Oof!
Sometimes mental illness isn't just mental.
I'm taking a new (to me) medication to treat my depression. I believe I mentioned?
Anyhoo, the depression seemed to abate about a micron's worth, but that may have been a combination of therapy (I started that, too) and placebo effect, because it rallied and is back with a vengeance.
Foolish mortal, thinking that wee pill could tackle such a monstrous monster!
Depression isn't jut wandering around in a beige cloud of nothingness. It has some physical aspects, too.
I ache.
All over, but especially anywhere I've hurt myself in the past - my back, neck, toes that I broke, the foot that I broke, hand and wrists that I broke. Hey, I've broken a lot of bones. Proof I used to be active, anyway.
My psyche is screaming.
It's difficult to get out of bed, but even in bed I feel all the twinges and complaints of a frame that's been carrying too much weight - physical and mental - for far too long.
I know it'll get better, or at least tolerable, but right now, folks, I feel as beat as a bongo at a hipster hootenanny.
How are you doing?
Monday, February 8, 2016
Friday, February 5, 2016
Alive.
I'm alive today.
Today I am alive.
It hardly seems an accomplishment, not something to be proud of, not like climbing Everest or saving someone from a rampaging lion or performing open heart surgery. But it is.
For me, alive can sometimes be a victory.
I am alive.
Tired, yes, and worn. My eyes are puffy and my hair is a mess. My shirt is torn and my pants are stained. But. I am alive.
I made it through the dark hours, when my mind would not stop, not even slow, not for a moment relent and give me peace. I made it through the sibilant whispers, insidious voices telling me that I am a failure, that struggling, that the constant fight, all of it, is useless, pointless. I made it through the loneliness that washes over me and drags me under every. Single. Night.
I am alive today.
I am mentally ill. I don't slay dragons. I do battle with my own mind, a psyche that has been turning on me since I was a child.
I am alive today.
Alive.
So many warriors of the mind have fallen, but I am still here. I am not always well armed, but I fight tooth and nail, scratching and clawing at the ravenous beast that has consumed so many souls. I can't make it give them back, but I can keep it from swallowing me whole.
I am alive.
I am alive, and I am mentally ill, and the two aren't always compatible but I make them work. I'm not weak. I'm not stupid. I'm not being punished by god or gods. I'm just wired differently. My brain malfunctions on a cellular level and there's no fixing it. No quantum mechanic to turn a wrench and make it right.
I am alive today. Some days, today, alive is all the victory I can claim, but it is still victory.
I am alive.
Today I am alive.
It hardly seems an accomplishment, not something to be proud of, not like climbing Everest or saving someone from a rampaging lion or performing open heart surgery. But it is.
For me, alive can sometimes be a victory.
I am alive.
Tired, yes, and worn. My eyes are puffy and my hair is a mess. My shirt is torn and my pants are stained. But. I am alive.
I made it through the dark hours, when my mind would not stop, not even slow, not for a moment relent and give me peace. I made it through the sibilant whispers, insidious voices telling me that I am a failure, that struggling, that the constant fight, all of it, is useless, pointless. I made it through the loneliness that washes over me and drags me under every. Single. Night.
I am alive today.
I am mentally ill. I don't slay dragons. I do battle with my own mind, a psyche that has been turning on me since I was a child.
I am alive today.
Alive.
So many warriors of the mind have fallen, but I am still here. I am not always well armed, but I fight tooth and nail, scratching and clawing at the ravenous beast that has consumed so many souls. I can't make it give them back, but I can keep it from swallowing me whole.
I am alive.
I am alive, and I am mentally ill, and the two aren't always compatible but I make them work. I'm not weak. I'm not stupid. I'm not being punished by god or gods. I'm just wired differently. My brain malfunctions on a cellular level and there's no fixing it. No quantum mechanic to turn a wrench and make it right.
I am alive today. Some days, today, alive is all the victory I can claim, but it is still victory.
I am alive.
Wednesday, January 27, 2016
Goings On
K2 and I are working on a little project. It's only taken us about a decade to get back on it. Check out our fund raiser, wouldja? And feel free to contribute and share it along.
Meanwhile, it turns out that Casa de Crazy needs a new roof. Oy. The old roof is...well...old...for a roof. 24 years, to be precise. That's, like, a Million in roof years! I was hoping it would keep another year or two, but we've pushed our luck as far as we can. The last storm that rolled through here damaged it beyond its ability to magically withstand/repair weather damage. Insurance peoples have been called and things are in motion, and it all gives me a headache because expensive! Poo Mum, shes the one who carries this burden. I was hoping I could just get it patched and be done with it, but the shingles have been pummeled and the vent pipes need new thingies and it's just time.
So two huge things going on for me, right now. I prefer to focus on the music, but I imagine the roof is going to be a constant THING in my head util it is done, especially with the wet year predicted.
What're you up to these days?
Meanwhile, it turns out that Casa de Crazy needs a new roof. Oy. The old roof is...well...old...for a roof. 24 years, to be precise. That's, like, a Million in roof years! I was hoping it would keep another year or two, but we've pushed our luck as far as we can. The last storm that rolled through here damaged it beyond its ability to magically withstand/repair weather damage. Insurance peoples have been called and things are in motion, and it all gives me a headache because expensive! Poo Mum, shes the one who carries this burden. I was hoping I could just get it patched and be done with it, but the shingles have been pummeled and the vent pipes need new thingies and it's just time.
So two huge things going on for me, right now. I prefer to focus on the music, but I imagine the roof is going to be a constant THING in my head util it is done, especially with the wet year predicted.
What're you up to these days?
Monday, January 18, 2016
A Letter
Dear Body,
I know that I have not been kind to you in our long-seeming history, and I know that over the years I have been rather neglectful of your needs. I am sorry. You have done your best to carry me through each day with vigor, and I have rewarded your steadfast service with scant sleep, stress, unhealthy (but oh-so-tasty) food and drink, insufficient exercise, and little medical attention.
You've been remarkably resilient. Until recently.
Dear body, I can understand when leg muscles ache if I've been walking or climbing mountains or stairs (which sometimes feel like mountains) or working them on those infernal weight contraptions at a gym. I can understand feet, ankles, knees, and hips that snap, crackle, pop, and zing when put into service after carrying excess pounds all these years, even when many of those excess pounds have been shed. I can understand wheezing, sneezing, itching, watering, and running when I've been dusting or playing with furry critters. These things, and more, have cause and effect.
What mystifies me, dear body, is when I go to sleep with everything in moderately working order and wake with an ache, a pain, a stiffness, that I cannot explain. Why does my foot hurt that way? It was fine before bed last night. What was I doing in my sleep? And my wrist. I went to bed with a wrist that was perfectly...er...wrist-y, and woke with what feels like an unpredictable electrical short in it when I move my hand. Was I typing or knitting or playing tennis while I dreamed?
Today, it's my shoulder. It hurts. Not a delicate ache or an occasional wince, this is a full-on, can't find a comfortable way to hold my arm, ow, ow, owie, ow hurt! Stretching doesn't help. Heat doesn't help. Holding very still is damned near impossible (have you met my children and my cats?) and doesn't help. Careful movement doesn't help.
Dear body, I have been trying to do right by you. I know it seems too little, too late, but I've made small changes and keep plugging toward a goal weight that is reasonable and within the range of healthy-for-my-body-type. I stretch semi-regularly. I don't go to the gym but I do housework and that should count as a workout (again, have you met my children and the cats? The housework never ends), and I eat plenty of fruits and vegetables. Lately I've even given you the occasional Arnold Palmer and Vodka of an evening.
Give me a chance and I am sure that I can continue to improve how I treat you, but I can't do that if you keep whomping me with these aches and pains that slow me down and make me want to (carefully) crawl into bed and give up until my parts behave themselves!
C'mon, body, you and me are a team. Work with me, here.
Sincerely,
K
I know that I have not been kind to you in our long-seeming history, and I know that over the years I have been rather neglectful of your needs. I am sorry. You have done your best to carry me through each day with vigor, and I have rewarded your steadfast service with scant sleep, stress, unhealthy (but oh-so-tasty) food and drink, insufficient exercise, and little medical attention.
You've been remarkably resilient. Until recently.
Dear body, I can understand when leg muscles ache if I've been walking or climbing mountains or stairs (which sometimes feel like mountains) or working them on those infernal weight contraptions at a gym. I can understand feet, ankles, knees, and hips that snap, crackle, pop, and zing when put into service after carrying excess pounds all these years, even when many of those excess pounds have been shed. I can understand wheezing, sneezing, itching, watering, and running when I've been dusting or playing with furry critters. These things, and more, have cause and effect.
What mystifies me, dear body, is when I go to sleep with everything in moderately working order and wake with an ache, a pain, a stiffness, that I cannot explain. Why does my foot hurt that way? It was fine before bed last night. What was I doing in my sleep? And my wrist. I went to bed with a wrist that was perfectly...er...wrist-y, and woke with what feels like an unpredictable electrical short in it when I move my hand. Was I typing or knitting or playing tennis while I dreamed?
Today, it's my shoulder. It hurts. Not a delicate ache or an occasional wince, this is a full-on, can't find a comfortable way to hold my arm, ow, ow, owie, ow hurt! Stretching doesn't help. Heat doesn't help. Holding very still is damned near impossible (have you met my children and my cats?) and doesn't help. Careful movement doesn't help.
Dear body, I have been trying to do right by you. I know it seems too little, too late, but I've made small changes and keep plugging toward a goal weight that is reasonable and within the range of healthy-for-my-body-type. I stretch semi-regularly. I don't go to the gym but I do housework and that should count as a workout (again, have you met my children and the cats? The housework never ends), and I eat plenty of fruits and vegetables. Lately I've even given you the occasional Arnold Palmer and Vodka of an evening.
Give me a chance and I am sure that I can continue to improve how I treat you, but I can't do that if you keep whomping me with these aches and pains that slow me down and make me want to (carefully) crawl into bed and give up until my parts behave themselves!
C'mon, body, you and me are a team. Work with me, here.
Sincerely,
K
Friday, January 8, 2016
Gremlins, We Has 'Em
Casa de Crazy is a wealth of electrical oddities.
Half of the electrical outlets in my kitchen don't work. Neither do half of the ones in the dining room. They all blew out when I plugged something in in the kitchen a few years ago. I checked the circuit breaker and none of them were tripped. Also, none of them are labelled so I have no idea which does what or where and electricity makes me nervous so...umm...I just adjust.
One of the outlets in the children's bathroom doesn't work. There was an incident with a nightlight, a steel wire spring, and an arc about eight years ago. Don't ask.
The light in my bedroom blew out and it was a coupe of months before I could get a bulb to change it. No problem for me, I usually don't use it anyway - I like wandering around in the dark barking my shins and stubbing my toes.
The downstairs hall light has been burned out since early last year. I have a bulb for it but the person who said they'd change it never did and I have this thing about ladders. I'll get to it...eventually.
The foyer light eats bulbs like a kid munching Doritos, and it's a really awkward light to change the bulbs on so it's been dark for maybe two years now. Every time I manage to change the bulbs, they last a few weeks, maybe a few months, then fizzle and pop and fall dark again.
One of my kitchen fixtures acts like it's in some kind of sibling competition with the foyer. I thought I'd put some of those compact fluorescent bulbs in it one time, maybe they'd do better. Nope. Lasted a couple of months at best and we were back to darkness. It blows through bulbs faster than the foyer!
My dishwasher makes a noise. Not the usual whoosh-swoosh-skoosh-shush noise, more of an a-hunga-hunga-unga-urrrrnggghhh sort of sound. When it transitions between stages, I have to turn it off and then on again or it will just sit and grind and groan without doing anything. I don't even put detergent in it, just wash dishes by hand and use the dishwasher to sanitize and dry 'em.
The light in our dining room, not to be outdone by foyer and kitchen, has decided that it won't always turn on when it's turned on. Sometimes, for fun, it will turn on when the switch is flipped, then turn off despite the switch being flipped, then when the switch is bumped a little it will turn on again. Good times.
The clothes dryer has lately decided to join in the fun. It makes a sound somewhere between a hum and a buzz, with a little rattle tossed in from time to time, which it will do until I go open the door and then close it again, then restart it.
And those are just the things I know about.
I think I need an electrician.
Or an exorcist.
Half of the electrical outlets in my kitchen don't work. Neither do half of the ones in the dining room. They all blew out when I plugged something in in the kitchen a few years ago. I checked the circuit breaker and none of them were tripped. Also, none of them are labelled so I have no idea which does what or where and electricity makes me nervous so...umm...I just adjust.
One of the outlets in the children's bathroom doesn't work. There was an incident with a nightlight, a steel wire spring, and an arc about eight years ago. Don't ask.
The light in my bedroom blew out and it was a coupe of months before I could get a bulb to change it. No problem for me, I usually don't use it anyway - I like wandering around in the dark barking my shins and stubbing my toes.
The downstairs hall light has been burned out since early last year. I have a bulb for it but the person who said they'd change it never did and I have this thing about ladders. I'll get to it...eventually.
The foyer light eats bulbs like a kid munching Doritos, and it's a really awkward light to change the bulbs on so it's been dark for maybe two years now. Every time I manage to change the bulbs, they last a few weeks, maybe a few months, then fizzle and pop and fall dark again.
One of my kitchen fixtures acts like it's in some kind of sibling competition with the foyer. I thought I'd put some of those compact fluorescent bulbs in it one time, maybe they'd do better. Nope. Lasted a couple of months at best and we were back to darkness. It blows through bulbs faster than the foyer!
My dishwasher makes a noise. Not the usual whoosh-swoosh-skoosh-shush noise, more of an a-hunga-hunga-unga-urrrrnggghhh sort of sound. When it transitions between stages, I have to turn it off and then on again or it will just sit and grind and groan without doing anything. I don't even put detergent in it, just wash dishes by hand and use the dishwasher to sanitize and dry 'em.
The light in our dining room, not to be outdone by foyer and kitchen, has decided that it won't always turn on when it's turned on. Sometimes, for fun, it will turn on when the switch is flipped, then turn off despite the switch being flipped, then when the switch is bumped a little it will turn on again. Good times.
The clothes dryer has lately decided to join in the fun. It makes a sound somewhere between a hum and a buzz, with a little rattle tossed in from time to time, which it will do until I go open the door and then close it again, then restart it.
And those are just the things I know about.
I think I need an electrician.
Or an exorcist.
Sunday, January 3, 2016
Side Effects
Sometimes the cure can feel worse than the disease!
I'm taking a new medication. It's the generic equivalent of Effexor. Like any medication, there are side effects. Oh, joy.
Long, long ago I took Prozac, and then stopped taking Prozac because the side effects were most definitely not worth the non-gain in mental health (it was largely ineffective for me,not a good return on investment).
I tried Zoloft after that. Good grief, talk about unfortunate side effects! Did you know that Zoloft (or the generic equivalent, anyway) can cause gas? Yeah, neither did I. It can. It did. Ohmuhgoodness, but it did! I could have provided an alternative fuel vehicle with fill-ups for a year! Seriously, I sounded like a motor boat putt-putt-putting along. So, yeah, done with the Zoloft.
For about 20 years I have done without psychiatric medication for one reason or another. Primarily, I wanted to know that when I have a good day, it's me having a good day and not Pfizer or Eli Lilly. Also, the worst effect from both previous medications was a loss of connection to my creativity. I didn't want to sing, or write, or paint, or photograph, or sew. I didn't want to cook. That? Not good. Psych meds aren't cheap and even with insurance I couldn't afford them - these days, without insurance, they're impossible.
Were ipossible.
Thanks to a place called Avita, I can manage. Okay, Avita and my mother. Prescriptions are $4.50 a refill. I can just about manage $4.50 a month.
While Prozac and Zoloft are SSRI medications, Effexor operates differently. Don't ask me how, I've no idea, but it's not an SSRI, and so the hope is that it will knock the severe, treatment resistant depression on its ass without killing what I most need to keep alive and well within me.
It can take 6 - 8 weeks to feel any positive effects, but the side effects are on deck from the start. Whose idea was that?
The dizziness is manageable. The...er...unfortunate innards I can live with because that will likely (I hope) go away as my body gets used to the new chemicals I'm feeding it. The headaches aren't thrilling, and feeling like I could sleep for 23 hours a day is a real nuisance, as is feeling shaky and weak. Loss of appetite is not bother - hurrah for weight loss! Not hurrah for a suddenly racing heart.
Hopefully that's the extent of the side effects. There are more, and worse ones, and with any luck they will all fade with time and I will benefit from this medication. I have friends watching me carefully, ready to let me know if I seem odd, off, stranger than usual or weird in new ways. They will tell me if I seem happier, or more depressed, or if I am suddenly speaking in tongues. If I lose touch with my creative source, or if the side effects worsen, or if I don't feel any improvement, I'll wean off this medication and keep on slogging through the swamp on my own.
I am hoping, though, that I can use this medication to get to higher ground. I won't take it forever - it's not in my nature - but I will use this tool to my advantage for as long as I feel I need to.
Side effects and all.
I'm taking a new medication. It's the generic equivalent of Effexor. Like any medication, there are side effects. Oh, joy.
Long, long ago I took Prozac, and then stopped taking Prozac because the side effects were most definitely not worth the non-gain in mental health (it was largely ineffective for me,not a good return on investment).
I tried Zoloft after that. Good grief, talk about unfortunate side effects! Did you know that Zoloft (or the generic equivalent, anyway) can cause gas? Yeah, neither did I. It can. It did. Ohmuhgoodness, but it did! I could have provided an alternative fuel vehicle with fill-ups for a year! Seriously, I sounded like a motor boat putt-putt-putting along. So, yeah, done with the Zoloft.
For about 20 years I have done without psychiatric medication for one reason or another. Primarily, I wanted to know that when I have a good day, it's me having a good day and not Pfizer or Eli Lilly. Also, the worst effect from both previous medications was a loss of connection to my creativity. I didn't want to sing, or write, or paint, or photograph, or sew. I didn't want to cook. That? Not good. Psych meds aren't cheap and even with insurance I couldn't afford them - these days, without insurance, they're impossible.
Were ipossible.
Thanks to a place called Avita, I can manage. Okay, Avita and my mother. Prescriptions are $4.50 a refill. I can just about manage $4.50 a month.
While Prozac and Zoloft are SSRI medications, Effexor operates differently. Don't ask me how, I've no idea, but it's not an SSRI, and so the hope is that it will knock the severe, treatment resistant depression on its ass without killing what I most need to keep alive and well within me.
It can take 6 - 8 weeks to feel any positive effects, but the side effects are on deck from the start. Whose idea was that?
The dizziness is manageable. The...er...unfortunate innards I can live with because that will likely (I hope) go away as my body gets used to the new chemicals I'm feeding it. The headaches aren't thrilling, and feeling like I could sleep for 23 hours a day is a real nuisance, as is feeling shaky and weak. Loss of appetite is not bother - hurrah for weight loss! Not hurrah for a suddenly racing heart.
Hopefully that's the extent of the side effects. There are more, and worse ones, and with any luck they will all fade with time and I will benefit from this medication. I have friends watching me carefully, ready to let me know if I seem odd, off, stranger than usual or weird in new ways. They will tell me if I seem happier, or more depressed, or if I am suddenly speaking in tongues. If I lose touch with my creative source, or if the side effects worsen, or if I don't feel any improvement, I'll wean off this medication and keep on slogging through the swamp on my own.
I am hoping, though, that I can use this medication to get to higher ground. I won't take it forever - it's not in my nature - but I will use this tool to my advantage for as long as I feel I need to.
Side effects and all.
Thursday, December 24, 2015
Stormy Day
Okay, I'm up.
Disappointing trip to the mailbox, but there was a lovely roll of thunder accompanying me down the driveway and the gentle patter of rain walked me back to the house.
So thick, these clouds. This darkness pervades, and makes my thoughts thick and slow, too. I am heavy. Like the wan light struggling to shed its leaden shrouds, I struggle to shed this weight of shades and shadows.
I wonder, sometimes, is it better to be aware as I am that it's not real? That this feeling isn't real? That it's the result of faulty wiring, malfunctioning messages of the mind, misfiring neurons? Or would it be easier if I didn't know, if I believed this was true and everything and all there was or would be?
Is it better to know that there may be hope? Better to cling to that hope and risk being dashed against the rocks of disappointment for the possible transcendence of its fulfillment? Or to dwell in a twilight of hopelessness without knowing the lofty heights of potential and clarity?
The lights on the tree sparkle, and Sprout is watching cartoons and laughing like a loon, and I have people who love me despite myself, and I know that is good, but right now it is foreign to me, unreachable. I can see but not touch, and the more I reach, the more slippery it gets, the farther it recedes, and like trying to hold a fistful of water, the harder I grasp the less I can keep. I feel so far away.
Today I do not want to be open. I want to be closed up, to curl around this wounded, tender, never-quite-healed place within me and protect it from the world and everything that hurts. Today I would like to be bundled in the soft warmth of my cozy bed, perhaps with an adamantine shell for extra protection. I don't want to feel anything - no hope, no despair, no love, no sorrow, no loss, no joy, no misery, no happiness, none of this wondering when I stopped being worth anything to the people who should value me the most, no wondering when I became so ephemeral in the world that is supposed to help me be solid and present and real, no wishing that I could let go of this need for approval or at least acceptance from places I will never find them.
I do not want to be open.
So I open myself a little more.
In the end, I can't let the illusion become more than what is real. I can't let it win. The smile? Is brittle and may shatter at the slightest provocation, but it is pasted on my face because it doesn't want to be there. I am open, and every aching, raw, miserable inch of me is there to be poked, prodded, judged, and left deeply scarred, because it's the only way I know for it to scab over and some day, with luck and love and perseverance, maybe heal into a puckered, cicatrix of a whole soul.
Disappointing trip to the mailbox, but there was a lovely roll of thunder accompanying me down the driveway and the gentle patter of rain walked me back to the house.
So thick, these clouds. This darkness pervades, and makes my thoughts thick and slow, too. I am heavy. Like the wan light struggling to shed its leaden shrouds, I struggle to shed this weight of shades and shadows.
I wonder, sometimes, is it better to be aware as I am that it's not real? That this feeling isn't real? That it's the result of faulty wiring, malfunctioning messages of the mind, misfiring neurons? Or would it be easier if I didn't know, if I believed this was true and everything and all there was or would be?
Is it better to know that there may be hope? Better to cling to that hope and risk being dashed against the rocks of disappointment for the possible transcendence of its fulfillment? Or to dwell in a twilight of hopelessness without knowing the lofty heights of potential and clarity?
The lights on the tree sparkle, and Sprout is watching cartoons and laughing like a loon, and I have people who love me despite myself, and I know that is good, but right now it is foreign to me, unreachable. I can see but not touch, and the more I reach, the more slippery it gets, the farther it recedes, and like trying to hold a fistful of water, the harder I grasp the less I can keep. I feel so far away.
Today I do not want to be open. I want to be closed up, to curl around this wounded, tender, never-quite-healed place within me and protect it from the world and everything that hurts. Today I would like to be bundled in the soft warmth of my cozy bed, perhaps with an adamantine shell for extra protection. I don't want to feel anything - no hope, no despair, no love, no sorrow, no loss, no joy, no misery, no happiness, none of this wondering when I stopped being worth anything to the people who should value me the most, no wondering when I became so ephemeral in the world that is supposed to help me be solid and present and real, no wishing that I could let go of this need for approval or at least acceptance from places I will never find them.
I do not want to be open.
So I open myself a little more.
In the end, I can't let the illusion become more than what is real. I can't let it win. The smile? Is brittle and may shatter at the slightest provocation, but it is pasted on my face because it doesn't want to be there. I am open, and every aching, raw, miserable inch of me is there to be poked, prodded, judged, and left deeply scarred, because it's the only way I know for it to scab over and some day, with luck and love and perseverance, maybe heal into a puckered, cicatrix of a whole soul.
Saturday, December 19, 2015
Yule
~~~~~
Happy Yule, y'all!
Wait, what? Yule - you know...Yule? The holiday that some people celebrated waaayyy before that poor wee baby was supposedly born in a pile of hay? Evergreens ring a bell? Holly? Ivy? Mistletoe??
OK, go get a snack and a nice beverage (eggnog on the right, pink punch in the center, pick a bottle from the high chair to spike it with)(yes, the high chair is our bar - the Evil Genius doesn't need it any more, Sprouthas long outgrown the use of it, and it's an heirloom that I want to keep on display - so why not??) and get comfy. All set?
Yule, or Winter Solstice, is a celebration of the returning light.
Yep, it's that simple.
The God is reborn today, and the days will lengthen with his growth, into the fullness of Summer. In some villages, way back in the past, hearth fires would be extinguished (a brave thing when you didn't have Zippos or matches or even two sticks to rub together). They would be relit from brands taken from a community balefire, lit by the sun himself with a little help from some glass (or a hidden coal or two - c'mon, we weren't above a little showmanship, back then), thereby bringing the sun (and, one hoped, his blessings) into the home. It also kept the community united, because everyone shared the same fire, the same light and heat. Cool, huh? Gotta love a religion that encourages playing with fire. Ahem.
The fir tree was (and is) a symbol of life lasting even through death, the promise of life and light renewed, and a reminder that beneath the snow, the Earth-heart beats on. Holly and Ivy were green, too, but they were also symbols of the Green Man, the Forest Lord, Jack o' the Green - the God primeval. The Holly King and the Ivy King, the old and the young, the constant, changing balance. Deep stuff, yo.
Mistletoe is still used in a fairly traditional way, although it wasn't always just kissing done under the stuff. I still use the leaves and occasional berry when I make love bundles for people (Note - a love bundle isn't a love spell, it is meant to strengthen what is already there, not coerce or sublimate the free will of another. I don't DO love spells, so don't even ask.)(I mean it.), and it's a terrific symbol. It was also a fertility and aphrodisiac herb, but only symbolically - even wigged out Druids knew the stuff was toxic!
We light a yule log, in our house one that's cut from the trunk of last year's tree (the rest of which is providing habitat and nutrients in the woods out back). Old tales say if it lights on the first try and burns for twelve hours, we'll have good luck...this year, I'm soaking one end in water, first. What? We need all the good fortune we can get...don't you??
This year we are spending Yule at Mum's, lighting the burn pile, celebrating the returning light with a little spark of our own. We'll collect some of the ash and bring it home to add to the ash jar and sprinkle around the foundation for a blessing.
Sometimes a group of us will get together and just spend a quiet day nibbling snacks, enjoying each other's company, and taking a break from the holiday insanity out there among the English. If we exchange gifts, we try to make them ourselves, or give things that encourage and nurture our spiritual or creative selves. Things will be a little sparse this year, what with Someone being all in prison and whatnot (in case you didn't know, it can be expensive to have someone in prison, but that's a tale for a later time). I want the kids to have a nice holiday so I have gone a bit overboard, but Sprout is just beginning to understand the concept of The Holly King (our version of Santa) and what presents are and she's really excited about them, and this is the last year before the Evil Genius is a teen (holy carp!!!) and things will change between us in the coming years.
But mostly, it's a celebration of the returning sun, the waxing light, the cycle renewed.
Happy Yule - When the days be cold, may your hearth be warm. When the nights be long, may your fire burn bright. When the wind blows, may you find snug shelter. When tree and field are bare, may your larder be full. May you never know Winter's chill a moment longer than you care to, nor hunger nor want, and should you find you have all that you need and a bit more besides, may you find someone who will gladly take what you offer and live better for the receiving. Blessed be.
Thursday, December 10, 2015
A Glimpse
I have a doctor's appointment today. Nothing untoward, just a simple check-up.
I will make it a multi-purpose trip - the doc is up near mom's place so I'll go wash my shirts in her laundry machine (mine eats my shirts, hers is far kinder to them) while I'm at it.
My brain is screaming at me, telling me to cancel, not to go.
This is nothing unusual. It is why sometimes I don't listen to my instinct, because my instinct is often irrational. My instinct is in league with my Variety Plate and cannot always (or even often) be trusted.
Don't get me wrong, when it comes to confrontation or real, imminent danger,my instinct doesn't mess around. It does a good job and, when I don't ignore it, saves me a good deal of grief. But I am not currently in imminent danger. What is wrong is, I have to leave the house.
Going to the doctor for a simple check-up begins with an internal fight the moment the appointment is made. A small voice tells me "That's a bad day to go, you should cancel" as soon as I walk out of the office. Then, as the day approaches (and it's every six months I go, so there's lots of approach), my mind tells me all kinds of things that mean I'm too busy to go. When I refuse to cancel, things escalate. I start to think about my horrible diet and how I am not at all practicing self care and he's going to yell at me. By the time it's the day of the appointment ohmygosh I have to leave the house help help help I am, internally a mess. The xenophobia and agoraphobia kick in and I don't even want to go into the garage, let alone all the way out into the world.This appointment is going to suck. I have not taken my meds as I should. I have eaten and drunk many things that I shouldn't. This is part of a self-destructive cycle, and it will mean I shall be chastised by the doctor (who is really a terribly nice fellow and very good at his avocation and I did warn him that I am a difficult patient at best). The cycle has to stop. The way I am eating, the way I am living, will kill me.
So today I am fighting with myself. No kidding, my heart is pounding! I wasn't always like this. Depression, yes, and then OCD and paranoia, but this...this...anxiety...is only a couple of decades old. It's probably the youngest of the things on the plate. It is mighty big sometimes, and vigorous, and just going to the grocery store can feel like a trial. Leaving the house to be confronted by my own actions? Too much.
My new shrink says I have anxiety and depression with a psychotic element (but I'm harmless, really!!!) (it's the paranoia, my old and faithful bugaboo, that is the element, in case you wondered) and my counselor is helping me sort it all out, but I have to leave the house to make things better.
My brain doesn't seem to grasp that logic and is screaming at me as I type that I have other things I need to do and can't I just this once reschedule and look, the sky may fall at any moment and people are horrid and there is gun violence and religious hatred and politicians run rampant in the streets and...and...pant...pant...pant...
My mind goes around and around and gnaws on itself, and this is constant, constant, every damned day, exhausting and occasionally overwhelming, and it's all internal so nobody sees it and it's easy to dismiss as not-real, irrelevant, because the cracks and leakage and rubble from past tussles are all in my head but if you could see in there, just catch a glimpse, it would rival any photograph of war-torn landscape you've ever seen!
I know it's not real. It feels real enough, but I know it isn't. It is my imagination on steroids. It is the voice of the child I was who had no control over what others did to her, said to her, made her do. It is the voice of fear trying to shatter the seemingly fearless shell I wear and I cannot let it win, not today. Other days I can choose to change plans and stay in bed or curled up on the lounge with my kids watching movies, but today I can't. Today I have to gird up my loins (which sounds much nicer than "suck it up, buttercup") and adult.
I don't want to adult.
I don't want to do anything.
Up and at 'em.
I will make it a multi-purpose trip - the doc is up near mom's place so I'll go wash my shirts in her laundry machine (mine eats my shirts, hers is far kinder to them) while I'm at it.
My brain is screaming at me, telling me to cancel, not to go.
This is nothing unusual. It is why sometimes I don't listen to my instinct, because my instinct is often irrational. My instinct is in league with my Variety Plate and cannot always (or even often) be trusted.
Don't get me wrong, when it comes to confrontation or real, imminent danger,my instinct doesn't mess around. It does a good job and, when I don't ignore it, saves me a good deal of grief. But I am not currently in imminent danger. What is wrong is, I have to leave the house.
Going to the doctor for a simple check-up begins with an internal fight the moment the appointment is made. A small voice tells me "That's a bad day to go, you should cancel" as soon as I walk out of the office. Then, as the day approaches (and it's every six months I go, so there's lots of approach), my mind tells me all kinds of things that mean I'm too busy to go. When I refuse to cancel, things escalate. I start to think about my horrible diet and how I am not at all practicing self care and he's going to yell at me. By the time it's the day of the appointment ohmygosh I have to leave the house help help help I am, internally a mess. The xenophobia and agoraphobia kick in and I don't even want to go into the garage, let alone all the way out into the world.This appointment is going to suck. I have not taken my meds as I should. I have eaten and drunk many things that I shouldn't. This is part of a self-destructive cycle, and it will mean I shall be chastised by the doctor (who is really a terribly nice fellow and very good at his avocation and I did warn him that I am a difficult patient at best). The cycle has to stop. The way I am eating, the way I am living, will kill me.
So today I am fighting with myself. No kidding, my heart is pounding! I wasn't always like this. Depression, yes, and then OCD and paranoia, but this...this...anxiety...is only a couple of decades old. It's probably the youngest of the things on the plate. It is mighty big sometimes, and vigorous, and just going to the grocery store can feel like a trial. Leaving the house to be confronted by my own actions? Too much.
My new shrink says I have anxiety and depression with a psychotic element (but I'm harmless, really!!!) (it's the paranoia, my old and faithful bugaboo, that is the element, in case you wondered) and my counselor is helping me sort it all out, but I have to leave the house to make things better.
My brain doesn't seem to grasp that logic and is screaming at me as I type that I have other things I need to do and can't I just this once reschedule and look, the sky may fall at any moment and people are horrid and there is gun violence and religious hatred and politicians run rampant in the streets and...and...pant...pant...pant...
My mind goes around and around and gnaws on itself, and this is constant, constant, every damned day, exhausting and occasionally overwhelming, and it's all internal so nobody sees it and it's easy to dismiss as not-real, irrelevant, because the cracks and leakage and rubble from past tussles are all in my head but if you could see in there, just catch a glimpse, it would rival any photograph of war-torn landscape you've ever seen!
I know it's not real. It feels real enough, but I know it isn't. It is my imagination on steroids. It is the voice of the child I was who had no control over what others did to her, said to her, made her do. It is the voice of fear trying to shatter the seemingly fearless shell I wear and I cannot let it win, not today. Other days I can choose to change plans and stay in bed or curled up on the lounge with my kids watching movies, but today I can't. Today I have to gird up my loins (which sounds much nicer than "suck it up, buttercup") and adult.
I don't want to adult.
I don't want to do anything.
Up and at 'em.
Tuesday, December 8, 2015
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?
Sunday, December 6, 2015
An Inch At A Time
I am working at reclaiming myself.
This means personal work,but also working to reclaim the space around me, namely Casa de Crazy. If one's environment is a reflection of one's inner state, it is painfully clear that I'm a complete wreck.
It all needs cleaning, purging, sorting through, and more cleaning.
Taken as a whole, it's too much.
So a little at a time I am taking it back.
The kitchen counters are cleaner and less cluttered. I can see the couch. Laundry is always behind, but less so today than yesterday.
This morning I cleaned my bathroom counter and swept the floor. Washed the sink and faucet. Cleared some boxes from the garage (race things that will be given out at a holiday event rather than sitting and moldering in my garage).
Most days I am tired, whipped, even when I've only just gotten up. Mental weariness takes a different kind of rest to ameliorate, and I don't have what I need to deal with it so it grinds on me. I ache physically, too, for no other reason than I have no idea why.
It's going to take a lot of small actions to clean up this big house, take back my home, get myself back, but I'm taking them.
An inch t a time.
This means personal work,but also working to reclaim the space around me, namely Casa de Crazy. If one's environment is a reflection of one's inner state, it is painfully clear that I'm a complete wreck.
It all needs cleaning, purging, sorting through, and more cleaning.
Taken as a whole, it's too much.
So a little at a time I am taking it back.
The kitchen counters are cleaner and less cluttered. I can see the couch. Laundry is always behind, but less so today than yesterday.
This morning I cleaned my bathroom counter and swept the floor. Washed the sink and faucet. Cleared some boxes from the garage (race things that will be given out at a holiday event rather than sitting and moldering in my garage).
Most days I am tired, whipped, even when I've only just gotten up. Mental weariness takes a different kind of rest to ameliorate, and I don't have what I need to deal with it so it grinds on me. I ache physically, too, for no other reason than I have no idea why.
It's going to take a lot of small actions to clean up this big house, take back my home, get myself back, but I'm taking them.
An inch t a time.
Sunday, November 29, 2015
Memorial
John was an addict. He struggled for more than half his life with his demons. His mother knew those demons. She says that an addict has as much difficulty with the good times and the bad, and I believe her.
I believe her because sometimes there's overlap when it comes to weird wiring, and I know how it is to be as afraid of, as unsure of, the happy as it is to be of the sad. How many times have I said or written that I don't know how to be happy? Depressed, miserable, stressed, angry, hurt, and confused I can do. Happy? Can be terrifying.
An addict will deal with their stress in predictable ways. Sobriety requires learning new ways to cope. Sometimes those new ways are not as effective as the addiction. Sometimes all the happy is too much.
John was nine months sober this time. I am told that's a dangerous time in sobriety. He had a young woman he loved, who loved him. He adored her daughter. He was working and reaching out to help others.
His memorial is on Tuesday. My friend A and I are going. Won't be blogging until I'm home again.
I am mourning this young man who I loved like a brother, a son, a friend. I ache for his mother, his sister, his lover. I ache for his friends. I ache for the little girl who thought he hung the moon and sun and stars.
I will miss my smiling, vividly blue-eyed friend. There is a John shaped hole in the world, and nothing will ever fill it. I hate heroin. I hate the chemical monsters that eat up people, eat up hope and love and family, eat up lives.
Friday, November 27, 2015
John Watson
On Wednesday a young man I have long loved and hailed as "friend" stepped through the veil.
He has always had a sweet smile for us, always had gentle hands and kind words for my children, freely offered support to me, offered guidance from his own experience as an addict when I felt ill equipped to help Someone navigate that dark and dangerous path.
Nine months clean, gone in an instant.
If ever I believed in demons, I would name them Heroin, Meth, Alcohol, and any of the other countless substances that sink their teeth and claws into people and gnaw at their bones. If ever I believed in evil, it would be these things that destroy, that steal the light from us, that leave holes where people we love, loved, once radiated light and warmth.
The world is a little dimmer, a little colder.
Inside the utility trailer where we sleep, on the wall near the back end, by the door, there are crayon marks. John brought a HUGE bag of crayons and some coloring books over to our camp one day and sat with Sprout for a bit, coloring with her. He left them with us for the duration of the event, and she colored. Some pages, yes, but also on the plywood that lines the trailer. It will remain there, that crayon rendering of happy enthusiasm., and remind me of him.
Sprout wept when I told her he'd died. She said she will miss him. Me too, kid. Me, too.
All of the denizens of Casa de Crazy will mourn our friend.
I once told him, teasing, that if he wasn't young enough to be my son (or much younger brother, at least) and if I had more confidence, I would be more than happy to be inappropriate with him. He grinned and replied that he'd have gone there. Very good for my ego.
I will miss his hugs - he had strong arms and gave good hug.
I will miss his teasing.
I will miss seeing him light up when his eyes fell on the people he loved.
I have offered, and continue to offer, boundless love to his family. We are here. If we can help, we will.
And to John...may your journey through the veil and into the next place be gentle and without pain or sorrow. May you leave behind all that hurt, all that angered, all that darkened your days. May you carry with you all that brought you joy. May the love you gave and the love you received never fade. May you be met with love and fellowship by those who made the journey before you.
By all the gods who ever were, who are now, and who ever will be, may you make yourself known to we who loved you in this life when you return to our circle again.
Shake the rafters and make the foundation tremble, John Watson, and for the too little we had of you, I thank you.
He has always had a sweet smile for us, always had gentle hands and kind words for my children, freely offered support to me, offered guidance from his own experience as an addict when I felt ill equipped to help Someone navigate that dark and dangerous path.
Nine months clean, gone in an instant.
If ever I believed in demons, I would name them Heroin, Meth, Alcohol, and any of the other countless substances that sink their teeth and claws into people and gnaw at their bones. If ever I believed in evil, it would be these things that destroy, that steal the light from us, that leave holes where people we love, loved, once radiated light and warmth.
The world is a little dimmer, a little colder.
Inside the utility trailer where we sleep, on the wall near the back end, by the door, there are crayon marks. John brought a HUGE bag of crayons and some coloring books over to our camp one day and sat with Sprout for a bit, coloring with her. He left them with us for the duration of the event, and she colored. Some pages, yes, but also on the plywood that lines the trailer. It will remain there, that crayon rendering of happy enthusiasm., and remind me of him.
Sprout wept when I told her he'd died. She said she will miss him. Me too, kid. Me, too.
All of the denizens of Casa de Crazy will mourn our friend.
I once told him, teasing, that if he wasn't young enough to be my son (or much younger brother, at least) and if I had more confidence, I would be more than happy to be inappropriate with him. He grinned and replied that he'd have gone there. Very good for my ego.
I will miss his hugs - he had strong arms and gave good hug.
I will miss his teasing.
I will miss seeing him light up when his eyes fell on the people he loved.
I have offered, and continue to offer, boundless love to his family. We are here. If we can help, we will.
And to John...may your journey through the veil and into the next place be gentle and without pain or sorrow. May you leave behind all that hurt, all that angered, all that darkened your days. May you carry with you all that brought you joy. May the love you gave and the love you received never fade. May you be met with love and fellowship by those who made the journey before you.
By all the gods who ever were, who are now, and who ever will be, may you make yourself known to we who loved you in this life when you return to our circle again.
Shake the rafters and make the foundation tremble, John Watson, and for the too little we had of you, I thank you.
Thursday, November 26, 2015
Happy Thanksgiving
Here followeth a Casa de Crazy Thanksgiving Day Tradicion:
We hope you have a pleasant, tasty,mellow, comfortable, not-at-all-contentious Thanksgiving day if you are in the USA and an all around good one if not in the USA.
We hope you have a pleasant, tasty,mellow, comfortable, not-at-all-contentious Thanksgiving day if you are in the USA and an all around good one if not in the USA.
Wednesday, November 25, 2015
Thankful
I have a few traditions on Thanksgiving. Not many - the menu, recording the Macy's parade so I can watch it and fast-forward through all the crappy pop music, commercials, and talking heads to see the twenty minutes of balloons, floats and high school bands I'm interested in hidden among all that junk (although I will have to forgo that pleasure, this year, alas), and my list of some things for which I am thankful, in no particular order and in no way complete:
The house in which I live
The Evil Genius
The house in which I live
The Evil Genius
Mum
Someone
Sprout
Gypsy, K2, Mizz A, Kit, Sam-I-Am, PJ, Mizz Beth, Martha 'n' Milo, Avalon, and all of my friends who put up with me when I am most myself and therefor least likable. They are the net beneath me when I fly and fall
Bread
The scent of leaf loam and woodsmoke in the crisp autumn air
Books, music, and art
Clean, plentiful water
Clean air
Clean clothes
Freedom
Nature and the way she finds to show me something new of herself every day
Words
Song
Dance
Adversity, that joy is all the sweeter (Okay, okay, the joy is sweet enough, so basta with the adversity for a minute, please)
Every creature and plant that I consume to sustain myself, because without the life I take, I would have no life to live
Love - that it exists at all is a wonder, and I feel blessed to know it in many forms
Chocolate, gift from the Gods (yes, even the perversion called "candy bar") (Mmm...candy bar...)
Honeycrisp Apples
Strong hands
Strong spirit
Strong will
Laughter
Cussed determination not to curl up and die just because life can sometimes be a succession of truly awful, bleak, and desolate days...but sometimes it isn't.
The Internet
You
I hope you have a blessed day, and that you the things you're thankful for outweighing the things for which you're not.
Happy Thanksgiving, y'all, from us at Casa de Crazy to you out in the Blue Nowhere and beyond.
Someone
Sprout
Gypsy, K2, Mizz A, Kit, Sam-I-Am, PJ, Mizz Beth, Martha 'n' Milo, Avalon, and all of my friends who put up with me when I am most myself and therefor least likable. They are the net beneath me when I fly and fall
Bread
The scent of leaf loam and woodsmoke in the crisp autumn air
Books, music, and art
Clean, plentiful water
Clean air
Clean clothes
Freedom
Nature and the way she finds to show me something new of herself every day
Words
Song
Dance
Adversity, that joy is all the sweeter (Okay, okay, the joy is sweet enough, so basta with the adversity for a minute, please)
Every creature and plant that I consume to sustain myself, because without the life I take, I would have no life to live
Love - that it exists at all is a wonder, and I feel blessed to know it in many forms
Chocolate, gift from the Gods (yes, even the perversion called "candy bar") (Mmm...candy bar...)
Honeycrisp Apples
Strong hands
Strong spirit
Strong will
Laughter
Cussed determination not to curl up and die just because life can sometimes be a succession of truly awful, bleak, and desolate days...but sometimes it isn't.
The Internet
You
I hope you have a blessed day, and that you the things you're thankful for outweighing the things for which you're not.
Happy Thanksgiving, y'all, from us at Casa de Crazy to you out in the Blue Nowhere and beyond.
Tuesday, November 24, 2015
Traditiooooooon, Tradition, Tradition!!!
Every year I post the menu for out Casa de Crazy Thanksgiving extravaganza and every year I wonder why I don't just cut and paste from last year because it very rarely changes.
Oh, the people change, and the weather, but what goes down in the kitchen and gets laid upon the table are as reliable as...well...something very reliable.
SI also wonder if anyone cares, but I kind of get a kick out of seeing what y'all are doing and I like to share, so without further ado, here's the eats for Thrursday's T-Day dinner:
Turkey, a 13 pounder this year because we have a couple of extra guests.
Dressing. Not stuffing. I like the stuff the gobbler with herbs and use the pan drippings for the gravy, so it's dressing. No one has complained, yet.
Mashed potatoes (Mum always helps with these and I let her because she is Mum and you don't tell Mum "no" when she wants to help with the taters).
Gravy, of the home made variety.
Green Beans. Just plain old steamed green beans.
Mashed Turnips and carrots, because Mum and I adore them and they're pretty in the fancy, cut glass bowl.
Can-o-Cranberry, because cranberry that isn't can shaped ain't right.
Sweet Potato Casserole (because Martha 'n'Milo insist on bringing something and that's what they'd like to bring)
Desserts include Chocolate Silk Pie and Dutch Apple Crumb Pie made just for us by Marie Callender (her pie crusts are way better than mine and I'm fine with letter her do all the work) and a Key Lime Pie with a shortbread crust (crust store bought, pie made here).
Whew, I am full already. How 'bout you - what's traditional at your Thanksgiving dinner? What's your favorite savory? Favorite sweet?
Oh, the people change, and the weather, but what goes down in the kitchen and gets laid upon the table are as reliable as...well...something very reliable.
SI also wonder if anyone cares, but I kind of get a kick out of seeing what y'all are doing and I like to share, so without further ado, here's the eats for Thrursday's T-Day dinner:
Turkey, a 13 pounder this year because we have a couple of extra guests.
Dressing. Not stuffing. I like the stuff the gobbler with herbs and use the pan drippings for the gravy, so it's dressing. No one has complained, yet.
Mashed potatoes (Mum always helps with these and I let her because she is Mum and you don't tell Mum "no" when she wants to help with the taters).
Gravy, of the home made variety.
Green Beans. Just plain old steamed green beans.
Mashed Turnips and carrots, because Mum and I adore them and they're pretty in the fancy, cut glass bowl.
Can-o-Cranberry, because cranberry that isn't can shaped ain't right.
Sweet Potato Casserole (because Martha 'n'Milo insist on bringing something and that's what they'd like to bring)
Desserts include Chocolate Silk Pie and Dutch Apple Crumb Pie made just for us by Marie Callender (her pie crusts are way better than mine and I'm fine with letter her do all the work) and a Key Lime Pie with a shortbread crust (crust store bought, pie made here).
Whew, I am full already. How 'bout you - what's traditional at your Thanksgiving dinner? What's your favorite savory? Favorite sweet?
Monday, November 23, 2015
The Countdown Beginneth
It is Monday of Thanksgiving week and there is much happening here at the Casa.
Roommates gone, cleaning commences, and while the downstairs needs some love it is the upstairs that will be gone over in the next few days. My good friend A is coming over to help me, bless he heart and all of her guts. I could do it alone but would have to start last June to get it all done. No kidding, the woman is a dynamo.
This is a somewhat traditional post for me - every year I write a little something about this week, as it is the lead-off to The Silly Season and often one of my busiest here at the Casa.
So, here we go.
Monday (today) - grocery shopping for the week. Baking bread for the dressing on Thursday. Cleaning house. Cleaning out the van because I am selling it (long story, more about that another time...maybe). More cleaning of the house.
Tuesday - band practice. Making one of the vegetable dishes for Thursday when I get home. More cleaning, including washing every last dish/bowl/platter that we'll use on Thursday since they're the "good" dishes* and sit all year until I pull them out for Thanksgiving.
Wednesday - cleaning, cleaning, more cleaning (I move slowly, the Casa is enormous, and I am not a good housekeeper so when we DO clean, it's a job). Making a pie and beginning the defrost for another pie. Possibly baking a third pie so I don't have to tomorrow. Cleaning the coffee maker. Dressing the turkey and getting it ready to pop into the oven tomorrow. Getting the turkey stock out of the freezer to use for dressing and gravy tomorrow. Panicking about the butter - is two pounds enough for the day? Gah! Making sure the table linens are washed and ready to use and pulling out the "good" flatware**.
Thursday - Turkey goes in to bake. Dressing is prepared and ready to bake. Finishing up any last minute cleaning. Children are shooed outside to frolic. Friends and family trickle in. Set the table. Fill the water pitcher. Watch TV and baste the turkey. Make food,food,more food. Serve. Eat. Coma. Dessert and coffee/tea. More coma. Play games. Pack leftovers to go for guests. Make cookie dough. /Sleep well.
Friday - NO SHOPPING!!! There will,however, be cookie baking. Lots of cookie baking.
Saturday - take Someone's mother and Sprout to visit Someone.
Sunday - Cookie swap
Monday - sleep until just shy of forever. Not going out if I don't have to. Not doing anything if I don't have to. Does anyone want a couple of children for a few days? No? Oh, well, I guess I'll get up and feed them once in a while.
How is your week shaping up?
*These are dishes that Mum and I bought one piece at a time from a grocery store a long, long,looooong time ago. Service for fourteen including serving dishes, either free or bargain priced with purchase of a certain amount of groceries. I love them. Not fancy, but pretty and simple and I like them.
**Not sterling, but some rather lovely and solid stainless steel flatware from the Oneida Company, back when there was a Betty Crocker catalog and we clipped Betty Crocker points from boxes and saved them in a tin on top of the refrigerator. Service for twelve, and some day I hope to expand it and add more serving pieces and other cutlery, but that'll have to wait a bit because it's a discontinued pattern and getting the pieces I'd like to have will cost a small fortune. I adore my pattern, bought a few pieces at a time through the mail with little bits of cardboard and postage paid.
Roommates gone, cleaning commences, and while the downstairs needs some love it is the upstairs that will be gone over in the next few days. My good friend A is coming over to help me, bless he heart and all of her guts. I could do it alone but would have to start last June to get it all done. No kidding, the woman is a dynamo.
This is a somewhat traditional post for me - every year I write a little something about this week, as it is the lead-off to The Silly Season and often one of my busiest here at the Casa.
So, here we go.
Monday (today) - grocery shopping for the week. Baking bread for the dressing on Thursday. Cleaning house. Cleaning out the van because I am selling it (long story, more about that another time...maybe). More cleaning of the house.
Tuesday - band practice. Making one of the vegetable dishes for Thursday when I get home. More cleaning, including washing every last dish/bowl/platter that we'll use on Thursday since they're the "good" dishes* and sit all year until I pull them out for Thanksgiving.
Wednesday - cleaning, cleaning, more cleaning (I move slowly, the Casa is enormous, and I am not a good housekeeper so when we DO clean, it's a job). Making a pie and beginning the defrost for another pie. Possibly baking a third pie so I don't have to tomorrow. Cleaning the coffee maker. Dressing the turkey and getting it ready to pop into the oven tomorrow. Getting the turkey stock out of the freezer to use for dressing and gravy tomorrow. Panicking about the butter - is two pounds enough for the day? Gah! Making sure the table linens are washed and ready to use and pulling out the "good" flatware**.
Thursday - Turkey goes in to bake. Dressing is prepared and ready to bake. Finishing up any last minute cleaning. Children are shooed outside to frolic. Friends and family trickle in. Set the table. Fill the water pitcher. Watch TV and baste the turkey. Make food,food,more food. Serve. Eat. Coma. Dessert and coffee/tea. More coma. Play games. Pack leftovers to go for guests. Make cookie dough. /Sleep well.
Friday - NO SHOPPING!!! There will,however, be cookie baking. Lots of cookie baking.
Saturday - take Someone's mother and Sprout to visit Someone.
Sunday - Cookie swap
Monday - sleep until just shy of forever. Not going out if I don't have to. Not doing anything if I don't have to. Does anyone want a couple of children for a few days? No? Oh, well, I guess I'll get up and feed them once in a while.
How is your week shaping up?
*These are dishes that Mum and I bought one piece at a time from a grocery store a long, long,looooong time ago. Service for fourteen including serving dishes, either free or bargain priced with purchase of a certain amount of groceries. I love them. Not fancy, but pretty and simple and I like them.
**Not sterling, but some rather lovely and solid stainless steel flatware from the Oneida Company, back when there was a Betty Crocker catalog and we clipped Betty Crocker points from boxes and saved them in a tin on top of the refrigerator. Service for twelve, and some day I hope to expand it and add more serving pieces and other cutlery, but that'll have to wait a bit because it's a discontinued pattern and getting the pieces I'd like to have will cost a small fortune. I adore my pattern, bought a few pieces at a time through the mail with little bits of cardboard and postage paid.
Saturday, November 21, 2015
Learn, Grow, Change
Disappointed. Not angry, not surprised, but disappointed.
I know there's a risk inherent to opening my home to others, particularly folks who are strangers in the beginning. I accept that there are many adjustments to be made on every side and there are certain things, control issues, that I must let go of if I am going to give shelter, give sanctuary, to anyone.
I am not an easy person to live with under the best of circumstances, and when I am not at my best I am a pain in the ass for anyone to deal with.
That said, I don't think it's unreasonable to expect that, when living in my home, a body doesn't damage it, they respect the property and the people living here, and they own up to their mistakes.
NOT telling me when property is damaged, hiding broken things, and disrespecting some very basic and necessary rules is no way to behave.
There's a hole in the wall behind the door that tells me it was slammed open or slammed up against hard enough to force the knob completely through the drywall. There is artwork missing. There are a number of small tchotchkes moved or missing. There's a socket plate cracked, part on the floor and part still on the wall. There's a dent in another part of the wall. There's a spot where paint was picked at and peeled off. There's a cup that was clearly on the windowsill but was pushed or fell out into the yard and left there.
The truck has front end damage, bald tires, and a huge dent in the side. The brakes are gone and the promised repairs never happened. I don't know when the oil was last changed. There are food wrappers and pieces of food all over the interior. Things that belong there are missing, removed without permission and put who-knows-where. It will be expensive to repair everything, and I will have to ask my already overburdened mother for help with that because it is Someone's truck and it's not okay to give it back to him trashed.
And the cigarette butts.
The cigarette butts all over the garage floor, in the driveway, nestled among the stuffed animals that I have kept through my childhood, tossed out the window into the yard, cigarette butts in places that tell me that the no-smoking-in-the-house rule was roundly ignored, putting me and my son in very real danger of respiratory distress and a hospital visit. That rule is there not because I don't like cigarette smoke (because I don't like it) and not because I represent all my art and craft work online as coming from a smoke-free environment (because I do, and yes, it matters to folks), but because I am allergic to cigarette smoke and both the Evil Genius and I have asthma that can and often is triggered by said smoke.
I don't really care if it's inconvenient to walk a few dozen feet to smoke in the garage or outside. That's not my problem. My health and my childrens' health are my concern.
Disrespected.
So many small signs of disrespect, of the people I opened my home to not caring that they were living in a borrowed room, using a borrowed vehicle, using borrowed pots and pans and dishes...
So.
I won't close my heart or my home to anyone who needs a place. No one gets to change me that way. I will, however, learn and grow from this experience.
The rules are changing. They will be simple but not negotiable, and there will no longer be second or third chances. The first violation will be the last, and there will be no two-weeks notice, not even two-minutes notice - as soon as the infraction occurs, out you go.
There will be rent, and it will be paid when it's due - no making missed rent up next week, next week, next week. No. Pay on time or out you go.
You will contribute to the household groceries.
There will be no smoking of any kind anywhere on this property or in my vehicles.
There will be no eating or drinking of anything (even water) anywhere but in the kitchen, the dining room, or outside.
If you use it, clean up after yourself and put it away.
I will not get up early, stay up late, or change my schedule to give you rides anywhere. Ask 24 hours or more in advance if you want a ride and if I can, I will, but it will be at MY convenience.
You may not borrow one of the family vehicles. Don't ask.
You may not borrow or remove anything from this property - no taking my camp chairs, my grill, my coolers, my camping gear to the lake, camping, your Aunt's pool party or anywhere else. Don't ask.
No, I will not give you the WiFi password and no, you may not use my computer. You certainly may not change passwords, security settings, or anything else on said computer, nor may you download anything, watch pornography, or do anything legally questionable.
If you damage it, you repair or replace it immediately. If that means you don't have money for DVDs, cigarettes, beer, or whatever else you think is more important, too bad. Never borrow what you can't replace, and understand that yous SHOULD replace it first and foremost.
I will not loan you money. Nope. There will be no "I need gas to get to work and will pay you when I get my check" or "Can I have a couple of dollars for cigarettes?" or anything else short of a life-saving item, and even then I will likely want proof that a life hangs in the balance.
You may not bring another person to co-habitate with you, or even to spend the night, without asking me first, and more that one night means they pay rent, too.
You will help with the chores when they need doing.
If you use it, you replace it. If you ruin my cookware, you replace it the next day.
Turn off lights if you're leaving the room, even if it's only for a moment.
If it's not yours, don't touch it. Don't let your friend touch it. Don't let your child touch it. You are responsible for any damage done by anyone you bring to this house.
No drugs. None. Not kidding. I WILL call the blue-light taxi service. Do not test me.
No drug dealers or anyone who is high.
No fugitives from justice.
Do not bring drama to my house. Do not bring anyone or anything that might bring drama to my house. Drama includes but is not limited to stalkers, abusers, out of control addicts, law enforcement of any kind, or snark from the neighbors.
Do not lie to me.
Do not steal from me.
Do not break your word to me.
Those last three are not negotiable, ever. No wriggle room. No forgiveness. The rest? Yeah, I'd like to be all hard assed about it, but honestly, I know there are circumstances and I AM a compassionate being and I WILL do my best to help a body out as much as I can, but I'm not going to allow anyone to cross my personal boundaries again. No one has any right to ask it of me, and I'm working hard on the firm yet gentle "No."
Everyone has lessons to teach, lessons to learn. I am learning. I hope that I taught something good, something that will carry my former roommates on into strong, healthy, positive lives.
We live, we learn, we grow, we change. It's a bumpy ride, so hang on tight!
I know there's a risk inherent to opening my home to others, particularly folks who are strangers in the beginning. I accept that there are many adjustments to be made on every side and there are certain things, control issues, that I must let go of if I am going to give shelter, give sanctuary, to anyone.
I am not an easy person to live with under the best of circumstances, and when I am not at my best I am a pain in the ass for anyone to deal with.
That said, I don't think it's unreasonable to expect that, when living in my home, a body doesn't damage it, they respect the property and the people living here, and they own up to their mistakes.
NOT telling me when property is damaged, hiding broken things, and disrespecting some very basic and necessary rules is no way to behave.
There's a hole in the wall behind the door that tells me it was slammed open or slammed up against hard enough to force the knob completely through the drywall. There is artwork missing. There are a number of small tchotchkes moved or missing. There's a socket plate cracked, part on the floor and part still on the wall. There's a dent in another part of the wall. There's a spot where paint was picked at and peeled off. There's a cup that was clearly on the windowsill but was pushed or fell out into the yard and left there.
The truck has front end damage, bald tires, and a huge dent in the side. The brakes are gone and the promised repairs never happened. I don't know when the oil was last changed. There are food wrappers and pieces of food all over the interior. Things that belong there are missing, removed without permission and put who-knows-where. It will be expensive to repair everything, and I will have to ask my already overburdened mother for help with that because it is Someone's truck and it's not okay to give it back to him trashed.
And the cigarette butts.
The cigarette butts all over the garage floor, in the driveway, nestled among the stuffed animals that I have kept through my childhood, tossed out the window into the yard, cigarette butts in places that tell me that the no-smoking-in-the-house rule was roundly ignored, putting me and my son in very real danger of respiratory distress and a hospital visit. That rule is there not because I don't like cigarette smoke (because I don't like it) and not because I represent all my art and craft work online as coming from a smoke-free environment (because I do, and yes, it matters to folks), but because I am allergic to cigarette smoke and both the Evil Genius and I have asthma that can and often is triggered by said smoke.
I don't really care if it's inconvenient to walk a few dozen feet to smoke in the garage or outside. That's not my problem. My health and my childrens' health are my concern.
Disrespected.
So many small signs of disrespect, of the people I opened my home to not caring that they were living in a borrowed room, using a borrowed vehicle, using borrowed pots and pans and dishes...
So.
I won't close my heart or my home to anyone who needs a place. No one gets to change me that way. I will, however, learn and grow from this experience.
The rules are changing. They will be simple but not negotiable, and there will no longer be second or third chances. The first violation will be the last, and there will be no two-weeks notice, not even two-minutes notice - as soon as the infraction occurs, out you go.
There will be rent, and it will be paid when it's due - no making missed rent up next week, next week, next week. No. Pay on time or out you go.
You will contribute to the household groceries.
There will be no smoking of any kind anywhere on this property or in my vehicles.
There will be no eating or drinking of anything (even water) anywhere but in the kitchen, the dining room, or outside.
If you use it, clean up after yourself and put it away.
I will not get up early, stay up late, or change my schedule to give you rides anywhere. Ask 24 hours or more in advance if you want a ride and if I can, I will, but it will be at MY convenience.
You may not borrow one of the family vehicles. Don't ask.
You may not borrow or remove anything from this property - no taking my camp chairs, my grill, my coolers, my camping gear to the lake, camping, your Aunt's pool party or anywhere else. Don't ask.
No, I will not give you the WiFi password and no, you may not use my computer. You certainly may not change passwords, security settings, or anything else on said computer, nor may you download anything, watch pornography, or do anything legally questionable.
If you damage it, you repair or replace it immediately. If that means you don't have money for DVDs, cigarettes, beer, or whatever else you think is more important, too bad. Never borrow what you can't replace, and understand that yous SHOULD replace it first and foremost.
I will not loan you money. Nope. There will be no "I need gas to get to work and will pay you when I get my check" or "Can I have a couple of dollars for cigarettes?" or anything else short of a life-saving item, and even then I will likely want proof that a life hangs in the balance.
You may not bring another person to co-habitate with you, or even to spend the night, without asking me first, and more that one night means they pay rent, too.
You will help with the chores when they need doing.
If you use it, you replace it. If you ruin my cookware, you replace it the next day.
Turn off lights if you're leaving the room, even if it's only for a moment.
If it's not yours, don't touch it. Don't let your friend touch it. Don't let your child touch it. You are responsible for any damage done by anyone you bring to this house.
No drugs. None. Not kidding. I WILL call the blue-light taxi service. Do not test me.
No drug dealers or anyone who is high.
No fugitives from justice.
Do not bring drama to my house. Do not bring anyone or anything that might bring drama to my house. Drama includes but is not limited to stalkers, abusers, out of control addicts, law enforcement of any kind, or snark from the neighbors.
Do not lie to me.
Do not steal from me.
Do not break your word to me.
Those last three are not negotiable, ever. No wriggle room. No forgiveness. The rest? Yeah, I'd like to be all hard assed about it, but honestly, I know there are circumstances and I AM a compassionate being and I WILL do my best to help a body out as much as I can, but I'm not going to allow anyone to cross my personal boundaries again. No one has any right to ask it of me, and I'm working hard on the firm yet gentle "No."
Everyone has lessons to teach, lessons to learn. I am learning. I hope that I taught something good, something that will carry my former roommates on into strong, healthy, positive lives.
We live, we learn, we grow, we change. It's a bumpy ride, so hang on tight!
Friday, November 20, 2015
Low, Today*
*But it will get better, it will, if I can just hunker down and hang on and not let it sweep me away, if I can endure, it will get better.
Right?
Wednesday, November 18, 2015
Many Ways
There are many ways to look at this old world and the people in it. There are many ways to respond to what is happening around us. There are many ways of being.
I posted this on Facebook earlier today:
What good have you done, by helping just that one?
To that one, I have made all the difference.
There will always be another, and another, and another.
One at a time.
And if that one, that lonely, only one, is all I ever make a difference for, then it is enough and more than enough, but I will never stop striving to find the other, and another, and another, and maybe, just maybe, they will find their one, and then another, and another, and we will ripple out and out and out and inexorably roll in greater circles until we return back to ourselves and fins that, just one at a time, we have swept over our wide Earth and made the change we never thought could be when it was just that one.
~~~~~
There are many ways to make a difference.
Here are some (feel free to add more in the comments, I know I cannot have covered everything here):
Volunteer to help veterans in the USA: Volunteer VA
Help a veteran find a home by donating or volunteering: National Coalition for Homeless Veterans
Find and support or volunteer at a food bank: Feeding America
Crochet sleeping mats for the homeless: Make a Plarn Mat
Help the homeless: 35 Ways to Help the Homeless
Help people all over the world (including the United States) help themselves: Heifer International
Help provide one of the most basic and necessary of elements to people who face its privation: Water
Help provide for medical needs: Doctors Without Borders
Help people locally and globally: Oxfam is a good place to start
Concerned about the Syrian refugee situation? You can help others help out in Syria, at the source, to give hope and perhaps help build a better situation before anyone has to leave their home: Hand in Hand for Syria
Help provide shelter: ShelterBox
Find someone who could use a hand to get back on their feet - we all struggle with our load sometimes, and knowing that there's a friend, a family member, even a stranger there to help us carry on, to be a cheerleader, sometimes simply believe in us when we falter and doubt can make all the difference.
One at a time, we can help stem the tide of fear, anger, hatred, hunger, poverty, and privation, just by facing it with small acts powered by compassion, kindness, and love.
I posted this on Facebook earlier today:
What good have you done, by helping just that one?
To that one, I have made all the difference.
There will always be another, and another, and another.
One at a time.
And if that one, that lonely, only one, is all I ever make a difference for, then it is enough and more than enough, but I will never stop striving to find the other, and another, and another, and maybe, just maybe, they will find their one, and then another, and another, and we will ripple out and out and out and inexorably roll in greater circles until we return back to ourselves and fins that, just one at a time, we have swept over our wide Earth and made the change we never thought could be when it was just that one.
~~~~~
There are many ways to make a difference.
Here are some (feel free to add more in the comments, I know I cannot have covered everything here):
Volunteer to help veterans in the USA: Volunteer VA
Help a veteran find a home by donating or volunteering: National Coalition for Homeless Veterans
Find and support or volunteer at a food bank: Feeding America
Crochet sleeping mats for the homeless: Make a Plarn Mat
Help the homeless: 35 Ways to Help the Homeless
Help people all over the world (including the United States) help themselves: Heifer International
Help provide one of the most basic and necessary of elements to people who face its privation: Water
Help provide for medical needs: Doctors Without Borders
Help people locally and globally: Oxfam is a good place to start
Concerned about the Syrian refugee situation? You can help others help out in Syria, at the source, to give hope and perhaps help build a better situation before anyone has to leave their home: Hand in Hand for Syria
Help provide shelter: ShelterBox
Find someone who could use a hand to get back on their feet - we all struggle with our load sometimes, and knowing that there's a friend, a family member, even a stranger there to help us carry on, to be a cheerleader, sometimes simply believe in us when we falter and doubt can make all the difference.
One at a time, we can help stem the tide of fear, anger, hatred, hunger, poverty, and privation, just by facing it with small acts powered by compassion, kindness, and love.
Friday, November 13, 2015
Meme, Meme, Meme, Meme
I was tagged on Facebook to do this meme. I've been managing to avoid these things for a while, now, but I cannot ignore on in which I am directly tagged. I can, however, bend the rules a little and not post it on Facebook or tag anyone into the madness. If you're keen, have a go and post where you put it in the comments and I'll come have a looky.
A- Age: 28 (in my head, anyway)(Okay, okay, I am 43 for a few more months).
B- Biggest fear: Losing my loved ones.
C- Current time: Now.
D- Drink you last had: Water.
E- Every day starts with: The clock reaching midnight? Sunrise? My daughter's elbow in my ear?
F- Favorite song: Asking an Aquarius what their favorite anything is is an exercise in futility.
G- Ghosts, are they real?: I cannot say. I am supposed to believe in them, what with being a witch and all, but I've never had one show itself to me despite living in and visiting a number of haunted places.
H- Hometown: I always wonder if this means where one was born (Fall River), where one grew up (Little Compton, West Palm Beach, Canterbury), or where one lives now (Redneck Central).
I- In love with: All.
J- Jealous of: None.
K- Killed someone?: Depends - of people, I have killed none. Of critters, countless many.
L- Last time you cried?: A few minutes ago.
M- Middle name: Haven't one.
N- Number of siblings: One.
O- One wish: Contentment.
P- Person you last called: T
Q- Question you're always asked: Are you a good witch or a bad witch?
R- Reason to smile: My children, my mother, my friends.
S- Song last sang: Take Me to Church.
T- Time you woke up: 3:12, 5:30, 7:00, 8:30, and 10:00
U- Underwear color: Presumining I wear any... Kidding! Blue.
V- Vacation destination: Va-ca-tion? What's that?
W- Worst habit: Hmm...either eating mindlessly or deflecting compliments given to me.
Y- Your favorite food: Food.
X- X-Rays you've had: Let me see...hmm...right wrist, right hand, right ankle, head, and spine/pelvis.
Z- Zodiac sign: Aquarius.
Nominate 8 people: The first eight who want to do this thing.
A- Age: 28 (in my head, anyway)(Okay, okay, I am 43 for a few more months).
B- Biggest fear: Losing my loved ones.
C- Current time: Now.
D- Drink you last had: Water.
E- Every day starts with: The clock reaching midnight? Sunrise? My daughter's elbow in my ear?
F- Favorite song: Asking an Aquarius what their favorite anything is is an exercise in futility.
G- Ghosts, are they real?: I cannot say. I am supposed to believe in them, what with being a witch and all, but I've never had one show itself to me despite living in and visiting a number of haunted places.
H- Hometown: I always wonder if this means where one was born (Fall River), where one grew up (Little Compton, West Palm Beach, Canterbury), or where one lives now (Redneck Central).
I- In love with: All.
J- Jealous of: None.
K- Killed someone?: Depends - of people, I have killed none. Of critters, countless many.
L- Last time you cried?: A few minutes ago.
M- Middle name: Haven't one.
N- Number of siblings: One.
O- One wish: Contentment.
P- Person you last called: T
Q- Question you're always asked: Are you a good witch or a bad witch?
R- Reason to smile: My children, my mother, my friends.
S- Song last sang: Take Me to Church.
T- Time you woke up: 3:12, 5:30, 7:00, 8:30, and 10:00
U- Underwear color: Presumining I wear any... Kidding! Blue.
V- Vacation destination: Va-ca-tion? What's that?
W- Worst habit: Hmm...either eating mindlessly or deflecting compliments given to me.
Y- Your favorite food: Food.
X- X-Rays you've had: Let me see...hmm...right wrist, right hand, right ankle, head, and spine/pelvis.
Z- Zodiac sign: Aquarius.
Nominate 8 people: The first eight who want to do this thing.
Thursday, November 12, 2015
What Dreams May Come
The pendulum swings, in a herky-jerky kind of way.
I don't sleep much, and often it's an interrupted sleep, a restless, fitful sleep that leaves me feeling as if perhaps I'd have been better off not sleeping at all. My dreams are often shattered, scattered things and what I retain are wisps, shreds of feelings or a word or two and not much else.
For the last few nights, I have gone to bed late (or early, if you like, given the hour) and slept hard for a few hours. It's not as good as a long night of blissful slumber, but it's something. In those few hours, though, my mind runs rampant and I remember more of the stories it tells.
Oh, dreams. Sometimes even the good ones hurt.
A few nights ago I dreamed that someone handed me $5,000. Just gave it to me. I was stunned and overjoyed because it means I could fix the truck, pay bills, and help out a friend, too. Woke up to a cold, rainy, grey day with $.82 in my pocket and a feeling that I'd let myself down somehow.
Two nights ago, I dreamed two dreams. The first was full of anger. Not mine but Someone's. My friend Gypsy was here at Casa de Crazy and we were doing...something...maybe crocheting or something...and went out to the grocery store. When we came back, Someone was home and he was angry. Mean faced, flashing eyed, a-n-g-r-y!
He was yelling at me for putting the remains of a stick of butter in the refrigerator. It was only a pat, wrapped in the paper, but he thought it was ridiculous to keep it rather than throw it away and open a new stick and he was in a rage over it.
I answered first in confusion and hurt, then in anger. Gypsy was right there beside me, telling me "I see you" and "I'm here" in a calm, reassuring voice.
It was bad enough that I told him he had to leave, that we were done.
That hurt enough to wake me up.
The second dream had me on a motorcycle, riding...I don't now where, only it was a largely empty highway, four lanes with a broad median and surrounded by hills. I low sided the bike and slide over to the verge. I hurt my leg and was walking with a limp, using a curtain rod as a walking stick. I am was undercover officer of some sort (too much Criminal Minds before bed), and everything I had in the world was in a backpack. Somehow I was no longer alone, surrounded by a bunch of bikers, one of whom knew me and addressed me by my real name. I had to convince them that I was not the person they think they know, and I had to carry my backpack with me and get to my destination, but the backpack was full of things and heavy, and I had a hurt leg. I was trying to decide what to leave behind when it struck me that it's all my life in one place and I can't leave it, I have to carry it.
Meanwhile, there are several women spinning poi in the road, but instead of poi they have swords.
Yeah, my head is weird.
Then last night I have the one dream I would happily never have again. It's a recurring theme, often exactly the same in imagery, but it's the feeling of the dream that I know so well.
In it I am lonely, hurting, feeling isolated. Often I am chilly. This time I was at my grandparent's house (a new setting for this dream but a very common setting for my head's stage), the one I largely grew up in. I'm in the room by the stairs to the third floor, a small-ish bedroom tucked between my grandfather's bathroom and the main bathroom for the second floor. I leave the room and enter the main bathroom. Door closed and locked, I'm sitting on the potty and I reach into the vanity drawer and pull out a piece of candy. The drawer is full of candy, and I am sneaking it. As I sit on the throne and eat candy, I look out the window into the yard and see a couple of men down by the stable, working.
Somehow, I am then down in the stable. It is dark, late. I have no idea what work they are doing, but in the dream it is okay, they are supposed to be there. There's a metal barrel with a fire going in it, and I'm standing at it, warming my hands. One of the men walks up behind me and wraps his arms around me in a loving, comforting way. He is warm, and his warmth infuses me. Oh, I feel loved, cherished, protected, and I know who this man is, he's the man who has haunted me for decades inside my head, the man who has lurked in the shadows of my dreams, the man who isn't real but if he was, I would forsake all others for him because he's the god to my goddess, the yin to my yang, he's the match I will never make because it's not real, dammit, but oh, how I want it to be! I've dreamt him before but he's been away for a while, so finding him haunting my psyche now is a surprise.
So he stands behind me and holds me and it's so very good. And I know I can't be there, that Someone is still in the house, sleeping, trusting, and I can't betray that, so I have to pull myself away from this warm, solid, being who gives me so much just by standing silently behind me with his arms around me. I don't even look at him, just walk away to the house, but I am colder than when I was before I stood at the fire.
That last dream is always difficult. In the dream, it is good. It is sweet. It is solid and powerful. But eventually one wakes, and in waking all of that is left behind and I feel bereft.
The feelings I take away from these dreams linger long after the sleep is done. I can't shake them, they cling like cobwebs to me, all sticky and insitant. They haunt me even as the waking world spins around and life goes on.
I don't sleep much, and often it's an interrupted sleep, a restless, fitful sleep that leaves me feeling as if perhaps I'd have been better off not sleeping at all. My dreams are often shattered, scattered things and what I retain are wisps, shreds of feelings or a word or two and not much else.
For the last few nights, I have gone to bed late (or early, if you like, given the hour) and slept hard for a few hours. It's not as good as a long night of blissful slumber, but it's something. In those few hours, though, my mind runs rampant and I remember more of the stories it tells.
Oh, dreams. Sometimes even the good ones hurt.
A few nights ago I dreamed that someone handed me $5,000. Just gave it to me. I was stunned and overjoyed because it means I could fix the truck, pay bills, and help out a friend, too. Woke up to a cold, rainy, grey day with $.82 in my pocket and a feeling that I'd let myself down somehow.
Two nights ago, I dreamed two dreams. The first was full of anger. Not mine but Someone's. My friend Gypsy was here at Casa de Crazy and we were doing...something...maybe crocheting or something...and went out to the grocery store. When we came back, Someone was home and he was angry. Mean faced, flashing eyed, a-n-g-r-y!
He was yelling at me for putting the remains of a stick of butter in the refrigerator. It was only a pat, wrapped in the paper, but he thought it was ridiculous to keep it rather than throw it away and open a new stick and he was in a rage over it.
I answered first in confusion and hurt, then in anger. Gypsy was right there beside me, telling me "I see you" and "I'm here" in a calm, reassuring voice.
It was bad enough that I told him he had to leave, that we were done.
That hurt enough to wake me up.
The second dream had me on a motorcycle, riding...I don't now where, only it was a largely empty highway, four lanes with a broad median and surrounded by hills. I low sided the bike and slide over to the verge. I hurt my leg and was walking with a limp, using a curtain rod as a walking stick. I am was undercover officer of some sort (too much Criminal Minds before bed), and everything I had in the world was in a backpack. Somehow I was no longer alone, surrounded by a bunch of bikers, one of whom knew me and addressed me by my real name. I had to convince them that I was not the person they think they know, and I had to carry my backpack with me and get to my destination, but the backpack was full of things and heavy, and I had a hurt leg. I was trying to decide what to leave behind when it struck me that it's all my life in one place and I can't leave it, I have to carry it.
Meanwhile, there are several women spinning poi in the road, but instead of poi they have swords.
Yeah, my head is weird.
Then last night I have the one dream I would happily never have again. It's a recurring theme, often exactly the same in imagery, but it's the feeling of the dream that I know so well.
In it I am lonely, hurting, feeling isolated. Often I am chilly. This time I was at my grandparent's house (a new setting for this dream but a very common setting for my head's stage), the one I largely grew up in. I'm in the room by the stairs to the third floor, a small-ish bedroom tucked between my grandfather's bathroom and the main bathroom for the second floor. I leave the room and enter the main bathroom. Door closed and locked, I'm sitting on the potty and I reach into the vanity drawer and pull out a piece of candy. The drawer is full of candy, and I am sneaking it. As I sit on the throne and eat candy, I look out the window into the yard and see a couple of men down by the stable, working.
Somehow, I am then down in the stable. It is dark, late. I have no idea what work they are doing, but in the dream it is okay, they are supposed to be there. There's a metal barrel with a fire going in it, and I'm standing at it, warming my hands. One of the men walks up behind me and wraps his arms around me in a loving, comforting way. He is warm, and his warmth infuses me. Oh, I feel loved, cherished, protected, and I know who this man is, he's the man who has haunted me for decades inside my head, the man who has lurked in the shadows of my dreams, the man who isn't real but if he was, I would forsake all others for him because he's the god to my goddess, the yin to my yang, he's the match I will never make because it's not real, dammit, but oh, how I want it to be! I've dreamt him before but he's been away for a while, so finding him haunting my psyche now is a surprise.
So he stands behind me and holds me and it's so very good. And I know I can't be there, that Someone is still in the house, sleeping, trusting, and I can't betray that, so I have to pull myself away from this warm, solid, being who gives me so much just by standing silently behind me with his arms around me. I don't even look at him, just walk away to the house, but I am colder than when I was before I stood at the fire.
That last dream is always difficult. In the dream, it is good. It is sweet. It is solid and powerful. But eventually one wakes, and in waking all of that is left behind and I feel bereft.
The feelings I take away from these dreams linger long after the sleep is done. I can't shake them, they cling like cobwebs to me, all sticky and insitant. They haunt me even as the waking world spins around and life goes on.
Wednesday, November 11, 2015
Veteran's Day*
If your feet walk foreign soil, I wish you a swift and safe return home.
If you came home broken, I wish you swift and full mending.
If you suffered loss, I wish you the softening of grief, and abundance in your future days.
Thank you Dad, Big Brother, Uncle, Cousin, Basque A, Ed, Danny, and all of those who step/ped up and put on a uniform.
*For those who didn't know, Veteran's Day is for the living, Memorial Day is for the dead, which is why this post only mentions people still walking this Earth.
Tuesday, November 10, 2015
A Letter
My Dear Children,
It is my fervent hope that by the time you are grown, the following will be irrelevant because you will know that I love you no matter what and the rest of the world doesn't judge and perhaps ostracize you for who you are or who you love.
Given how much has changed since I was a child, and how much our society has grown and altered its opinions even in the short years since you were both born, I have reason to hope that by the time you have both matured, have found yourselves, defined yourselves, grown into yourselves, none of this will matter.
Still.
In case it should matter, in case you should wonder, in case anger and hatred and fear should win out, I want you to know.
I love you not matter what.
It makes no difference to me who you should love, as long as you love well and true and are loved in equal measure. If you love a man, a woman, one or more of either or both, if you are honest and honorable, that is what matters. I will love you just the same because my love is not predicated on sexuality.
I love you no matter what.
It makes no difference to me if you should find that the skin you wear doesn't fit quite right and you seek to change it, to become something you are not now but feel you were always meant to be. As much as I can I will go down the road with you, be by your side supporting you as you change, cocoon, emerge gloriously changed and more yourself than you've ever before been. Son, if you feel you should have been my daughter...and daughter, if you feel you should have been my son...I will love you just the same because my love is not predicated on gender.
I love you no matter what.
It makes no difference to me if you should seek to wear trousers or skirts or ball gowns or sneakers or cowboy boots or hats or go bare headed and barefoot or dress in silk or denim or lace or taffeta or nothing at all, or if you wish to be tattooed, pierced, shaven, made up with cosmetics or in your natural skin. My son shall wear a dress and heels if he wishes, and my daughter shall wear dungarees and flannel shirts with hiking boots if she wishes, and we will make fabulous family portraits and be comfortable in what we wear. I will love you just the same because my love is not predicated on fashion.
I love you no matter what.
It makes no difference to me who you worship, or how, or how many. One god, two gods, countless gods, goddesses, if you find that worship helps you make your way through life, helps you be the best you you can be, if that worship gives you comfort and helps you make sense of Mystery, or if you spurn gods in favor of your own good sense and strong foundation, your own well developed mores, in favor of what you can see and feel and prove, I will love you just the same because my love is not predicated on religion.
I love you no matter what.
It makes no difference to me if you are wealthy, if you have countless millions and huge houses and fancy cars and yachts and all the trappings of that wealth, or if you share an apartment with three other people and struggle to make ends meet and have to borrow money from me to buy groceries sometimes, or if you are living with me because times are tough and you need to lean on your Mama because you can't stand on your own two feet, as long as you are living true to yourself and are happy and doing your best, I will love you just the same because my love is not predicated on the contents of your wallet.
I love you no matter what.
No matter what.
Angels or axe murderers, I will love you just the same because my love is not predicated on your actions.
There will be times when we do not agree. There will be times when we do not like each other. There will be times when we cannot stand each other. Those times will be irrelevant because I am and always will be your mother, and my love? Is a mother's love. It is not bound by convention, tradition, sense, or sensibility. I will love you just the same because my love is not predicated on anything at all. It is freely and endlessly given.
Sincerely and with love,
Mom, Mama, Mommy, Mother, Ma
It is my fervent hope that by the time you are grown, the following will be irrelevant because you will know that I love you no matter what and the rest of the world doesn't judge and perhaps ostracize you for who you are or who you love.
Given how much has changed since I was a child, and how much our society has grown and altered its opinions even in the short years since you were both born, I have reason to hope that by the time you have both matured, have found yourselves, defined yourselves, grown into yourselves, none of this will matter.
Still.
In case it should matter, in case you should wonder, in case anger and hatred and fear should win out, I want you to know.
I love you not matter what.
It makes no difference to me who you should love, as long as you love well and true and are loved in equal measure. If you love a man, a woman, one or more of either or both, if you are honest and honorable, that is what matters. I will love you just the same because my love is not predicated on sexuality.
I love you no matter what.
It makes no difference to me if you should find that the skin you wear doesn't fit quite right and you seek to change it, to become something you are not now but feel you were always meant to be. As much as I can I will go down the road with you, be by your side supporting you as you change, cocoon, emerge gloriously changed and more yourself than you've ever before been. Son, if you feel you should have been my daughter...and daughter, if you feel you should have been my son...I will love you just the same because my love is not predicated on gender.
I love you no matter what.
It makes no difference to me if you should seek to wear trousers or skirts or ball gowns or sneakers or cowboy boots or hats or go bare headed and barefoot or dress in silk or denim or lace or taffeta or nothing at all, or if you wish to be tattooed, pierced, shaven, made up with cosmetics or in your natural skin. My son shall wear a dress and heels if he wishes, and my daughter shall wear dungarees and flannel shirts with hiking boots if she wishes, and we will make fabulous family portraits and be comfortable in what we wear. I will love you just the same because my love is not predicated on fashion.
I love you no matter what.
It makes no difference to me who you worship, or how, or how many. One god, two gods, countless gods, goddesses, if you find that worship helps you make your way through life, helps you be the best you you can be, if that worship gives you comfort and helps you make sense of Mystery, or if you spurn gods in favor of your own good sense and strong foundation, your own well developed mores, in favor of what you can see and feel and prove, I will love you just the same because my love is not predicated on religion.
I love you no matter what.
It makes no difference to me if you are wealthy, if you have countless millions and huge houses and fancy cars and yachts and all the trappings of that wealth, or if you share an apartment with three other people and struggle to make ends meet and have to borrow money from me to buy groceries sometimes, or if you are living with me because times are tough and you need to lean on your Mama because you can't stand on your own two feet, as long as you are living true to yourself and are happy and doing your best, I will love you just the same because my love is not predicated on the contents of your wallet.
I love you no matter what.
No matter what.
Angels or axe murderers, I will love you just the same because my love is not predicated on your actions.
There will be times when we do not agree. There will be times when we do not like each other. There will be times when we cannot stand each other. Those times will be irrelevant because I am and always will be your mother, and my love? Is a mother's love. It is not bound by convention, tradition, sense, or sensibility. I will love you just the same because my love is not predicated on anything at all. It is freely and endlessly given.
Sincerely and with love,
Mom, Mama, Mommy, Mother, Ma
Saturday, November 7, 2015
Thoughtfetti
For the first time in more than a year, I can park in the garage. My friend A came down and helped me clean it a few weeks ago, and today she came and helped me do the last few little things needed to get a van in there. There is even plenty of room for me to bring in the avocado plants for the winter and still get to the big freezer. Bonus, when the weather is bad enough, long enough, I can back out of the garage and let them play in there!
~~~~~
Tonight, A and I are tackling the Evil Genius's room - we hope to clear enough that we can close his door tonight, and then tomorrow will plow through as much as we can. It may not get all the way clean, but I have reason to believe a significant dent will be made. A lot of clothing and toys will be going away - anything broken or too small will be tossed. Hopefully he will not resist too much.
~~~~~
I am going to make Crab Rangoon tomorrow, for the first time. It's a favorite of mine and the boy's, and learning to make it means we can have it at will rather than waiting until we can afford to go out and get them from the local Chinese place.
~~~~~
I started therapy two weeks ago. I need it. Things...things are not good at Casa de Crazy. I am not doing well. I am struggling.
Next week I start taking medication to help me deal with the Variety Plate. I feel as though I am giving up, that I am weak and even more useless because I can't do this on my own.
These feelings are not founded in reality, but they feel awfully real.
I am still going to take medication because I need it, and I may not like the need, but I will honor it.
~~~~~
I do not think people who are not me are weak or useless because they take medication to treat their conditions. I think they are smart and laudable.
In part it is this imbalance of thought that I am working to repair.
~~~~~~
Today at the supermarket the young man who bagged my groceries and helped me get them out to the car mentioned that he lives in my neighborhood. He is from the house at the top of our street, the one where they always have a Jeep Cherokee up on stands for tinkering with. I suddenly felt old - this lad was perhaps as tall as my middle and frolicking in his yard when I last saw him, and now he's inches taller than I and working for the market. Oy.
~~~~~
I miss Someone every day, fiercely, stupidly, distractingly, distressingly. Prison doesn't just punish the offender.
~~~~~
My cell phone is six years old and feeling every minute of its age. I have to replace it. I will miss it. The new phone will be perfectly okay, better in some ways, but I don't like change.
~~~~~
I swear the goldfish in the sun room tank are taunting Rook, the youngest cat. When they perceive her near their tank, they swim to the place closest to her and wag their tails at her. She is continually frustrated by her inability to swat the through the glass. The sound of her paw striking the tank amuses me. She is cross with me right now because I laughed at her.
~~~~~
What's new with you?
~~~~~
Tonight, A and I are tackling the Evil Genius's room - we hope to clear enough that we can close his door tonight, and then tomorrow will plow through as much as we can. It may not get all the way clean, but I have reason to believe a significant dent will be made. A lot of clothing and toys will be going away - anything broken or too small will be tossed. Hopefully he will not resist too much.
~~~~~
I am going to make Crab Rangoon tomorrow, for the first time. It's a favorite of mine and the boy's, and learning to make it means we can have it at will rather than waiting until we can afford to go out and get them from the local Chinese place.
~~~~~
I started therapy two weeks ago. I need it. Things...things are not good at Casa de Crazy. I am not doing well. I am struggling.
Next week I start taking medication to help me deal with the Variety Plate. I feel as though I am giving up, that I am weak and even more useless because I can't do this on my own.
These feelings are not founded in reality, but they feel awfully real.
I am still going to take medication because I need it, and I may not like the need, but I will honor it.
~~~~~
I do not think people who are not me are weak or useless because they take medication to treat their conditions. I think they are smart and laudable.
In part it is this imbalance of thought that I am working to repair.
~~~~~~
Today at the supermarket the young man who bagged my groceries and helped me get them out to the car mentioned that he lives in my neighborhood. He is from the house at the top of our street, the one where they always have a Jeep Cherokee up on stands for tinkering with. I suddenly felt old - this lad was perhaps as tall as my middle and frolicking in his yard when I last saw him, and now he's inches taller than I and working for the market. Oy.
~~~~~
I miss Someone every day, fiercely, stupidly, distractingly, distressingly. Prison doesn't just punish the offender.
~~~~~
My cell phone is six years old and feeling every minute of its age. I have to replace it. I will miss it. The new phone will be perfectly okay, better in some ways, but I don't like change.
~~~~~
I swear the goldfish in the sun room tank are taunting Rook, the youngest cat. When they perceive her near their tank, they swim to the place closest to her and wag their tails at her. She is continually frustrated by her inability to swat the through the glass. The sound of her paw striking the tank amuses me. She is cross with me right now because I laughed at her.
~~~~~
What's new with you?
Tuesday, November 3, 2015
Honestly.
Sometimes when you ask me how I am doing, I answer honestly.
And I get the feeling that the honesty isn't what I was meant to give.
And that maybe it's boring, "Oh, no, not more of this again. Doesn't she know I didn't really mean it? Doesn't she understand that I'm just waiting for her to shut up so I can talk about what's really important, me and what's on my mind?"
Sometimes I am in the middle of answering, or struggling to answer, and I see your eyes wander away or glaze over, or I hear you sigh, or I hear you talking to someone else (if we're on the phone) or you grunt or respond in a way that is supposed to make me feel like you're listening but really tells me you have no idea what I just said because your attentions wandered, or you interrupt as if I was never speaking and tell me your story and I am left feeling like maybe I was never part of this conversation to begin with.
And I know that you are just being polite and I'm really taxing you but I can't help it, every now and then my mouth begins to go on about what's real and my mind is telling it to stop because no one wants to hear it, it's not important, it's awkward and difficult and really, I know better, but my mouth just keeps on and I want to tell you I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I know you didn't ask for this but I can't. Stop. Talking.
Most of the time I try to keep it short. How am I? Fine. Tired. Busy. Chaotic. Fine. Yeah, fine. Fine's the default, the safe answer, the one word that lets you off the hook and the one word I know, I know, I KNOW you want to hear and I want to give you what you want even when it's not honest because my honesty wasn't really what you were asking for when you exercised social convention and asked me how I am.
Sometimes I can't do that, be dishonest but I can't be honest so I try to distract you by making a joke or asking how you are without ever really answering, or pointing out that money is an illusion or that the sun is brighter today, or that I saw the funniest meme or what's that behind you?
And sometimes I think it would just be better if I didn't speak to you, or to anyone, because I can't, just can't, just...just...cannot...give you what you want from me and I know with dread certainty that if you ask me how I am I will begin, and once begun I won't be able to end and you will be bored and want to walk away and it will be awkward.
So maybe sometimes you could shoulder the burden, the responsibility, and not ask me how I am so I can maybe take a break, have a rest, not feel like I have to work my way towards an answer. I know it's asking a lot, really,but it'd be awfully nice not to feel like I don't matter,my answer doesn't matter, and the only way I can think to make that happen is to not be asked the question.
Or maybe...and this is reaching, it's out there, I know...maybe if you do ask, you could listen, really listen, while I answer you honestly about how I am doing.
And I get the feeling that the honesty isn't what I was meant to give.
And that maybe it's boring, "Oh, no, not more of this again. Doesn't she know I didn't really mean it? Doesn't she understand that I'm just waiting for her to shut up so I can talk about what's really important, me and what's on my mind?"
Sometimes I am in the middle of answering, or struggling to answer, and I see your eyes wander away or glaze over, or I hear you sigh, or I hear you talking to someone else (if we're on the phone) or you grunt or respond in a way that is supposed to make me feel like you're listening but really tells me you have no idea what I just said because your attentions wandered, or you interrupt as if I was never speaking and tell me your story and I am left feeling like maybe I was never part of this conversation to begin with.
And I know that you are just being polite and I'm really taxing you but I can't help it, every now and then my mouth begins to go on about what's real and my mind is telling it to stop because no one wants to hear it, it's not important, it's awkward and difficult and really, I know better, but my mouth just keeps on and I want to tell you I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I know you didn't ask for this but I can't. Stop. Talking.
Most of the time I try to keep it short. How am I? Fine. Tired. Busy. Chaotic. Fine. Yeah, fine. Fine's the default, the safe answer, the one word that lets you off the hook and the one word I know, I know, I KNOW you want to hear and I want to give you what you want even when it's not honest because my honesty wasn't really what you were asking for when you exercised social convention and asked me how I am.
Sometimes I can't do that, be dishonest but I can't be honest so I try to distract you by making a joke or asking how you are without ever really answering, or pointing out that money is an illusion or that the sun is brighter today, or that I saw the funniest meme or what's that behind you?
And sometimes I think it would just be better if I didn't speak to you, or to anyone, because I can't, just can't, just...just...cannot...give you what you want from me and I know with dread certainty that if you ask me how I am I will begin, and once begun I won't be able to end and you will be bored and want to walk away and it will be awkward.
So maybe sometimes you could shoulder the burden, the responsibility, and not ask me how I am so I can maybe take a break, have a rest, not feel like I have to work my way towards an answer. I know it's asking a lot, really,but it'd be awfully nice not to feel like I don't matter,my answer doesn't matter, and the only way I can think to make that happen is to not be asked the question.
Or maybe...and this is reaching, it's out there, I know...maybe if you do ask, you could listen, really listen, while I answer you honestly about how I am doing.
Tuesday, October 27, 2015
Something to Ponder
I recently read a quote attributed to Buddha. While I haven't researched it to see if he really did say it, it sounds like him.
It was something along the lines of it not mattering how compassionate one is towards others if one cannot also be compassionate toward one's self.
I've heard variations on this theme throughout my life - if one cannot love one's self, how can others love one, if one does not see one's own beauty, how can anyone else, if one cannot apply love, healing, compassion, or whatever to one's self then it is incomplete.
It is terribly difficult foe me to look at myself in the mirror, and it is equally difficult for me to see myself as having value. So many messages incoming that tell me I don't measure up, so many times hearing that I am worthless and useless because I don't fit some mold, some idea or ideal of what a person should be, and after a while it really does drown out the smaller, quieter, kinder thoughts and truths.
I am pondering this idea that I deserve compassion, too. I can't quite wrap my mind around it. I have always said, and meant, that I don't matter. My needs don't matter. My wants don't matter. That can't be healthy.
It's a strange thing, to try and put myself before others. It feels selfish and wrong.
How do you do it?
It was something along the lines of it not mattering how compassionate one is towards others if one cannot also be compassionate toward one's self.
I've heard variations on this theme throughout my life - if one cannot love one's self, how can others love one, if one does not see one's own beauty, how can anyone else, if one cannot apply love, healing, compassion, or whatever to one's self then it is incomplete.
It is terribly difficult foe me to look at myself in the mirror, and it is equally difficult for me to see myself as having value. So many messages incoming that tell me I don't measure up, so many times hearing that I am worthless and useless because I don't fit some mold, some idea or ideal of what a person should be, and after a while it really does drown out the smaller, quieter, kinder thoughts and truths.
I am pondering this idea that I deserve compassion, too. I can't quite wrap my mind around it. I have always said, and meant, that I don't matter. My needs don't matter. My wants don't matter. That can't be healthy.
It's a strange thing, to try and put myself before others. It feels selfish and wrong.
How do you do it?
Sunday, October 25, 2015
But Oh, Wouldn't It Be Lovely?
Sigh.
What one wants and what one needs may be two different things, but they sure can feel much alike.
That I need to find a way to move my family to a place less surrounded by hateful neighbors and overzealous law enforcement, a place perhaps quieter and more distant from the city, is a given in my family.
That I want to move closer to my mother and my friend A, out into the country, is also a given.
Those two things often get entangled.
And the truth is...
The truth is that my mother already pays my mortgage and most of my bills. She buys clothing for my children and takes care of my medical expenses. Hell, she even buys cat food most of the time because I cannot.
The truth is, I can never repay her for all that she does.
So getting a new place, moving out of this neighborhood and into the country, just isn't possible the way things stand now.
I can want in one hand and spit in the other, and I know which one will fill up first.
But I do want.
I do.
There's a place for sale, just went on the market last Friday, isn't even on the MLS yet. The asking price is ambitious on the part of the seller and well beyond the best that I could offer (about $2.75 at the moment), and there is no way short of a lottery win that I can make it happen, but dammit, the wanting throbs into the feeling of need, and the need grinds away at me and won't let me be.
I cannot stop thinking about this house. I haven't seen it, only heard a description from a friend who lives across the street. I likely won't ever see it, because seeing it would just make the wanting worse, and why waste the time or energy taunting myself?
More and more of my life is there, near my mother. My doctor, my new counselor (I found a place that provides psych services on a sliding scale) are a few minutes away. Eventually, I will make it up there, away from here, far from the unpleasant neighbor who wishes me to live her way because only she knows how to live a right life. For now I feel both sheltered and trapped here in Casa de Crazy. It's a good house in a good place and I've no right to complain or wish for more than what we have. I can't help it, though.
I'll feel this want until the house is sold and I have a few days of despair to muddle through because I hoped that a miracle would occur, maybe.
One can dream, and one can wish, and one can think how nice it would be, and life goes on, but oh...
What one wants and what one needs may be two different things, but they sure can feel much alike.
That I need to find a way to move my family to a place less surrounded by hateful neighbors and overzealous law enforcement, a place perhaps quieter and more distant from the city, is a given in my family.
That I want to move closer to my mother and my friend A, out into the country, is also a given.
Those two things often get entangled.
And the truth is...
The truth is that my mother already pays my mortgage and most of my bills. She buys clothing for my children and takes care of my medical expenses. Hell, she even buys cat food most of the time because I cannot.
The truth is, I can never repay her for all that she does.
So getting a new place, moving out of this neighborhood and into the country, just isn't possible the way things stand now.
I can want in one hand and spit in the other, and I know which one will fill up first.
But I do want.
I do.
There's a place for sale, just went on the market last Friday, isn't even on the MLS yet. The asking price is ambitious on the part of the seller and well beyond the best that I could offer (about $2.75 at the moment), and there is no way short of a lottery win that I can make it happen, but dammit, the wanting throbs into the feeling of need, and the need grinds away at me and won't let me be.
I cannot stop thinking about this house. I haven't seen it, only heard a description from a friend who lives across the street. I likely won't ever see it, because seeing it would just make the wanting worse, and why waste the time or energy taunting myself?
More and more of my life is there, near my mother. My doctor, my new counselor (I found a place that provides psych services on a sliding scale) are a few minutes away. Eventually, I will make it up there, away from here, far from the unpleasant neighbor who wishes me to live her way because only she knows how to live a right life. For now I feel both sheltered and trapped here in Casa de Crazy. It's a good house in a good place and I've no right to complain or wish for more than what we have. I can't help it, though.
I'll feel this want until the house is sold and I have a few days of despair to muddle through because I hoped that a miracle would occur, maybe.
One can dream, and one can wish, and one can think how nice it would be, and life goes on, but oh...
Saturday, October 17, 2015
...and Everything*
I am dealing with a few stressors in my life right now and am a bit on edge.
Ahem. Excuse me while I smack spellcheck upside the head for telling me the "stressors" is not a word.
There's a general swarm of things that take turns nipping at me and keeping me on the run.**
And I've been a little sick for the past week.
It all adds up.
It feeds my depression and it fills up my Variety Plate, and sometimes it gets physical.
Which is how I explain what happened today.
I had a performance with the band today. It was about a two-hour drive from home, so I opted to drive up this morning (can't afford a room and spending the night in the van with Sprout is a a great, big "NO!!!" with flashing lights, whistles, bells, and one of those twirly lights on top like the old-time police cars had). I didn't have any breakfast because I wasn't hungry, but I did get a cup of coffee on the way. We got there in good order and I helped a tiny bit with setting up the stage, then drank some water and ate a couple of Slim Jims and an apple. Slim Jims are several food groups in one and chock full of preservatives and chemicals so they are health food. Hush. I'll have a fabulous carcass for a hundred years or more! The apple was a lovely Honeycrisp, and completely faultless in the coming events. I would like to note that I have eaten less and worse and eon more without coming to grief.
I finished getting my things arranged on stage, did sound check, and we launched into performance.
At first, I didn't notice anything amiss.
Then, the light.
Strangely bright, it crept into the edges of my vision and made the world a sort of flat negative of itself. It grew brighter and bolder and sort of puddled and pooled into more of my field until everything seemed to be covered in a kind of glaring, molten white glaze.
I couldn't read the words on my lyrics pages, and eventually couldn't see the drum that was inches in front of me.
My hearing began to twist and get all knotted up, everything sort of throbby and fuzzy and far away.
I have felt this before, once, when I was pregnant with the Evil Genius and my appendix exploded and I passed out on the bathroom floor.
Not caring to thud onto the stage in a rather graceless lump of singer, or tumble off the front in a sad-seeming attempt at crowd surfing, I placed my hands on the edge of my drum and bent down as far as I could, sort of but not really getting my head between my knees. It kinda helped, in a not-passing-out sort of way, but I was useless for singing or playing.
I stood back up and tried to keep going, but had to do the bend-over again.
Some kind person put a stool behind my arse and sort of shoved me to sit on it, which I did.
Still, the light, the sound, everything was all sideways and inside out and white and blinding and throbby and fuzzy.
Eventually I stood up and tried to be a more dynamic performer, but I felt something even more not right and finally...
I did something that I have never before done, not once, not in all my time performing, not when I was tired or sick or had foot and leg cramps, not when I was pregnant or anything - I left the stage. I walked off, waving a fellow performer, a guest who was playing with us, to take my place at the microphone, got myself down the two step, and somehow made my way off behind the stage to a shady spot. My vision cleared the tiniest bit. A friend was there and asked if needed help. I couldn't understand what he was saying despite his speaking clearly - my hearing was malfunctioning, my ears full of cotton and clay and distortion. Finally I understood he was asking if I needed anything. I asked him to hold my hat and not to worry, I'd be fine in a bit. He was so sweet and obliging!
The nice old tree in front of me propped me up, and eventually was kind enough to let me lean on it and empty my innards. Several times.
When I felt that last week's lunch was finished egressing, I went back to the stage, just in time to finish the set.
When we were done, I had to go find shade and sit for a very long time before I could pack my things and leave. The light just wouldn't behave and time was all stretchy-like. I had to ask a friend to look after my daughter because I couldn't. I drank small sips of root beer and water and eventually felt well enough to get up and pack my gear, find Sprout, even get some lemonade and french fries (which were rather steadying, despite sounding like just exactly what one wouldn't need after such an episode).
Sprout and I drove home, and as the lemonade and fries and air conditioning in the van took hold, I felt much better.
When we got home I lay down and slept for three hours. I would be sleeping, still, if the kids hadn't reminded me that in many homes, dinner is an actual thing and they'd like some, please and thank you.
Tomorrow I will simply rest. I had other plans, but am loathe to endanger my child, myself, or anyone else going out into the world when I may have a repeat of today's episode. Life will have to go on without me for a few days, and then I'll see how I feel about it, the Universe, and...well...Everything.
* this got long. Sorry. It does say "Everything" in the title, though.
**More about this later, no need to stretch out an already rather too long post.
Wednesday, October 14, 2015
I've Been A-Searchin'
Dear Google,
When I very carefully type words into your search field, it is safe to presume that those are the very qualities I am searching for in my, er, search.
For instance, if I should enter "Dark Blue Bunny Costume, Adult", then I am most likely looking for an adult sized rabbit costume, dark blue in color.
What it most certainly DOESN'T mean is that I want chickens, ducks, pirates, white or pink rabbits, or baby onesies (however cute they may be).
It most certainly DOESN'T mean I want models, toys, grey, brown, or purple costumes in children's sizes.
If I carefully, clearly type in that I wish to see BLUE bunny rabbit costumes in ADULT sizes, you can bet that I pretty much want to see just that and nothing more. Not leopards. Not penguins. Not stuffed animals. Not sexy ANYTHING.
I appreciate the marvels of the search engine and all of the fine tuning that goes into them, and I try very hard to be as specific as I can be, including using the ability to exclude certain terms to make the search more fine tunes. Please, Google, don't waste my time and resources by INCLUDING the very things I EXCLUDED because why would you do that???
Sigh.
Sincerely,
A Very Frustrated Mum Who Is Trying To Find Her Evil Genius the Costume He Desperately Wants for Halloween (or "Samhain" as it's called around here).
When I very carefully type words into your search field, it is safe to presume that those are the very qualities I am searching for in my, er, search.
For instance, if I should enter "Dark Blue Bunny Costume, Adult", then I am most likely looking for an adult sized rabbit costume, dark blue in color.
What it most certainly DOESN'T mean is that I want chickens, ducks, pirates, white or pink rabbits, or baby onesies (however cute they may be).
It most certainly DOESN'T mean I want models, toys, grey, brown, or purple costumes in children's sizes.
If I carefully, clearly type in that I wish to see BLUE bunny rabbit costumes in ADULT sizes, you can bet that I pretty much want to see just that and nothing more. Not leopards. Not penguins. Not stuffed animals. Not sexy ANYTHING.
I appreciate the marvels of the search engine and all of the fine tuning that goes into them, and I try very hard to be as specific as I can be, including using the ability to exclude certain terms to make the search more fine tunes. Please, Google, don't waste my time and resources by INCLUDING the very things I EXCLUDED because why would you do that???
Sigh.
Sincerely,
A Very Frustrated Mum Who Is Trying To Find Her Evil Genius the Costume He Desperately Wants for Halloween (or "Samhain" as it's called around here).
Monday, October 12, 2015
Lost In Translation
I don't know what it is that I need, only that I need something, some indefinable thing, some thing that will take away the empty loneliness and shine some light in the dark corners or at the very least offer a few drops of comfort to fill a void that has grown for so long it may never be entirely filled.
I'm not sure what makes the emptiness ache the way it does, but it aches and I can't seem to numb the pain with any conventional means, and unconventional means are not an option although I can understand how people turn to drugs or drink or sex or some other thing to distract or remove themselves from what's paining them even when that answer isn't real relief and doesn't do anything but mask what's there without ever really fixing. So why's it called a fix, then? Those things just make it worse, and I don't need worse, I need better.
Oh, I am restless and want to wander free, wild, alone, no children or cats or fish or Someone or mother or friends or anyone or anything who is part of the history of me that feels so awfully heavy right now. I feel the gypsy part of my soul stirring, turning her face into the wind, smiling, yearning to hitch up her ponies and follow the swirling autumn leaves away, away, away, but I am not the gypsy, not entirely, only partially, and she's been chained for so long that I don't know, really, if she remembers how to wander, how to dance beneath the moon on a winter-cold night while the stars burn with their tiny ferocity and the dew freezes into frost crystal patterns finer than the fanciest etched glass in the greatest manor house.
Something akin to peace, quiet, rest, solitude, something like not being responsible for myself or for anyone else, something like not having to clean or cook or make a decision, something like sleeping in for days and days and swinging gently on a hammock and napping and sitting out in the dark counting stars and not hearing people or feeling anger or fear or hurt or all this tired.
How does one find what one cannot name?
I'm not sure what makes the emptiness ache the way it does, but it aches and I can't seem to numb the pain with any conventional means, and unconventional means are not an option although I can understand how people turn to drugs or drink or sex or some other thing to distract or remove themselves from what's paining them even when that answer isn't real relief and doesn't do anything but mask what's there without ever really fixing. So why's it called a fix, then? Those things just make it worse, and I don't need worse, I need better.
Oh, I am restless and want to wander free, wild, alone, no children or cats or fish or Someone or mother or friends or anyone or anything who is part of the history of me that feels so awfully heavy right now. I feel the gypsy part of my soul stirring, turning her face into the wind, smiling, yearning to hitch up her ponies and follow the swirling autumn leaves away, away, away, but I am not the gypsy, not entirely, only partially, and she's been chained for so long that I don't know, really, if she remembers how to wander, how to dance beneath the moon on a winter-cold night while the stars burn with their tiny ferocity and the dew freezes into frost crystal patterns finer than the fanciest etched glass in the greatest manor house.
Something akin to peace, quiet, rest, solitude, something like not being responsible for myself or for anyone else, something like not having to clean or cook or make a decision, something like sleeping in for days and days and swinging gently on a hammock and napping and sitting out in the dark counting stars and not hearing people or feeling anger or fear or hurt or all this tired.
How does one find what one cannot name?
Sunday, October 4, 2015
Without One, No Other
Despite ourselves, we continue
To fight the desperate fight
Clinging with strong, bony fingers
And wiry strength
With all our might
We never let the light send the shadows away
Bright as it burns, we still seek shade
Hoping to make them stay
And help us sharpen
The glimmering hope
For which we pray
The one, the other
Each defining each
We between them twist and turn
Trying not to become lost
Trying not to burn
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