Alcoholic Insanity (Different than you probably think)

Karin L. Burke

Karin L. Burke is a woman at large, full-time unemployed, writing a book, and sleeping on other people’s couches.  She started writing a blog that deals with domestic violence, alcoholism and recovery, and yoga as healing when a friend said she needed to publish her letters. 

"You have to give this away," the friend said, "This is what you needed to hear when you were getting sober.  This is what you needed when you were trying to leave that abusive *****.  This is what I've needed, at so many points in my life.  You have to give this away.  It isn't yours to keep."   

(More of Karen's bio at the end of post, after the jump.)

We are flattered that she has chosed to share some of her experience with the special insanity of alchoholism with us.

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"The only thing there is to say," said another recovering drunk, "Is that alcoholic insanity is the mistaken belief that ‘this time it will be different’; it doesn’t have anything to do with ‘insanity’ in the way most people would use the word. It’s just that one simple thing: we keep drinking, thinking this time we’ll stay in control."

The word ‘insanity’ as used by Bill Wilson was supposed to mimic Einstein’s definition, or doing the same thing expecting different results.

If You Would Only Like Me

I don't read much mainstream fiction, but on the advice of a close friend, I'm currently reading Boy's Life by Robert McCammon.  Here's a single paragraph from it . . .

I had been in the presence of Chile Willow only a short time, but what is time when a heart speaks?  My heart was speaking to Chile Willow in that moment, as she bathed my cuts and gave me a smile. My heart was saying If you were my girlfriend I would give you a hundred lightning bugs in a green glass jar, so you could always see your way.  I would give you a meadow full of wildflowers, where no two blossoms would ever be alike. I would give you my bicycle, with its golden eye to protect you. I would write a story for you, and make you a princess who lived in a white marble castle.  If you would only like me, I would give you magic.  If you would only like me.

The innocence of youth combined with the first stirrings of love . . . This paragraph takes my breath away!

~Riot.Jane 

Unveiling The Jane Project 2.6

Hello, Constant Reader!

We're proud to unveil the latest generation of The Jane Project.  After the last six months of hacking up our template to obtain desired functionality, the post-truncation (i.e. the "Continue >>" links) function was inoperable and our many-layered tinkerings had simply killed the blog's load-time. The logo was ugly, and the template was difficult to read for any length of time. 

Since Blogger finally  released its own widgets that provide the functionality intended by our hacks, we gleefully ditched those hacks in favor of Blogger's tools.  Now we have a modern, easily-read template that we only had to customize with Blogger's integrated tools.  All the functionality works without hack-ups, and the blog loads so much faster !

Do tell us what you think and what you'd like to see! 

~Admin.Jane

“Love is an Attacker in the Dark”

One of my work spouses (in this sense I am polygamous) recently made this statement to me openly, in front of other co-workers. He simply walked up to us and said that, without apparent provocation “love is like an attacker in the dark”.

“Tell me more,” I said.

He went on to tell me that, when you’re walking down a dark alley, trying to get from here to there, just going along your merry way . . . BAM! Around the corner it swoops . . . An attacker in the dark . . . A blur of motion and limbs and shock that overtakes you before you can blink, before you can register the occurrence . . . Knocking you down and taking control of you.

“Are you seriously equating romantic love with a high-speed mugging?” I asked.

Response Posted for 15-Year-Old "Anonymous"

To the 15-year-old female who asked a question in the comments section of How to Wash Your Vulva - For Real! on 3/21/2011 . . .

Please note that we've addressed your question in a follow-up comment on that post-page.  Your question was very important, and we are not only flattered that you asked us, but also rather concerned that you might not have anyone else of whom you can ask these things.  We are humbled to answer your question to the best of our ability, and we are also overwhelmed with gratitude  to have the opportunity to address it to a greater depth than you might have otherwise had access.

Ode to Rubenesque Women



Het Pelsken
Sir Peter Paul Rubens

Thin is in? I disagree. I've always been an admirer of full-figured women. Thanks to the baroque artist Sir Peter Paul Rubens (example works), we now have the term "Rubenesque" to describe the type of amply-endowed women he painted. Over time, “Rubenesque” has evolved into modern terms such as full-figured or BBW (Big Beautiful Women). History or terminology lessons aside, my admiration (which borders on adoration) of Rubenesque women makes me feel like I am squarely in the minority, thanks to modern advertising. And what stuns me is how people are swayed by models (who look they actually only eat one full meal a week) because of that simple phrase "Thin is in". 


Sine Cerere 1
Sir Peter Paul Rubens

Though I am a male who will be age 50 in 2011, my admiration of full-figured women goes back as long as I can remember. An ample bosom or a full-figured curvaceous body has always set my heart racing far more than any beautiful, thin woman could. Deep down, a Rubenesque woman exudes a warmth and comfort that a firm, athletic (or fit) woman could never offer. Soft, supple hips versus sharp angular ones. A body that is full and inviting compared to a body that is hard and unyielding. Even the term "Rubenesque" sounds softer than the term "Anorexia".


Balancing Sexuality with Spirit

This topic can really be a confronting one. Generally spirituality exists in an entirely different realm from sexuality. In fact, they are often regarded as diametrically opposed to each other.



While writing my memoir, which is now titled Sex and the Single Senior: A Cougar’s Search for Love, I spent quite a bit of time pondering the best title for my autobiography. I wanted the title to communicate what my journey was all about, and also to reveal that I had struck a balance between two contrasting aspects of my life.



Hattie



The first title I came up with was ‘The Saint/Slut Syndrome”. That pretty much said it for me. The saint part was to have referred to my integrity — no cheating, no lies, and the second part, the slut, well, that requires no explanation!

Thinking it over, it seemed not to be such a good idea, as calling it a syndrome seemed to require scientific assessment of a psychological pattern to which I was giving a new name. So I dropped that one …reluctantly, may I add. It would have been fun to be the originator of a unique term for a new phenomenon…something like the “zipless fuck” that was introduced by Erica Jong in the 60’s.

So, regrettably, the Saint/Slut Syndrome term never made it to Webster’s…or the cover of my memoir.

My Hands

when i look my Praying Hands i see
i see The G-d that has bent my knee
i see The Way, The Truth and The Light
when I use my Praying Hands

when i look at my Praising Hands i see
i see the miracle of being me
i see The Way, The Truth, and The Light
when i use my Praising Hands

when i look at my Helping Hands I see
i see the Christ that has died for me
i see The Way, The Truth and The Light
when i use my Helping Hands

What Happens When Your Sexual Abusers are Other Children?

Being the only third grader in the school with a C-cup bra was traumatic.  The trauma began slowly.  Eventually it broke me.

The violence began when I first began to wear a bra at the age of 9, and it ended then with verbal teasing.  As my cup size grew by leaps and bounds, the violence escalated in direct proportion.

The other students progressed from occasional gentle bra snapping (1" away) to constant painful bra snapping (as many inches as possible).  Much like a towel snapped at your butt in a locker room, successive pops are geometrically more painful.  I'd be in tears from the pain at least once each school day.

*I* Was "The Other Woman"

For almost two years, I was "The Other Woman."  The man was divine in my eyes.  The wife was a crazy person, and theirs was a loveless marriage.  He stayed married to her because, where he came from, divorced fathers weren't fathers, and come hell or high water, he was going to be a good father. Even if that meant staying in a marriage where neither person had a single word to say to one another outside of "Excuse me" or "Did you pay the electricity bill?"

We began as friends, and I didn't even know he was married until after I was hooked -- He didn't wear a ring, and spoke only of his children (i.e. not his wife, ever), so I assumed that there simply wasn't a wife.  It wasn't until a third party told me that he was married that the concept crossed my mind.  I didn't believe it, but  I asked him anyway.

The look of surprise on his face told me in that instant that he assumed I knew.  By that time it was too late . . . Even after the hours of talking that followed, in which he told me the details of his loveless marriage, I couldn't walk away knowing that he wanted me to stay.

In hindsight, I don't think he'd ever fallen in love before he fell in love with me.  A confident and self-sufficient person, he didn't understand what loneliness was until he was separated from me while on a trip.  Our affair was inflammatory, and our conviction epic.