On the tournament

I got my ass handed to me again. I'm just going to have to work more often at BJJ to develop competency. The good news is I walked away with no cuts, bruises, sprains, etc.

At the gym today, in fact, as I was preparing to do some chest work on a stability ball, someone taps me on the shoulder, I turn around and the guy looks like a middleweight/lightheavy weight. Asks me my name and if I was at the tourney this weekend. We had a nice discussion about training, etc. He told me about another dojo, in town that does ju-jitsu (One kind specifically?? not sure) . That offer more training times. He also mentioned that his sensai was interested in training teachers. I'm seriously considering checking it out; I don't have any plans on switching, but if I can get more drill time, more roll time, more input, I might sign up. I might have to drop kick boxing for the time being though :/

Ah, to be an obsessive personality working through a trauma.

Fabulous Dreams of Death

“The dreams in which I’m dying are the best I’ve ever had”

--Tears For Fears

A sentiment I’ve always related too, albeit it a slanted comparison. I dreamed my sister died last night. As far as my dreams go it was fairly lucid. I didn’t have control or anything, I just remembered a bit more than usual. There were no monsters or parasites or bizarro manifestations of real life counterparts. Nope. The house was the house. People were people. No Lynchian symbolism. No dream logic. Quite simply, her dumb ass finally died in a shower (I was told about this, I didn’t see it unfold) a culmination of years of drug use, drinking, bad eating habits etc. In the dream I was relieved to hear she was finally dead. People could get on with their lives. Everyone was free from her emotional abuse, her callous disregard for others, her valley-girl babykicking horseshit, and her lies. There was a sense of freedom.

Part of me was aware this was a dream, but like I said, I lacked the ability to manipulate events. When I woke up, I was disappointed—still alive, sigh. And I’m not ashamed in the least. It was one of my better R.E.M. experiences, I don’t sleep well as a rule, remembered dream or not. Death, though, seems to stimulate better R.E.M. experiences for me. I remember, years ago, dreaming the death of my best friend, and waking up refreshed. It was off putting for me, but it didn’t change the fact that I slept well. This latest dream seems to establish a pattern.

A few words on restraining orders

They are a bureaucratic mess. My lawyer has referred me to his partner.

Things are tough all over

Last night, 3 am or thereabouts, I called my girlfriend and cried, despairing over my inability to find solace from my sister. Who is the bigger threat now? Two idiots wandering the halls of my psyche hiding in the shadows of the Parthenon, or my sister, real, present, and worst of all, related.

In another show of frustration and impotence, I got manhandled in BJJ, and the entire time it felt like I shouldn’t, that I should be doing BETTER. One guy is actually smaller than me our rolls had gotten competitive. Not tonight. Not a chance. He controlled me from the get go, made me tap—more than once I think. I’m a head of the class kind of guy, I don’t like being the dunce. I need to dedicate more training time on the weekends. After my next paycheck I’ll try and schedule a private lessons.

I realized tonight that not only is my triangle defense lacking, I’m not any good at applying the hold either. I need to give attention to positives too. Triangle defense is incrementally better as is over all conditioning, but conditioning won’t mean much if I can’t win my first match.

I need a shield

I've emailed my lawyer about the nuances of a restraining order. I intend to get one against my sister

This is what the edge looks like

Friday: Sister arrives at the house. How she got in I’m not sure. Parents are away. She isn’t supposed to be here, brings her dog, an abused mutt. Dog has no crate. No private space. I try to hide in my room. I felt slimy, upset. Lost my appetite. She leaves, “will be back around 11.” She leaves her dog so I can’t lock her out (Did she have a key? Did I forget to lock the door?) My condition doesn’t improve; I dread her return. I take a shower, the usual violent scenarios play out in my head. I go to a friend’s place for a few hours; I bring him up to speed. I’m taking care of the dogs this weekend so I return. My sister returns at roughly the same time. I manage to get the dogs walked. I keep them in the back of the house for the rest of the night. Sister leaves.

Saturday:

A little after midnight I receive the following text message:

Boyfriend is acting crazy don’t answer the house phone.

The same boyfriend who is 6”6 and over 250 lbs, the same boyfriend who put her dumb ass in the ER, I don’t fall asleep until after 4 am.

The phone is ringing; the door bangs. I wake up at about 8:20. Caller ID lists the boyfriend’s name. I try to wait it out. More ringing, louder banging, person is moving from one door to another. The fear is too much I call 911. I’m trying to keep my composure. Operator tells me to barricade the door. I do. I’m convinced he’s going to break in any minute now. Operator wants me to explain the situation. I do my best list the factors involved. Someone else picks up the line.

“Oh my gawd, I couldn’t get in, you locked all the doors, thanks a lot!”

My sister has an accent that fuses southern twang with valley girl. She is upset, disgusted by my selfishness.

Dumb
-Struck.
Embarrassed.
Humiliated.

I stammer out an apology to the operator, who tells me something about 911 being for emergencies.

My sister’s words are lodged in my head. How did she get in? Where is she? I look around. I go upstairs. The door to the locked. I call her name. She answers.

I bang on the door, shouting, screaming at her for her insult. Screaming at her for making me relive a break in, for anticipating a violent show down with a much larger man, and for not telling me she was coming over. I don’t remember much of what I said, but “I hate you” was definitely part of the spiel.

It takes me ten minutes, but I finally track my mother down. I am outside, barefoot in the driveway. I yell; I cry, but it doesn’t matter. Sister doesn’t leave the house.

Sunday:

Between 2 am and 9 am she leaves, her dog is gone, but my sister has left a mess behind for me to clean up