Category: Emotions

Posted in Child abuse, Depression, Emotions

Energy of Activation

Posted on by debthumanblog

That’s from a college biology class. Enzymes lower the energy necessary for activation of cell processes. There is nothing to lower the energy of activation necessary for an entire body to act, to create, to do something besides sit.

Do I bat away the unwanted memories and feelings? All from childhood and all caused by parents who hated me. Is there ever a time when the memories stay quiet?

I have no happy memories of childhood. Just times with my mother snarled at me, times when I was expected to know what adults know without the benefit of anyone telling me what it was I was supposed to know.

The memories have been coming in waves the last couple days. All unbidden. All unwanted as I was unwanted.

The memory of begging my mother to come to my college graduation. She didn’t allow me to take science or math classes in high school. I graduated from college with a degree in biology and another degree in journalism. She refused to come to my graduation.

I want to make the memories go away and never come back. While the abuse was happening, I stuffed the trauma into brain rooms I kept closed. Once I no longer lived with my hateful parents, the memories insisted on being heard and seen. Removing my toxic, drunken, violent, narcissistic mother from my life at age 37 didn’t make the memories stay quiet.

The horror of complex PTSD is the memories that refuse to stay quiet.

Let it go they said. How do I do that, I asked. There was no answer. Forgive they said. I don’t know how I said. There was no answer, no advice, no roadmap to inner peace.

I wrote out my anger and frustration. I painted out my childhood misery. I quilted out what I felt. The pain never leaves.

I can’t remember how many times I’ve been suicidal. Five or six is my best estimate. Times when I stood on the edge of death and turned around to walk away.

Will I always be able to walk away?

Or will my life end with a bullet?

I’m never going to have real parents who love me. Would it have spoiled some vast, eternal plan if I were to have had real parents? When I die, will God explain to me why I was singled out for such horrendous treatment?

I never deserved the abuse, but I got abused anyway. What purpose did that serve?

Make friends. How? What do I do with a friend? I grew up hiding in my room so I wouldn’t have to hear the hate and flinch from the blows. Blows that eventually caused the retina in my right eye to detach in places. Places where my retina was glued back down via laser.

Memory: I got dragged into church every Sunday. My mother once told me I didn’t have to sit with the family. But where else could I sit? Every seat was filled with loneliness and ever present sadness.

I tried other churches, but I never fit in.

When I started taking adult education classes at a temple, I suddenly fit in. I met other women who had demanding, professional careers. They could talk about something other than toilet training.

I learned to survive. I didn’t learn to live.

I’m always going to struggle to figure out what to do in social situations. At least I taught myself which fork to use. Hint: Start from the outside of the knives and forks and work your way into the mass of cutlery implement by implement until you reach your plate.

Every year, I got the flu the second day of Christmas vacation. Being sick meant I could mentally be somewhere else in my brain on Christmas. I remember being dragged to Christmas dinner clad in pajamas because I had the flu. Being sick never got me out of mandatory misery.

Each year, I get older. Each year, I read more about how social interactions (what the hell are those?) are necessary to stave off depression and dementia. I am terrified that I will be alone, unable to drive, and be miserable. More miserable than I am now.

I used to have people I chatted with after services. But then there was a pandemic. And then there was a rabbi I wasn’t fond of. I will force myself to go to a “women’s night out” at Chabad. I’m not sure why I’m reluctant to go.

I love taking classes at the local university. I don’t interact with my classmates. I am older than their grandmothers. What would we talk about?

One day, classmates talked about video games they played as they grew up. I couldn’t stand it. I told them that I grew up watching dead bodies being dragged out of Vietnam on the evening news. I didn’t tell them the first question when meeting a man was to ask what his draft number was. That number told me how involved I should get. No sense loving someone who would be shipped off to die.

I want to go to Hanukkah on the plaza. A giant menorah, city Christmas tree, lighted Christmas decorations. I want to stay home. I want to go and take photographs. I want to photograph the lights at night. I still want to stay home.

If I stay home, I won’t be disappointed. If I go, I will still be lonely and alone.

Something inside of me never learned how to navigate life.

Posted in Child abuse, Emotions, Grief, PTSD

Being Thankful

Posted on by debthumanblog

Thanksgiving is this Thursday. I’ll celebrate, but it won’t be anything envisioned by Normal Rockwell. 

I’ll celebrate having the courage to remove toxic family members from my life.

I’ll celebrate by remembering that I graduated college with degrees in journalism and biology although I wasn’t allowed to take any math or science classes in high school.

I’ll celebrate by remembering I put myself through law school, graduated, passed the bar exam, ran my own practice, took another bar exam, and drove 2000 miles across the US to work in the New Mexico Public Defender Department.

I’ll celebrate by remembering I’m working on healing from 16 years of child abuse followed by 18 years of adult abuse.

I’ll celebrate finally being able to feel the horror of what I endured growing up.

I’ll celebrate by remembering that every time I wanted to kill myself, I lived.

I’ll celebrate by remembering I’ve only been married once – 53 years and still married.

I’ll celebrate rate by realizing how big an accomplishment my life has been. A lesser person would have died long ago.

Posted in anxiety, Brady, Emotions, Fabric, Photography

Filling the Bucket

Posted on by debthumanblog

There’s something weird growing on my arm. It changed colors. It grew larger. The border is erratic. The thing is scaly. All the stuff that indicates cancer. I saw the dermatologist. He said it wasn’t melanoma, the most dangerous skin cancer. He did a biopsy. I will have to wait at least a week for the pathology report to find out what this thing is.

In the meantime, I find myself making a bucket list. There are two trips I want to take. One is to New York City to shop at Mood. I want to fondle fancy fabric and buy the kinds of fabric I’ve never worked with. The second is a Hawaiian cruise. I’d like to spend a couple extra days and see Volcanos National Park. I want to see flowers and green in the winter. I want to swim in the ocean again. I will take Brady on both trips. I will have to have some forms filled out by the vet for the Hawaii trip.

My iPad is from 2017. It still works, but it does’t have all the bells and whistles the new iPad Pro has. I ordered one this morning from the campus bookstore. Along with educational pricing, I get a free iPencil. I need a more powerful drawing program in order to design more fabric. I also need to work on the second novel. I’m at the point where stuff gets written only to get pruned.

I have a few bra kits in my sewing room. I need to sew them. I need to sew slacks to wear to school. I’ve got a free pattern from Mood and need to make a muslin.

I am frozen. I’m finding it hard to get going on projects.

I still have photography. I got my first SLR for Valentine’s Day 1980. I took that camera everywhere and shot everything. I got my latest DSLR for Valentine’s Day 2020. I take the camera everywhere and shoot everything.

I did some landscape/outdoor photography today. I’m able to walk farther and stand longer although I still have limitations.

Fall in southern New Mexico doesn’t look like fall in New York. Instead of reds, yellows, oranges just before the leaves fall, we get green. We don’t get rain in the spring; we get rain in the summer. This is one of the wildflowers that grow and bloom this time of year.

These are chocolate flowers. You can’t eat them, but they smell like the finest chocolate. Because it’s cooler, I could take this shot after lunch. In the summer, the flowers go to seed within a few hours.

This is one of the desert sage growing in my yard. The shrub is triggered to bloom when there’s sufficient humidity. The bushes will bloom several times during the summer. The flowers only last a. couple days and then the ground is purple.

I’m linking with Nina Marie here: https://ninamariesayre.blogspot.com

My Spoonflower shop is here: https://www.spoonflower.com/profiles/deb_thuman

My online shop, Deb Thuman Art, is here: http://www.DebThumanArt.com

Posted in Depression, Embroidery machine, Emotions

Ouch

Posted on by debthumanblog

It’s been 26 years since I last endured holiday hell. Used to be I’d go into a deep depression the third week of November and the depression would last until January 1. Holidays featured screaming, fighting, crying, bad food and that was just the first hour. It went downhill from there.

Two weeks ago, every story in my writing class featured being home for the holidays. I was shocked to discover the stories triggered a depressive response. A few days later, I needed to push a walker around. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with my spine. This feels like strained muscles. Oddly, taking a double dose of antidepressant relieved much of the pain. I’ve got an appointment with a massage therapist later this week.

I’ve been working on some art.

I’ve been making free standing lace ornaments featuring a nativity scene.

I tried using metallic thread for this. It a frustrating process.

These and other ornaments are in my store, Deb Thuman Art which you can find here: http://www.DebThumanArt.com

I’ve been working on the quilt for my painting class. Because I can’t find stock images that would be suitable for quilting, I’m working on making my own images. It’s slow going.

I’ve also been working on fabric designs.

Once the blocks get put together, they look so different. You can find these and other designs in my Spoonflower shop here: https://www.spoonflower.com/profiles/deb_thuman

I’m linking with Nina Marie here: https://ninamariesayre.blogspot.com/2021/11/the-idea-continues-on-off-wall-friday.html

Posted in Antisemitism, anxiety, Depression, Embroidery machine, Emotions, Fiber, Grief, Psych meds

Fighting To Get To Center

Posted on by debthumanblog

I more or less survived last week. I’m still alive – which is a major accomplishment. Last week, I wrote about my sister’s yahrzeit and my emotional fallout. Tuesday evening, I lit a candle and said kaddish.

Meanwhile, I’m seeing more and more the effects of the hate crimes and antisemitism are having on me. I’m back on anti-anxiety med. My stomach hurts. I know I need to sleep but I’m wide awake and watching the clock go from 1 AM, to 2 AM and getting more and more anxious as the hands move around the clock.

Clumping around in a boot designed to make sure I don’t aggravate an injured achilles tendon is causing me to have back, hip and leg pain. I’m cleared to go to the gym provided I avoid any machine that involves using my ankles. Except I’m too depressed to go to the gym. I hate this. I’ve had to go back to the full dose of my antidepressant. Being depressed is depressing which causes me to be more depressed. Depression – the ultimate perpetual motion machine.

I have some choices. I’ve contacted an attorney I know who handles civil rights cases. Apparently he’s not interested in my case because I never heard back. I could go to the State Police and ask them to investigate the campus police, but I doubt it would do any good. I could go to the US Department of Justice and ask for help under Title VI, but dealing with the feds means watching cobwebs grow around my case. I could go to the state attorney general although I’ve dealt with the general counsel for higher education who refused to help me. No one cases that Jewish students aren’t safe on campus. I am afraid of being physically attacked on campus. At least my handicap hangtag lets me park next to the door of the art building.

And I’m having a crisis of religion. Not faith – my faith is solid. It’s my temple that gives me pause. It’s a reform temple, and I fit into Reform Judaism. But the temple is now and has been in financial crisis for several years. The board had decided to arbitrarily raise everyone’s dues. They expect 20% of one’s gross income. Unless you earn $120K or more. Then the board expects 2%. Meanwhile, they are squeezing nickels and dimes out of people. There was a Purim celebration and members were asked to bring hamantaschen – special cookies made for Purim. Then, people were asked to pay $7 per family to get in to the celebration. Bring food then pay to eat it.

The only other temple in town is Chabad House. I like the rabbi. I loved the class I took on medical ethics. The rabbi is actively working with the university president to attempt to ensure Jewish students are safe on campus. My rabbi is doing nothing.

Unfortunately, Chabad is orthodox and I’m not. I dislike the separation of men and women under the theory that women will be a distraction to the men. That comes dangerously close to blame the victim. I dislike the limited role women have in orthodox Judaism. Their role is to have kids and have a dead-end job so the husband can spend his days in the library studying. Just one problem….women’s reproductive organs have an expiration date. So what is this woman with limited education and limited skills supposed to do after she can’t have more children?

So what am I to do? I miss going to services but I can’t tolerate the leave it alone and antisemitism will solve itself attitude the reform temple has. I fought too hard to get an education and to be an equally-paid attorney to give up and not be allowed to fully participate in an orthodox temple.

So here I sit. No temple to go to for services. Not going to the gym because I’m too depressed. Clumping around making me more depressed. Bleah.

Posted in bipolar disorder, Child abuse, Depression, Emotions, Fiber, Mental Illness, Photography, Psych meds, PTSD

I’m Not Myself Right Now

Posted on by debthumanblog

I’ve finally reached the point where I can start to integrate the crap that happened to me growing up, feel the feelings it wasn’t safe to feel then, and start to heal both mentally and physically. If you’re wondering what I’m writing about, it’s child abuse. My mother was a violent, drunken narcissist who had four children she didn’t want and made real sure we knew she didn’t want us. Her husband was a violent drunk. By the time I was 10, I had myself and three siblings to raise. I mirrored what I was my mother doing and did a lousy job of raising myself and siblings. I grew up hiding in my room so I wouldn’t have to hear them yell, literally, at me and hit me. I had no idea there was anything unusual about my family. At the age of 9, I had such severe depression that even the kids in my class noticed. One boy asked me what was wrong. His words had to go through many layers of water before I could hear them. Then, I had to formulate an answer, and the words had to go through many layers of water before I could say them. I eventually told him nothing was wrong. I wasn’t lying or covering anything up. I truly had no idea that there was any other kind of family.

I’ve been reading The Body Keeps The Score. It’s not an easy book to read and I can only read it in small doses. I’ve been doing micro-dosing with ketamine for little longer than a year and I finally found a therapist who takes my insurance and accepts new patients. The combination is allowing me to feel what I felt at the time the crap was happening. I’m even getting the stress pains I had at the time. It sucks. But it’s the only way to integrate what happened into whole memories and process them into something I can live with. At the moment, they are fractured memories that cause a plethora of physical problems.

Meanwhile, I’m working my way through the current trauma of a hate crime, antisemitism, and confronting terrorist wannabes – students being manipulated by real terrorists and being conned into thinking antisemitism is a good thing. I’m angry. I’m pissed. I want to scream. I’m considering a civil rights suit against the university.

And so I’m not myself. I’m having reactions out of proportion to events. I’m sounding like a crazed woman. I’m not having fun. It sucks.

Art. It ain’t called art therapy for nothing. I can lose myself in art. I can figure myself out in art. So often, I don’t understand what’s going on inside of me until it comes out of my hands. I’m working on a sequel to the novel I finished. Like the first novel, the main characters are a woman who is my age, Jewish, and a criminal defense attorney. Her lover is a police officer. In the first novel, I wrote about an officer involved shooting, mental illness and people who are homeless. (Unhoused is such a sanitary, offensive PC word and I won’t use it.) This time, I’ll be writing about antisemitism and hate crimes. What’s inside of me needs a voice. I’m considering taking a writing class in the fall. That could be dangerous for me. I’m hoping I can bring Brady, my service dog in training and the world’s cutest labradoodle, to class with me.

I’ve been playing around with my embroidery machine. And I’ve been surfing eBay for embroidery thread bargains. I found a doozy and it will arrive on Monday. I’ve played a bit with making my own designs.

The ferns are my design, the border is a stock design from the embroidery machine.

I bought a set of Hebrew fonts and started playing with them. The Hebrew is shalom. Shalom is one of those multi-purpose words. It’s use for hello, goodby and peace. Peace meaning the absence of war, but also a deep personal inner peace. The Star of David is done with variegated thread and I like how it came out.

We had a particularly bright moon last night. It’s a smidge past full, but well worth photographing. I used a 400mm lens. Sure would be nice to have something like a 12,000 mm lens, but that’s far outside of my photography budget.

I’m linking with Nina Marie here: https://ninamariesayre.blogspot.com

My Spoonflower shop is here: https://www.spoonflower.com/profiles/deb_thuman

My store, Deb Thuman Art, is here: http://www.DebThumanArt.com

Posted in Depression, Emotions, Memories, PTSD, Unwanted Children

Depressed

Posted on by debthumanblog

That’s how I feel and it’s getting worse by the minute. I have two bad days a year: April 1 and June 24. April 1 was my youngest sister’s birthday. June 24 was the anniversary of her death. Melanoma killed her. She was 35.

I’ve been plagued by memories – none of them happy. My mother went into labor on a Sunday morning. When we got home from church, The Drunk told us we had a sister. My brother, a few months shy of 5, burst into tears. “You promised me a brother!” Way to go Drunk!

When I was 11 and Tina, my youngest sister, was 13 months old, she played with oven cleaner. My mother watcher her do it. After cleaning my sister off, she put the oven cleaner soaked sneakers back on my sister. My sister spent the next four hours crying. My mother spent the next four hours yelling, literally, at my sister telling her to stop crying. Eventually, Tina’s diaper needed changing. That’s when my mother noticed Tina had second and third degree chemical burns from the waist down. Off they went to the emergency room. Because they were Caucasian and had enough income to afford health insurance, no one at the hospital bothered to call child protective services.

Many years ago, the Olympic event featuring skiers doing tricks and turns was called hot dogging. Tina and her friends went skiing. It was a miserable day with freezing rain. Tina said the weather was so bad she did the last run with her eyes closed. When she got to the bottom of the hill, her friends asked her where she learned to do all that hot dogging. Tina responded that she didn’t know how to ski. That may sound like resilience, but it wasn’t. It was the legacy of child abuse. You didn’t ask for help in my house. You figured out how to do it yourself or face the wrath of two drunks.

When my sister had her first period. She didn’t tell anyone. She knew there was always an assortment of feminine hygiene products under the bathroom sink, so she grabbed a pad, pinned it in her pants, and went to school. That wasn’t resilience either. When I had my first period, I didn’t want to say anything to my mother because I was sure she would bitch at me. The next morning, there was more blood in my panties and I was stuck telling my mother. To my shock, she didn’t bitch at me.

The last week, I’ve had a cascade of miserable memories. Tina died in 1997. A friend saw the death notice and called to ask how I was. That’s when my friend discovered I had no idea my sister died. I didn’t even know she was ill. After I hung up the phone, I heard keening for the first time. It’s the most blood curdling sound you can imagine, and it came out of me.

My mother had decreed I wasn’t to know Tina was sick or that she had died. To tell me meant getting cut out of the will. My surviving sister, hereinafter The Fruitcake, told me the reason no one told me Tina was sick was because I’m a horrible person. I never asked my mother and The Drunk for money, I put myself through college, I put myself through law school, I’ve only been married once, and I’ve never had an abortion. Clearly I’m every mother’s worst nightmare.

The universe gave me revenge. My mother spent the last years of her life in a nursing home and there was nothing left for my greedy siblings to inherit. Even so, they refused to tell me our mother had died. I only knew because I got a notice from Legacy.com. I had to crash the funeral. My remaining siblings were shocked to see me.

All these years later, I still can’t get past April 1 without major depression. I’ll do something special for me tomorrow. I might take Brady and go on an adventure. I’m considering going to Mesilla (where Billy The Kid hung out) and doing some photography. I’d like to have lunch someplace, but I’m not sure where I want to go. I’d suggest going to Albuquerque, but there’s nothing much I want to do there and the Albuquerque Fiber Arts Fiesta is in two weeks. I don’t feel like making two major trips that close together.

Listening to Roger Daltry sing Behind Blue Eyes isn’t helping although it does explain how I feel. Sort of.

I hate my mother. I don’t apologize for that. She was a violent, drunken narcissist who had four kids she didn’t want and made very sure we knew she never wanted us.

Please make it stop hurting.

No one can make it stop hurting.

This is how it felt from my fourth birthday in 1956 until the day I got married in 1972. It never stopped hurting. It was never happy.

Posted in Depression, Emotions, Photography

Nobody Hears Me

Posted on by debthumanblog

Frequently, I don’t understand what’s going on inside of me until it comes out of my hand. I’m on the receiving end of a hate crime, and it has infected every part of my life. I took a double dose of antidepressant today, and I’m still depressed.

And so I turned to art. I’ve been playing with text mask in photo editing.

This is what I say.

This is what people hear.

They all say “Please make it stop hurting.” I used a regular font, and a symbol font. The unintelligible one are what I think people hear. Except I don’t think they are hearing anything.

What do I do with all this? Have it printed and turn it into an art quilt? Have it printed and. turn it into a series of art quilts?

Posted in Depression, Emotions, Israel, Judiasm, Photography

A Brief Period of Uneasy Calm

Posted on by debthumanblog

I couldn’t bring myself to go to the painting studio on campus this week. I’m feeling better, calmer, and it’s transitory. I’ll be back on campus on Monday. I’m still afraid. I’m still angry. I’m afraid my painting will be ruined by the person who flung the hate crime at me. I’m afraid of being physically attacked by hamas sympathizers.

I don’t like feeling like this.

Meanwhile, someone hacked my website, http://www.DebThumanArt.com. When I checked my site, I got a page warning me that I was about to visit a page full of malware. It took several hours, but I finally got the page fixed. According to Wix, there’s no malware on my page. There is some interesting art on my page and all of it for sale.

I started playing around with a photo I took several months ago.

I was set to get into bed when I looked out the window and saw a big, orange moon setting. I grabbed my camera, went outside without wearing shoes or a jacket, and started shooting.

I’ve been playing with text. Rather than using one of the regular fonts, I started using symbol fonts. This is what you get when you write: LILIL over and over.

This one is Love written over and over.

I just finished ordering proofs of 96 fabric designs. Once the proofs arrive, I’ll be putting the designs into my Spoonflower shop https://www.spoonflower.com/profiles/deb_thuman I finally put the 84 designs that had been sitting and waiting for me into the store.

Am Yisrael Chai!

The people of Israel live!

Posted in anxiety, Bigotry, Emotions, Israel, Judiasm

Terrorists Don’t Start With A Bomb

Posted on by debthumanblog

Hate crimes don’t always include violence, hateful graffiti, or a fire bomb although all of those things constitute a hate crime. Terrorists don’t start with a bomb although they frequently end with a bomb.

I am on the receiving end of a hate crime committed by a woman I strongly suspect is a terrorist. She told me to stop talking when I was speaking about hamas kidnapping an elderly Holocaust victim. Then, she lied, slandered me and attacked my reputation by claiming I said Palestinians are disgusting. I never used the word Palestinian and I never used the word disgusting. My fight isn’t with Palestinians, it’s with hamas – a group the US deemed a terrorist organization in 1997. Palestinians didn’t murder, kidnap, burn alive and decapitate Israelis on October 7, 2023. Hamas did all that. The people of Gaza voted hamas to govern them in 2006. There hasn’t been an election since. I suspect the majority of Palestinians wish hamas had never been voted in.

Although the people at the Office of Institutional Equity – the office New Mexico State University has designated as the proper office to report discrimination – said they didn’t believe the woman’s claims, her slander of me is protected speech. I’ve been an attorney for nearly 30 years. I was a cooperating attorney for the New York Civil Liberties Union for five years. I know slander is definitely not protected speech. Unless it’s anti-Semitism and it happens at NMSU.

Since October 7, 2023, there have been two pro-hamas rallies on campus. I doubt even half the students who participated realized they were supporting hamas. They thought they were supporting Palestinians when they called for the obliteration of Israel. The second rally is strong evidence that hamas is behind these rallies. The rally was held on November 9, 2023. November 9 is the anniversary of kristalnacht when the nazis went on a terror rampage, burned synagogs, destroyed businesses owned by Jews, and wantonly killed Jews. The only reason to schedule that rally on that date was to terrorize Jews.

I suspect the hate criminal is a terrorist. She’s most certainly a hamas sympathizer. If you see something, say something. Great advice. Try finding someone to say something to. I went in search of the FBI office is Las Cruces. I couldn’t find one on google. I walked into the federal court house in Las Cruces, walked up to a federal Marshall, and said: I need to talk to someone about a suspected terrorist. Result? I was sent on a wild goose chase in search of an office that didn’t exist. What should have happened was to have me sit down and then search for someone I could talk to. Has terrorism become so normalized that we no longer respond to threats?

Eventually, I discovered the only FBI office in NM was in Albuquerque – 230 miles north of Las Cruces. I called what was supposed to be the number for the Albuquerque office. After a half hour on hold, I finally got to talk to someone. I was puzzled when the person asked me to spell Las Cruces. That’s when I discovered the Albuquerque office phone number is not answered in Albuquerque but answered in Washington DC.

Arlo Guthrie did a piece about dedicating a song to the FBI. The story line has advice for The Last Guy – no one has it worse than that guy. All he has to do to have some excitement in his life is to bum a dime and call the FBI. “FBI? Yes. I dig Uncle Ho and Chairman Mao and all their friends are coming for dinner. Hang up the phone.” Arlo was wrong; I had it worse than the Last Guy. I couldn’t call the FBI because the FBI doesn’t want to be called.

I’m afraid when I’m on campus. How afraid? I’ve argued before the NM Supreme Court three times – the last time was to save an old man’s life, I’ve worked on death penalty cases, I’ve done more than 120 trials, I’ve got more guts than brains. I’m afraid when I’m on campus. I am armed at all times when I’m on campus and I keep my weapons on my person and not in my backpack. A weapon I can’t reach when I’ve only a few seconds to respond is useless. I have the number for the campus police programmed into my phone. I have a way to call 911 in an emergency by pressing two buttons on my cellphone. I keep my cellphone in my pocket. I have a way to call 911 in an emergency using my Apple Watch. I always wear my Apple Watch.

I had planned on taking another painting class and an astronomy class next semester. Now, I don’t know if it will be safe for me to do that.

This is the schematic for a painting I’m doing.

I’m afraid to work on it during class time because I’m afraid of what the hate criminal will do to my painting or to me. I’m Jewish. I have no protection. I have no freedom of speech even when I’m quoting what legitimate news sources around the world are reporting.

I only have one thing to say. Fuck hamas.

Posted in Bigotry, Emotions, Israel, Judiasm

Fighting Back

Posted on by debthumanblog

This post contains a word some people find offensive. There is no other word that expresses what I feel, so the word stays.

I’m working on a post modern painting for my painting class. I’ve figured out what images I want and I’ve done a preliminary layout. I need to look at the arrangement tomorrow to see if I’ve got what I want or if I need to tweak the layout.

The impetus for this painting is my experiences since October 7, 2023. Today, I got an email from the VP of Equity, Diversion and Inclusivity telling me how open and welcoming the NMSU campus is and how we have this wonderful diversion and inclusivity. Here is my response:

What university are you talking about? NMSU doesn’t have inclusivity or diversity. I’m Jewish. Since October 10, 2023, I’ve been on the receiving end of anti-Semitism and a hate crime. I’ve reported this to the Anti-Defamation League and other groups that support Jews on campus and fight anti-Semitism.  I reported this to the Office of Institutional Equity. 

The university’s response was to tell me to get counseling. 

I have to be armed at all times when I’m on campus and I keep my weapons on my person. 

I had to make a safety plan in order to attend my painting class. 

I’m alone. I’m scared. I’m not going away. 

I’m not going to stay quiet while you and others in administration lie to the community about this being a university committed to diversity and inclusion. 

Deborah Lee Thuman

Attorney at Law

Am Yisrael Chai

The People of Israel Live

Let the shitstorm begin!

Here’s the preliminary layout and closeups of the images.

The transliteration of the Hebrew is: Am Yisrael Chai. The translation is: The People of Israel Live.

This is a schematic of a eucalyptus leaf. In the early part of the 20th century, Zionists collected money and bought land in Israel. The land was useless swamp. They planted eucalyptus trees to suck up the water thereby draining the swamp and leaving land good for growing crops.

I can’t decide which is worse; kidnapping an infant or decapitating a small child. I need to correct the spelling error.

This one may be a dangerous thing to say, but I’m going to say it anyway.

Remember the poster from the 60’s – You have not converted a man simply because you have silenced him. This woman will not be silenced.

This is the insignia of IDF Special Forces.

Iron Dome destroying hamas rockets.

I wish I were making that up, but I’m not. I kept the email.

I’m aware there are people who find the first word offensive. I find hamas offensive. There was a pro-hamas rally on campus. It was billed as pro-palestinian, but it was really pro-hamas.

A safety plan to attend a painting class. I never thought I’d have to do such a thing.

This is the preliminary layout.

My online store: Deb Thuman Art is here: http://www.DebThumanArt.com

Posted in Child abuse, Emotions, Grief

Tina

Posted on by debthumanblog

I have three horrible days a year:

April 1. The day my sister, Tina, was born.

June 24. The day she died.

Sivan 19. Tina’s yahrzeit when kaddish is said for her in the temple.

My sister was an incredible person. She could see the best in misery and she was fearless. She was 10 years younger than me and the last of four children.

When she was 13 months old, my mother watched her play under the kitchen sink and pour oven cleaner over herself. My mother cleaned her off and put the oven cleaner soaked sneaker back on her foot. Then, my mother spent the next several hours screaming at Tina to stop crying. Eventually, Tina’s diaper needed changing. That’s when my mother saw the burns. Tina had second and third degree burns from the waist down. The foot wearing the oven cleaner soaked sneaker was burned nearly to the bone. Eventually, the burns healed leaving only a huge scar on top of her foot. Tina thought the scar was interesting. I thought it was an outward scar from child abuse rather than an inward, hidden scar.

When she was in high school, she went skiing with some of her friends. Tina tore wild down the mountain. It’s an Olympic sport now, but then it was called hot dogging. One of her friends asked her where she learned to hot dog. She told her friend that she didn’t know how to ski.

Years later, after I discovered I was adopted and was searching for my father, Tina told me no one wants to see me hurting. She then offered to put me in touch with someone who could, albeit not legally, help me find my father. I declined.

Years later, after her daughter was born, Tina told me she had wanted to be a surgeon. Our parents, being jealous of anyone who had an education and certain it was a waste of money to send a girl to college, decreed we couldn’t go to college. Instead, Tina went to B.O.C.E.S, part of the education system that taught students a trade, and learned to be a hairdresser. But she had wanted to be a surgeon. I told her to go to college and med school. I started college when I was 25, and started law school on my 38th birthday. I had been admitted to the New York State bar four months before my niece was born. Tina told me it was too late for her and what she wanted to do was take cooking classes. She made me sauteed eggplant with onions and garlic for dinner. It was delicious. I still can’t eat eggplant without crying.

Tina was a fantastic hairdresser. She had moved to New York City, found a job at an upscale salon, and concentrated on hair coloring. She hated it when I referred to hair coloring as a dye job. Tina was Brad Pitt’s hairdresser which means Brad isn’t a natural blond.

Although Tina died 26 years ago, I’ve never recovered from her death. My mother, a truly horrible person, told my other siblings that if they told me Tina had cancer or that she died they would be disinherited. My mother died after spending a few years in a nursing home so there was nothing left to inherit. My siblings had sold their humanity for nothing.

As each horrible day approaches, I wait in anxiety and fear. Will this year be especially painful? Will this year be only sad?

This past Friday, we read kaddish for Tina in my temple. I cried through the entire prayer.  I dread the coming anniversary of her death on the 24th.

Posted in Child abuse, Depression, Emotions, Memories, PTSD, Unwanted Children

This Weekend Will Again Be Painful

Posted on by debthumanblog

I’ll be staying home on Sunday. I detest mother’s day. My mother was a violent, drunken narcissist and it would be bordering on impossible to find a time she when was nice to me. I vividly remember when acne started for me. Not because of worrying about dates or classmates. I didn’t have dates because I was what she called her “built in babysitter.” I had to watch her kids while she went out and got drunk. After getting dressed one school day morning, I walked into the kitchen, and my mother gleefully announced, “Debby has a pimple on her nose. She looks just like a witch.”

Nothing I did was right. Nothing I did made her proud. Although I wasn’t allowed to take math and science courses in high school, I put myself through college starting at age 25. I wasn’t allowed to go to college after high school although I badly wanted a college education. I earned two degrees. One in journalism and the other in biology. It was not easy to take science courses having never had any science classes in high school. I did it anyway. My mother refused to come to my graduation because she had to “open up the cottage.” My mother and her husband, hereinafter The Drunk, owned a cottage at a lake in the Southern Tier of New York. My siblings, their friends, and the hired help could spend weekends at the cottage. I wasn’t allowed to go there. One year, The Drunk told Jim to fix the dock at the cottage so there would be a nice place for them to play. Jim declined.

One summer, my mother and siblings went to the cottage during the week, and I had to stay home and babysit The Drunk. I’d spend the day going through cookbooks looking for interesting recipes to make for dinner. The Drunk would always come home late, tell me he had already eaten, and stagger up the stairs to go to bed. I asked to go with my mother and siblings, and she told me I couldn’t.

When I would spend the night at a friend’s house, my mother would tell me after I got home, “It was so peaceful while you were gone.”

Imagine a hurt so deep that even 51 years later I can vividly remember what she said to me.

One year, I got her an especially appropriate mother’s day gift: a Venus flytrap. She let it die. Another year, I drove to her house to give her a mother’s day gift – can’t remember what it was – and sat in her driveway crying. That’s how much I didn’t want to see her. I forced myself to get out of the car, walk up to the front door and ring the doorbell.  It never occurred to me to just walk in. It wasn’t my house.

At my maternal grandmother’s funeral, she bragged to the extended family about drinking so much she puked. She then proceeded to talk about her kids growing up. I remained silent simultaneously wishing she said anything about me and dreading her saying anything about me because I knew whatever she said would be hurtful. My sister-in-law said a friend had made a casserole for the family. I silently wondered if it would be okay for me to stay and eat some of the casserole. I wasn’t part of the family. No one threw me out, so I stayed and ate.

One day, my sister-in-law was at my mother’s house. She gave my SIL wine. She didn’t offer me even lukewarm water in a cracked cup. When I mentioned that to her, she made it my fault that I had nothing to drink. After all, she insisted, it was my house. It was never my house.

While I was working between high school and marriage, I asked – I knew better than to just take – to have an egg so I could have an egg salad sandwich for lunch the next day. She refused to let me have an egg.

I don’t have children  – a decision I’ve never regretted – because I could never do to another person what was done to me and I knew no other way. One therapy session I asked my psychologist why anyone would want to have children. He thought I was making a joke. I still can’t imagine why anyone would want children.  It isn’t easy not to have children. I got pressured by both friends and family who, for some reason, thought biology was destiny. Turning 40 was a relief. People stopped pressuring me because, science notwithstanding, people think pregnancy after age 40 is too dangerous. What an incredible relief to be allowed to be myself.

At age 66, I discovered being without children was one of the healthiest things I’ve done. A biopsy revealed I have a septate uterus. If I had managed to get pregnant, I would have had a 90% chance of a miscarriage. Deciding not to have children didn’t just save my sanity; it may well have saved my life.  

Time, and a whole lot of therapy, removed from me a longing to have a mother. I still hate mother’s day.

Posted in Emotions, Memories

May 4, 1970

Posted on by debthumanblog

Find the cost of freedom buried in the ground.

1970 was the year I graduated from high school. I had a clock radio and always woke up to the news. When my clock radio woke me on May 5, I heard about Kent State for the first time. I felt cold terror in my bowels and nausea in my stomach. I went to school dazed and sad.

A friend of mine was a student at SUNY Buffalo on May 4, 1970. The Buffalo police locked the building he was in, and fired tear gas canisters into the building. In retaliation for the student protests, when the Amherst Campus – second site of SUNY Buffalo – was designed to accommodate the Tactical Police Unit. Forerunner of SWAT. To get from the parking lot to the law school, you go up a hill, down a hill and up another hill. There are windowed walkways between buildings. The glass is so the police can fire tear gas canisters and fill the walkway with gas. Because the walkway is narrow, it would be difficult for students to get out of the walkway in a panic. There’s a little snack bar in the law school. There are little tables designed to hold no more than 3 students. The theory is that cuts down on planning a demonstration of any size.

Ten years after Kent State, I was in college. In early May, Buffalo State College where I was enrolled had Commuter Daze taking place around May 4-5. It’s a kind of blow out party just before exams. There were hotdogs, raw clams, and soft drinks for free. I was halfway through my hotdog when two fellows next to me had a conversation. One asked the other what that sign meant. He pointed to a bed sheet hung from the second floor of the student union. The sheet read: My God, my God, they are killing us. May 4, 1970.

The other answered the one’s question. “Some kids died.”

I felt as if I had been kicked in the stomach.

Buried in the ground.

Every year, I remember the national guard firing on unarmed students who were more than 200 feet from the national guard. The excuse was the students were throwing stones at them. Show me a kid who can throw a ball accurately 200 feet, and I’ll show you a happy MLB scout

Mother Earth will swallow you, lay your body down. Neil Young

Every year, I listen to Find The Cost of Freedom and Ohio. I think about the 4 dead students and the 9 wounded students. I think about the families of the dead students and how they live with a hole that won’t ever be filled. I think about how someone gave the National Guardsmen to fire their M-1 rifles. Some fired into the ground or air. Some, fired into the crowd. Estimates of the size of the crowd are 2000-3000 unarmed students. The students were retreating when the Guardsmen fired at them.

I read somewhere that when he heard about Kent State, Neil Young went off into the woods for a couple days, and wrote these songs.

Tin soldiers and Nixon coming, we’re finally on our own. This summer I hear the drumming. Four dead in Ohio. Got to get down to it, soldiers are cutting us down. Should have been done long ago. What if you knew her and saw her dead on the ground. How can you run when you know?

Posted in Emotions, Fat, Photography

Now that I’m 70…

Posted on by debthumanblog

Now that I’m 70, I can do things I thought I couldn’t. When I turned 40, I decided I could learn anything I wanted. The entire world was open for me to explore. When I turned 60, I discovered that finite life wasn’t a far-off thing, it was real and it was immediate.

When I turned 70, telling people I’m a nude model is fun. There’s nothing embarrassing about sitting in front of a class full of art students who are dutifully drawing my flab, sags, and bags. I get paid $18 an hour to take off my clothes, sit in a chair and hold still.

When I turned 70, I felt the same as when I turned 40 although what I want to learn now is different. I am convinced I can return my body to health. I am convinced I can learn why I over eat. There’s a reason, but I’ve never figured out what it is.  I’m pretty sure it has to do with growing up in a toxic family. But I don’t have that family anymore, so now I can heal.

I’m convinced I can heal and reverse the peripheral neuropathy. Forget the crap spewed out by neurologists. Nerves regenerate. The fact that nerves regenerate slowly doesn’t negate the fact that they regenerate.

I am learning how to regain and maintain a healthy weight. Unfortunately, I don’t know how to cook. I come from a long line of throw it in the pot and hope it’s edible cooks. Now that I’m 70, I can learn how to cook.

I am learning how to paint although I’m not good at it. I’ll get better if I keep painting.

I am learning to take sewing seriously, take my time, and do it right. Before, it was a matter of how fast I could complete a project.

I am learning to accept that I don’t do pretty art. My art kicks you in the gut even if you don’t want to be kicked.

I am learning to write honestly and not hold back. If I embarrass someone who needs to be embarrassed in the process, then that’s what happens. It’s not my job to hide someone else’s flaws.

What I’m not learning is how to get past this feeling that everything I create is crap. It’s not that my work is technically flawed – that I could fix. There’s something missing in my work and I can’t figure out what it is. Colors don’t look right. Lighting doesn’t look right. Clothes don’t look right. I can’t find the problem and if I can’t find the problem, I can’t find the solution.

I tried to photograph an entire ocotillo plant. That’s not easy because the plants are a good 8′-10′ tall. By the time I get the entire plant in a photo, I get too much background. My point in taking this photo was to show the spiny branches and how they are devoid of leaves at the moment. I failed.

I tried photographing a spike of ocotillo flowers and managed to show the spines. The photo is technically correct, but it doesn’t sing to me.

The yuccas that are blooming now are the variety where the flowers hide in the leaves. It shows what I meant to show, but it doesn’t sing to me. I’ve tinkered with saturation, but that doesn’t solve the problem.

Maybe I’m trying too hard? I did get a shot of a single flower, but I can’t isolate the flower. And maybe the flower doesn’t need to be isolated. Maybe it’s enough to show the plant as it is. Used to be, that was enough for me.

I managed to show new growth on the prickly pear, but there’s nothing exciting in this photo.

It’s almost hidden that I wanted to show the buds on this prickly pear.

I’ve been playing with fabric designs, but the joy is missing.

I’m linking with Nina Marie here: https://ninamariesayre.blogspot.com/

My Spoonflower shop is here: https://www.spoonflower.com/profiles/deb_thuman

Deb Thuman Art is here: http://www.DebThumanArt.com