and invite her to come and help me pick something else. After rejecting the midriff showing and too-tight selections, we inevitably come across something we can both agree on. It does not involve flowers.
But, no matter what clothes I wear or how cute I curl my hair and how much I beg it to stop doing that odd and distracting swoosh thing near my right ear, I am acutely aware that I am one very lucky mom to be invited into the inner sanctum of teenage girls. I get to hear about how they really feel about sex and drinking and drugs and cliques and school and life and politics. I am continually surprised at how much some of them seem to feel about things that I hadn’t even heard of at their age, much less have an opinion on.
I am by no means The Cool Mom. I will call your parents if you use my daughter for an excuse to have sex with your boyfriend at the park. And, I will tell you that even though you like to call me Mom, and give me a hug when you see me, you are totally missing out if you don’t hang out with your own mom, who loves you like nobody’s business and cares more about you than anyone else could in the entire world. And possibly, wears polyester pants, but, dude. C’mon!
The Part of the F717 will be Played by the MM-A800
I can’t go without my camera. I just can’t. The cell phone doesn’t compare.
Must Focus on the Good Things:
1. I got my T-shirt from Fussy and my boobs look ginormous.
2. It’s my weekend with the kids.
3. I still have direct access to my daughter’s MySpace and can remove pictures of her half-naked body and any other photos where ‘angles’ have been implemented at will.
4. There is a baby bird living in a tiny nest outside the back door. I took a photo of it yesterday but since that is when I realized something was seriously wrong with my camera, you can’t see it. Stupid camera! What am I going to do – Wait! Refocus!
5. I finished sewing the robe for my son to wear to school for History Day. He is Confucius. No, I’m not at all tired of hearing random made up Confuciunisms like, ‘Mom who give son money for Jamba Juice find life to be very rewarding and fulfilling. And win the lottery. Aw, c’mon, Mom!’
Hey, I have a tattoo. Well, I have a few tats, but I have one on my lower back that was recently re-discovered by two of my sons. They wanted to know why I had a huge-ass turtle on my lower back. And on closer inspections, why it had a POD scrawled in the center of the shell.
‘Mom, why would you do that?’
‘What?’
‘That band sucks!’
‘Yes, I know. It’s not for that. It’s because a long time ago, before we were divorced, I wanted to prove to your dad that he was the one and only guy for me.’
‘You mean, that means ‘Property Of D?’
‘Yes.’
‘That’s dumb.’
‘Yes.’
‘That was back before your brain got fixed, right?’
‘Yes.’
‘I knew it. I’m not getting a tattoo.’
I think that went well.
I did go to get it covered and re-designed after I met Joe. I was all ready and on the table and had a design I drew to cover it and everything. And then she put the needle on my back and I thought I was going to die. I actually squealed and shimmied off the table. I tried to explain that the first time I had it done, I didn’t actually feel anything and I had no idea it was going to hurt that bad, but it made no sense to the lady and she was pretty annoyed. Trying to explain dissociation to people is like trying to speak another language sometimes. And so now, I’m nothing but a pussy with a tribute to a watered-down, takes-themselves-too-serious, pseudo-Christian, semi-rock band. If that’s not an anti-tattoo testimony, I don’t know what is.
The Harmony Branch™
Schmutzie has invented a way for people to get through the day without yanking their own or the people close to them’s hair out*. It’s called The Harmony Branch™ and it is genius.
I want an order of 20. Mostly, I want to pass them out to the parents that pick up their kids from school. The ones that, you know, have to back into the space and place the direction of the front of the SUV in the optimal trajectory for a speedy and rude exit. Positioning is everything to these parents. They are usually wearing turtlenecks** and having the 4-year-old in the front seat next to them practicing the violin from John Thompson’s Level Five book. Which is piano, but these kids are special and geniuses and can translate from piano to violin on the fly.
I sound so catty which is why I really need an order of 20 of those The Harmony Branch™es. I need to put them everywhere in the house and about 5 in the car. But I don’t think they are going to help me with the loss of my camera.
*I am totally aware that not only is it improper to make ‘them’ a possessive but the entire sentence structure is rather odd and illegal. Sorry, Mrs. Beesley, but it flowed off the tongue and dripped onto the keyboard.
**I wear turtlenecks all the freakin’ time. Why am I choosing them as a point of contention in this case? I have no idea. Maybe I wish I could play the violin.
NOOOOOOOoooooooooo! My Camera is Sick!
I shoot with a Sony F717. I’ve loved it solid for 3 years and recommended it to many people based on my experience. Today, it shoots like crap. Overnight it sucks? Whaaa? Suddenly, there is a white fog being applied to every single shot I take no matter what mode I’m in except video. When I look in the view-finder prior to taking the shot, it looks great. Once I take the image, it has a white, foggy film applied. I’ve reset the camera 3 times, taken out the battery, recharged the battery, tried it on every setting, tried it while plugged in.
Example:
Last week:
Image at 100%
Zoomed in to 500%
This morning:
Image at 100%
Image at 50%
Image at 100%
Image at 500%
Has anyone see this before? Know a way to fix it? I found this link where 2 guys are describing what sounds like the same fogging issue but it looks to me like this is happening when it’s saving, not when it’s just in the viewfinder.
