The Art of Happiness and Reflection and Mother

Sometimes I am not sure what makes our brains do what they do, though given that science is not either I suppose getting it at all puts me a step ahead. I am adjusting to this happiness thing. Its an omnipresent pleasant sensation that has no real sensory equal. I like it a great deal, and am often just sitting in the moment and feeling that purr deep in the space between mind and body. I am also reflecting a lot on my past. It is not painful, and if it feels so I stop. It is different than when my brain screams to understand something but is more a cataloging of how I achieved my joy.

When I can I do this by looking at pictures. I am not posting them here because mostly I do not want to look at them again. I look back and see a twisted body, heart, and mind. I see in the pictures my pain, and remember just how I got into that tight spot. Then I put them away and look at the reality. My body is not better off but it is stable again. My competent doctor, I will always revel in having a competent doctor, has helped in such astounding ways. The simple gesture of trying medicines in a different family that I am not allergic to unlocked a door for me. Its such a simple concept and it does mean malpractice on all fronts. It was never a lack of medication options but a lack of damns given.

I find my mind is not quieter despite being happy. It babbles on and on, noticing everything and pushing on to seek and discover about itself, about the world. I am so different every day than who i was before, and I cannot help but embrace that. A year ago I would have never admitted to anyone that I do not read DC comics anymore. I am still the biggest bat fan… except that I am also not unaware of the serious issues with in he DC Universe. Batman, my childhood hero, beats on people like me. The different of mind. Batman uses his money, whiteness, and power to get away with what could be literal murder in many cases.

I suppose I lost my hero in my reflections, but it is also a case of not needing him to be a hero. I still drown myself in Bat things for the pleasure of it, without the hidden hook of needing a hero. I no longer want a real Batman to swoop into my personal gotham and wreak havoc for the villains. I did that for myself. I no longer need rescuing and my world is no longer so dark that the slighest thing will bump me over into no return. It is not a world without sun, except that I still never open my curtains. It just isn’t the same.

Mother’s Day is coming, and this year it is not an agony for me either. It was not last year but that was the first time. Cutting my mother out of my life made this weekend less painful. There are some slight twinges in that I am not there for my siblings but I do not think they need me to be so much so. They are adults now and able to choose to be free of Mother’s clutches. I am taking quiet time, not to reflect but simply because I do not want to hear all the cacaphony of both joyous and obligatory Mother Stuff. I feel left out that I do not get to celebrate with my mother this way.

I am a motherless child. I am a fatherless child. I am a child of the world. Raised by the village. Given strength by the village. I know in that aspect I am not left out but a conglomeration of the best of every woman I know became mother, same with every man I know becoming father in some aspects. It all is simple and direct yet I still am reflecting. Instead of taking part in the shouting from the rooftops or hiding from the idea of what Mother used to be I am going to just reflect.

I am going to reflect on the women who I know who are amazing mothers. Some are also amazing fathers. I am going to reflect on how they changed me for the better. The idea of a good parent is still one I sometimes struggle with. The concept of loving arms gently wrapped around me is no longer a terrifying nightmare because it is unheard of to my mind, it is just an option I am less familiar with. I think of all those mothers and I will reflect on the gifts of seeing them for what they are. The best mothers are guides, and I know many people who are guides.

In achieving my own omnipresent joy I can see the strands of time and people in my life and I can see that while my own parents never parented, I was saved from being so like them by countless good mothers. The strangers who could not ignore the abuse and said something. The people who clothed us, fed us, and sometimes just offered a space where the sensory depravity of the world did not drown us. My opportunities were rare, but each one was a glimmer in the night sky. Not a signal like the Bat signal I hoped for but something much more durable. Stars, twinkling into the darkness I thought an oblivion. House lights in windows showing me there was civilization beyond what I thought was the entire world.

The world is so much larger than I knew. There is so much joy to explore. There is so much joy I was given and so much I want to share.

I know that not every person who reads this will understand why someone who knew both biological parents could be orphaned at birth in the mental sense. The idea that all parents are good is their default. TO that person I say, you are more than lucky and perhaps you will be someone’s star.

So I will reflect now, in my sea and perhaps the world will only be brighter for a reflection of a light brightens it. I am the sea of stars, each one illuminating a choice, a chance, a path that lead me to being not just who I am today but a person who could survive without hate. I understand the village now, and it is in my freedoms to know that I am there, and maybe I will be someone else’s star.

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.

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.

Suicide: Recovering or Relapse? (Trigger Warning)

I wrote about what it means to actually be suicidal before, and I haven’t really touched on this topic since. Part of that was dealing with the depression. I want to talk about the recovery process and I also want you reader, to be aware that this can be triggering for people to read, or even think of. I also am not claiming to be recovered fully but I am recovered enough that I am no longer constantly looking at the things I own as weapons that could kill me.

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News: Not Bad!

I decided it is time to update on the status of my recovery. Physically I am not doing well. The Vertigo is really a challenge. I am fighting on so many fronts at all times that I feel worn out. I still cannot sleep. I am still me. I haven’t managed to find a therapist, nor have I been able to convince the insurance that I need a therapist. Sometimes I think that the government wants all disabled people (hidden, visible, mental health related, etc, I do mean ALL) to just die. They hamstring our ability to get care so often, costing them more money, that it seems reasonable to think that they would be happy if we died. All of us. At once.

I am still depressed. I am still fighting for emotional stability but my news is this. It has been one week since I wanted to kill myself last. I am still struggling with the desire to self harm, but, the ideas aren’t to kill myself now. Some of it is the old voices of my parent’s messages. My lack of value for anyone but myself takes a toll. If I hurt myself, I can punish myself and make the bad go away right? Still. I want to live and I am able to not self harm.

With all that has occured in life and the general lack of support I am doing amazingly well. For my own standards I am reaching good enough. I am on the rise. I have goals again. I can feel the words moving under my flesh again wanting out. I am still afraid, going out still terrifies me but more of this is now related to my physical body than “He could get me”. I even considered dating. I decided I am not ready to date but, I may sometime give it a whirl. I want a working wheelchair first and I have to find good spots in my riding distance because I am not going in a car for a date.

I do find it odd I have more dating options as an openly disabled person than when I was passing for abled. So over all things are not good but not bad. Just shy of good enough.

Being Suicidal (Trigger Warning)

Before I share my writing today I am giving a bit of a prologue. This is serious, and this post is a long time coming. My scooter is repared thanks to your support, and that is one of the better things. I have a full time caregiver who is fantastic, and I am working on getting better.I will write about the good stuff soon.

Please read more, I am covering this due to the serious trigger warning. I don’t do that often.

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