Letting Go

I've been holding on for a long time.

Longer than maybe I should have.  Longer than maybe that most other folks would.  Longer than anyone else thought I could, or should.

Walking along the edge of a cliff, feeling the pull.

For a while I was balanced, poised, steady.  Things got a little...rocky...a little...rough...but I kept walking, kept going.  "Surely the path will smooth out eventually...won't it?" became something of a mantra for me.  I am tenacious (stubborn would be a more accurate description - tenacity seems to be more of a virtue, and I don't really feel virtuous), steadfast, determined to find my way along.  I don't like to give up!

Somewhere along the way, I skidded on some scree.  I teetered, reached for something to hold onto, found nothing but empty air.  Flailed.  Stumbled.  Slid.

And over I went.  Toppled into the sea of sky.

Somehow, before I joined entirely the wheeling denizens of the air with my own graceless, downward flight, I caught hold of an edge.  Only just, scrabbling for better purchase, stone gnawing at my flesh, tearing, tattering.  I sought better purchase, tried to pull myself up.  I was too weak.  My weight, the weight I carried, was too much.  Arms trembling, fingers slipping, I tried to call out for help, but I had no voice.  Perhaps I was too scared, but I like to think I was just too damned tired.  I am certain that some part of me didn't care to hold on any longer.  Why should I?  The damage being done was too much, and holding on hurt.

Eventually, the inevitable - I fell.

It was bad, at first.  Everything seized up and the air rushed past, the rock face blurred, creatures of the sky cast curious glances at my plummeting form.

Fall long enough, far enough, and you relax.  Did you know that?  You sort of accept what's happening, and one can only maintain that adrenaline rush for so long before the fearful becomes the norm.  It wasn't fun, and I kept looking for a rope, a root, something to grab and stop my fall, but there was nothing. 

I'm still falling.  It's a terribly long way down, after all...

...but I think my wings are coming along nicely.

~~~~~

Someone and I are no more.  We...I...have reached the point where there's no reconciling our differences.  Although I didn't want to, I found myself feeling compelled to call the police a few nights ago, pushed by his drinking, his anger, his verbal and psychological abuse of me, of the kids.  I'd asked him to move out some time ago, to give us some space and time to breathe, collect ourselves, patch up the worst of the damage and see if we could rebuild.

He didn't.

And then things broke down entirely, and I was dialing the phone with a stomach full of dread, a heart full of hurt, a head echoing with hateful, blaming, goading words and the sound of fists pounding on the glass shower door while I tried to wash my hair.  Enough. Was. Enough.

I will not be the supply for a narcissist any more.

He will not remove himself from this house, despite having been asked and asked, so I will be forced to begin legal proceedings.  I don't like this.  I feel that I must, though, because what happens to me makes no difference to me, but my kids?  Are another story entirely.

I did the thing I dreaded, never quite believing what I was doing even in the moment.

Here's hoping I finish building my wings before I go splat.

Where do we go from here?

My relationship with Cygnus has taken many blows.

We have survived the complications of polyamory (his complications, as I have never been able to make other connections, have other relationships), both as they affected us and as they impacted other relationships.  We have survived cheating and lies (on his part), rage , alcoholism, and drug addiction (again, on his part), and being pushed through the meat grinder we call a justice system.

We have survived advertisements on Craig's List for NSA (No Strings Attached) sex for him while I was out of town, and the anonymous mailing of printouts of those ads to me, and the repeat of the advertising months later.  That I knew about the first lot beforehand didn't make the second easier to bear when I learned of them not through discussion, but through seeing them on my screen thanks to others pointing them out.

We have survived his alienating every one of my friends and family members and many of the people I call community out there in the world.

We have survived my mental illness, kids, weather, his moving out, and his insane jealousy at the mere idea that I might be talking to another man (with no intent to act sexually, plainly stated to everyone with an interest at the very beginning).  He can't even stand that another man once complimented me very prettily and made me smile and blush because of it.

We have gone through so much.

But.

Now, nearing the end of his time in prison...now...we are not surviving.  We are failing.  I am tired.  I am tired of the abuse.  Tired of being told that everything I do is not enough, or not good enough.  I am tired of the narcissism.  I am  tired of the anger.  Tired of the blame.  Tired of the bitterness.  Tired of being denied my emotions or emotional support because of his anger.  Tired of feeling as though I must dim what scant light manages to shine forth from me because it threatens his ego, his fragile sense of self.  Tired of feeling that I must live only for his sake.  Want to know what it is like?  Go read this.  I did, and cried, because yes.

I have tried to save us.  I am a strong swimmer, a strong woman, but I can't save the titanic if I'm the only one bailing.  Now, too little too late, he is trying to talk, saying he wants to do the work.  Now, after insults and lashing out and words calculated to devastate, now when I have told him honestly that something has broken, has died, inside me and I don't know if it can be repaired or revived, now he wants to make the effort, and...

And I don't think it's working.

I know it's not working.

I know it is futile.

I found some value in myself, and he tried to kill it.  I did something I'm proud of and he railed against me for excluding him.  I strive to provide a childhood for our daughter and he complains about what he's missing rather than exulting that she is experiencing wonderful things in the world through the many people who adore her.

I get it.  He IS missing out, he IS stuck in prison, but we're imprisoned, too, and I yearn to be free.  I have to be free.  I have to be able to breathe, to sing, without worrying that somehow I will wake the slumbering giant of rage and it will terrorize us.  It's not right to expect us to molder away here, stuck in the moment in time when HIS choices put him where he is, but expect that, he does.

I have tried to tell him over the last few nights, but he won't hear me, keeps trying to turn the conversation to something hopeful or distracting, and I'm too damned tired to fight him for conversational supremacy but I have to, have to make him understand that this isn't his home any more, that I will love him forever but can't live with him any more, we are not partners and haven't been for a very long time and I don't have it in me to carry us both any more.

I'm lonely, and tired, and aching, and lost.  There's no road map through this place.  Where do we go from here?

Uncaged

Hatred is a cage.  Fear is a cage.  I will not be caged.  I will not hate.  I will not fear.  I will fly free.

Who will fly with me?

Some Folks Just Don't Have Anything Better to Do

Sigh.

My band is engaged to perform on Memorial Day, a new event at a new venue: Gryphon's Nest Campground in Baton Rouge. I haven't had occasion to speak to the owner/organizer - that lot has fallen to PJ (We take turns doing bookings so no one is overwhelmed with the responsibility).

Today I learned that the fellow in charge is under siege, both in the Mundane world and here in the Blue Nowhere. It seems that some folks in his area have taken exception to his holding an event, open to the public, that is pagan in nature.

These people have defamed his character, printed and spoken outright lies about this man, this event, and pagans in general.

Now, y'all know by now (I hope) that I am pagan. And y'all know by now (I hope) that I'm a basically decent person who does her best to be a good human. And y'all know (I hope) that I don't have any issue with Christianity as a spiritual way. I've seen and known a lot of good people who follow one church or another, a lot of kindness and compassion that have sprung from Christ's teachings.

I've also seen, and experienced a lot of ignorant hatred from people so blind they couldn't see my character, but only the pentacle I wear. I've been threatened, reviled, and called many interesting if unimaginative names because of my beliefs. It sucks, but if my belief in my spiritual way can't handle some name-calling, it's not much of a path, is it?

I wonder why the protesters, the people hacking websites and putting up their own misinformation, can't manage to feel the same way?

If you don't already have plans for Memorial Day and you'd like to help show support for spiritual freedom, music, and community, come on out and join us for the weekend; with any luck, the worst thing we'll have to fend off is a Louisiana skeeter!

My Best Good Thing

My son often cuddles with me, wraps me in his little-boyness, his warmth, his love. He nestles close, kisses my cheek, my chin, my hand, or shoulder and says "I love you so, so much, mummy" and he sighs. He means the words, and I believe them. No strings attached, nothing wanted but love in return, as much as I'll give him. I tell him he's my heart, my best good thing, and no matter what he does I will love him. I may be angry with him, but I love him. I may be sad, but I love him. I don't have to love what he does or is, but I will always love my son.

I once told him that there's an invisible line of love connecting our hearts, so no matter where I am we are still together. He reminds me of that, sometimes. "I love you, Bird." "I love you, to mommy, and we're always connected from our hearts." And don't you forget it.

He'll grow up faster than I am ready for, move on, find another woman to give his love to, but I will have the first, the clearest, sweetest, simplest of his loves to remember.

He is an aching sweetness, so bright he blinds me sometimes. Terrifying. I would peek at him when his baby self slept and listen to him breathe. I don't know if all mums do this, but I am sure that most do. Listen to the baby breathe, watch them sleep, perhaps touch them ever so gently to be certain they are warm, alive, well. Love that powerful, it can scare you...the fear of loss giving the love a certain piquancy. I was afraid he would die in his sleep, slip away and take my heart, my soul, with him. No reason for that fear, it came with the hormones. So I listened, looked, touched, and was reassured for a moment or two.

He was such a good baby, I thought he was certain to die - it's always the good ones that go, you know? Always the sweet ones. You never hear stories of the baby from Hell passing in their sleep....the baby that screams, won't sleep, spits up all the time, twists its little head around on its neck and chants in Latin...backwards. No, it's always the good ones. When he finally started being an ass, acting like a little boy with a personality and thoughts of his own, I was relieved. When his temper developed, I was happy - for a few minutes, anyway - because I knew that meant he wasn't an "angel baby", but was my very own flesh-and-blood boy. Mine to keep for as long as he'd let me.

I still look in on him, listen to him breathe, place my hand on his head, lean down and smell him, press my cheek to his, hold his little hand for a moment. I need the reassurance that all is well. It's a heavy burden for a five-year-old to bear, but if I sleep well, if I have a good day, it's rooted in him. I don't tell him that, though. Rather, I tell him that when I'm sad (depressed), it's not because of him...never because of him. Sometimes my heart is just sad, but the place where he lives is happy. He is my best good thing.

The shadows are never gone, entirely. They are pushed back against the walls, waiting for a chance to creep out, wrap me up, steal the light, the air, the joy. He's a little, forty-eight pound incandescent super hero, though...because anywhere he goes, the shadows fear to tread.

I wonder what it's like for him, having a mother who endures depression fairly often. I try not to let it touch him, but I won't lie or hide it from him, either. Secrets, secrets, too many secrets in a child's life - they're bad for you, secrets. They churn in your belly when you swallow them, become another twisting sickness. I won't do that to him, but I don't have to make him suffer, either. I wonder what it's like, though. I hope he doesn't feel the weight of it pressing down on him...and I hope that he sees that life can go on, life does go on, anyway.

I've no idea what brought on these thoughts. My little cuddle-bug is wrapped up in his sleeping bag, arms around Ninus (when he went to bed he informed me that Ninus would always go to bed with him from now on until he died) (which, please Goddess, blessed mother of all, giver of life, spinner of threads, let that be long, long from now when I am already beyond the veil), deeply asleep. It's tempting to lift him up, Ninus the Triceratops and all, and bring him to the big horrible chair to rock for a while - and maybe just go to sleep that way, like he did when he was smaller, limp and sweet and warm against me, face pressed into my neck, sighing with his dreams. Probably won't, though - he's heavy enough now that I'll lose all the feeling in my limbs before long, and neither of us will sleep well.

I'll settle for his sweetness in the morning, nestled in the big bed and talking about our dreams, dinosaurs, and anything else he thinks of while the three cats nestle against us and purr.

Sigh...my best good thing...

Phobias, schmobias!

I was reading Pioneer Woman's blog last night, and it started me thinking. Uh-oh, run for the hills! OK, kidding aside, she wrote about a phobia. Her readers (of which there are many) wrote to her about their own phobias and coping mechanisms. There were a number of folks who mentioned cognitive therapy, medication, and alcohol. Many of them mentioned that their fear started when they had kids. Which got me thinking more.

Have I been afraid of anything new since I had Bird? Or more afraid of something old?

Nope. At least, I don't think so. All the old phobias are still in place, and I am still ignoring them except when I'm not, but there are no new bugaboos.

Bird is fearless. Last evening, he was throwing something away at Borders and struck up a conversation with two startled strangers. I think they weren't prepared for a five-year-old evil genius. They cast cautious glances my way, perhaps afraid that the large woman in blue would feel compelled to charge in defense of her young. Hah! I let him chatter, just to see how he would do. When they were done talking and he turned back to me, I gave what I think of as a friendly smile (perhaps fewer teeth, Ms. Whale Shark!!) and explained "No such thing as strangers, for him." The woman smiled back and said she thought that was great.

Well, yeah, it is...although I need to teach him caution. Now how does one do that without instilling fear? Have to work on that. Meanwhile, I just watch him charm the socks off folks and try to make certain he's not being a pest. Some people don't like talking to random kids, can you imagine??

I remember reading once (long, long ago) that we can teach children our fears. We can teach them fears of their very own, too. I believe this - I have seen it happen. So when I had my own little bundle of wriggling poo production, I wanted to be certain I didn't give him anything he wasn't born with. Good thing most of my phobias are internalized things, not easily seen. Agoraphobia, claustrophobia, xenophobia (oh, that's a fun one!) and such are things people can't see...not like jumping and yelling when you see a snake or spider or chicken or something.

Now, I earned my fears the old fashioned way, through experience and hard work. If my kid wants some of his own, he can just go out and get them without my help. It's a growing thing. Like...umm...I dunno, killing a wildebeest with your teeth or something.

I'm not afraid of spiders, so I'm the one who moves them when people get creeped out by one. Pick 'em up and move 'em without a though, even Black Widows and Brown Recluses. To date, I haven't been bitten, but there's always tomorrow. I am not afraid of snakes, although I do have a healthy respect for them. I think they're beautiful, truth be told. Not afraid of bees or other stingy things, so I don't have to worry about passing that along. I have a friend who is afraid of anything with wings...they are all evil chickens that are flapping at her to peck her eyes out. Butterflies, even...she calls them butterchickens. Dragonchickens. Mothchickens. It sounds funny, and she laughs about it, but the day she stood there and took a moth to the face while we were on stage was epic. I had to defend her from the evil interloper, going so far as to endanger my own self to gently cup the poor thing in my hands and contain it in a box until the concert was over. She never stopped singing, even as she ducked, dodged, and nearly cried. I was so proud.

Bird let a bee land on his hand last fall. It was so cool. He ran up to me, excited as only a child that age can be when a stinging insect has chosen them to alight on, and exclaimed "Mommy, look, I caught a bug!!" Silly me, I was expecting a beetle or some other innocuous critter. Nope. Bee. So I explained to him about being careful not to frighten the little sister, that she would sting him if she was afraid but was otherwise quite safe. She crawled all over his hand, while I wracked my brain trying to thing whether he'd recently washed said paw, or if there was anything there to get her excited. He was clean, I think. I told him about how she was checking him out, giving his hand a sniff-taste, and if she decided he wasn't food she'd tag him as "not food" so all the other bees would know and wouldn't waste their time. We examined her quite closely, admiring her glossy wings and furry body and stripes. We could see where her stinger was, and watched her tiny feet as she walked about. I held his sleeve shut so she wouldn't go up there and get smushed or frightened. Eventually, she crawled onto his sleeves and I brushed her off...she didn't seem to unhappy, just flew in a circle and headed off to things-more-edible-and-less-nosy. Another friend watched this five minute experience, and all she could say was "Whoa, that was the coolest thing ever." I guess she's used to people flapping their arms, running around, and the like. Well...now my kid won't be one of them. I did explain about bees stinging, why they do it and what it means for them. He nodded like a wise little four-year-old evil genius does, and I think he got it. Anyway, he still thinks bees are cool, not frightening. Score one for mom.

We learn about things like strange dogs, cats, snakes, and beavers and stuff...you know, the usual critters. He won't be afraid of them. The hardest thing for me is to keep from teaching him fear of the scariest of all creatures on this earth...humans. See, there's noting in nature that concerns me as much as us. Of all the things Nature made, we are the worst, the most hateful, randomly violent, cruel. That's the fear I have the hardest time not passing along. I try to think like my departed grandmother, who once said "Strangers are just friends you haven't made, yet." It's hard, though. People terrify me.

Most fears can be soothed, if not completely removed, by knowledge. It truly is power. To know a thing, to know why it acts as it does and have some measure of predictability, makes it less frightening. No, the bee sting won't hurt any less, but at least it isn't some mysterious pain...there's a reason for it, a logic to it, if only bee-logic.

Knowing what makes you afraid, and why, is a good start. Learning about what scares you takes away the mystery, takes away the power. Remember Dorothy, when she discovered that the Wizard was really the old guy behind the curtain? Kind of like that.

There's so much more that could be said, but I have to go wrestle my son into his clothing so we can go for his regular dental adventure. Whee.