Unraveling

My mother knit a scarf and hat for the Evil Genius a few years ago.  Bright green yarn shot through with other vivid colors.  When we had the Great Mouse Invasion of the van the next year, the rodent gnawed on them, leaving holes.

Such a thing can be repaired, but Mom found it easier to simply use the last of the yarn to make new ones.

I still have the old ones.

They'll never be the same, even if I could mend them, but even full of holes and slowly coming undone, I can't bring myself to toss them away.

I cling to things.

Even when they're gnawed, worn, falling apart.

Unraveling.

But sometimes...

Sometimes...

Sometimes  I DO let go.

A Prayer

Help me do good today.
Let me shine with your light.
May I be compassionate.
May I be kind.
May I be loving.
May I be my better Self.
Help me do good today.
~~~~~
There are times when I am less that the above.  Times where I strive simply not to do harm, when doing good feels far beyond my reach but I reach anyway.

Never, despite all of my madness or anger or fear or sorrow; never, despite the bitterness I have felt at human iniquities; never have I thought that anyone else should suffer or die because they didn't think, act, believe, worship, love or live as I do.

If we collectively worried less about who or how our fellows are loving and worried more about how we could do good today...perhaps the world might become a gentler, kinder, friendlier, happier, more pleasant place to live.

Memorial Day

Photo found here and copied entirely without permission but not without respect.

For a history of this day, go here. Or here. Or here. In a nutshell, Memorial Day is for remembering the fallen.  Perhaps one day, we won't have any new graves to decorate. Until then, I remember and (as best I can) I honor.

~~~~~
In Flanders Fields by John McCrea

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead.  Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from flailing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields

For the Dead

I have been dreaming of the dead.  Of?  With?

They've been with me.

We talk.

Not ghosts.  Ghosts don't bother with me.  No, really - haunted places are suddenly not haunted when I'm around, and I have plenty of stories to back that claim.

They're kind of oblique, slippery, like they've forgotten how to say things.  They feel around for words and meanings and try to catch a hold of what they want to say, but what's clear to them is mud to me.

Mostly I like sitting with them and remembering good times.  We laugh.

Shayne's been around, and John Watson, and my grandfather.  Someone who is either my father's mother or Amelia Earhart dressing in old-timey flying togs has come to call.  Tom Swirble.  Even Miss Pat, my father's step-mother.  I really liked Miss Pat.  I never got to say farewell to her - I was in boarding school and no one told me she was ill, and when she passed I wasn't given the option to go to the funeral.  At the time I felt like no one wanted to be bothered with me, and I was left to mourn at school.  I mourned quietly and never let anyone see my tears.  That wasn't the beginning of a trend, but it certainly helped cement the behavior into place.

So, yeah, the dead are on my mind and I felt like posting some of my thoughts/rituals regarding the passing from one world to the next.
~~~~~

I believe that we honor the dead by living.

To me, Death, that incarnation of immortality, the archetype, is no one to be feared or hated.  Death is the final lover,  the last dance.  The kiss of Death is what carries us away, and that embrace is the ultimate comfort.  I don't seek Him (for me, he is male.  It is what you need it to be) but I won't run from him when it's my turn.

Prayers for the dead:

May the waters receive her gently,
Wash her clean of all sorrow,
Heal her spirit
Carry her home
May the fire burn brightly for her
Turn her burdens to ash
Warm her spirit
Light her way home
May the winds lift her softly
Clear away her confusion
Help her spirit soar
Help her fly home
May the earth embrace her
Wrap her in a loving embrace
Transform her once more
Now she is home
~~~

May her journey to the next life be swift and easy.  May she leave behind her all memory of sorrow or pain.  May she carry with her the memories of love and laughter and all that was good in her life.  May she be met with joy and fellowship by those who went before.  If she returns to the circle once more, may she be known by those who loved her in this life.
~~~

I'm the one who will laugh at a funeral.  I will tell the outrageous story.  I will remember how their eyes lit with mischief and how they taught my children inappropriate things.  I will not likely weep where you can see, but laugh?  Oh, yes, I will.  I remember the living.  The dead, I honor, but they are gone and what is left is a distillate of recollection.  I wish it to be more sweet than bitter, and so I invoke Giggliata, goddess of mirth and merriment, and I send my beloved dead away on a tide of happy tales.  I hope when I die, if anyone mourns, they'll mourn with jokes and stories full of warmth and humor.
~~~~~

What about you?  How do you feel about death and dying?

Mother's Day at Casa de Crazy

I'm a bit late in the day writing this, but I haven't had a chance to open up Albino Bob the Wonder Computer until just now.

Strictly speaking, most of Mother's Day wasn't actually at Casa de Crazy, as we opted to haul our little gaggle of chaos on up to Mom's to celebrate there.

Sprout decided that for other's Day, I should have her company in the big, comfy bed at about 3:00 AM and enjoy her thrashing about and general covers-hoggery.  She's a giver, that one.  She also decided that I needed to have her little squeaky toy version of Grumpy Bear of Care Bears fame (Mizz A will understand better than most what a big deal that is). 

We slept in, if "slept in" means I was thrashed by my daughter, walked on by cats, and had to pee twice, all before 10:00.

After giving up on any more sleep, I decided to give the mama cats in the garage a Mother's Day treat - they're being such wonderful mamas, especially for first-timers, they deserve a little something special.  I mixed up some cat food with drippings from the chicken I roasted last night, and then added a little chopped chicken meat.  They appreciated it, and I loved on the babies for a while.  Oh, lort, these kittens are freakin' cute!

Then it was off to the grocery store to get lunch, some flowers, and a cookie cake, and on up to Mom's.

Mizz A joined us.  It was nice, laid back.  We had lunch, the kids and Mizz A played out in the yard and Mom and I played in her garden, then we enjoyed some cookie and came on home.

Home again, I've been doing dishes and drying laundry and am now about to fold a couple of baskets of clean clothes for the kids.

For me there were no flowers, no balloons, no breakfast in bed or spa day, none of the things that are supposed to be the usual Mother's Day...but I'm good.  I enjoyed my Mom, I enjoyed playing in her garden and chatting with her and Mizz A, enjoyed listening to my kids play, and I even enjoy (maybe just a tiny bit) folding the laundry and getting the dishes done.  I'm going to enjoy the fried chicken I picked up on the way home, and the mashed potatoes and caramelized canned corn I'm making for dinner, and I'm going to enjoy watching a movie of some kind after the kids and I come in from playing outside/watering the garden.

Simple gifts, yo.

Happy Mother's Day to any and every person who mothers, in whatever fashion.  We're pretty freakin' amazing.

Happy Beltane (another re-post)

Happy Beltane, for those who celebrate.

If you'd like to know a bit about the holiday, go here. Or here. Or here. Or Google search Beltane and duck before your computer spits out a load of links. When you're done reading, come back and giggle because I said "load of links". I won't tell.

Meanwhile, perhaps I will find something to burn and roast marshmallows over this evening, the closest thing to a Beltane celebration I'll have this year. Sigh.

Dark Matter

A murder of crows..

A murder?  Who thought of this?  Who decided to name these avian historians such a dark and angry name when they group, as if the fault is theirs?

These crows, they fluttered, feather askew, ruffled by the capricious wind, flapped and fluttered like ragged scraps of Death's cloak torn free from his regalia and flung skyward with little heed for up or down or any compass points.  Scattered into the dusking sky, harbingers of another soul parted from form.

Soul, or spirit?  What's the difference?

It was a deer, doe, unwary, perhaps not understanding the huge and forceful mechanical monster that bore down on her with speed she couldn't comprehend or calculate, catching her mid-leap then tossing her aside and roaring onward with no consequence save maybe a chipped tooth and a shaking driver who has somewhere to be, can't stop, stupid deer should've known better, on a timetable, dammit I hope she didn't wreck my front end.

The crows are brave, hopping to the side of the road and then back to her bounty.

Soul or spirit?

She's an animal.

Ego would have us believe that she has no soul, for animals are dumb in more than one sense.  But spirit they may have, for spirit is that little bit of the divine that all living things carry.

Soul, well, soul is for humans, only for humans, only for us because we are thinking, reasoning, self-aware, and more than that, aware of what is beyond us, of the indefinable.  We are uniquely able to see through the light into the heart of darkness, if we dare.

Beautiful dark.

I love the dark,

I hate it.

Cold and slick, it slips around me with sibilant whispers and intimations of what should.

What should?

This and that and anything that isn't.

I love the dark, the night pierced by stars and streaming light and the inexorable dance of the planets into entropy's embrace and the music that dayfolk tremble to hear in all its ecstasy.  Fearful, beautiful, loathsome, beloved dark.

I love the crows.  Tell me a story, cousin.  Harsh cries of "Aww!  AWW!!" back and forth and sometimes they land and turn their heads this way and that, staring at me and wondering what I am asking, what I am trying to tell with my hoarse, coarse mimicry of their tongue.

The crows don't know what should.  They only know what was and what is.  Something dies and they feast and remember and tell the tale and it carries from generation to generation from beginning to end, and in the end when the final darkness folds itself around everything, it will be the collective "Aww!  AWW!!" that rolls out and slowly dies into a near imperceptible vibration that shakes the single point loose and bursts outward into the new being, rooted in the old and ringing with that corvid call.

But we're the ones with souls, I'm told, immortal souls that mark us as more and better and other and all that, and certainly the deer was beautiful in her life, and graceful, but I with my clunky motion and graceless form am the better?  She provides life even in death and what do I do, in life, that is her equal?

I'm surrounded by death - dead eyed people staring at me because maybe I shine too bright within my darkness and maybe I don't care what they see with their flat eyes and cold gazes, dead spirited people who claim to have more soul, better soul because they pay lip service to something they don't believe, really, or at least they act contrary to the thing they worship.

All those shadows and shades, they don't like anything that isn't them and they claim soul as theirs alone and curse anything else.

The soul is immortality and so we are immortal, but that deer, she'll live forever in the crow's tales and in everything that feeds upon her carcass, certainly live long past the time the driver who hit her shuffles off this mortal coil and is buried in some vault where his body will never rejoin the whole and his precious soul will find itself astonished at suddenly being a deer wondering what that strange black surface is and if it can be crossed to find sweeter grass on yonder side, and what is that whistling, roaring noise?

Gettin' Grilled

Waaaaaah!

My beloved blue grill/portable fireplace bit the dust.  Literally - it lost another of its legs and tumbled to the ground, never to rise and burn again.

It happened when Sprout moved it so she could watch the roofer...er...roof, but I'm still sad about it.

Now I have no grill/portable fireplace, and I rather miss it.  I suspect I will miss it even more as we enter into grillin' season.  I know that Someone will be disappointed when he comes home and there's no way to char meat over burning stuff.

Sigh.

I still have the little grill we use for camping, but I kinda use that when we're camping which means it lives in the trailer and isn't awfully handy to the Casa.

I'd like to get a new grill for Casa de Crazy, one more suited to the use we put it to here, but it's not a priority.  Meanwhile, I am thinking about knocking the last leg off of Old Blue and placing it in the fire pit...okay, hole in the yard...and grilling at ground level for a while.  We're nothing if not adaptable and maybe a teensy bit redneck around here.

Whoa.

I found out this evening that the sheriff who lives two doors down was fired from his job because he allegedly had an inappropriate relationship with a detainee he was supervising.

The mind immediately leaps to conclusions, rather unflattering ones.

Mostly I feel sad for him and his family.  If it proves to be much ado about nothing, his reputation is forever sullied.  You can't wipe this kind of stain clean no matter how false the origins.  Just ask the McMartin family.

If it proves true, he faces some pretty serious consequences.  I don't know the family well, but if they're typical of this area, he faces losing his marriage, his kids, his job, perhaps his freedom and his future.  It is unlawful to have relationships with detainees, even consensual ones.  It is considered to be rape, regardless of the circumstance, and is treated as such.  It's considered a gross abuse of power.  A detainee cannot, under the law, consent.

I wonder if the horrid woman next door, the one who takes such a smugly superior tone with me when she hurls her judgement at me and my family, knows about this.  While she still discourages her children from playing with or even speaking to mine, she hasn't kept them from visiting with him and his.  I admit, this puzzles and galls - here I am, living openly and honestly and trying awfully hard to maintain my integrity and live a compassionate and loving life, and I'm snubbed and chastised...and there he is, accused of an egregious abuse of power and of breaking what are supposed to be vows so sacred that it offends them and their church to contemplate letting anyone outside their rather narrow norms take them, and he is still more acceptable company than my children.

Sigh.

Que sera, sera, but it is likely that I will keep watch from my distance, watch and wait and reach out to catch his family if they start to fall, make sure they are fed and can find solace if the worst occurs and the life they've always known disintegrates.  The children are not guilty of the sins of the father, not that I believe in sin.  He himself deserves compassion no matter what he has done, because he is human and may have lost his way, and being lost like that can be devastating to the human soul.  I've wandered lost, myself, far too often and too long to let anyone else suffer for want of light.

Seventh Heaven

Seventh time I'm posting this, but why mess with perfection, eh? Yeah, yeah, I'm a lazy blogger.  You still love me, right?  Right???  Why do I hear crickets...?
~~~~~
With apologies to my friend Mizz D.D. who has a far better grasp of Irish history and much stronger Google Foo than I.

I'm cooking corned beef and cabbage tonight, much to my delight - there will be plenty for dinner and enough left over for hash tomorrow. Our friend Mizz A will be joining us, and maybe T.  I'll miss having Someone here, making appreciative noises and poking his beak in the pot from time to time.  The man is not patient when it comes to our corned beef dinner!  Bird opts out of the feast entirely, causing me to question whether he's really mine. I get not liking cabbage, but potatoes? Something's not right with the child. Someone would happily scarf the lot if he was here, because he's a good Irish lad.  Sprout may try a taste, or she may not.  She's trying to be more adventurous about food, but she can be put off if it looks odd.

I'm planning on baking soda bread, too, because we like it and any leftovers can be used to make a nice doorstop or stone axe.

Seeing as I'm Pagan, you wouldn't think I'd celebrate St. Patrick's Day. Better than most, I am supposed know what St. Patrick did to get famous and earn his sainthood. However, I'm also part Irish, and I happen to love corned beef and cabbage. Also, I consider it a reclaiming of the day for Pagans, or some junk.

A bit of slightly bent history (that has, I'll grant you, been mangled in my head over the years and is rather truncated because I'm not writing a book, here)(I'm writing a book somewhere else). When I was a child, we were told that St. Patrick's day was to celebrate his chasing all the snakes out of Ireland. It is an historically serpent-free bit of earth, and the church attributed this to Paddy and his efforts...kind of overlooking that there weren't any of the slithery things on the island to begin with, if you ask me. Which they didn't, because I was a kid and most grown-ups weren't prepared for my staggering logic and keen grasp of history but rather appalling lack of respect for theology.

 Many years later, people were saying St. Patrick's Day was a celebration of all things Irish, like green beer (wait, isn't beer German??) and green clothes, and green hair, and green mashed potatoes (which I won't eat on a dare because, really...green potatoes???), and rivers dyed green (I'm sure the fish are all so very thankful to be included...like Fridays and Lent weren't enough for them!)(that might only be funny if you're Catholic)(or not) and exclusionary parades, and funny little men waving their shillelaghs about (look it up you pervs!!) and that sort of thing.

 In none of the many different explanations for this seemingly random holiday did anyone mention pagans. A most curious oversight of you know what St. Patrick, who was just Patrick at the time (not really, I have no idea what his real name was. For all I know, it was Fred), was actually doing on the Emerald Isle.

He was born and lived sometime between 490 and 461 AD, give or take. Around age sixteen, he was either sent or stolen and taken to Ireland where he spent some time hanging out with sheep and being lonely. He talked to God a lot. You may notice that lots of shepherds do that. You would too if all you had for company all day was a bunch of mutton-heads. I'm sure the Pope understands...

Christianity was rolling along like a snowball in those days, spreading out all over the dang place. Good grief, it was getting so that a simple Pagan/Heathen (there's a difference between the two, not that the church cared much) couldn't get any peace any more. Everywhere they turned, there was a church being built where a sacred grove used to be, from the trees that used to be the sacred grove, or a church going up on a sacred hill, or someone bathing their dirty feet in a sacred stream. To be fair, there was a lot of real estate lumped under that "sacred" heading in the pagan world. We're like that - we just love our planet so. Plus, you know, all those gods needed housing, and they don't do the roommate thing very well. So the pagans were running out of places to have sex on the ground, in the woods, up a tree - they were big on the sex, those little devils - and to read entrails in their spare time.

I digressed. Sorry.

So there was this lonely kid, Patrick Whatsisname, hanging out with sheep and pondering life, the Universe, and everything. He got the idea, somewhere along the way, that maybe other folks should share his God. He got out of his contract (OK, probably slavery) and went around telling folks how terrific his God was, and how he reckoned they should convert. It seems that polite conversation wasn't doing it for the pagans, who tended to stare at him, or point and laugh. Rude beggars, huh? Now young Patrick (or middle aged Patrick, or old Patrick, I have no idea) decided he needed to be a bit more...persuasive. He had noticed something common among the pagan big-wigs. The guys at the top of the food-chain, magic/spirituality wise speaking tended to have a symbol on them somewhere...often around their wrist. On the wrist that indicated their "hand of power", or the hand which they believed their "magic" flowed from. If it wasn't a tattoo, it was a torque. Guess what the tattoo/torque was? A critter called the oroborus. For them as what doesn't ken what that critter is, it's a snake eating its tail, and often represents eternity.
Pat realized that if he took away this "power", he took away their mystique and leadership ability. So he removed the snakes - often with something edged and unpleasant. Yes, he whacked off their hands. Or branded their skin. Or took their trinkets. Converting Heathens is such messy work!! It was for their own good, of course.

Some pagans today go on "snake crawls", a sort of pub crawl where they wear snakes and proclaim their paganism. I'm not quite that...er...proactive. I also don't necessarily think old Pat went around mauling everyone he met in an effort to build church membership and win a nifty prize. But it's the bloody aspect of what he supposedly did that earned his name in Christendom and for which his holiday is celebrated.

So again, why would I celebrate the day? Well, I'm all for a day when families get together and discuss history, theology, spirituality, and the like. Traditions are important - they give us a foundation on which to build our lives. People should discuss their history so they don't repeat it - whatever side of the issue they're on. Also, as I mentioned, I am part Irish. I can celebrate that heritage even as I acknowledge its imperfection. And I am Pagan - and I am celebrating the fact that I can be pagan today without (much) fear of having my (largely not visible when I'm clothed) tattoos painfully removed and other unpleasantness (except for the odd zealot who thinks I'm fair game, but I'm used to that. I live in the Bible belt, after all). Precisely because we didn't get wiped out, I celebrate. And have you ever had a really nice corned beef and cabbage dinner? I mean, yum! Oh, but I won't be wearing green. I wear blue. Don't even think about pinching me.

Antvasion!

Casa de Crazy has Occasional Ants.  Not ants for all occasions, which brings to mind ants dressed in all kinds of fun costumes, dancing, wee tuxedos and shiny shoes with six spats, bow ties impeccably tied.  Or ants in holiday hats hauling enormous sacks of presents around.  Or ants helping pack boxes and move them out to the van.

No, we occasionally (and by occasionally I mean more and more often) have large, black ants marching about the kitchen on various ant missions that they don't bother telling us about.

Oh, lort, is that my counter?  I swear it's not really that dirty - I just sprinkled pepper on a chicken and it kind of got away from me.  Ahem.

That fellow up there is one of the smaller ones.  Yes, smaller.

 Another one of the smaller ones, pausing to groom itself for its close up.

I didn't mind them much at first.  When they initially visited casa de Crazy, there weren't many of them and I managed to keep their traffic down with soap, Borax mixed with jelly or sugar water, and occasional smooshings.  Always with a warning, of course, because I don't think it's right to just bump someone off out of the blue.  Yes, I warn the bugs.  I warn mosquitoes, too.  And ticks.  They never listen, but I warn them.

Anyway, these here ants have come back year after year, kind of like the Capistrano swallows but way less nifty and far more scattershot with their timing.  Last year was pretty bad, even with ant baits and continued blarings of Justin Bieber music.  They came earlier and stayed later into the year, but eventually they went away to wherever it is they go to when they go away.

And then, a few scant weeks after they popped off, they came back.

See those two down there?
"Mornin', Hal."
"Mornin', Fred."
Like the sheep dog and the wolf in the old Warner Brothers cartoons.

The one on the right is one of the medium-ish ones.  I couldn't get a photo of one of the big ones...it was too fast for me.  I think it was an enforcer and didn't want media exposure - nothing like having your cover blown.  It may have hissed at me as it dodged into the crack between the cupboard and the dishwasher.  It certainly shook its fist, or whatever the ant equivalent (Antquivalent?  Snerk...) of that is.

They're kind of nifty, in a horrid, my house is being taken over kind of way.  If they would keep to themselves and maybe quit partying into the wee hours, I might not feel the need to do much about them.

However.

They are starting to get impertinent.  ImpertinAnt.  Hah!

Ahem.

The are terribly familiar fellows, making bold to crawl onto my shirt when I'm standing at the counter and eventually making their way onto my arm or neck and tickling me creepily with their six feet.  I was bitten by one, once, without so much as a how-do-you-do!

If they were outside or in one of those semi-two-dimensional farm thingies I bet I'd really enjoy viewing them as they went busily about their...umm...business.

As it stands, the cats aren't amused, the children are tired of brushing ants off of themselves, the spiders are over their diet of ants a la ants, I can't really have guests over because bugs squick most people out, and I have found one too many ants cooked into my dinner because they keep investigating what's cookin' without really thinking about the consequences (oh, goddess, the Fryolator-of-Doom sure does a number on 'em) and I so hate wasting food but I'm not eating steamed or french fried ant, and also I have had one too many uninvited-critter-crawling-on-me moments.

I have called in the big guns. Contrary to my usual philosophy of live and let live, I have scheduled a six-treatment package that will turn Casa de Crazy into a chemical war zone starting on Thursday and continuing for one year.  We will hopefully be ant free, roach free, and scorpion free (Redneck Central is nothing if not well populated with critters and varmints).  I'm sad about the spider loss, but I need to not feel things crawling on me in my sleep, so the spiders have been warned to pack their bags and find buggier climes.

Here's hoping they ants don't carry us off before then!

Woe, Whoa

This is how I woke up this morning:

Daughter goes out to feed the feral cats, calls out that I hafta see this.

This?

Water.  Dripping from the garage ceiling onto my van, the floor, and sundry things beneath it.

Umm.  Water?  Drip, drip,drippity drip?

Half asleep and not prepared to deal with it, it took me a few minutes to realize I may need a plumber.  And my garage was flooding.  And some of the things in the now flooding garage are not salvageable.

Deep breath.

Back van out of garage, need elbow room.

Plumber, maybe?  How to pay for...

Daughter calls out to me that hall bathroom is flooded.

Hey, maybe that's what is leaking down through the floor and out the bulkhead in the garage.

Lots of towels on floor.  Toilet bowl is overflowing.  has been all night.

Joy.

Seems a child clogged said toilet and didn't ask for help.  That toilet runs (Sprout and I haven't had the chance to replace the flapper valve and see if that fixes it.  Guess we'll be getting on that soon) and it ran all night.  All.  Night.

The garage got doused.

Unclogged the toilet and sopped up the water on the floor.

Went down to garage.  Still drip, drip, drippity, drip.

Got screwdriver and hammer and made drainage holes.

Note:  several showers and a steam bath will be necessary today.

Drainage holes helped but were slow.  What the hey?  In for a penny, in for a pound - used hammer to make a hole.  Whoosh.  Used claw end of hammer to pull on already sagging, soaked, crumbling drywall.  Drainage commenced apace.

Bad news that could also be good news?  Van bench seats that were stowed in garage now definitely not worth saving, so out they go.  Bummer, but Mum and I don't ever use those seats and a cat or ten may have peed on them so they would have needed reupholstering anyway.  Now they just need hauling to the trash because they will require ore work than I will do or can pay for.  

Bed that was stowed in there will also have to go.  Feel bad for roommate because I was trying to keep it for her until she could come get it, but it's covered in sewer/ceiling water now and I can't have it moldering in there, and wouldn't let a child sleep on it ever again anyway.  Don't relish having to tell her...

Pretty sure the rest of what got wet was closed plastic bins.  Needs checking, maybe later.  

Shot video.  Can't upload for some reason.  Blog anyway.

Right now?  Smoothie.

Also contemplating whether or not my house is starting to reflect my mental state.

How's your day going?

Moments In the Sun

"What are you doing, Mama?"
"I'm planting seeds for the garden."
"Can I help?"
"Yup."
"Will you please move your foot so I can sit there?"
"Sure."
"Oh, sank you!"

She plops onto the edge of the driveway at my feet.

"What do I do?"
"Will you please scoop some of this dirt into that pot?"
"Okay"

"Now what?"
"I will add some mushroom compost and you can stir it up like soup."
"Ewww!"  She grins.  She likes mixing the dirt.

We load some small seed starting pots with our mix.

"Now what, Mama?"
"Now you put one seed in each space and put a little dirt over it."
"Oh, okay.  These seeds look like mushrooms!"
"They're pepper seeds.  Bhut Jolokia, very hot Ghost Peppers."
"Are we growing these for Papa?"
"Some for Papa and some for Mr. Ric."
"Will YOU eat them?"
"Not me - I don't like my mouth on fire!"

She laughs.

"There, I did all mine, now what, Mama?"
"Now we mark them and put them on the table in the sun."

She carefully carries her little six-pack to the table.  I mark them with old plastic cutlery on which I write the names of the plants. She thinks that's funny.

We plant more kinds of peppers - jalapeno, poblano, purple bell.
"These seeds look like mushrooms, too!  All the pepper seeds look like mushrooms.  How come they don't look like peppers?"
"Perhaps they're in disguise."
"Like the Flash so no one knows who he is."
"Sure."

"What's in THESE ones, Mama?"  She points to more pots on the table.
"Some lettuce, some spinach, some Bells of Ireland I planted because of Mama Ra."

"I sink I want to take a taste of some lettuce with my dinner when it grows."
"You will try some of our lettuce?"
"YES!!!"

We finish up for the day.

"Will we plant more tomorrow, Mama?"
"Yup, we will.  Will you help me?"
"YES!!!  Umm...what will we plant?"
"Tomatoes and cucumbers and sunflowers and maybe some beans, and catnip..."
"Wow, that's a LOT!!!  We are going to have an ENORMOUS garden!!!  Papa will sink it is the biggest, best garden ever!!!  We will feed EVERYONE!!!!!  I'm going to go play now."

Off she flies on her scooter, hair streaming behind her, bits of earth crumbling from her hands.

"...and okra and squash and..."

If You Really Loved Me...

I'm fairly certain we've all heard the words.  

They're often meant to be a goad or admonishment.

"If you really loved me you'd..."

What?

I'd what?  Do something that I don't like?  Compromise my integrity?  Change who I am?  Alter my foundation?  Make your happiness and well-being the most important things in my life to the exclusion of everything else including myself?

Bah.

If I really love you, I expect you to be yourself.  I expect us to be able to disagree, to be different, to want and need different things, and to be okay with that.

If I really love you I will trust you with my fear, my joy, my desire, my truth.  If you really love me, you will do the same with me.

If I really love you I will give you the gift of my compassionate, passionate honesty.  I will tell you if that dress isn't flattering or you have spinach in your teeth or your soup was a bit salty but still pretty darned good.  If you really love me you will tell me when my hair is a fright or I'm being rude or grumpy or that my socks don't match when they are supposed to (because sometimes they aren't supposed to and you understand that, too).

If I really love you I won't try to pretend or hide or wear a false smile - I will let you see me dirty, depressed, frazzled, and worn.  I expect the same.

Love isn't ownership.  Love isn't dictatorial.  Love isn't a bargain or petition.  Love isn't a debt.

If I really love you...if you really love me...then what we love is the whole, not parts we've picked and chosen with the idea that what we don't like should be changed for the sake of that love.

If you really loved me...you would love me just as I am and accept that I love you just as you are.

Bucket List Meme

I didn't mean to see it.  I didn't want to see it.  But I saw it.  And now I have to do it.  I didn't name it and I'm not tagging anyone else to do it but you're welcome to if you like.

Bucket List - please play along. You would be surprised at the responses. Whether you've done this before or not, be a good sport. Do it again (and take a brain break for a minute)!!Bucket List...copy and paste to your status. Place an X by all the things you've done, remove the X from the ones you have not.
(X) Shot a gun 
() Gone on a blind date  
(/) Skipped school  (I put half an "x" because I never had an unexcused absence, but if I'm being honest one or two of my sick days were more mental than physical) 
(X) Been lost (although I more viewed it as not knowing quite where I was but certain I could find my way to where I wanted to be eventually)(and sometimes I still feel lost even when I know where I am geographically) 
(/)Traveled to the opposite side of the country (Been from Maine to Florida, and almost all the way to California, so half an "x" it is.)
(X) Visited Washington, DC
(X) Swam in the Ocean  (SWUM in the ocean)
(X) Cried yourself to sleep
(X) Played cops and robbers
(X) Played cowboys and Indians
(X) Recently colored with crayons/colored pencils
(X)Sang karaoke  (SUNG Karaoke)
( X) Flown in a helicopter  (I was quite young but I remember bits of it clearly)
(X) Paid for a meal with coins only
( ) Made prank phone calls
() Laughed until some beverage came out of your nose
(X) Caught a snowflake on your tongue
(X)Had children
(X) Had a pet
(X ) Been skinny-dipping
(X) Been fishing
(X) Been boating
(X) Been downhill skiing
(/ ) Been water skiing (Half an"x" again because my grandfather tried to teach me but the skiis kept falling off of my feet!)
(X )Been camping in a trailer/RV
(X) Been camping in a tent
()Driven a motorcycle
( ) Been bungee-jumping (ripcord jumping)
( ) Been Sky Diving
( ) Been Hang Gliding
(X) Gone to a drive-in movie
(X) Done Something that could have killed you… and continue to
(X) Done something that you will regret for the rest of your life
( ) Rode an elephant
( ) Rode a camel
(X) Eaten just cookies or cake for dinner or ice cream
() Been on TV
( ) Stolen any traffic signs
(X) Been in a car accident
(X ) Been in the Hospital past 24 hours
(X) Donated blood
(X)Gotten a piercing
( X) Gotten a Tattoo
(X) Driven a four door vehicle
() Ever owned your dream car
(X)Been Married
(X) Been divorced
(X) Fell in love
(X) Fell out of love
(X) Paid for a stranger's meal
(X) Driven over 100mph
()Been scuba diving
(X) Been snorkeling
(X) Written a published book/story (poem) (song)
( X) Eaten snails
(X) Eaten frogs
( ) Been in a state championship game/race
( )Biked over 100 miles continuously
(X)Visited at least 25 of the United States (as long as you define "visit" as having driven through on the way somewhere else)(And stopped for fuel at least once)
(X ) Been in a race car

Spending the Lottery Winnings

Wait, what do you mean I have to buy a ticket?

Well.

That explains a lot.

Ahem.

One of my little pastimes is to imagine what I might do with a lottery windfall.  Not a paltry million or two, I'm talking something along the lines of the recent Gabillion Dollar Lottery Extravaganza (now with more Holy Wow power!)

First and foremost, I'd pay off the mortgage on Casa de Crazy, then fix the old girl up inside and out.  Then, buy land up by my mother's place and build my dream home.

Next I'd zero out all of my mother's debts.I'd buy an RV and travel a little with my family.

Next would come creating a trust for me and my family to live off of.  I'd need it, as I am not so very good with money and would hate to wind up like one of the people on that show about the lottery ruining their lives.

Then I'd set up trusts for my kids and a few other kids.  These trusts would be to pay for education either in college or in trades.  The idea would be to make it so these kids could go and learn without worrying about how to pay for it or carrying a huge debt load after finishing their education.  If any of 'em don't want to go to school, the trust will vest in their late 20's or early 30's and they can use it to fund their lives for as long as it lasts.  For the ones that do go to school, anything left when they graduate is theirs for the keeping.

Then I would set up a scholarship fund of some sort, maybe more than one - something in the sciences, something in music

Next comes what I like to call a reset, or setting back to zero - paying off the debts of friends and family so that they are essentially no longer in the negative but are back to zero debt.  Houses, cars, student loans, all that sort of thing, paid off.   Maybe even pay utilities for a year.  Imagine what you could do with your life if you had no debt to worry about, if everything you earned was yours to do with as you wish.  I would do this one time each, but hopefully that's all it would take.  I know more than a few people who could soar on wings newly freed from the fetters of debt.

If it's a big enough win, I would make an official charity out of Everybody Eats, helping folks with no or low income keep their pantries full, helping people get back on their feet, working towards wiping out hunger.  Maybe I would set up a funds-match for Heifer International.

I would also create and maintain The Last Chance Ranch, a place for critters and people who have been written off to get back on their feet again, a place to heal minds, hearts, and spirits.

Once my family was squared away, I wouldn't need a bunch of money sitting around, making me weird in the head - I'm already weird in the head, I don't need more of that - I'd want to give it away and would likely have a very good time carefully, quietly, helping people rebuild themselves, rebuild their lives.  That would make me happy.

How about you?  Do you have lottery dreams?  Do tell...

Little Wonders

Today we had some pretty good moments, if of the small sort.

Casa de Crazy had to have a new roof.  The roofers started yesterday and the kids had a blast watching the goings-on.  I had a headache, but it was kind of fun to watch.  The Evil Genius discovered a nano-copter he was given for Christmas and charged it up, and all three of us had a lot of laughs over his efforts to fly it.  Our friend A came for dinner and to play with the kids, and that was a riot.  That was yesterday.

Today the roofers came an hour earlier than they said they would, surprising me with overhead thumps and whacks.  They also finished in less than an hour, cleaned up all the scraps and nails and whatnot in the yard, and removed themselves before I even finished my first cuppa tea.  The new roof looks quite nice and I have hopes it will last as long as the old one and so have to be replaced long after we have vacated Casa de Crazy for friendlier climes closer to my mother.

Sprout and I goofed off outside for a few minutes and I raced her to the van.  She won, but only because I got distracted by a cat.  We both laughed like loonies, which makes sense because I am one.

Errands were rather hum-drum, but I teased Sprout by making animal noises every time the game she was playing on her Papa's phone made a sound.  Lots of meowing, quacking, and bleating in the van, and she was giggling constantly.  She said she likes it when we are silly.  Poor kid, there's not enough silly in her life.  I'm working on that.

This afternoon I needed a nap - up hours and hours earlier than usual and short on sleep, there was no slogging through to a second wind.  I had to sleep.  While I slept, the Evil Genius and Sprout played with his nano-copter.  That poor thing has crashed into darned near every surface in this house.  It's looking a little rough but gamely soldiering on with its flights, and the kids think it's marvelous.  I even flew it a little and got it to hover in place for a few minutes!

If all of this sounds dull, inane, well...it is.  But it's also something out of the ordinary for Casa de Crazy.  Yes, depression is still trying to swallow me whole, and yes, it will likely do so until something else snuffs me, but these little things are huge when they've been absent for so long.  I'll take the grains of sand.  I know that with sand I can build some pretty impressive castles.

Let Them Eat Cake

February 15 was my birthday.  I spent it at home with the kids, having a quiet day.  I made some soup, because I wanted to, and I made my own birthday cake, also because I wanted to.

Some folks on Facebook liked the photos of the cake and asked for the recipe, so I asked if I could share it since it was given to me by someone else and one hates to publish a family thing without permission.  Permission was enthusiastically given for my sharing, so here it is:

The players:

For the cake:
One bundt pan, regular size, and possibly another one with the miniature forms or at least a brownie type pan.  I have the bundt pan that my ex’s mother (we weren’t exes at the time) gave me when she learned I don't have one, and it's maybe a little older than I am.  It's metal, and heavy, and I love it.  She also gave me the pan for mini-bundts, which makes up to six small cakes of a sunflower design.

One can of baker's Joy.  Accept no substitutes.  Seriously - I've tried other products and have been most disappointed with the results.  It's okay if you like something else better and it works for you, but I'm sticking with my Baker's Joy.

One teaspoon of each of the following - coconut extract, rum extract, butter extract, lemon extract, vanilla extract, and almond extract.

2 sticks of butter.  Yes, I said butter.  Do it.  You'll thank me.  Room temperature unless it’s winter and your house is cold because gah! heat is expensive!

1/2 cup shortening (I use those handy Crisco bricks.  One half brick is one half cup, easy peasy).

3 cups sugar.  I know.  I KNOW!

5 eggs, well beaten.  I do mean well.  As in fluffy, aerated, ouch my wrist hurts from whisking these bad boys.

3 cups all purpose flour.

1/2 teaspoon baking powder.

1 cup milk.  I use whole because this clearly isn't health food.

For the glaze:

1 cup sugar
1/2 cup water
1 teaspoon of each of the flavorings

 Aaaaand action!

Pre-heat the oven to 325 f.

To save some time and effort, I like to measure out the flavorings in advance, into two ramekins.  Interesting fact, the mix of flavors is clear until I add the lemon, then it clouds up.  Weird.  I'm sure there's science involved.

This is much easier if you have a stand type mixer with a whisk attachment.  I love my KitchenAid.

Cream the butter and shorteningtogether until well mixed.  Add the sugar and beat until fluffy.  While all this is going on, whisk the eggs in another bowl.  You want them to lighten in hue, about lemon colored.

Add the eggs to the bowl and mix until well incorporated.  Once they're a mostly mixed in I turn it up to medium speed.

Combine the flour and baking powder.  I just mix mine in a sifter.

Add dry ingredients to the bowl, alternating with the milk, beating at low speed until well incorporated.

Add in the combined flavorings, again mixing at low speed until incorporated.  Now turn the mixer to medium/medium high and walk away for a few minutes.  Yes.  Do it.

This is where I spray the everloving heck out of the bundt pan.  I hose that baby down.  Every nook and cranny is well sprayed, the whole interior is suddenly frosty white, no kidding there's not a speck of the non-stick lining to be seen.  I ain't kidding around with this thing.  I give the same treatment to three of the mini-bundts.  If you're using a brownie pan for the extra batter (and there will be extra), hose it down, too.

Now go drink a glass of water or something.

If you walked away from the batter and let the beater do its job for a few minutes (I've let mine go for as much as 15 minutes before), you will have a pale, silken batter that smells delightful.  Spoon it into your bundt pan.  I usually fill my pan 1/2 to 2/3.  The rest of the batter goes into the mini-bundts or the brownie pan - always 1/2 to 2/3 full.  This stuff poofs.

Place both in the oven for 1 hour, 15 minutes or until done.  Mine take almost the whole time.  You can take out the mini/brownie pan at 45 minutes.  Always check for doneness with a wooden pick or skewer…claggy cake is a bummer.

About 30 minutes before the cakes come out, make the glaze by combining the water, sugar, and flavorings in a sauce pan and heating to a boil, stirring often until the sugar is completely melted.

If it's done before the cakes, just turn off the burner and let it sit and think about what it’s done.

The mini-bundts are usually done about 15 minutes before the big one, so I pull them out first.  You can leave them unglazed, or spoon some glaze on the bottoms, wait ten minutes, and carefully pull them from the pans and put 'em on a plate.  Spoon a little more glaze onto the top if desired.

If you used a brownie pan, just spoon a little glaze on the top and leave it alone.

When the large cake is ready, pull it out and spoon about half the remaining glaze onto the bottom.  Let it soak in, and let the cake cool for about ten minutes.

Plate the cake* and evenly distribute the remaining glaze from the pot around the top.  Let it cool completely, then devour it.  Or, you know, save some for company or whatever.

I will not make this cake unless I know other people will help eat it, because I WILL eat the whole danged thing.



*Seems like lots of folks have their own method for de-panning this kind of cake.  Mine is to place the plate over the pan, centered, and carefully flip it.  I say a little prayer and lift the pan, and if the gods are kind and the fairies feel like picking on someone else that day, it comes up without a fuss, leaving behind a beautiful cake of beautifulness.

Love, Love, Love

Once upon a time, I would tell people that I only know one way to love - absolutely.  There were no gradations, I loved my mother the same way that I love my cats the same way that I loved my friends the same way that I loved everyone.

That still holds true in many ways.

The love I feel for K2 is no less or more than the love I feel for my mother.  The love I feel for my children and Someone is no different than the love I hold for A or Gypsy or the other K or even my ex-husband.

I can understand where this might cause some consternation.  After all, if I love them all the same, how is anyone special?  But they are special, every one of them.

The love varies in intensity and application, but always absolute - what I love best about one is not the same thing as what I love best about another - but they're all tangled up in my heart and plucking on one string makes them all vibrate.

Today's a good day to be thinking about love, what with the whole Valentine's brouhaha going on.

You are loved.  You are.  Yes, even you, the one who feels alone in the world.  You are loved.  I love you.  Not in the abstract, but in a very real way.  I don't have to know you to love and appreciate your place in this world, because this world is awesome and it couldn't be this awesome if you weren't adding your light, your reflection, your voice to the mix.

I hope that whoever you are, wherever you are, you feel loved - not just today, but every day.

Let's Get Physical

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?

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.

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?

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

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. 

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.