Classic Snivel

February 2, 1998.

I know -- excuses, excuses. He never writes, he never calls, he never does anything except whine about how busy he is -- instead of whining about his life, like he is supposed to be doing. I'm so sorry, though. I've got a test tonight, and I had to study for it this afternoon, and it just didn't happen with the updating. I will get to it tonight; I have a lot to say, truly I do, and the guilt just won't let me rest.

F e b r u a r y 3

Guest Snivel brought to you by Broken. Hey, give Rob a break. Even freaks need to sleep.

Hi Moppets,

Welcome to the substitute rant of a woman as equally cynical and unfortunate as Rob, in most respects. Today's topic of discussion: Pedestals. Specifically, the pedestals that some men, put some women up on. Let me preface it all with a statement that, regardless of the language I use here, no, I do not believe that all men manifest these traits, nor do I believe that all women are subject to them. Please do not jump down my throat (or Rob's for that matter) for any generalizations - I am only referring here to a particular phenomenon, involving particular men and women.

That said...

What is it with these men that put women up on a pedestal, and the women that let them?! Pedestals are for statues, and other works of art. And what are works of art? Objects. Is a woman just an object? No. Now, I know that when you're "in love" with someone, you can deify and worship them, and seek to protect them, and that this might lead some men to put women up on a pedestal, but that's just unhealthy.

I knew a guy who unwittingly and sincerely put his girlfriend on such a pedestal for so long, that she finally had a breakdown during her birthday celebration, stood up at the table, made a scene, ran to the bathroom, and broke it off with him, which resulted in hours of confused sobbing on both their parts, and about 15 harried friends running back and forth, consoling them both, trying not to take sides. Another woman I know was driven to suicide attempts and exodus by a man who just glommed on to her, like a latex skin she couldn't breathe through. Yet another gal I've met is trapped in an unhealthy marriage to a man who is so obsessed with her that she spends most of her time accounting for her innocent whereabouts and activities to avoid his suspicions and arguments. You see what I'm getting at here? Being put on a pedestal results in misery, 9 times out of 10.

So, gals...
If you find yourself in a pedestal situation, think about how you got there. Do you like the pedestal you're on? Did you ask to be worshipped like a fetish object? Did you ask not to be? From my perspective, a lack of communication is the cause. It's all well and good to set out a relationship by defining between yourselves what you want that relationship to be, but people do need to be reminded. The person you're with should respect you enough to take you seriously when you express dissatisfaction or concern with the way the relationship is going. Keep talking to your mate! Not just the casual "How are you feeling today?","Oh, pretty good" stuff. Being involved with someone means really being involved with their mind, as well as their body. You can pour attention all over a person's body and never once get into their head. Get into their head! Find out what they like and dislike, what they want from you, just get them talking.

If, however, you find yourself up on a pedestal, and you've done all that talking, and you are not being taken seriously, you might want to consider what it is about your mate that is preventing them from understanding and complying with your wishes. Are they showing obsessive tendencies? Do they not know how to interpret your comments clearly? Are you being completely clear? Do the two of your just have fundamentally opposite views on how a relationship should work, that cannot be reconciled? It's important to find out early about these things, so that you can judge for yourself if you have a minor problem that can be managed and fixed, or if you're really in for trouble.

Let me throw out an analogy for you that I feel illustrates the whole pedestal phenomenon pretty clearly:

Do you remember being so young that someone had to lift you up and set you down, on the `big kid' swings at the playground? Remember how thrilling it was to be pushed on those swings, until it started swinging too fast, and too high, and you started to get kind of scared. You were pretty sure that if you jumped off the swing like the `big kids' you would get really hurt. So you said, "Stop, stop, stop!" until someone stopped shoving your back so hard. But being little, of course, the worst part was feeling embarrassed, dizzy, mildly nauseous, and having to wait for someone to come lift you off the swing and set you down, because, even though your feet were dangling only a couple feet off the ground, you weren't sure you could make it.

Let's analyze the analogy:

1. So, you're a `little kid' - You're fresh and new, and you need attention from the person who has come to push you on the swing, who is your boyfriend or whatever.

2. The `swing' is the pedestal.

3. So, you're settled down on the pedestal by the boyfriend, and the act of pushing the swing (by pushing your back), is representative of the speed and relative depth of the deification you undergo in the boyfriend's eyes. It is all of the coddling, the obsession, the whining, the sabotage, etc, that you are subjected to.

4. Now, this is a `big kid' swing: it's got an element of risk. Swinging on this love pedestal swing is a gamble, and the people who usually use it know how the game works. They are either old hats at not getting hurt while jumping off, or they know how to manipulate the deification process in their favour, but they know some secret of getting off the pedestal. That's a secret you don't know yet. That's the only difference between you and the big kids.

5. Now, the swinging is thrilling at first - being put on a pedestal can be flattering, easily. But, as the worship gets more intense, it gets unhealthy, it gets scary, it gets dangerous. The more you are deified, the more the boyfriend becomes dependent on the roles and situation of you as an object, and him possessing you in some way as his object.

6. To ride the swing means to have someone put their hands on your back every time momentum arcs you down, and push you forward. This is you being pushed from behind into something you're not ready for, by someone you can't see - someone who is controlling you, though you have no knowledge of the intention, how far, or hard, or fast you will be pushed into this new role of object. But you don't say anything just yet. You don't send the right messages to make him stop the behaviour. You don't know how, or you aren't sure how he will react. But the pressure is building. You might be thrown clear off the swing if you don't do something soon.

7. So you scream, "Stop, stop, stop!" This is your breaking point. This is when you realize that you can't take this kind of pressure. Your action of screaming can be many things: you can fight with your boyfriend, you can shy away from him, you can begin to hurt yourself... The `scream' will be manifested in some action, some symptom that reveals your dissatisfaction with the situation.

8. The swinging stops. Uh oh. The illusion is shattered. You've done something that has managed to make the boyfriend aware of just how unhappy you are, and he's probably in shock. The fun is over; both the initial fun you experienced on the pedestal, and the boyfriend's fun. Many things can happen. You can break up, you can fight, you can get counseling, maybe you can communicate better, maybe he'll turn violent and more possessive, or maybe he will apologize for not having realized you felt that way.

9. But remember, you're little. You feel kind of embarrassed. You feel guilty - after all, he was just being nice to you, right? No, he was objectifying you. You feel dizzy and nauseous from swinging around like that in the display case of his mind, tied down and carried in his head wherever he took you. What do you do now? You just don't know how to handle something like this.

10. You're just so close to getting off this ride. You can see the ground, and it's really not that far beneath you... But you'll probably sprain your ankle if you jump down those couple of feet, right? This is your inability to help yourself. This is your reluctance to take control of your life.

11. You're waiting for someone to come take you down off the swing. This is so tricky. Maybe you're waiting for the boyfriend to let you off the hook by saying that he'll change, which may or may not be false hope. Maybe you're waiting for him to dump your ass, so that you, knowing it is unlikely that he will change, do not have to be the one to break up with him. (As a friend says, it's easier to hang on than to let go.) But maybe you're waiting for something else... Maybe you're waiting for some help from an outsider. Maybe you want a counselor to guide you and your beau out of this unhealthy pattern. Maybe you want your friends to gather around you and `intervene' (AA Style), listing your mistakes, making you face up to them, insisting that you take responsibility for your inaction, and telling you to get out of it all.

12. Well, you know what the problem is, don't you? You should not be waiting. For anything. You shouldn't just wait for the help to come to you, you have to help yourself a little. You can start by asking for someone's advice on the situation, and really considering it. When you ask for advice, be prepared to listen to unpleasant things without getting defensive and blowing up at the friend. Maybe you don't have the nerve to seek out a psychiatrist, but what about talking to your doctor, your school guidance counselor, your parents, your friends, a telephone advice line? And if you can't find it in yourself to talk to someone, it's time to realize that your pride and your shame are holding you back. Unless you can pick up and drag yourself out of the pedestal game with your wits about you, it's time to mix your desire for freedom with help from people who are equipped to help you.

Anyway, this is how the pedestal works. Gaps in communication. The thrill of someone new. The behaviour getting out of control. Your inability to help yourself. Yay, look, a pattern. And the thing is, just taking steps like distancing yourself from the whole situation can put you in the sort of mental and physical space you'll need to deal with the whole whack of emotional hell that might befall you. Don't fall into the trap of thinking you're obviously some stupid, spineless, frail woman, just because you're afraid, or because you're unsure how to proceed. Interpersonal skills take time, and often courage to develop. A pedestal is easily toppled. Just tip it one direction and jump.

Take care, Moppets,

Broken.

F e b r u a r y 4

I have to begin in the following manner: First, I'm really, really unhappy with myself for my inability to be more faithful with my writing lately. Last week was a time of atrocious exhaustion and frenzied activity, and sadly I suspect that it will not prove to be an isolated time in my life. I mean, let's face it. I work two days a week and I'm in school five days a week. If I have any free time, it's on the weekend, and that counts less because the weekend is the time of social obligation and sleep. This isn't to say that I'm giving up on the Snivel at all -- but I have to assert right now that sometimes I find it really draining to write, even though I enjoy it so much. I'm thinking of doing different things with my snivel page. I'm not really sure what, but I might engage in freewrites, like the tentative appearance of Pretty Blue Fetish last week, from time to time, as an ability to exercise more of my creative writing powers... and thus be satisfied and delighted personally by what I'm writing, as much as entertaining. My biggest complaint with the Snivel is that it robs me of the ability to write people all the time, because I've got this big huge document to write every day that fits in the size equivalent of a 1500 - 3000 word essay, and then said friends just go ahead and read it anyways, so when I want to write people I'm tired and fresh out of interesting things to say.

Be that as it may, I'm not dissing my own obsessive writing habits, so don't feel guilty for reading. If you didn't read, I wouldn't write, so please keep stopping by. My ego needs it -- really and truly. My vanity is like a sixty-five year old impotent man with one of those turgid bendy penile implants that you bend up or down depending on whether you want to have sex or not. That is to say, my ego is all dressed up, and has nowhere to go. So only with the good graces of a brothel could my ego have any fun at all... and you, my dear readers, count as my harem. Anyway, thank you for being forgiving with me of late. I know I've promised a lot, and delivered little, and while I haven't earned (or received) letters of support for this, I've also not had to deal with blame and loathing. Again, I do feel bad. Everytime I have to apologize for not writing I feel worse and worse, and I can only think of what your perception of me must be. Anyway, I hope you are all well. As I've been saying, my life continues to be reasonable and fun (uh... yeah...), but that plateau of comfort is offset by the stressin' and obsessin' as I fret over the lives of the people around me.

Sad as it is, my fussing and fretting was at least momentarily shot down yesterday by the sight that greeted me as I walked into my office and found myself greeted by... The Computer. I've ranted on about the theoretical new and shiny machine that was promised to be mine, but for all this time it has remained inopera(tive)/(ble) due to its shocking lack of Operating System. Gateway 2000 was supposed to have bundled it along pre-installed (or, one would presume, at least with installation disks), but that was not to be the case. And of course, like any government office, the technical support people were not, to say, forthcoming. I could have happily installed Windows 95 (not only am I a geek -- I'm a brilliant geek... so any and all of the configuration and installation of the 50 or so driver disks that were sent along with the PC following the set up of the OS would have been easily managed, and I could have then followed it all up by making a tasty lunch setting with the disks arranged as a tasteful centrepiece, Freaking Martha Stewart Style.), but I guess because it made sense to someone only to buy one disc, we have network rights for the CD-ROM, and it is jealously guarded by the computer people. I waited two weeks for it to be set up, when alas, the inevitable happened: my old computer was taken away! Oh, such woe that was!

On Friday, my computer was taken away and given to someone else. My trusty old Pentium 75; its hard drive reformatted, everything purged. Someone else would make use of its faithful non-year-2000 innards, and I was left with a big empty spot on my desk. It was more tragic than I can properly describe. I can only hope that you geeks, all of whom are reading this diatribe thanks to your own computer knowledge and love for the machines sitting before you, can understand. But let's say, for the sake of posterity, that I looked very much like a small child, with a triple scoop of bubblegum ice cream in a sugar cone -- which has just fallen, coldly and wetly, onto the sidewalk. Quivering lip, wide, empty, hopeless eyes, and somewhere inside, a great moaning and gnashing of teeth. There was nothing for me to do; the new computer was half missing. While the technical people did come and visit, it was curiously beyond their means to actually successfully install an OS, so Gateway themselves came, sprited away the processor case, and left me with a monitor to uselessly lick (for lack of anything else to do), and a keyboard to uselessly but frantically stroke, like the villain grasping for his fat black cat after he's just gone mad with defeat.

So, what, you may ask, did I do with that computer-less day? Well, I did library work. My most hated of jobs. That is to say, I was given two big lists of references, of which I was required to sift through both. If I did not find a reference in our compilation which was on the list of new references, I had to mark it down and hunt for it. First in our filing cabinet stuffed with articles, and next upstairs, in the library. If I found the article, I was to photocopy it in its entirety, cross it off the list, and proceed to the hunt for the following article on the list. Now, while I will happily do anything asked of me at my job (I LOVE my job), my least happily done task is that of this reference hunting. It often requires me to run around in places that are shockingly unlike my office, surrounded by open spaces and people I want so run away from (I don't work well at all when eyes are upon me... I require seclusion to do my job properly, because when I'm by myself, I relax, and when people are watching me work, I get twitchy). I made good progress, but it was still sad to be completely unable to do anything which made me feel especially productive or useful.

It was different on Tuesday. Different indeed. When I got to work, the computer had returned, with every last little detail taken care of in its basic installation. All I needed to do was power it up. Oh. Oh. You should have heard the orgasmic groans. It is so beautiful to behold. The monitor was monstrous and practically had its own gravitational pull for the sheer mass it held. The various drives and fans all hummed and whirred in an excitingly vibrating impression of sheer purpose. It was my first duty to install Photoshop 3 (later we found a brand new, as-yet shrink wrapped box containing version 4, so I put that on too) and then HotMetal (an HTML editor. Clever name, eh? HoTMetaL. HTML ha ha ha. Bleah. HTML editors are extremely evil monstrosities of progress, but when you're image mapping, they're really your only hope), and while the CD-ROM was spinning, I was just the teensiest bit frightened by the buzz-whir of a disc spinning faster than I think it safely should. And once it started, it didn't stop. Even after the installs were all complete, and I wanted the CD back so that I could move onto the next task for the drive (playing my new 54*40 CDs... tee hee), you could hear it shuddering to a stop (like when they turn off the engines of a prop-plane or a helicopter) before ejecting. I had visions of the CD-ROM spinning through the drive, flying into the air and slicing my head off.

My, but this darling was fast, too. There's a Pentium-233 inside the beastie, and when you execute a program it serves it to you, steaming and bloody, on a silver platter. I wanted Netscape, and there it was. Netscape. Just as soon as I'd double clicked the mouse. Photoshop takes three seconds to load. Photoshop never takes three seconds. Photoshop takes all the time it wants, and I fearfully respect that because I know of its girth and processor-gumming power. I'm just so unused to such efficiency and power. I hate to say it, but I really am, temporarily, one of those males who can get wet 'n' misty in the company of a piece of cold technology. Me, being the 386-boy that I am, I have just never experienced the ability to do anything, run anything, perform any task, with my computer. I stayed late, until 7:30 PM last night, just because I was enjoying my job so much. Everything happened so quickly and sexily (though I never otherwise associate eroticism with getting the job done as rapidly as possible, let me assure you... blush). Images practically flew into place as I modified and rendered and scaled and sharpened. And of course, I got to tweak. Tweaking with computers is one of my personal fetishes. My computer desktop is more personalized than a high school locker. Screen savers, colour patterns, wallpaper... icon names, and the icons themselves. I mess with it all. I downloaded software as I needed it for various side-tasks, changed every preference setting I could think of to my comfort, and by the time I left last night, it was right properly Christened.

I can hardly wait to go to work on Friday. I'm a little scared, though, because I think my employers are running out of things for me to do. I may have been shoveling a big grave for myself all this while, as I strived to be so very productive and efficient. You see, our website goes up this week; pending only the director's signature. We've finished every image, and every page, to perfection since we started in July. Even with the redundancy of pages for browsers both capable and incapable of supporting frames, and two different sizes, and image maps, of every single illustration (we have over one hundred micrographs and drawings), we're done. Done done done. I'll link you to our Animal Protection and Systematics Study website when it officially goes on-line, but it still remains that my contract runs until the end of March, and I have absolutely no idea what I'll be doing until then. More to the point, I don't know if I'll be needed back when the summer comes, and I'll be aching for a full-time job. I really hope that there will be a million new jobs for me to do at ECORC, because there's a brand new computer sitting in my office, and I truly do think that it would like me to be the one using it.

Lousy efficiency. This is what comes of being a great worker... too much done, and too little left to do.

So, my darlings, that's my thought for today. Stay connected for tomorrow's Snivel, which should be decidedly more interesting. Clorinda has asked me to detail her recent crises on-line, such that it can be put into perspective -- both mine, and the world in general. I'd very much encourage you to respond to what I say tomorrow. I'll link to an e-mail address... either hers, or mine (I'm not sure which yet, but probably mine... I'll forward everything to her... this allows for her own anonymity and privacy), because I think she wants to know what people who aren't her might think about her own issues.

And now back to my super busy day.

F e b r u a r y 5

Today is Clorinda's birthday. Normally this would be a thing to celebrate and be generally joyous about, but my dear friend is terribly unwell for her nineteenth. Initially she didn't really feel comfortable with me rambling on about her life, but has since decided it's OK, but I think I've come to the conclusion that what I really want to do for her birthday is to be easy on her, so I'll leave thoughts on Clorinda's situation for a later day. She was curious as to what my personal slant on things would be, and in this sense also apprehensive, so for everyone's reassurance, let me say that I was going to be as honest as I can be about her life, above all else. I was not about to analyze her, because I loathe and fear the undiscipline of amateur psychology, and I'd be wrong about whatever grandiose conclusions I made in any case. I simply care about her, and worry myself sick about her problems (that I continue to only vaguely allude to), and it eats me away like the legions of manic-depressive armies of purple ants to think of how remote and ineffectual I'm going to be in her attempts to resolve things for herself. My "angle," or "slant," or "bias," if you will, is simply that I think she's wonderful. And that I think the people who are causing her to be unhappy, angry, upset, and afraid are wrong; or evil, and thus need to be destroyed, or erased from history, or exiled to the Phantom Zone as absolutely quickly as my snake oil remedies of robots, Time Travel, or Jor-El and Krypton's Council of Elders will allow.

Most people will never see me cry. This is one of those things that you probably ought to be thankful for, because when I'm that unhappy, it's a wretched sight. I cry like a six-year-old. I look for the nearest friendly bosom to press my scrunched up miserable face against, and I sob and sob. Usually I can only release the pining, insane, horrifying miseries that clog up my brain in the solace of someone I trust explicitly -- which is to say, someone I love. I find I can't really cry alone. I can want to, but when I'm by myself I tend to deal with infinite sadnesses by staring at the ceiling, withdrawing from the world, or writing my elegant, long, unroughened-by-manual-labour fingers off. Last night I cried. Maybe it was the exhaustion of being awake at three-thirty in the morning after a week and a half of missing sleep, or maybe it was an imbalance in my 5-hydroxytryptophan reuptake levels, or maybe my alien implant was receiving a transmission and it vibrated in a funny way. I can't say.

What I do know is that it was while I was transcribing an ITV psychology lecture (Carleton broadcasts some of its courses on its own cable channel, as a way to offer certain courses to more students without having to pay for more professors to teach extra sessions) to computerized word processor notes, with my fingers tapping a feverish staccato rhythm to the professors glorious instruction, that I noticed it was past three in the morning; a time I'd been keeping handy in my active memory to notice because it signified that it was midnight in Spokane, which meant I could e-mail Clorinda her birthday dues without being an inaccurate goof. I checked my e-mail (good ol' Telemate... eases the pain) and there, waiting for me (as was alluded to above), was a letter from Clorinda. I've become uncannily aware of when she's written me, usually by a feeling of dread. Like Spider Sense. Clorinda writes when there's something wrong. When either she's unhappy, or I've gone and been foolish again, and I have to pay the consequences of her stern disapproval. So, I read the letter, and read of how extra unhappy she has been, and even that she's been afraid, and in anguish and pain. And not, before you cluck your tongues, in the teen angst sort of way. I've had teen angst. I've dealt with teen angst. I've talked people down from teen angst, and all the nasty things it tends to entail.

Clorinda was genuinely afraid, and hurting, and wounded. I don't know why, and so far as I know (or so far as she's told me) she doesn't know why. I started crying. I was afraid for her. I was upset for her. To quickly quote her letter (I hope she'll forgive me), she said "I want someone to take away my needles and knives and pin me down and hug me and play with my hair while I cry and hurt enough that I just go limp and fall asleep. I want to feel safe for once." It was such a pure, simple wish. I found it moving and tragic and it made me ache and myself wish I do anything, just to make my friend feel wonderful for a little while. I know my feelings for her aren't important; and I suspect that for the most part, they do much more harm than the good of my intentions. All that can be true, and yet it still remains that I think I love her. In so many ways, but... in the way, too. I don't know why my capacity for love is so large and dysfunctional, but it makes me the person I am, and I mean; I'm a rotten person. But occasionally even I know that I can do good. And I'm trying. Even if I can't do anything for her; even if no one could; I'm trying.

F e b r u a r y 6

Today is a little awkward in terms of me being able to write all that much. I have class at 10:30, work at 1, and at 8:00 I have a psychology mid-term that I was only made aware that I was supposed to write two days ago... so I have lots of work to accomplish today. Instead of hating me, please.... just wish me luck.

F e b r u a r y 8

When last I left you, it was under the ciurcumstance of having to write a psychology mid-term which I'd only found out about two days previously. To prepare myself, I was forced to remain awake for the entirety of Thursday evening while I studied five chapters, watched three lectures (of three hours each), and read the corresponding notes from the class website (any professor that can put together a useful and functional website is quite frankly the cat's ass by me). Granted, this was basically a sort of penance for my own misdeeds, in the sense that I'd done myself in by not watching lectures or reading the text before. In fact, I'd only purchased the textbook on Monday, instinctively reacting to a sense of guilt and paranoia regarding my scholastic inactivity for the ITV course. ITV courses often prove the doom for many students, due to how deceptively easy the premise of the course is... you watch your lectures on TV (or tape them at your convenience, which is why I bought my VCR, because I have no interest in watching a lecture or taking notes at 7am on a Friday), write the occasional test, and that's that. Of course, it's so easy to miss one, and then two, and before you know it, you've got a mid-term or an exam and fifteen hours of lectures to catch up on.

Luckily, however, my studying seemed to do some good. I have to point out right now that something I was studying involved the way we mis-attribute causality of various situations in our lives, based on our perspectives. For instance, when you do really well on an exam, and someone asks you, "Well gosh! How did you manage that?!" your answer tends to be something like, "Well, I'm smart! I'm great, I'm the best!" And while there are various degrees of modesty, that's more or less typical. However, if someone asks you, "Well, Jane, who sits behind you, got an A+ as well... how do you explain her grade?" your answer, conversely, tends to be externalized, in the sense that you say "Well, Jane, she was lucky." Or, you'll say that Jane has it easy, because she doesn't need to work like you do, so she got great marks because she has more time. The point is, for your own successes, you attribute the success to internal factors like your intelligence, as an assertion of your ego. Once again, to preserve your self-worth, when someone else succeeds, you attribute his or her success to external factors like luck, or amounts of time they have that you lack, or even that they copied off you. When you fail, it's reversed. Your failure is externalized, through things like bad luck, or the unfairness of the test, or how little sleep you got. In turn, someone else's failure then gets attributed to internal factors, such as how stupid he or she is.

Look up again at the top of the previous paragraph. I began it with the sentence "Luckily, however, my studying seemed to do some good." Which is me attributing my success to external factors. This has nothing to do at all with the validity of the social psychological theories of attribution, and everything to do with the fact that my worldview is psychotic. In any case, I did spectacularly well on the test, and this delights me. I can't estimate my grade, but I suspect it's nigh up in the A range. Possibly a B+, but for the infinitessimal amount of work I actually did, I'm pleased. Especially since it will do nicely when added to the next two tests in the course, for which I intend to prepare entirely more thoroughly. The course itself is fascinating. I fully expect that I'll have no difficulties at all with the course, because the professor (professor Thorngate) is such a fascinating and lively man (rather like Willy Wonka), full of his own little idiosyncratic eccentricities. The material is, as well, just stimulating. Social psychology, like any domain of psychology, deals with the individual, but specifically in terms of how the individual is affected by others. I just adore it. Perhaps this is as well a reason why I did so superbly on the test, but I think it was also just really easy. That's multiple choice for you.

Sigh. But speaking of procrastination, I have a computer science assignment due Monday morning, and I really must get at it (more to the point, I really must start it). I'm sorry for the short irrelevant Snivel. I'm doing well, in most ways, but I'm still busy, and the house is gradually becoming increasingly hellish. I'm still frantically worried about Clorinda -- I still owe her e-mail -- and I should probably get working on a Snivel that better explains all that.

Until Monday. Adieu.

Brought to you by Jolt Cola, with
the buzzing and mild irritation of
caffeine induced paranoia.

e-mail helps to moisten.

Back to this week of The Daily Snivel.

Return to days past for more Classic Drivel.

Back to Purple People Eater Town.

1.	So, you're a `little kid' - You're fresh and new, and you need attention from the person who has come to push you on the swing, who is your boyfriend or whatever.
2.	The `swing' is the pedestal.
3.	So, you're settled down on the pedestal by the boyfriend, and the act of pushing the swing (by pushing your back), is representative of the speed and relative depth of the deification you undergo in the boyfriend's eyes. It is all of the coddling, the obsession, the whining, the sabotage, etc, that you are subjected to.
4.	Now, this is a `big kid' swing: it's got an element of risk. Swinging on this love pedestal swing is a gamble, and the people who usually use it know how the game works. They are either old hats at not getting hurt while jumping off, or they know how to manipulate the deification process in their favour, but they know some secret of getting off the pedestal. That's a secret you don't know yet. That's the only difference between you and the big kids.
5.	Now, the swinging is thrilling at first - being put on a pedestal can be flattering, easily. But, as the worship gets more intense, it gets unhealthy, it gets scary, it gets dangerous. The more you are deified, the more the boyfriend becomes dependent on the roles and situation of you as an object, and him possessing you in some way as his object.
6.	To ride the swing means to have someone put their hands on your back every time momentum arcs you down, and push you forward. This is you being pushed from behind into something you're not ready for, by someone you can't see - someone who is controlling you, though you have no knowledge of the intention, how far, or hard, or fast you will be pushed into this new role of object. But you don't say anything just yet. You don't send the right messages to make him stop the behaviour. You don't know how, or you aren't sure how he will react. But the pressure is building. You might be thrown clear off the swing if you don't do something soon.
7.	So you scream, "Stop, stop, stop!" This is your breaking point. This is when you realize that you can't take this kind of pressure. Your action of screaming can be many things: you can fight with your boyfriend, you can shy away from him, you can begin to hurt yourself... The `scream' will be manifested in some action, some symptom that reveals your dissatisfaction with the situation.
8.	The swinging stops. Uh oh. The illusion is shattered. You've done something that has managed to make the boyfriend aware of just how unhappy you are, and he's probably in shock. The fun is over; both the initial fun you experienced on the pedestal, and the boyfriend's fun. Many things can happen. You can break up, you can fight, you can get counseling, maybe you can communicate better, maybe he'll turn violent and more possessive, or maybe he will apologize for not having realized you felt that way.
9.	But remember, you're little. You feel kind of embarrassed. You feel guilty - after all, he was just being nice to you, right? No, he was objectifying you. You feel dizzy and nauseous from swinging around like that in the display case of his mind, tied down and carried in his head wherever he took you. What do you do now? You just don't know how to handle something like this.
10.	You're just so close to getting off this ride. You can see the ground, and it's really not that far beneath you... But you'll probably sprain your ankle if you jump down those couple of feet, right? This is your inability to help yourself. This is your reluctance to take control of your life.
11.	You're waiting for someone to come take you down off the swing. This is so tricky. Maybe you're waiting for the boyfriend to let you off the hook by saying that he'll change, which may or may not be false hope. Maybe you're waiting for him to dump your ass, so that you, knowing it is unlikely that he will change, do not have to be the one to break up with him. (As a friend says, it's easier to hang on than to let go.) But maybe you're waiting for something else... Maybe you're waiting for some help from an outsider. Maybe you want a counselor to guide you and your beau out of this unhealthy pattern. Maybe you want your friends to gather around you and `intervene' (AA Style), listing your mistakes, making you face up to them, insisting that you take responsibility for your inaction, and telling you to get out of it all.
12.	Well, you know what the problem is, don't you? You should not be waiting. For anything. You shouldn't just wait for the help to come to you, you have to help yourself a little. You can start by asking for someone's advice on the situation, and really considering it. When you ask for advice, be prepared to listen to unpleasant things without getting defensive and blowing up at the friend. Maybe you don't have the nerve to seek out a psychiatrist, but what about talking to your doctor, your school guidance counselor, your parents, your friends, a telephone advice line? And if you can't find it in yourself to talk to someone, it's time to realize that your pride and your shame are holding you back. Unless you can pick up and drag yourself out of the pedestal game with your wits about you, it's time to mix your desire for freedom with help from people who are equipped to help you.