Bad Romance

I woke up from my nap today literally singing Lady Gaga’s Bad Romance. I had been dreaming strange things, but nothing frightening or bad. My brain is still processing the death of my exhusband and this song came out just as I was having my awakening after surviving the horrors he put me through. For the last few years it has been a comfort to me in ways, because I do not live down to the lyrics. The catchy tune was there to be a stress reliever when I needed it. It was my anthem to not return to the abuse, to not trust his platitudes through my door, and that the fears that I felt were valid. It was the musical reminder that I had survived.

I have been thinking today about all that I have survived. I cannot list it because my hand, recently injured but healing, won’t last that long and while my health has never recovered from his abuses and never will my mind has. Without knowing he was dead I had begun to push myself, because I decided to live. I went to the mall we used to frequent. It was his favorite place and I needed things. Instead of just getting what I needed and bolting I went through the entire mall and had fun with it with my carer. I even went into the bookstore. We made a day of challenging my PTSD while rewarding the impulse. I found things I would have bought online for four times as much, which for me is a reward. Apparently frugality is all I need? Frugality and dolls.

In those struggles and the darkest moments when I couldn’t even go out my own front door, I found my willingness to live. I was never willing to let him imprison me in this home because of fear. It wasn’t about him winning, but it was about being alive. I felt free of him before I knew he died and the freedom feels all the sweeter because I overcame those emotional things that I could. I will never sleep with my door unchained or unlocked, but I will go out more. Being afraid is exhausting.

I may date again, I may not. All I know is that the end of that last Bad Romance merits a playing of the song one more time. I am trying to remember why I fell for him and I can. That easy charm, saying the things I needed to hear on an emotional level and even the cats liking him. I wonder where that man went, but even him I do not mourn. I find myself mourning for his children. Not because of their father dying but because of the pain I know is in their lives. In the end though, it is a party at my house. Ra ra ra!

The Return of the Ghost I Was

I have haunted this blog since I stopped posting. Every day my fingers hovered over the keys but I couldn’t write without reprisals and my life being endangered. My voice was silenced. I became an echoing refrain in my own mind. I would write the words in my head and try to put away the desire. This was true of even my fiction work. I couldn’t publish anything under my name without my exhusband trying to murder me.

His stalking me is well documented in parts of this blog, even if most of those posts were hidden as I learned safety. I have had immense support from you, and I know some of you I couldn’t contact worried. Well, Textual Fury is back because my exhusband is dead. I do have mixed feelings but I am finding that the sad ones are for me. No one who knew thought to contact me and go “Yeah he is dead.” Which I can understand. That would require them to not be enabling his abuse, it would require them to not blame me. He blamed me, and on his last attempt on my life made it perfectly clear that I had to die so he could commit suicide.

I am obviously not dead.

In the last while I tried to blog under new names, I tried to push through. It didn’t work. I was a mute not just by choice but out of an instinct for self preservation. I have approved all pending comments, including his threatening one that wasn’t deleted. Its there for posterity. A permanent (as permanent as anything is on the internet) reminder of my survival. He died. I lived. I never expected to out last him. His body was healthy. Mine? Its MY body, with its well documented fragility, constant illness and general shorter than average life expectancy.

I no longer have to haunt my litany spot. I can simply write. Hello again, old friends.

 

Some of my adventures in the last while? Two car accidents, internal bleeding not yet resolved but not necessarily life threatening (its been around for a while now, and I actually feel pretty good despite that), Sprite needed surgery and nearly died on me from a mega abscess, I started collating my poems into a book, my art will be a part of an exhibition in Australia, The Dark Knight Rises was pretty danged awesome, my monster high collection is great and brings me joy, and my shy cat Sylvani is mostly a normal cat who jumps like popped corn. I even have a great carer. Not a good one, not a failgiver. A GREAT caregiver.

In short even before I knew he was dead my life had reached a critical point of happiness which I had once imagined as a child. My life is nothing like the actual imagined life, but I think it is far better. Sure it would be great to have my own pony and dogsled team (yes both on one sled) but I sit in my humble home with what feels like the world at my feet. I do not promise regular blogs but the turmoil of the world effects me. There is so much in this world that needs to be observed. So much to be experienced and I cannot NOT write.

The Allure of Jesus Christ (Trigger Warning)

I understand a part of Christianity that has eluded me for some time. The revelation came in the most sacred place in my house. On the potty. Toilets are wonderful for epiphanies. It’s as if letting out all of the shit and piss inside you gives you room for grand ideas or understanding. The tone of this paragraph alone should let you all know I am not quite up to my usual standard of gleaming joy despite all the depraved nonesense in the world at the moment. I think that’s okay.

I am sad over Rose again, and another friend of mine was attacked in her home. She called me and the police, and as the attacker, who most likely is the rare stranger rapist as her neighborhood which is the nicer one in her home town, has had a rapist murderer gallivanting about lately… well as he comes for her she calls me and asks me how to seriously injure him without killing him.

The beast was unleashed. It worried me, frankly because I wanted to have her kill him. I did not do so, at least unless she didn’t follow my directions correctly but the intent to kill was not there and the police are sure he will be fine. Potentially paralysed but a walker to the throat vs him raping and killing a friend? He deserves what he gets.

Yet, I entered a two hour period of extreme darkness. I don’t like feeling that way and I haven’t for years. Not even dealing with Him, aka ex stalker scary ahh, did that. I got dark, I got depressed but not on the edge where for a few hours I fantasized about ways to kill a man with a walker anally. Lets just say my mind has it’s dim corners and some that are pitch black and the lights went out. I am fine again. M the friend of awesomeness helped me sort it out but there I was, in my dark space.

The dark space isn’t anger, it’s fear, terror, and a certain helplessness. I cannot change that Rose was most likely murdered by her greedy and ungrateful children. I cannot change that a man broke into a friend’s home and attacked her. I can however say I protected one, and i could not protect Rose. I wish I could.

So my revelation is this, I had the thought, ‘If I could protect every innocent person, deserving person, and purge the world of people like Him, Steve, and the latest jackass that came to my attention I would die the most horrible death imaginable.’

So this is the allure of Christianity. It is that supposedly someone did just that. Except of course it is clear to me that their sacrifice failed. If Christ indeed existed. Since men wrote the book, about a man, and… it’s all… lies. I understand that the moral of Christianity is not the one they intend. They intend that we should all want this, to die for others and to all be great people. It just didn’t work out that way.

I still would die for my friends, family, and most everyone in the world if it was the only way to make things better. It isn’t so I am obviously not going to go and get boiled and skinned alive or something. Martrying hasn’t worked for millennia.

The thing is… I did protect my friend. I couldn’t reach for the phone and save her but I empowered her with my knowledge of how to seriously injure and or kill people, and quickly enough that she defended herself. A seriously disabled person took out the rapist murderer, not one of the able bodied rich whining bitches who had mace, tasers and food. A person spat upon by society.

I know my darkness has a purpose, because I have given it one. It’s there to remind me why I don’t want kids, who I could be easily without choosing consciously to live, and it is there to remind me of why I hate my mother. She and my father worked hard to twist me up into a piece of garbage. I chose to be something more than feces that marrs the brilliance humanity has to offer.

So I am stressed. I am sad. I am also moving forward. My paratransit interview is imminent, which means I get to take rides from strangers. I am working furiously on this music, but my sorrow is impeding the joy that the music should hold.

I also am being cuddled by Ebay cats. Sylvani has a thing for the bathroom. I think the accessibility and familiarity of a toilet, as she was I found out, allowed to go into the bathroom at the shelter has helped her to feel safer there. So she will at least come to me in there if nothing else, and there is plenty of other stuff.

Despite my frustrations, also made worse by a few weeks of severe insomnia, I managed an hour of sleeping uninterrupted. Since Sylvani accidentally cut my hand with her claws, I “punished” her by forcing her to be petted until she purred and fell asleep curled up in bed with her. I wanted to make sure she knew a little yelp of pain wasn’t the end of the world here, because her reaction was utter terror. The round eyes and the look that Sprite used to get when we would take out the trash, someone has hurt this cat over little things. She needed to know she was safe. Heck as I type about her she is now on my couch bathing and giving me this post nap look of contentment. The nap was hours ago.

Sprite and Syl are working very hard to make me happy, it’s working most of the time. I haven’t felt this sad in two weeks, and it’s not as sad as the previous sad and yet I am still triggered. Yet I am enjoying waking up to a cat who sleeps in my arms and looks like a stuffed animal, snores, drools, and chews her tail in her sleep. Sprite isn’t enthusiastic about sharing the bed with the kitten yet but she never got to where Nymph was allowed, she merely understood that sickness meant she had to do what Ny needed.

I am wondering what it will take for me to have that same sense of relief and release for Rose, that pure moment when I know it’s okay. I am obviously not converted to Christianity by my poopiphany. I just have a bit of comprehension about why people find it approachable. It’s a bit romantic along the lines of other things that are romanticised and creepy. Dying for your sins, before you are born. If I could believe reality worked with such things, then I would be full of joy at the thought, I would hold no ill will. Neither would anyone else. It’s that utopia thing that makes my brain scream and rage, because it makes no sense.

I know this was blathery and babbly, that’s a side effect of my having had a moment where I could have gone down the dark road. I just need to sleep it off. Or write a story where someone gets murdered by a zombie in a power chair.

Letting Go

There is a new kitten in this house. Like Nymph she was born in April. Unlike Nymph I found her on Ebay. Literally! Her name is not Kashi, she ignored me when I tried, as that name is very unique. I think however it is wise she didn’t choose Kashi. Between Soda and Cereal stealing words from things such as faeries and Sanskrit I would have the most accidental brand name theme. Sylvani tried to answer to Sprite, however she was convinced to try another name. Sylvani, like Sprites and Nymphs are also faeries.

She has adapted well to the household, arriving in a manner that had us both stressed out. Then with about twelve hours of home time she endured a party. It was a fantastic party actually, and I had more fun with hoardes of people in my house than I thought I would. My friends oohed and awed over Meat cake, each one was impressed with the delicious gluten free cake, and yet after it was over I found myself sad. It felt unaccountable so I sat and thought. This was naptime, so I also slept a bit. It was a dreamless sleep.

I realized watching Sylvani peak out at my guests, too shy and still overwhelmed to say hello, reminded me of Nymph when people came over. Nymph would have been this same age but hardly would she have been this size. It became clear to me with in hours of having Sylvani here that Nymph was sick the minute she came into my home. My fears that Sprite gave her the illness faded, though now that is a risk. You see Nymph was abnormally small, so small in fact that I was worried for her. Sylvani is on the small side for her age too, but is almost as big as Sprite. She is far lighter, Sprite is softer.

Nymph purred but her purr was strange. My little purr factories are very good at their jobs, producing purrs nearly twenty four hours a day. Her first hour here, Sylvani purred and napped with me. Nymph did too. Nymph seemed to purr backwards in a way, it is hard to explain but I am left to think that she had other things wrong with her. She was so tiny, so fragile. She was a cat made out of faery dust and love. Too fragile to last in reality.

Sylvani is solid. I have no fears for her future as plagued me constantly with Nymph before I even knew she was ill. I have some residual fears because of the loss of Ny but Sylvani does normal cat things. She knows how to play. Sprite has not had to teach her how. She knows how to jump, though she can’t quite make the food counter. She likes to headbutt my ankles and stretch up to touch me. Her beautiful eyes are bright and shiny and she is curious.

Nymph wasn’t all that curious. Sprite literally taught her to pounce and play. Sylvani is creating her own methods of play with the existing toys. Did you know a laserpointer needs no human? She has been flinging it and pouncing it. She found the truest method of dot defeat.

I talked with M about this for a while, and he said nothing much but did comfort me. There were no words of wisdom needed beyond, “You were afraid to love Sprite, you were afraid to Love Ny, but you don’t seem to hold any fears for Sylvani.” My fear for Sprite was that I would be homeless and could not feed her. This came to pass, though not at all in the expected manner. My fear for Nymph came to pass. It seems my subconscious does a very good job of creating reasonable fears.

I could not see Nymph as an adult cat. Sylvani being nearly identical to Sprite with the exception of the angular nature of her eyes may help but I can see them together in a fear years, Sylvani coming with me as a service animal. I could see Nymph as one but her passivity worried me too at times for a service animal is not always passive with their person, at least with my method of training. Service animals are a balance between proactive and passive.

I find myself no longer so worried that I had failed Nymph in some invisible way that only I was aware of. I find myself mourning her still but not as much. Sylvani is healthy. She is not so small that I worry about her dying because of the surgery to have her spayed or nuetered. She’s a girl so whichever applies. In fact she has managed to kick Sprite out of the sunny spot, without so much as a hiss.

Sylvani and Sprite are most likely related with in a generation. Either Sylvani is Sprite’s Niece or Sprite’s mother lived a long time while producing offspring. This is based on more than their looks. Sprite spent a time in the same Shelter that I found Sylvani on. Via Ebay yet still a shelter. Sprite was found in a similar fashion by said shelter. Both cats were adopted just after being put on the short list for euthanasia. They have similar dispositions so far, though Sprite has shown far more meanness in her life time. That cruelty to people was survival. She was the least likely to find a home, Sylvani’s issue with homes was age discrimination. Too old and too young at the same time.

So I am taking a breath, and I am letting go. I cannot hold on to Nymph out of regrets and sorrows that do not belong. She got what she came for here, and she gave me something I needed too. It was the same thing. Love. Nymph reminded me to love myself. It isn’t the inspirational cat with a disability story, for there was no point of her being ill and suffering that was inspiring. It was simply the soft way she walked through life. She didn’t let her pain stop her from being the gentle soul she was. Knowing how much she hurt all the time makes me sad but, I hear that is true about people when they realize I was literally born in pain. It makes them sad.

I have another post about my mother that will come out soon but for now I am going to watch the cats ruin the rest of the marshmallows. They started this during my nap last night, but apparently Marshmallows are delicious to both of them. Sprite has a history with them, but she prefers the minis. Sylvani adores the big ones. She has flung them, turned them into pillows, and her face when she first bit into one was priceless. I was there for the first taste. It took her a while to decide that the flavor was great! It’s time to turn on some lights and open the curtains and have a day. A day of cat play!

Soul Lobotomy

As being a goth requires thinking on Death, I seem to fit that quite well. Of course not all Goths are actually death obsessed but I myself have always been. You see, I do fear death. It is not my death I fear, I accept that this is an inevitability. It is the deaths of others. Sprite is not handling Nymph dying well, and her behavior has started to reach the critical point when she begins to self mutilate. I am left remembering my own deeds of self destruction, and yet most of those times others would think of were the acts of them not me. It is a strange tangle. So in my worry for her I spent the day on the phone with the vet, who worked with us via telephone for free.

Our options are find a cat…. or trying antidepressants. I am certain that you all know what my decision was and my vet strongly recommended the cat over the drugs. I have crystalized the thoughts enough as to why she cannot be the only cat, and M my friend helped that by flat out asking why it is okay for me to put her emotional needs above my own.

I don’t think I am of course, but with animals and love in general I am a thousand times bitten and a million times shy so I never recover from a loss. The trust and love of any living being is far too rare for me. Sprite also keeps me alive and happy and healthy. The trifecta of need is met with in her compact furry form. So much soft fur, so much amazement.

So what is it that has her in such a state each time she is the only cat?

Some Sprite facts.

She has never been the only cat, except with me. The formative years of her life were spent first in a hoarding situation with a cruel cat hoarder. Yes they think they love cats but when you cannot care for them and there are so many that they are starving and just a trapped Pride of ferality, you are being cruel and need them rehomed. She then moved there to a crowded foster home. A shelter, a multi cat household with five cats, including herself. Then, back to a shelter. Another multicat household. A shelter where to save her from being euthanised she entered yet another cat household with a slew of people and cats. Two cats per person and at least five people, though I think it was way more. I forgot as it’s been a long time. Six years in fact. Then she moved in with myself, my roommates, and their two cats. She struggled to deal with just two other cats. IT took her over a year to adapt to that, and at first she self mutilated over being lonely.

Then I got married. She needed stitches from her self harm fit, and we got William Shakespurr. Even typing his name makes my ribs hurt, so there are regrets but not between Sprite and myself. After rehoming him once she started self mutilation there was Nymph. Sprite hasn’t been so depressed in the entire time I have known her. She is in some moments a shell of who she was. My eyes and nose have the tingle feeling that I associate with crying when i think of her pain.

So do I drug her and spend exactly the amount I have after rent for food and other bills? Nope. I am going to find a cat. The cat won’t be big, I will not risk my health for this cat. I won’t get the poodle off of Craigslist I found. A dog I could pet! Wee. It would be fine until it barked, licked me, had to pee, wanted to go for a walk, needed grooming, a bath… and of course there’s DOG food. Ick. We have a few caterviews coming up. The first one I feel won’t happen as the people with the cat first asked for 1000 for a mixed breed cat of no special intellect. They admit she’s a very stupid cat. Then again she was more likely spoiled than stupid, as the humans adopted her instead of a child. They cannot afford pet rent anymore. Something I do not contend with here thankfully. So we moved on.

Yet it was in this that my fears came to verbalisation. You see, I wake up and my first thought is rarely, “God damn I have to pee.” That’s my third thought. My first thought is, and has been since my first night with her. “Oh god is Sprite still alive.” My second has become, “Oh God is my secret love’s name here still alive?”. It leaves me shaking. Then I breathe, realize yes, Sprite is here. Go pee, and check to see if said lover is still alive. This has gotten worse since Rose died and a lot worse after losing Nymph. I am prone to going to my bedroom if Sprite is sleeping and waking her up just in case. I had gotten past that need just a few years ago. I will try again. By past, I do mean I just didn’t do it every few hours every day. About once a month.

In fact my fear that my loved ones will die was an issue with my ex-husband, as I would sometimes have to wake him up if he was too still or quiet. I would wait hours, biting my nails, trying to not cry and when I could stand it no longer I would touch him. Breathing isn’t enough, I need actual movement preferably with snarls of “I am sleeping go away”.

Somehow this lead to a promise that lead to a discussion of Greek Mythology, the details would give away identities of people who must remain secret so, shh… In the discussion of the Greek Afterlife aka Tartarus, I mentioned I would rather be in the torture section also called Tartarus instead of the Elysian fields or the very boring sounding waiting dock where people who cannot pay the boatman’s fee end up. No, the Elysian fields sound horrible to me. They are after all intended as a Utopia but one person’s Utopia is another’s meloncholic vision of sadness.

Imagine waiting forever for your loved ones. This is what you do there. You wait. They must die to join you, you are not aware they are dead, and so you spend your days at home, doing small things like cooking or cleaning. You do not remember them fully you just know you are waiting. You do not even know you are dead and the urge to explore or go beyond the simple tasks is removed from you.

What if you don’t have a loved one? What if your loved one goes to Tartarus instead? What if they become immortal? Do you wait forever? What if they are one of the chosen few who is allowed something else at the discretion of the god Hades? You are left to remember nothing forever. How is that utopian? It sounds more like a lobotomy of the soul to me.

As it is, I have found no conception of the afterlife suits what I would see as heavenly. Golden streets sound hideous and wasteful, and a heaven as the Christian Heaven was taught to me with no pets, gender segregation amidst other kinds (not wholly a universal tradition) but where there is need to fear attacks from hell, where again thought is not prized… this seems wrong to me too.

I cannot think of any widely known traditions that don’t make me sad, lonely, or a bit angry. Probability factors? All three. Some of my sorrow is my depression and aching heart over the lost friends. A lot of it is the sensation of insult that even in death I am relegated to doing what others would deem right for me and not what would make me happy in these supposed places.

I guess heaven would require me to be fulfilled by myself. Even that possibility is a requirement. I would demand full disclosure, instead of fading to a shade of my former self as the Greeks put it. So as I think of Rose and Nymph and what their heaven’s should entail i want to be remembered, I want them to know they are dead if THAT will make them happy, and if they want to wait for me great. If not? That’s fine too. I dislike the image of my friends being leashed until I die. In a way it’s a sort of a chain unless people become hermits.

Your mother loves her husband. He loves her. Your parents love you. They love your siblings. You and your siblings marry and have children. You die, you and your parents and siblings are now all dead and waiting. Your children and grand children are alive. They reproduce, or even just fall in love or make friends with people on the deep level. Now you are all waiting.

The waiting never ends.

Anyone up for a Soul Lobotomy?

Little Flickers of the Candle

I mean for this to be a short post though often that is my intention and I have yet to muster one of those. I am listening to Sprite who is so soft and I am in that just woke up from my nap space still. I am making morbid associations that I can normally shunt away, I find it a bit fascinating. These are the little flickers of the mind’s candle. They are the sudden illuminations that can lead to a gasping breath as the ideas start to coalesce or clot together.

I am wondering if Sprite, who doesn’t actually like the traditional pet bed but who at the vet’s office when Nymph’s time came climbed in first, then settled down and waited with the little one actually understood that the bed was for Ny’s comfort? She has had them offered at various vets, and shunned them each time. She has her own of a sorts, it’s a lot more cloud like, a dark color, coated in catnip and she has yet to touch it. Though she was staring at it in her basket with this great look of melancholy. That or the cleaning of the basket and the addition of padding instead of a blanket is no longer “right” because it now holds no scent of the little paws and bright eyes she and I love.

There are now no hidden corners in which she can rest and inhale the warm scents, if now a bit musty, of Nymph. There are now no spaces or places in which to hide, really. Those were either changed, destroyed, or moved. This was necessary so that she can be healthy and whomever comes to live with us too. Yet I see the flickers of sorrow in her at this. Her pain is great. Not that mine isn’t but I feel hers is greater. She has never been this sad to be away from other cats.

Not Thor, whom she had wrapped around her tail and was her loyal male slave like creature. Not a lover, but instead the fetcher of toys and the kneeling footman awaiting instruction with the flick of her tail. She didn’t like his companion Mid-Knight much at all but was sorry he fell ill, Mid-Knight seemed to resent her more than she didn’t care too much about him. It was all her playfulness and rejuvinating his once quiet friend. This darned female had gotten Thor up to running up trees, despite being declawed. I always worried about Thor being allowed outside with his defenses gone, but he was not my cat. I could barely keep her in once we discovered her allergy there.

William Shakespurr, whose perfect owner is now dead as Craigslist displayed while I was companion hunting, he was not mourned for even an hour. The atmosphere was celebratory for both of us. His blundering forcefulness while endearing left us both with literal wounds and literal scars. My nearly dying at the hands of this cat was just too much to bear.

No, it was Nymph who wooed and won us. In fact I was unaware how much her presence had changed me. My doctor’s visit today helped showcase some of that. As she commented on the change and just how much cleaner things were, despite the layers of cat clothes which had been left to dry overnight on every available surface, I told her why there was so much cleaning. In fact the only real thing that needed a good scrub in general was my carpet but it looks so much nicer that it IS worth commenting on. Cat vomit stains are gone. I am doubly sold now on a carpet cleaner for myself. Yes, when I told her she was very sad. Then she looked a bit worried, and told me why she was worried

Nymph had been medicinally good for me. My blood pressure went back to normal, I had quite a long year of moderately high blood pressure. Normal for most people is high for me. I wasn’t as pale and pasty, though I am pasty again it isn’t the loss of Nymph but again, uterine dynamighting. She saw both Sprite and myself “blossom”. We became ourselves, as if the missing piece was found. That’s how it had felt with Nymphy too. That little sadness that is there is a ghost of the flickers of her candle. It’s her shadows, her scent. The ghost isn’t something Sprite or myself wanted gone either. Nymph smelled like chocolate to me. Sprite smells like sugar cookies (gluten free of course).

Thor smelled like grass. Mid-Knight’s scent was very gross, though that may have been the impending illness there waiting to be noticed. William Shakespurr smelled like pee, because he would roll in the litterbox after peeing. Very disgusting cat that one. Yet when I would lay with Sprite and Nymph on me I would smell them both and it was better than eating a chocolate chip cookie (dark chocolate chunks).

So as I wake up, via writing, I am left with the rest of the thoughts of her visit. She doesn’t think I am any more depressed than I was a few months ago. Grieving? Yes. Depressed? No. I am always a bit depressed but I didn’t lose any ability to the depression except that one hour a few months ago, before Nymph, when I had to choose to get out of bed because laying there was just being depressive and I didn’t let me. I’ve felt consistently good. Most of the time I am happy. I am death obsessed but, that’s par for the course given my life. My doctor says so. The amount of death I have dealt with outweighs most average US Citizen’s experiences. I think those studies (she could cite them, it was funny) are a bit focused on middle class white people but I could be wrong.

My exhaustion is definately a side effect of the gouts of blood. My blood tests show I actually have been cycling. My uterus is trying to WORK. My ovaries too. Damn them. She was relieved I refused birth control, and having had an anaphalactic response to Yazmin, I plan to continue to do so. That won’t stop this kind of bleeding as my blood is blood not a mix of fleshy bits that pass for blood to the unaware mind and eye. The color is wrong, there is no fade in or fade out as my body tries to get “things done”. I don’t have Cushings Disease, as was a concern for a long time. Yay, no need for Brain Surgery.

The thing is, she also is worried that my current doctor is ignoring the issue. She recommended I sue and move to … California! The fact that my best medical option is moving out of state irks me to a degree. She doesn’t think a hysterectomy is the right answer for me, sure it will fix the bleeding issue but it doesn’t tell us why I am bleeding, is invasive, potentially deadly especially in my case, and could screw me up if I don’t have an answer. It could be cancer but she still thinks, as I have said myself, that it isn’t likely. Not because I don’t have a higher risk or symptoms but because there are less deadly scary things that could be wrong. My hypothesis about Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome causing tears is the most likely. In that case, I have no clue what the treatment will be but I have guesses.

It was good to affirm what I already knew. I am fine, in fact I am hardly a flickering candle most of the time and feeling this weak is very annoying. I am not sure I am able to sue at this moment because of lawyers fees etc but I do like that she has some similar ideas on California’s climate. SHe specified LA, which is my aimed at city. I have a fantastic doctor.

I also started the process for a cat interview with Sprite, so maybe by Monday there will be another cat living here. The cat is a bit older than Ny, but then I thought Ny was too young. I am not going to age discriminate against cats at all. I just hope this set up works out. If not, then the cat’s previous owner/mother will regain property of said feline and that will be that. We’ll just try again. Sprite’s gotten down to sulking most hours because she is lonely and sad. I think another cat around to at least fight with a bit will do her wonders.

The Weight of Sadness

The weight of sadness on my soul lately has worn me through. I know a large part of it is my body trying to fail. I am on this precipice, it is raining, My hands ache and I cannot hold on and yet I am afraid of letting go. I am terrified to write, I am terrified to love, and yet I cannot stop. Writing is at the moment a sort of affliction. I wonder at times if my intellect is a curse, as there are no real outlets. Traditional education leaves me wanting greatly as I cannot do it. Reading the works of others is the same as writing, it is pouring boiling water on a blistered soul.

I am not certain why I start to cry when I think of writing. I have so many stories in my head, I have so many things that I should write and I have this dream that has haunted me for the longest time. I fear this dream. It was pleasant, but it was more a waking vision brought on by starvation that has left me quaking each and every time. I have mentioned it before but I do find it stalking me once more, the whispers, the pushing.

I know this is a pressure of my own making and I have all those excuses again. I am afraid to trust my computer, and I don’t trust the internet to save my literary work. I doubt myself too. There is a part of me that was hammered at so hard that my creativity has always been stunted. Delusions of Grandeur. This is the term that my mother and various psychologists applied to my idea that I could do anything more than be average. I am a genius so why can’t I do anything?

My usual methods of slowing the thoughts and words are failing, I think my body is the main reason. I am exhausted, and every symptom that I have is very much an indicator that something is wrong. My doctor is coming tomorrow of course, I was about to call her when she called me. It was one of those moments that makes me feel relief as if anything is worse than feeling this pressure in my skull from the words stacking themselves up, shouting louder and louder, wanting out but letting them out isn’t enough, I have to show them to people. I must let them see that I figured out the truths of the world but I dare not because those truths are the same ones that had me sent away to the mental hospitals where i was drugged and left unable to let the words out… and I can barely breathe but the phone is that bad.

My jaw. My hands. My legs. My feet. My fucking uterus. Take them all but leave my mind a way out. My eyes fail. My ears fail. I am in some sort of torment. I also am having a lot more need for stimulation. I cannot stop touching things, even when I know it will make the other broken shards of my humanity rear up and stab me. I cannot stop. I try. I spent the entire day in bed and read six novels, and not a one satiated that hunger in me.

I have remembered things, since my nap. THey are still shadows and I know the reality is I am depressed. I spent most of my life in torture. I escaped. Then married torture again. Is it any wonder that I am shaking in my soul? I am in love with someone and told them. That’s enough to leave me screaming on this cliffs edge. I start to wonder if it is really so high? I know too that my lover will catch me when I let go. He always does. Even when he doesn’t know I am about to squash him from great heights.

He knows I hate being rescued but constantly he picks me up when I fall, and asks nothing in return. It is constant. There are so many people now that are around me and I cannot give them enough. I am worried that my face doesn’t show what I feel. I am worried I am too quiet about it. I cannot speak as much lately, the words are too loud and I just want to dream. My dreams are words, music, pictures. All folded together and they can overwhelm reality. I didn’t write at all between the ages of 15-17 except for a few months when I had to for english and I found poetry bleeding out of me. I was encouraged but it was too late. I had stopped singing then too. No music. No creation. All so my mother would love me.

So these universal truths I know? Heaven is hell. That’s the secret in the bible. If angels can reside in heaven before they fall, and they can it is right there in the texts about Lucifer, then who is to say that all the angels aren’t the very demons people fear so much? This is hypothetical since I am not sure angels are even real except when I look at Sprite and she says she loves me so plainly that the deaf man across the street hears her and decrys me a witch.

The descriptions of demons are also the descriptions of angels. The layers of heaven in the scant descriptions are those of hell. I see it, and I cannot let it go. It is like the Joss Whedon is a plagiarist thing. It has sparked an explosion in me. All this comes from a work of fiction I never will share as I did not write it alone. Yet I cannot stop seeing it. It’s there. From my dreams of demons as far as I can remember which were escapes on to each story I have ever told, the duality is a singularity.

My world broke down again, and it hurts. I know the real wrench is my grief over so much loss. Each loss is culmulative. I never will stop grieving. This is my way. I don’t stop living, and I keep going but each day I spent a little time being sad. I have just been interrupted by a yowling cat, which overlaps my thoughts. Scared me. It sounds like William Shakespurr. It is not Sprite. I had to open the door and find out what it was. It was sorrow. Literal and figuratively. Sprite’s little hutch that was for her and Ny, that was too nice to give away withstood the rain alright and attracted cats from all over. I felt a spike of terror as I saw them, and I pray we cleaned it well enough. I feel guilt now too.

Yes I spend every day with at least an hour of grief. I grieve over everything I dreamed over, everything I lost, I grieve over each animal my mother let my grandmother or her husbands murder. I grieve over grandparents she swears I shouldn’t recall but I do. I recall kindness and love. I grieve for my sensei. I grieve for Snowball the cat that was drowned, I grieve for my rage at my brother and my grief goes so far as to grieve not realizing that as a toddler alone with a swimming pool he could have drowned. I grieve for my mother, I wonder who she would be if her mother had died not her father, I grieve for the multiverse of what ifs really. Yet most of all I grieve for Rose, whose children turned traitor the moment she died out of greed. I grieve for Nymph too. That fresh wound bleeds regularly and more than my allotted “time to be sad”. I grieve for the fact that I allot time to be sad.

I am letting go, and I find I don’t need to be caught this time. I knew I wouldn’t be really but I was afraid of being wrong. Sometimes the fear builds up in me and the ideas I have scrape the bedrock of what I live by, and that is painful as that bedrock is not stone but nerves and brain matter. I know my body needs tending, and so I shall tend it. I am pushing for a few things, getting my jaw fixed so that talking doesn’t end with me crying at night because it hurts. I can’t stop talking any further than I have, and I won’t give up voice acting. Then, there’s the dynamite in my uterus. I am not sure how it got there, but my ovaries have matches and keep setting it off. I think I am really bleeding, and I really do think that I need to just cut it out. It being my uterus and really I won’t use dull scissors I swear.

I am afraid of dying. Each year on my birthday there’s that “Well this is the last one” and though I buck against it a part of me fears death. This is a rare thing and will pass, it’s an annual tradition.

The dream that goads me scared me even then. It was a weight set upon me and I wonder if it is secretly desire or if it was one of those dreams that was really not a dream. I have them often enough, where things turn into reality but I did dream them. They bother me most. Usually those are scarier than nightmares. At least nightmares are fictitious.

I went to the land of death, and entered an english tea garden. I was not dressed for the ocassion and yet I found I was greeted by several women. Jane Austen, the Bronte Sisters (Emily and Charlotte) and Virginia Woolf sat at a table, and there was a spot for myself. I walked over the soft grass and seated myself. It was a bit odd for me as at this point I wasn’t familiar with their personalities but I did research after the dream. Either I extrapolated from their books or I guessed correctly. These literary greats, whose shadows I could only hope to fall into someday greeted me, there was pleasing conversation about small things for a moment while I situated myself with the best tea I have ever tasted, Picasso’s Suaree. Not sure how that last word is really spelt I have only heard it. It’s a tea like caramel, you add brown sugar and a hint of cream and it is like drinking the stars.

Virginia Woolf looked at me and said, “We have a problem with you.” I wondered immediately what I had done wrong, because really, they were dead before my time. Emily nodded, and she smiled, “You aren’t writing dear, why ever not?” I said nothing. I felt ashamed. This angered me of course because how can I feel ashamed for not writing when… my list of excuses falls short even for me so I just listened as each of them explained to me that I am far from alone in my torment of having to create, and having that creativity be something forbidden. To write as a woman now is almost passe, yes we still fight for publication and there is still this ridiculous idea that children prefer books written by men as do adults yet, facts don’t hold up for a bias for either gender but a quality of work. They each explained that they would get fevers if they didn’t write. I do, I can register it with a thermometer. I get so caught up in thinking I fall ill.

So they assured me it was my duty to write. Not a destiny. Not a choice. I am beholden to my mind to use it, and as I am a modern outsider for acceptability with literature I should. I can be satirical such as Austen, or I can be something else. I should merely put the pen to paper every day. In my dream they each handed me a writing instrument, and we enjoyed conversing. I asked about being dead and it was something that made them laugh. “Who says we’re dead?”

The afternoon shifted to evening and I was sent on my way with a reminder from Austen, though she did look at the others first before saying it. “Your words hold the lives of people in them. You can change the world with a single sentence.”

I started this blog after that, I did start a book. My exhusband destroyed that. So my great burden really boils down to one thing. Fear. I am afraid to lose more work. It is as painful as losing my friends or realizing that my mother is everything she taught me to fear and hate. It is as bad as remembering more death and destruction. I cannot stop thinking on this dream vision. I want it to be true, and in ways it has proven to be so. I write and mention periodically that people read my work and email me via my little form and they say they were going to die before they met my words. This has become a daily and often more than once daily trend. Then there are the people who have changed my world. Each person is a world in my mind after all. A universe to explore. so the words were true. What else can I do?

I am afraid. I cannot stop thinking, and I don’t think trying is the right method that leads to nosebleeds and cutting myself. I don’t do self harm. I also haven’t been this healthy in a long time despite the failings of my body. Those failings are regularly schedulable to a degree. I am afraid of succeeding. I am afraid of moving away from the horrors I know into the hope of tomorrow. I am afraid of this damned new cat idea. What if it dies? What if I just killed kittens by having that stupid cat furniture outside? What if Sprite dies? I think that would end my world really. I don’t know that I could handle that and I am so afraid of her dying. I don’t want to be afraid of that but I can’t stop it. I cannot imagine my life without her warmth or the way she says little barberous things about people that I wish I could say, and they understand her and get that “I have to poop” look. I am afraid of losing her. I know cats don’t live forever but I am terrified.

This is the weight of my sadness. I don’t know why I cannot stop carrying it around with me, except that my mother shut down all avenues of help via abuse chemically and sadness or rage are all I have known. I have wounds that bleed words, and words that bleed words. I am a font of thought and ideas and it is peculiar to this world. I cannot type fast enough either. Nor do I have the energy to stay up writing as much as my brain wants.

Is this PTSD? Is this brilliance? Is this a delusion of grandeur? I have the papers that say I am a genius, and I also prefer that term to weird, insane, crazy, but I think it covers them all. Genius is smart without normality right? Sure I have the IQ numbers but that has meant little to me. If you add the numbers together you get different things it’s like a puzzle. No I admit to genius because my conception of genius is someone who doesn’t stop thinking sometimes paralytically so.

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