Some INCREDIBLY shocking* results from some online quizzes I took tonight:

You scored as Punk/Rebel. Punk/Rebel 75% Drama nerd 69% Stoner 69% Geek 69% Loner 50% Prep/Jock/Cheerleader 25% Goth 19% Ghetto gangsta 6% What's Your High School Stereotype? created with QuizFarm.com

You scored as Peter Pan. Your alter ego is Peter Pan. You are a child at heart. Anything you believe is possible, and you never want to grow up. Ariel 88% Peter Pan 88% Sleeping Beauty 75% The Beast 75% Goofy 75% Snow White 69% Donald Duck 63% Cinderella 50% Cruella De Ville 50% Pinocchio 44% Which Disney Character is your Alter Ego? created with QuizFarm.com

You scored as Existentialism. Your life is guided by the concept of Existentialism: You choose the meaning and purpose of your life. “Man is condemned to be free; because once thrown into the world, he is responsible for everything he does.” “It is up to you to give [life] a meaning.” --Jean-Paul Sartre “It is man's natural sickness to believe that he possesses the Truth.” --Blaise Pascal More info at Arocoun's Wikipedia User Page... Existentialism 100% Utilitarianism 85% Hedonism 85% Strong Egoism 40% Justice (Fairness) 40% Divine Command 25% Kantianism 25% Nihilism 20% Apathy 20% What philosophy do you follow? (v1.03) created with QuizFarm.com

You scored as Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder. Congratulations! You are obsessive-compulsive! You know nothing curbs images of mutilating your mother like a good counting/checking/washing ritual... wait, DID you forget to turn off the stove??? Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder 83% Schizophrenia 75% Unipolar Depression 33% Antisocial Personality Disorder 33% Eating Disorders 33% Borderline Personality Disorder 25% Which mental disorder do you have? created with QuizFarm.com

yeah!

You scored as Charlies Angels. You are a kick ass girl! You and your friends are intimidating! Charlies Angels 92% A Cinderella Story 83% The Notebook 75% Legally Blonde 67% Mean Girls 25% What Chick Flick is just like Your Life? created with QuizFarm.com

You scored as Marijuana. The most beautiful, chill drug out there. You want something that's not too harsh on your body, and soothes the soul. It's also not addicting, so smoke it up, baby! And never have to go through withdrawls. Marijuana 69% None! 56% Mushrooms 44% Alcohol 38% Inhalents 38% Ecstacy 25% Cocaine 19% What's your ideal drug? created with QuizFarm.com

You scored as Bjork. You are the strange and elusive Bjork. A recovering drug addict, sometimes your lyrics are quite insane. You really need to tour the US soon. Bjork 63% Ani DiFranco 54% Tori Amos 54% Shirley Manson 52% Fiona Apple 44% Which angry female artist are you? created with QuizFarm.com

*They didn't have a "How Sarcastic Are You" quiz.

"One by one they fall, it always breaks me down...*"

Well, just when you think you might be starting to get a grip on things, it rains !#$% axle grease...
Wednesday night as Chris and I were driving back home from rehearsal something happened. Something broke, and I think it was me. I'm not sure exactly what triggered it. I was very tired, I'd had a couple of drinks, and the motion and sound of the car on the road, combined with the effect of the world spinning past my window has always inspired me or made me contemplative.
I started thinking about the rant I wanted to write the next day. I wanted to talk about how my childhood wasn't all bad, and so I started thinking back, trying to remember the good times. As I said yesterday, the problem with this new clarity is that it is that unusual "Sam-brand" clarity, that comes with smells, sounds, feelings - total recall, and the fact that the few good things that I could remember were surrounded by so much pain and misery that I was almost instantly crippled, first by recall, then by hysterical tears. I found that every good memory I could muster was either preceded or followed by (or entirely intertwined with) some bad connection - for example, the memory of my almost surreally wonderful fifth birthday was followed by the thought of every other thing that happened that year - and it was a very bad year, and yet still nothing compared to the horrors of my sixth year (there are a few funny stories from that year, but looking at them realistically, they were all centered around shocking cases of neglect, which I suppose in comparison to brutal mental and emotional abuse DOES seem pretty funny. Jesus Christ.) - and so it goes. Once I'd started down this grim memory lane, I couldn't stop. My mind dragged me through one horror after another, and instead of it being just a story memory, I found myself THERE again, remembering every sensation, smell, sound, and emotion. I tried to tell Chris how it felt to have this knowledge, this inescapable experience as an entire childhood (not just one or two or even ten - or even one hundred isolated events). And worse, how it feels to have seen your siblings, almost all younger than you, go through the same things.
I found that once I'd run out of tears and started dry-heaving, I first resorted to a sort of catatonic stupor, and then when my brain began to wake up, it immediately turned to its' oldest comfort - business. I began to think of a million things at once (fortunately - or un- my standard mode), a sketch I wanted to write, another I wanted to re-write, jewelry commissions I needed to do, etc. Of course one track of my million-track mind was also watching me do this, completely aware of my distraction technique, as well as all the other tracks - including the things I was trying so hard not to think about. Yes, I did think "Wow. I've got a pretty amazing brain..." but I also thought "Wow. This is scary..." And then I just went on to cope until I fell asleep. Things have been different since then. I feel like a human soap bubble. I feel like memory-wolves are stalking me. I feel totally lost and as if I am made up of nothing but pain. I can't sleep normally - I have to be in strange places, like the foot of the bed, the floor, or the couch, and I can't be under the covers. This is definitely an "easy flight" reaction - looking for someplace where I can feel safe, or escape easily. I feel tender all over, and I DEFINITELY don't want to be touched. Poor Chris.
And that's where it stands. I was finally able to talk about it in the light of day when I opened up in an e-mail to a close girlfriend (which, ironically enough, she never recieved) but I saved one draft of it, and she said it was ok to re-post some of it here.
None of you may care - and that's ok. I really can't blame you. But it helps me if I can spell/think it out. Something about the 'in-black-and-white' factor and the 'saying it out loud' factor makes it more real.
Here is the pertinent excerpt from my e to Andi.

"I've started to have total recall of my past, and it is kicking my ass. As much as I've always known what happened, I still didn't really remember it... Or I should say, I remembered it like a story that happened to someone else. All those years are finally starting to hit me like: "Shit. This all happened to ME." And it's !#$%ing me up very badly. I've realized a lot of pretty brutal things lately, past, present and future, and I'm truly stunned at how badly prepared I am to deal with all of it. I really get the feeling that I shouldn't be talking about it, if only because that makes me think about it even more, and I've also realized that it's something that can never be repaired. The part that can be repaired (hopefully) however, I think requires my talking about it, so I hope you will all bear with me. It's not the past that I need to talk about, but the overall fact that the only good memories I have for the first, say, 15-17 years of my life or so are (mostly) of hiding successfully, or of the few rare moments of charitable reprieve from the horrors. The times I've always thought of as the 'ok' times, are really just bridges where my memory was blank. I told Chris in the midst of a really bad breakdown last night that every moment of my childhood that I looked back on was like a flash from a bad horror movie. Even the "good" ones turned out, in the light of my adult, aware perspective on the bigger picture, to be sadder than any sane person could bear. Good thing I'm not sane, huh? *ha ha* :[
that's the problem, ultimately. I've realized that no sane person could take even SOME of the things I've experienced and live decently, much less ALL of it, and that the only reason I have is because I am just so !#$%ing strong. The problem is, I'm running out of strength. I've been sapped and sapped and sapped, and now I am finding that nothing can renew my strength fast enough. What's kept me from being another raving baglady or serious junkie has been my sheer force of will, and it's fading. I can feel it and see it everyday. I want to say that my love for my friends and their love for me is enough, but it isn't. Please don't take that the wrong way Andi, but I think if you really think about it, you can understand what I'm saying. Maybe if there were more connection, more time, more sharing, it would make a difference, but maybe it wouldn't. I don't know - and I certainly don't blame anyone but myself for any of that. I am responsible for the renewal of my spirit, and for how much love and goodness I soak up. I just didn't realize until very recently that I was running on patch-jobs and temporary charges. I think it's just that the horrible, terrible weight of the past has finally caught up with me.
The catch 22 situation with my health and my job is a huge factor too. I think my deep injuries have contributed seriously to my physical health problems, and that my health problems have contributed seriously to my inability to re-charge. Same goes with my job. Now I'm stressing over the fact that if I stay, I'll be sick and caged and miserable, and if I leave, I'll be broke and a burden and miserable.
There are no short, easy answers. I've had the best therapy; no one that I have ever known has worked harder and longer to defeat this kind of thing than I have. I've tried all the things that Buffy* (for example) might suggest, and the pure, simple fact of the matter is that there is more there than anyone, even my badass self, can handle.
I do know now that the reason I stay so busy, I work so hard, I create so prolifically, I burn midnight oil and two-ended candles like nobody's business (not to mention drink, smoke, flirt, etc.) is because it is all a distraction from this simple, brutal - and inescapable truth. The hard thing there is that my ability to distract myself from it (and indeed, my desire to do so, just because of the whole addiction/denial/putting-off-the-inevitable factor) is fading fast. I just don't know what I'm going to do Andi."

I'm really sorry that I can't be more hopeful right now, y'all. Believe me, I want to. And obviously, I haven't given up yet. I promise, you'll know beyond a shadow of a doubt when I have. I think my job right now is to just keep from exploding or breaking down, and try to figure out how I can re-charge my batteries. I know I can handle this, I have for 37 years already. But if I'm going to make it for another 37, I have to figure out how to renew my strength. If I can't, and soon, then it'll be all over but the crying - and anyone who might have the gall for saying I'm selfish to even say such a thing, needs to take a short stroll through my memories and then, before they apologize, they need to commend me on how I've even made it this long. 'Fact of the matter is, I've actually gotten to a place that I've never been to before, and that's a place where I just don't care. Nothing seems to be enough to give me hope right now, nothing seems to be able to shore up my will - not even the desire to keep those hateful, irresponsible, insane, selfish bastards who did this to me - to us - in the first place from WINNING. That's a very new place for me.
I've asked you all not to give up on me before, but now I have to say that if you do, I can't blame you. If you don't, I will be grateful, because I've discovered that I need more love than I ever thought I did; but ultimately, it may not make any difference, and I am more sorry about that than anyone.

MUCH everything,
-s

*from my favorite song by The Screaming Trees
**my very wise, level-headed sister-friend who is also a counselor.

-kinda' continued from yesterday's "Grey"...

Sometimes I fear that I’m just running around in circles. I know a lot of people in my family, and maybe even some of my friends think or wish that I would/could just let it all go, just forget the past and all the hurt and be happy. I know when I was about to go into therapy my mom said “Y’know, there’s this new kind of therapy where you just start from today and go forward, you just forget the past!” Then, when I’d been diagnosed and was about to enter River Oaks for treatment (following a breakdown I had on the trip home from my last visit to her house, “strangely” enough), she said, “It’s just a vitamin deficiency!” God, save me from that kind of guilt and desperation. If only our (humans’) faith and will was as strong as our denial sometimes…
Another family member told me fairly recently (last fall, I think) that my mom has “erased” me; that she says I don’t exist anymore. I know that the experiences that caused me so much pain and left permanent scars on my psyche, my body and my life don’t exist to her. She insists that those things never happened, that my memory is faulty, or that I am just lying to hurt her, and she is able to maintain that “truth” no matter what. In a way, I envy her the ability to make the things that hurt her and me just go away – including myself. I just have a hard time believing that it’s really possible. These things are such an intrinsic part of our lives. Whether we like it or not, they are a big part of what makes us who we are. I don’t know. Maybe she’s just stronger than me. Somehow though, that doesn’t ring true either. It may just be my perception – though I know that my friends, some of my family, the volunteers I lecture to at Steps to Hope, and the mental health professionals I’ve dealt with over the years say that I am the strong one, because I am brave enough to face the pain, the past and the truth. I think that when you don’t deal with the past, new pain comes from those old, untreated wounds. As much as the memories of the past hurt, none of that hurts as much as being a motherless child, or knowing that your mother says you don’t exist. That’s an injury that is new every day. Seeing my siblings struggling for sanity and healing in their own ways, knowing that they’ll be having their own struggles for the rest of their lives, and knowing that the damage our families did to us will always be an obstacle to our being a real family in our own rights. I struggle to be peaceful, and to try to wish people – even the people who hurt me – nothing but good, but I am who I am, and I think there will always be a part of me who wishes that I could just have one good go at beating my mother’s ass until I’m too tired to go on, and then when I’ve rested, resurrecting dad, grandpa and grandma and having a go at each of them until I feel better too. Yes, I know that it’s some pretty bad anger when you want to bring your loved ones back from the dead just to beat their asses, but hey, I’ve thought worse.

I can’t help but wonder what mom thinks about all of this. Can she really have forgotten everything that happened? Does she ever have dreams about it? Do everyday things ever trigger her memories of those times? Does she have panic attacks for “no reason”? Does she need “drugs” (prescribed or otherwise – the internet, reading, etc) to give her a cushion from the past? And I wonder about dad too. Did he feel guilt over the terrible things he did? He never hurt us, but he left us with people who did. He neglected us, let us slip through the cracks. For years, my feelings toward dad were untouchable. He was the good one, and that was that. But time and truth – and talking to my siblings about their feelings – told the real story. He could have done so much more for us. He could have taken us out of the hell that was our life with mother, and he could have taken better care of us when he had us. Sometimes I think that he chose death as just one more easy way out of his responsibility to us and to his mistakes in the past. One significant difference between him and mom is that I believe that dad loved us all. I think mom only ever cared for my oldest brother. In a way though, that almost hurts worse, because it’s easier to understand how someone who never loved you could hurt you. I’m sure mom believes that I think she’s the only villain in this sordid tale, but nothing could be further from the truth. As much as it hurts, I’m glad that I have a more realistic view of my other family members than I did when I was younger. I’d rather have pain and the truth than a false sense of happiness based on lies – and other people’s pain – any day (who’s the stronger one?). And it probably seems odd, but I can identify with mom’s perspective more than I can with any other adult (not siblings and cousins, I mean) in the family. I am more like her than I am any of the others, and I have spent more time thinking about the “why’s” and “how’s” of my relationship with her than any of the others. In a strange way, I feel more sympathy for her than for any of our other “grown-ups”. It’s sad and sickeningly ironic that none of this will ever matter.

One of the hardest things that I am going to have to learn to accept is that, ultimately, none of this will ever matter. With dad dead, and myself dead to mom, I have no choice but to try to stop wondering about their thoughts, feelings, reasons and deeds, and just accept that they were – and are – only able to love themselves and us so much. The end. As selfish as it may seem, I have no choice but to focus on my own raisons d’etre and try to heal without their help. That’s definitely nothing new, but that doesn’t change the fact that I will always miss them, or at least the dream of them. It would be so much easier if we could help each other, those of us who are left, but I know that’s no more than a dream either. It’s time to face up to the fact that I have been alone in this since I was born, and though my siblings suffered too, they were alone in their own way as well, and that, to some extent, we always will be. Chris loves me, his family loves me, and I love them, but there will always be a kind of wall. I won’t walk away from new friends and “family” because of this – that would be stupid, and that’s one thing I’m not – but I have to learn to love myself enough to fill in the empty spaces, because the fact of the matter is that no one else will ever be able to.

So many things are affected by the shadows of my past. The way I watch movies and listen to music; the reason I love the clothes and art and landscapes that I do; my dreams, my beliefs, and the way I judge people. I have noticed that I am harder on any of my friends who are parents than anyone in our circle. I am very quick to anger when I feel that a friend is being a neglectful parent, even if only in thought if not deed. I know that I have huge obstacles to overcome if I am ever going to be the person I want to be, and that makes me angry too. These days, it seems that it all comes down to a whole lot of anger. That sucks – but it still beats hopelessness. I just wish that I could make people see these things about me, so that they can understand my judgmental nature*, my temper, my “moodiness” and obsession with the past, and be patient with me while I am trying to grow and change.
God, I feel like THE eternal teenager. Ugh. :)
At the very least, I can lay my head down each night, knowing that I am not hiding from the pain and the truth (which, unfortunately, are the same thing sometimes), that I am trying to become a better person and hopefully make the world a better place in the meanwhile, and that I am not passing this madness on to another generation. I may be sad, I may be impossible to live with sometimes, impossible to love at others – and to quote Miss Celie: “I’m pore, I’m black, I may be ugly and can’t cook… But I’m here." – I’m here. And to quote the author, Ms. Walker: “Don't wait around for other people to be happy for you. Any happiness you get you've got to make yourself.” Amen!

I’ll leave you all with some more incredibly relevant quotes from this favorite author of mine, and a promise of more ponderings when I can handle it.

“Being happy is not the only happiness.”

“And so our mothers and grandmothers have, more often than not anonymously, handed on the creative spark, the seed of the flower they themselves never hoped to see -- or like a sealed letter they could not plainly read.”

“How simple a thing it seems to me that to know ourselves as we are, we must know our mothers names.”

“No person is your friend (or kin) who demands your silence, or denies your right to grow and be perceived as fully blossomed as you were intended.”

“I think we have to own the fears that we have of each other, and then, in some practical way, some daily way, figure out how to see people differently than the way we were brought up to.”

“The most important question in the world is, ‘Why is the child crying?’”

“For in the end, freedom is a personal and lonely battle; and one faces down fears of today so that those of tomorrow might be engaged.”

“The most common way people give up their power is by thinking they don't have any.”

“What the mind doesn't understand, it worships or fears.”

“Nobody is as powerful as we make them out to be.”

“Writing saved me from the sin and inconvenience of violence.”

“Life is better than death, I believe, if only because it is less boring, and because it has fresh peaches in it.” :) [Amen, sistah!]

“I try to teach my heart not to want things it can't have.”

“Expect nothing. Live frugally on surprise.”

Much love – and some peaches,
-s


*the tarot card for my birthday is in fact Judgement. Its’ meaning is:
“It is time for the seeker to look back and evaluate his or her life or a phase in life. [weee-eee-ee-ooooo!] This card represents closure and a sense of summing up what he or she has achieved during the phase that is ending. It is a card of powerful transformative energy [huzzah!]. It also signifies a time of rebirth, a cleansing of burdens and past mistakes, before moving on [!!!]. This is also the card of Karma – of reaping what we sow. One should be aware of how their actions effect others. To a great extent, it can represent awakening to the call of your destiny or an effort to understand your higher purpose. [whoah!] It also represents a judgment in a legal matter.
Reverse - Phobias, obsessions. Denying the truth of the matter. Procrastination. Using obstacles as an excuse for not changing. Stagnation. Divorce. Vain attempts to recapture youth or the past. Letting life pass you by. Failure to face facts. (freaky, eh?)

Grey

Hello faithful readers. Today marked my return to the so-called “real world”. I have only cried a couple of times in the last two weeks on thinking of returning to The Red Tape Factory, but today on the way here I started crying at the thought of crawling back onto the microscope slide – even before I turned on the radio and heard:
“…she feels like kicking out all the windows and setting fire to this life…*”

Once I was actually there I was calm, and happy to see some of those familiar, truly beloved faces. Fortunately, the ones I dreaded seeing were not in evidence, leaving me a quiet first day back in which to wheeze in peace. The second I stepped in the door I could smell the ‘sickie-funk’, and within minutes I had to hit the inhalers (for only the second time this month). The migraine started within five minutes and I had no choice but to open the doors to let the fresh air in. (HOORAY for spring and Midrin!)

So many things have occurred to me over this last month. It’s hard to convince one’s self and those close to you that it’s a good thing, though, when all this thought has left me sadder than ever. I’m sure that the chemical re-alignment of my system has a lot to do with that too. I’ve been on so many mood-altering psychoactive chemicals (all of which I’d kicked either before or during this time off) for so long that it took the better part of the month to realize which feelings were mine and which were –ic’s, -il’s, -ol’s, and –ine’s. One of the hardest realizations I’ve had to come to is that one particular prescription – the one I’ve been on the longest, 21 years – has been protecting me from a huge amount of pain. Everything that happened to me during those first fifteen years - truly the worst and hardest part of my life - and then all the things that happened after that (a lot of it pretty terrible, too) has always seemed a bit distant. The only time I’ve ever really come close to feeling the weight of all that pain was when I was in River Oaks, and had people around me who were trained to help me cope with it. They also took me off of all my prescriptions, and basically forced me to look at the past and all of the hurt and anger. Other than that small amount of time when I was completely unmedicated, as well as sober, all of my memories have always seemed as if they’d happened to someone else. I know that this is part of the whole ‘DID’ experience, but even when that ceased to be my problem, the cushion of meds and self-prescribed palliatives kept me at an emotional distance, even when I was talking deeply and seriously to people I trusted.
Now, I’ve come to a place in my life where my age and mind-frame combined with a mostly clear head (21 years is a long time) is causing me to have a fairly shocking emotional awakening. I didn’t make the choice to be chemical free for this reason. I mainly decided that for my health, and for some additional clarity regarding my depression, that this would be the best thing to do. My doc agreed. We have tried so many different drugs in the last year that I had no idea what was really going on in my head. When I asked if I could get off of the drugs and start with a clean slate, since this month off was supposed to be all about my health anyway, he agreed – as long as I kept him posted and was sure to be aware of any changes – especially drastic ones. Luckily, there’s been nothing serious. My depression has been no worse than “normal”, and thank god, the hallucinations have stopped. So far, that is truly the worst side effect I’ve ever had***. The doc said that he didn’t think it was a result of the last head-med, but I’m pretty sure that it was. Either way, the “acid cats & people” and weird (-er than usual) noises have taken a hiatus. In a way though, I’d almost rather have that than this bizarre emotional clarity.
For so long, all the things I’ve talked about to my friends and loves ones – the mental, emotional and sexual abuse; the neglect; the abandonment – have been sort of ‘not quite real’. This added to my self doubt, especially in the face of my mother and other family members suggesting (or even swearing) that it was all fiction. I knew it was real, and my brother confirmed it to the family during my stay in River Oaks, but it didn’t feel real, and that led me to wonder at times if I wasn’t really making it up, for some horrible, !#$%’d up reason. Needless to say, that added to my misery (not to mention my dependence on these prescriptions), and made me feel even more hopeless and lost. I have said to myself and to others many times over the years as I was telling these horror stories: “I know it doesn’t sound possible. It’s hard to believe myself sometimes…” My husband – and probably others as well - never could accept it as the truth, not because they thought I would lie about it, but because it’s hard for some people to accept that such things can happen. I suppose it worked on me that way too.
Now, however, it seems that I am beginning to be able to truly feel the pain and anger that I’ve been cushioning myself against all these years. When I think about the things that happened, I feel sad, I cry, I feel angry. I am finding that so many things in my day-to-day life are related to these memories, even if I am consciously unaware of it.
The first really strange realization came when Chris and I were looking in a friends’ very well-stocked fridge. They had lots of good “special groceries” (prosciutto, gnocchi, capers, leeks, etc.) as well as all the basics, including potatoes. For some reason we were talking about this to another friend later and I said that I felt that I deprived Chris because I never have potatoes. He looked thoughtful for a second and then said “Weird. You don’t! You never have potatoes!” He knows I like to eat them, and they’re a cheap, versatile, filling staple, but they are never in my fridge. I buy and cook yams fairly often, and I buy them when my friends request my famous potato salad, but otherwise, my house is potato-free. When Chris asked why, I realized I didn’t know.
The conversation went on to something more interesting, and they forgot about it, but I didn’t. I don’t like it when I don’t understand something seemingly basic about myself, and so I’ll retreat to the inner layers of the Onion Girl** and search until I find an answer. When we got in the car I told Chris that I knew why, and I went on to tell him about one of the worst periods of my generally horrible childhood, and about my grudge against the storage and preparation of potatoes. I won’t bore you all with the details, but I will say that I was six or seven (no older, for sure) and my sibling were even younger, and if you’ve ever had to dig and wash potatoes seemingly endlessly, especially as a punishment, or a way to keep you locked out of the house, then you know that it’s a job that no small child should be forced to do. I also had bad mnemonic connections with the place where we stored the potatoes, but I definitely don’t won’t to go there right now.
Strange, I know, and I’m sure that some people might say it was silly, but I suppose you had to be there – and yet I’m honestly glad that you weren’t. I wish I hadn’t been, and that’s the truth.
How “funny” though, that something so small and yet so intrinsic to your daily life can be hidden from you. And how strange that you could have such pain, and have no name or face for it, until your brain “unfreezes” and someone asks you the right question one day.

So, needless to say, I’m dealing with a lot of “new” pain right now. Things that I’ve said out loud a dozen times that never hurt me, now bring tears at just the thought. I’m finding hidden, unspoken anger at every turn, too. I wanted to believe that all those years of therapy and the time in River Oaks – not to mention all the exploration I’ve done since - had brought all of it out into the light, but I think that, basically, I just built a window. Not that that’s anything to sneeze at (ew! Get the Windex!), but all the same, it’s hard to realize that I’m almost just starting again. I have to tell myself that, at least I am not still that little girl, crying in the dark, confused, hopeless, terrified, lost. But I have to tell you, she’s still there, and those feelings have never gone away. I am beginning to realize that I may never be able to forgive my parents – either of them – or any of the people who knew what was happening and didn’t do anything to help us. I’m beginning to realize that nothing or no one were what they seemed when I was little. I’m beginning to realize that there is a huge difference between people who were loved and cared for as children and people who weren’t, and that some terrible handicaps are completely invisible, and so very difficult for those handicapped, as well as the rest of the world to deal with . I’m beginning to realize that no one I know – with the exceptions of my siblings, possibly – can truly understand me, and that will be another kind of handicap that I will always have to deal with. And worst of all, I am beginning to realize that I will probably have to deal with this pain, and the specialized loneliness that it brings for the rest of my life – and that this is just the beginning…

Sorry. The truth hurts. I can only hope it hurts all of you less than it hurts me, and whether any of us like it, I will talk more about this later. I need to, I’m grateful that I have a “safe” (and inexpensive/guilt-free) way to do it, and I’m especially grateful that so many people love and trust me, despite the fact that I am such damaged goods.

Much love,
-s

*Grey Street - Dave Matthews
Oh, look at how she listens, She says nothing of what she thinks... she just goes stumbling through her memories staring out onto grey street. But she thinks hey, how did I come to this?I dreamed myself a thousand times around the world but I can't get out of this place. There's an emptiness inside herand she'd do anything to fill it in but all the colors mix together to grey and it breaks her heart. How she wishes it was different. She prays to God most every night and though she swears he doesn't listen, there's still a hope in her he might. She says, I pray, but they fall on deaf ears. Am I supposed to take it on myself to get out of this place? There's an loneliness inside her and she'd do anything to fill it in and though it's red blood bleeding from her now it feels like cold blue ice in her heart when all the colors mix together to grey and it breaks her heart. There's a stranger speaks outside her door, says take what you can from your dreams, make them as real as anything. Oh, with it, take the work out of the courage. And she says please, there's a crazy man, he's creeping outside my door. I live on the corner of grey street and the end of the world. There's an emptiness inside her and she'd do anything to fill it in and though it's red blood bleeding from her now it's more like cold blue ice in her heart. She feels like kicking out all the windows and setting fire to this life. It could change every thing about her using colors, bold and bright, but all the colors mix together to grey and it breaks her heart.
**Crowgirl calls me Onion Girl sometimes, even prior to the "ogres have layers" and "state of the onion" stuff. If you've ever read the story, you'll know why.
***ugh, other than horrible codeine sickness, but we won’t go there… puuuuuuuuuuke!

state of the onion address:

well, to be perfectly frank, how bad could it be. i'm sitting three feet from the terribly handsome (and equally silly) ken sitton who is amusing chris and brett by letting them beat him badly in magic. i started my day with a nice walk downtown with luna and george*. chris met us at the coffee shop after he got off work, and then we went down to say hi to his folks who were working at the theatre for super saturday, which is a big children's festival. we ran into kat, molly, risa and the twinks - lena and anna. since they were there, and the entertainment looked good, we decided to hang out a bit. we saw a great mime**, and then while everybody else went to an improv show, i did a big mural on the street in sidewalk, of a GIANT child peering through the bushes (along with a bad tabby cat), in awe of fairies (the size of children) at play. we had a hotdog, watched the "parade"***, then went home. chris slept and i worked a little, then i got a call to come and rescue a friend with DMS**** chris hauled us all over to fairview, and they played cards while i KoL'd, checked e's and blogged a little (ta-da!)
this was my first day to be able to walk comfortably since i sprained my ankle two weeks ago, so i took advantage of it. my body hurt when i walked, because i'm not used to being hobbled for so long, but i am going to walk every day 'til i go back to YKW, because i NEED to, and because i love it. i'm working some this week and next week (pet and baby sitting), so i am making up some of the income i'm losing. i've designed some more nice jewelry, i got to talk to jams for a good long while, we've written another, much tighter show, and we start rehearsals for wednesday tomorrow. yay. there's some good stuff.
i'm happy to say that, for the most part, this has been my life for the last two weeks. god, i don't want to go back into the pits. i've only had ONE asthma attack since i left... i've made a lot of change in the house. my workroom is set up, the living room is much nicer (both thanks to chris, who moved everything for me). i've visited with friends, watched some movies, cooked a little... AND SAW ADAM(!!!), who is home on leave from iraq. he surprised chris and i on our veg-out day last thursday! we(shaun and gavin came over too) had a blast. no one was injured in the celebration, but jager-bombs (a foul combo of jagermeister and red bull) were consumed. yesh. well, it was worth it. there's still more to do, more to see, less than two weeks left. i intend to make the most of it, dadgummit. :)

i only had a moment to drop in, but i wanted to fill folks in while i had a pc available. think me good thoughts. i need them. i will send them on in a big, wide circle, they'll come back to you.
MUCH love,
-s

*i put him in his little mesh tote and carried him on my back.
**believe it or not!
***there were about 20 people marching - including the band. molly said you couldn't even enjoy that parade if you were DRUNK!
****Dickhead Man Syndrome.

Blogging from a different place...

Today has been another one of those days that proves to me that there really is something to quantum physics. So many weird things that could only be explained by the fact that my particular reality is influenced by my thoughts - or particular ability to BELIEVE. You can call it vanity, or even insanity, but I know that it’s just perception. Lately, it seems that I have more of those kinds of days than any others. Yay me! Maybe I’m getting closer, each day, to waking up.

This morning I saw the #1 WORST hair salon name so far. It’s not even a bad pun** - it’s just
"Hair Den". Eew.
I also saw hundreds and hundreds of some pretty birds in the fields along Scriven road, in the valley. They were on the ground, and as I passed, they flew up, past Esme’s windshield, into the trees on the left side of the road. The ones who stayed stood stone still in the winter grass, looking almost like little penguin statues. I parked and got out to try to identify them, and as I walked along the fence row, they broke their freeze-tag poses and flew over my head. They looked a little like robins, but their breasts were rustier, their heads were smaller and their heads and backs were much darker and glossier than a robins’, and they had bright white flashes under tail and wings. They looked like very proper little English gentlemen in russet "wescots", tux and tails.
Any time I see birds - especially in large numbers - I go off on a contemplative tangent. It’s like the moon - it always means something to me, and it always feels like a gift from the Universe. After that, just as I was about to leave my beloved backroad and enter "highway-land", I looked up, above the cemetery where my friends and old neighbors William and Osa are buried, and saw a swooping flock of my beloved starlings. Now that's a strange sight on a cold day like today. I was still considering the "general omenry"*** of that sighting, when I walked into the Dollar General and heard "Meatloaf" playing over the store speakers. This is odd because a.) I don’t think I’ve EVER heard "Meatloaf" as muzak, and b.) I JUST borrowed "Bat Out of Hell" from Stewart because X had never heard "Paradise by the Dashboard Light". He heard me singing this the other day and had a hard time believing that it was a real song. Who could blame him? I also borrowed "School Daze", ‘cause he had the same question when he heard me singing "...Luna’ got a big-ole’ butt, oh yeah! George’ got a big-ole’ butt, oh yeah!" a few days ago.

Next, I stopped in for my free Tuesday cuppa at the old Amoco, and "Blinded by the Light" was playing. Not so weird - unless you know a few odd facts: I love that song. ‘Have since I was about 12. I didn’t even know that Bruce Springsteen did the original until Stewart told me a while back. I also love Bruce****, so I was curious. I’d never heard the song, didn’t even know it existed (and I remember songs almost better than anything else...) Until Stewart told me, and here it is, playing at the Amoco. Cool. I also saw in the papers that the !#$% Landrum po-lice
are having all sorts of troubles. Oh darn! Apparently it has gotten so bad, with people coming forth about all kinds of quackery - including officers ratting out OTHER officers (WOOO!!!), that they are now down to THREE uniformed officers. MUWAHAHAHAHAH!!!!!!!!!!!

- For those of you who don’t know, I was arrested and put through a night (and then ensuing WEEKS) of horrible misery by this bunch of greedy morons. I was originally taken to jail for STEALING MY OWN !#$% TRUCK.
I know it’s wrong to revel in the misery of others, but in this one case, I feel I’ve earned the right.
!#$% the !#$%-!&*^%$! LANDRUM PO-LICE!

In other news, George has completely recovered from his little surgery. By that evening, he was already tearing stuff up again. He seems relatively unchanged by the removal of his... bits. The only seeming difference is that he is much more affectionate, and has developed a new way of letting you know that he wants to be petted. First he nudges your hand, tries to get his head under it. Then, if you ignore that, he bites down on it. Not too hard, but it’s a clear message. The first night he did this, I was trying to sleep, and when I ignored his little volley of hand-bites, he bit me on the cheek. Otherwise, the little weasel is unchanged. This is, overall, a good thing, but I can’t WAIT ‘til he’ll be able to go outside.

In other news, I did get my 30 days of med-leave from work (UN-paid. Grr.) . I am to use the time to try to get my immune-system bolstered and to clean and organize Casa de Luna, so that I can reduce the dust as much as possible. I have a pretty busy month planned. I have only been off two days (and sick with some upper-respiratory junk that all the kids have had), but I have already made some good headway on the house. We got Grover to come get the spare bed* and I am turning that front bedroom into a work/storage room. All of my tubs (full of books and art supplies, mainly) will be stacked in there, and all my sewing & beading stuff will go in there. The dining room table (which I’ve always used as an art table) will go in there to hold my sewing machine, and to bead on, and my drawing table and a tabouret will go in the dining room. X and I eat on tv trays or on the porch anyway, so if we have company, we’ll just pull the dining table out of the "work room". I’ve washed all the linens - our bed, spare bed, luna bed - towels and rugs, cleaned the fridge, grocery shopped, and X and I cleaned an rearranged the spare room to make room for the max number of tubs and the table. Weeee!
I have a lot planned, both work- and fun-wise. I have set aside days to bead, to visit and/or help friends with a few projects, to adventure, draw, clean, etc. I have a cooking schedule, and an exercise schedule. I’ll actually have to pay attention to the weather reports, ‘cause I’ll need to know if I’m going to have an inside or outside exercise day. Words really can’t explain how happy I am to be out of the toxic fishbowl for a month - paid or un. I’ll be using up all my leave, sick AND vacation, but the bills are covered, and Chris paid for gas and groceries, so we’ll be ok. Hopefully I’ll have enough jewelry and art by the end of the month (not counting the commissions I’ve taken on), to make up for the loss of income. It’s worth WHATEVER to be able to see the birds in the daylight, walk with Luna, and get my house clean. One of my goals this month is to walk the length of River Road. Another is to see all my nearest/dearest girlies.
(Yes, Andi, Buffy, Carol, Erin, Heather, Jen, Liz, Sarah - this means YOU.) I have a couple of lunch and dinner dates planned as well, and I am scheduling at least one evening of Canastaphe with Peggy. YAAAAY, ME!!!!!!!!!!
Please call me and set us some play/work time, ok? Take advantage of "rent-a-sam" days while you can!!!
I’ll only have access to a pc occasionally. Sarah is sweet enough to let me borrow her house while she’s at The Coal-Mines. (Hey Sarah... I’M IN YOUR HOU-OOUUUUSSSSSEEE!!!)
My blogs will be intermittent (not to mention e’ing). Hopefully I’ll be able to make up for the erratic postings by having good things to SAY.
Ok. Enough inside time today. I still have a couple of errands to run, and the weather is actually only ikky and cold, as opposed to !#$% horrible, so I’m gunna go carpe some diem while the carpe’ing’s good.

MUCH love,
-s

*yes, if you come visit now, you’ll either be on the couch or on an air mattress... anybody got a spare air-mattress, btw? ;)
**at least, I think it isn’t... could it possibly be an EXTREMELY bad play on "harridan"? Ug.
***Thank you, Mr. Pratchett.
****I KNOW. Shut up!

Once in a blue moon* you find a poem that echoes sound and reflects light into some of the hidden places in your soul. Those poems cause the same effect in our souls that occurs in that scene in Legend, where Screwball and Brown Tom and Gump and Oona contrive to climb up the chimney and bounce a ray of rising sunlight from Darknesses' giant bronze platters, through the oogy kitchen, into the depths of his lair in order to save the Unicorns**. In this case, that is exactly the correct metaphor. One of the hidden (or forgotten) things about this scene is the fact that as those big plates are reflecting light into the convoluted darkness, so is the darkness being reflected out into the misty, sparkling, wooded world above. And that's ok. That world can handle a little darkness, especially if it's been aired out and had all the, well, 'Satan'*** sucked out of it, as it were. It certainly makes it more interesting.
The important thing is that the Unicorns are saved****, that the world understands that darkness exists, and that if we don't reflect a ray of light into that darkness sometimes, things can get pretty scary, and eventually the light will go away for good.
This poem was in my inbox this morning (I do love that Writer's Almanac). This poem is such a "Sam" poem. I can't explain why - whether it's the the rhythm of the words, certain phrases, a feeling that comes from the whole - I'm not sure. It's not one I'd choose to represent me, but it does, whether I like it or not. It definitely reflects a part of me that is, if not hidden, then occluded by a variety of smokescreens. It's a place where I'd worry about any stray Unicorns, that's for sure. But dark as it is, and lousy with goblins, black glitter and tempted, fallen maidens, it's me, and it makes me feel better when the world gets a glimpse and says "Yeah. Me too."
Hurray for good poems, and for crafty fairies - but ESPECIALLY for sunlight.

Snowbanks North of the House

Those great sweeps of snow that stop suddenly six feet
from the house...
Thoughts that go so far.
The boy gets out of high school and reads no more books;
the son stops calling home.
The mother puts down her rolling pin and makes no more
bread.
And the wife looks at her husband one night at a party
and loves him no more.
The energy leaves the wine, and the minister falls leaving
the church.
It will not come closer—
the one inside moves back, and the hands touch nothing,
and are safe.

And the father grieves for his son, and will not leave the
room where the coffin stands;
he turns away from his wife, and she sleeps alone.

And the sea lifts and falls all night; the moon goes on
through the unattached heavens alone.
And the toe of the shoe pivots
in the dust...
The man in the black coat turns, and goes back down the
hill. No one knows why he came, or why he turned away, and
did not climb the hill.

***
Poem: "Snowbanks North of the House" by Robert Bly,
from Selected Poems. © Harper Collins. Reprinted with permission.
Writer's Almanac

Much love,
and may you be a mirror.
-s

*luckily, I see a lot of blue moons.
**oh, and Lily too.
***yes, purist-nerdy-movie-nazi-heads, i know he was technically the son of satan, but you know what i mean. besides, the apple doesn't fall far from the tree. especially if the tree is HELL.
****oh, and the girl too. *sheesh* dumbass. can't mind her own business, follow simple instructions. hmph. she's lucky there were some unicorns down there too, that's all i got to say.

Today's geekcentric post is stolen from my live journal page (where I am a member of the Geek Patrol group).
Just click here to read it.
And thanks again Mike. I mean it.

much love,
-S

"The Edge... There is no honest way to explain it because the only people who really know where it is are the ones who have gone over."

(Warning: this is post about Hunter S. Thompson. There is definitely going to be some unedited bad language and some "radical theories". Please don't read any further if that isn't your cup of tea. You have been warned.)

I figure that you all know the news about Hunter S. Thompson by now. 'Folks who read my page have sent me condolences, knowing that I rely on the wisdom of Duke to support my own attempts at Gonzo journalism from time to time. He will certainly be missed.

A good friend and brave, talented writer commented on his suicide in her blog yesterday. She was writing from her heart, and from her respect for another brave writer, but also from the perspective of someone who recently had a brush with the old "No really, I mean it..." herself.
She wrote:
"Having been in a similar place, I can only regret that there was no one there to stop you. Maybe that's selfish of me. Maybe you're better off now. But we're not. "

I have some pretty specific opinions about the whole issue as well, and I have to say, this time, I'm on Duke's team. I wrote a heartfelt (and hopefully, in some way, comforting as well as realistic) reply to her post. I think I'll let those words, and the re-post of my first Duke-centric blog stand as my own little eulogy to the man. That'll just have to do until I get home to my new, icy 1/2 gallon of gin - and who knows, maybe I'll even fire the PPK in his honor tonight, if the gin doesn't slack on the job.

Here's my reply to Andi's post:
February 22, 2005
"It may be a little comfort to think about the (VERY) probable fact that, as much as the Duke loved being alive and kicking life's ass at every possible opportunity, he would have had to have been looking down the barrel of something truly horrible in order to choose such a terminal option. If it were any thing less than the prospect of complete loss of mental and/or physical faculties (say, alzheimers - though I could see how he might even make the most of THAT), unbearable and unending pain, or lingering death and the weakness, dependency and vulnerability that that brings on, I think he would have just taken, well... Whatever mystical, magical combination of fun things that might get him through the bad patch. He was a young(ish) man - there were still a lot of things left to shoot. hell, he and a friend had just invented "shotgun golf" apparently, and were anxious to teach it to bill Murray...
I feel pretty damned certain that for a badass motherfucker like Mr. T., it'd take more than just a hitch-in-the-road - even a bad one - to leave this particular play before the end of the third act. My perspective on this comes from the fact that this is ABSOLUTELY the option I'll take (though I doubt I'd be brave enough to choose a ballistic route) if I ever get to that point, and if anybody is selfish enough to hold it against me, then they can kiss my dead ass. I have promised everyone I know - for decades now - that I wouldn't even seriously talk about, much less ATTEMPT something like this unless I felt it was absolutely necessary. I feel that Hunter S. Thompson more than likely felt the same way. I'd rather be living in a world without him than in a world where his strange, loud, outstanding, stupendous life was reduced to nothing but pain, suffering, loss of all those hard-earned memories, tube-feeding and diapers. Let's remember the Duke the way he wanted to be remembered - raging, roaring, smirking, smoking, raising hell, and raising his 350, ready for the next adventure."

And here's my orginal post:
Thursday, July 31, 2003
"I'm reading "Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas". Never read it before, but of course, I loved the movie. Johnny Depp, Benecio Del Toro*, Terry Gilliam, big fat special effects budget how could it be anything other than excellent. Of course, I didn't know until recently how unerringly true it is to not only the text, but the spirit of the book. I like Thompson's simple, blunt writing style. I prefer him to Ginsberg and Kerouac (though I do have to say that ole Jack was a nice-looking man AND he wrote "whee"** from time to time.) "Fear and Loathing" (in fact, all of his work) is a diary/commentary, basically. His Gonzo Journalism was all about experiencing his life to the edge - and over, if he could get there (and I think he did, quite often sometimes) and then writing about it, so that other people could have a sense of what he felt - without having to be so "unsafe". Without having to take the dangerous, insane, very visceral route that he did. He likes to live, to experience things to the nth degree, and he likes to share his opinions and feelings. (And he'd probably puke if he read this sappy girlie, bloody-hearted sounding description of him, too. But it's true, and if he promises not to bring his gun, I'll fight him over it!)
What I was thinking as I was reading last night was "Y'know - maybe that's what I am - a Gonzo Journalist!" but then I realized that I'm probably more of a Fozzie... Yeah. There's more tender humor to my reporting, more sentimentality, and a LOT less drugs. Whoa. I tend to not see lizards unless they're running into the cracks in my steps (and they are definitely real, unless Luna is hallucinating, too). And I just don't have the desire to randomly shoot things with giant guns. (I'd MUCH rather hit them with big sticks.) Plus, my jokes are usually really, really bad. Nonetheless, there's a bit of Gonzo in me. I feel it surging in my head when I try to get to sleep, when I wake up with my jaw clenched and my fists tight. I think that's the part of me that longs to strike out and walk the railroad tracks until they end and then find a dim bar, have a few drinks, listen to something sad on the jukebox and clobber somebody. It's the part of me that wants to find out what the dark side of China and the bright side of New York is really about. It's the part that wants to rant at intersections, tell my boss (and the government and my mother and preachers and teachers and Men...) to !@#$ OFF, the part that wishes I'd been with my brother and the Tuareg for that 400+ mile camel trek from Bamako to Tombouctou***...
I love being a woman, all my special powers mean a lot to me, but I rail and rage against the fact that I don't have the power and safety that a man has... if I were a man, I'd be a LOT more Gonzo and a lot less Fozzie! It'ss hard to live alone, work alone, drink alone, travel alone, be left alone. Maybe in my next lifetime...
For now, I'm dealing with the semi-Gonzo realization that it's simply easier for me to love something when I know that I'm going to lose it - and all the other realizations that come with that. The why's, how's, and what-the-hell's of it all. I hope I live long enough to understand me a little better. That would be so nice.
More about that, later. I promise.
And Ellie and Joe. I would love y'all both, no matter what (I think y'all know that by now), but I want you to know that you are more dear to me than either of you will ever know.
Much love,
-Sam"
*not to mention, Tobey Maguire, Ellen Barkin, Gary Busey, Christina Ricci, Mark Harmon, Cameron Diaz, Katherine Helmond, Michael Jeter, Penn Jillette, Lyle Lovette, Flea, Harry Dean Stanton and Laraine Newman.
**"Oh, man,' said Dean to me as we stood in front of a bar, 'dig the street of life, the Chinamen that cut by in Chicago. What a weird town--wow, and that woman in that window up there, just looking down with her big breasts hanging from her nightgown, big wide eyes. Whee. Sal, we gotta go and never stop going till we get there."
***I can't believe you got rid of that axe, Joe! I would love to have had that! : ) I'm just happy I got to SEE it!
Sam - 31.7.03

***********************************************************

I'll leave you all with some of Mr. T's own extremely succinct words. This is something to maybe remember when you're having your own "No really, I mean it" internal debates:
"Call on God, but row away from the rocks. "
A-men.
-s

I’ve never been outright ‘anti-Valentine’s Day’…
I do think it’s a fairly disgustingly commercial holiday, but as I have a tattoo of a heart, and sign all of my artwork with a heart and I love poems, general mooshiness, sparkly pretty things, the color red, lace, and chocolate, I don’t think it’s a bad holiday overall. Nonetheless, I’ve never really had a truly good [read: pleasantly memorable] Valentine’s day.
I’ve had fun on various Valentine’s days over the years. The parties at school where you got to have red velvet cupcakes (YAY, FREE FANCY FOOD!), make pretty crafts, and were forced to give and receive valentines class-wide were a nice break from the mundane. I got a few strangely sweet mystery valentines back in those days, probably from boys (or girls – this is me, right…) who liked me but would never admit it to anyone else.
I had one particularly memorable moment in high school one V-day. I was in the hall, between classes, kind of late in the day (I think it was after French class, actually), when our Senior Class President (Sweet James. I still have his pic in my favorite photo album) - who had flirted with me on occasion* prior to that – suddenly grabbed me by my shoulders, pushed me in between two lockers and kissed me! It was not rough or scary or unpleasant, just EXTREMELY unexpected. It was actually quite lovely. I hope I never forget that.
I got nice cards from Dad most every year, and Shirley too. Aunt Sue and Aunt Rhonda often sent me a pretty valentine, and MILLIONS of kids over the years. I’ve gotten treats, and balloons, and I’ve never really felt grumpy or left out. The only times I can remember having downright ugly V-days, was when I was involved with someone and they ignored me (or worse), but I never pined for a romantic Valentine when I didn’t have one. I was always happy enough just to get those little handmade kid-cards, sweet “Hallmarks” from Dad or Aunt Sue, and the occasional cupcake**.
This year however, was a banner day, and made me realize why I haven’t become one of those jaded “Valentine’s Day Is Stupid” people***.
It was my day off, and X was off too, so we slept in a little. We didn’t have any set plans for the day, other than a shopping trip (he said he’d get me new red sneakers for V-day, and I needed some bead-supplies), a nice meal (or 3), and maybe a movie. We voted and decided on “The Junction” for breakfast (among other things, they have fried green tomatoes, goooood biscuits and gravy, and fried bologna and livermush on the buffet…) and figured we’d just wing it from there.
I needed to stop by the flower shop where I used to work – 4 Winds – and pay a bill, and I wanted to get Stewart a b’day balloon, because his work is on the way to The Junction.
When the ladies saw me they said I should know better than to come in on Valentines’ Day, ‘cause they’d put me to work. I thought about it for a minute, and said “Well, I’m off today, and we don’t have any serious plans made – I could help out for a couple of hours.” They were VERY happy about that, and Chris didn’t seem to mind, ‘cause that meant we could afford a really nice dinner (we were hoping to be able to budget for big sushi). I told the ladies I’d go to breakfast, come home and change (as I was, of course, still in my pjs – my STAR ones, Andi!) and be back by 11:30. As we walked out, I asked Chris if he really didn’t mind, and he said that he didn’t, and he offered to help too. I went back in, asked if they needed a driver, and they hired Mr. X on the spot too – yay, us!

So, then we went by Stewart’s job to deliver his balloon (it had fishies). Stewart is “co-boss” (chief editor) of the Newsleader with a really amazing lady named Jody. This lady is one of my “real-life-heroes”. I definitely wouldn’t mind being like her when I grow up. She has had, well, a few 49th birthdays (actually, I think she’s in her very early 60’s), and truly looks about 45. She’s a very petite redhead with brave yet graceful fashion sense (like short linen dresses in all my favorite colors, bare, tan legs, tres cool shoes and accessories…), a beautiful natural face, great freckles, dark sparkly eyes, a pleasantly sarcastic demeanor (though I get the feeling that you would NOT want to piss her off), and enough spirit and moxie**** to make ME feel “blah”. Yep, she rocks – and she always has good haircuts.
On this day, she had a particularly good new haircut (short, a little wispy at bangs and neck and more “stickie-uppie” than usual on the top, but just in spots), and I told her so. She turned in her chair and said “Oh, well this is the “Sam” haircut. Actually, it’s the “Sam-in-Africa” haircut…”
:O
:D
Baron’d told me last week when I got my haircut that he’d recently gotten several new customers from Saluda (I have brought him MANY new customers – he says I’m his best billboard :), and that many of them said “I’d like a haircut kind of like Sam’s…”
Flattering, lovely, nice… but to find out that there is a SAM STYLE, and that amazing, beautiful, cool-as-!#$% JODY was sporting the “Tour of Africa” version of it, well…
:D :D :D
That’s almost as good as making People mags’ “50 Most Beautiful” issue!
Yes, I’m a vain Leo beast (and I think that Ms. Jody is too - well, not vain, necessarily, but Leo - however, it is OBVIOUS that she cares how she looks and likes having good hair... :), and yes, I am especially vain about my mane, so this is a compliment that I will never forget. And all before breakfast, even! :D
Breakfast was nice – and horribly cholesterol-filled – yay. Ran into an old friend/neighbor who was cooking there, and enjoyed morning-time with X. Then we went home, changed, and went to work.
The work was pleasant. Typical rushed, chaotic, gossipy flower-shop-on-a-major-holiday work. It was like old home day, as all my favorite co-workers (save Henry and Seth) were there. Emma, Renee, Carol and Marguerite. My two favorite delivery guys came in and I caught up with their latest news, and all the while, the lovely zen-like arrangement of flowers. I felt happy to be helping out – it was REALLY busy – and I felt very appreciated. Chris came in and out, and only got lost once. It was good to be working with him. That’s MY kind of romance.
We worked for 5 hours, and were compensated quite nicely – enough to afford a very good sushi dinner and the majority of our shopping. We went home, had a nice bath, dressed up, and headed to Spartanburg.
Because we’d worked longer than we’d planned to, we knew the movie was out. Chris called ahead to see how late each place we wanted to stop was open so that we could plan ahead. I would basically have 30 minutes at the craft store, 45 minutes to look for shoes at the mall, and an hour or so for a late dinner. Perfectamundo.
I’d set a budget for myself at the craft store (HA!), and I really was trying to stay close to it, but there were THREE aisles of beautiful beads and supplies, and before I knew it, I had DOUBLED my projected expense. * sigh *. I looked through my basket, realized I had been as “cut-throat” as I could stand to be, then told myself that I had made extra money and that it was an investment… I got to the register (still on time schedule, believe it or not) only to discover that ALL THE BEADS WERE 50% OFF!!!!!!!! I think I ended up going 82 cents over budget! WOOHOO!!!!
Next was the mall, packed with cutesie couples, and decked out with hearts and flowers everywhere. My sweetie got me a smoothie (with “immune” booster – his had “memory” booster - * Snark!*) and we started looking at shoes. I wanted something very specific – red – so it was easy to look. And we had a time frame to keep, so it was easy to decide quickly if this was something I’d really want or not. At about the fifth store I’d zoomed into, I spotted a perfect pair of shoes – these, but with red stripes, and red-edged black laces - for such a good price that I could also afford two little pairs of canvas mary jane slippers to go with my pj’s!
YAY!
Then, onto a wonderful dinner at Wasabi, where for some odd reason, we also got free food (cucumber salad and edamame). Chris thinks it’s because we’re cool (AHAHAHAAAHHAHAHA!!!!). I suppose that means we actually know a little about the food and culture, are as polite to the staff as we know how to be, truly appreciate the beauty of the presentation and skill of the atamisan and say so, and sincerely, if clumsily, attempt to speak the language. I think it’s because they felt sorry for us because the place was packed and we spent the first part of our meal next to a couple (Stewart, you know them) who’s toddler was squealing, stomping and being just generally, loudly rambunctious (this is ALWAYS annoying during a meal, but somehow worse in the gentle dim peacefulness of a nice Japanese place), and the latter part next to a loud, um, “déclassé” redneck dude who – no lie - started off his meal by asking if they had any egg drop soup. He argued with his date, asked if the sake was made of tequila, but overall, it was more funny than disruptive, and we had a great meal and a great time, right down to the beautiful pink origami tulip that the proprietress gave me as we got ready to leave.
Suffice it to say that the rest of the evening was even more lovely, and was the “icing on the red-velvet cupcake” that was my perfect, funny, productive, busy, lucrative, romantic, mystical, silly Valentine’s day.

(note: after I wrote this first part, I went home and found a single pale pink envelope in my mailbox, just as if I’d conjured it by magic, a sweet, cute Valentine from Aunt Sue!)

In other news, I’ve met with my boss and with the folks in the county finance office. If all the paperwork goes through in time, I will be taking a one-month leave starting at the end of this month. For whatever reason, I will have to take unpaid leave – I supposed that workman’s comp would help with that, but the folks in finance avoided that part of the conversation, and I was too _____ to push. I will have to use what vacation and sick time I have accrued, and miss one whole paycheck and about 1/3 of another*****. They didn’t answer my questions about workman’s comp paying all the med bills I’ve accrued since September either. Hm.
Instead of letting this make me angry, I have decided to accept it – the leave – as is. That way NO ONE can say that I am taking advantage of the system. I am only using what I’ve earned. This also makes it easier to walk away when the time comes. These people truly do not care about me, about my health, or about all that I have done in this job. I know that I’m just another number, at the end of the day – or pay period, as it were. I think I will have no choice to try to press them, re: the med bills, but I am afraid that they will say that this is the fault of the town of Saluda, which can barely afford new trashbags, much less all my med bills. I think I am going to have a fight on my hands with this one, but I have decided that, during my month off, I am going have a sit-down with both my insurance person and my workman’s comp caseworker. And I am setting a date and planning ahead for the inevitable leap into freedom.
The good news related to all of this (beside the obvious health-break I will finally get to take) is that my boss is being very helpful and accommodating. He suggested that, in order to make it easier to fill my hours, we could temporarily reduce the hours that the library is open. I sat down immediately after the meeting and came up with a tentative schedule that, with a little tweaking and shifting here and there, will need only a 7-hour cut in the library hours, and keep the majority of the volunteers working the same amount, if not slightly less, here and there, than their normal hours. Margaret’s hours will not need to be increased, only shifted slightly, and she will have the same amount of days off each week.
I have also agreed to be on call for these ladies, and I will, because they’ll need me, and because I am grateful for them - but it has just occurred to me that I am expected to answer the phone, assist volunteers, staff and patrons, and basically work during this time THAT I WILL BE USING UP MY LEAVE AND NOT BE GETTING PAID. That’s a BIG !#$% straw. :[ This camel is NOT happy…
*tick tick tick tick ….*

Oh well, onward and upward. It could always be worse. Hell, it HAS been worse. I feel better knowing that i'm about to get a bit of a reprieve, that I will be able to spend a whole month taking care of myself, hopefully getting myself back into to some semblance of my old, strong, healthy self, and doing things that I want and need to do - not to mention doing a test-run of my future plans.
I have considered all the contingencies, I have back-up plans and escape routes. I'm not afraid. I am basically now just waiting for Chris to get settled into his new job, and to get my little duckies in a row, and then - "Braaaaaziillllllll..... da da da da da da da da....."
The sky - and my own creativity and ambition - is the limit.

Much love,
- remember to send Valentines to your kids,
-s


*Once, after lunch, he came out to the bleachers where I was sitting on the rail and asked if he could write on my jeans. I said yes, and he wrote “Sam loves James”… I figured he was just messin’ with me, because no conservative, nice boy, nor indeed ANY boy in my senior class would have been allowed to date me, and they all knew that I wasn’t an “on-the-sly” type of girl…
**but NOT those nasty-a$$ boxes of Candy Hearts – ugh! :[
***personally, I’m down for ANY additional holidays that might A.) get me out of work;
B.) get me prezzies, treats & free meals, or (most importantly) C.) add a little pizzazz and change of scenery to an otherwise ordinary day – ESPECIALLY in mid-winter.
****I won’t say “spunky”, ‘cause she’d never give me snickerdoodles again. Plus she might look at me in that way that she has… eek. ;)
note: I always hated being called “spunky” too. But I suspect that Jody knows as well as I do that if the “Chunky Spunky Planet of Mary Lou Retton Clones” t-shirt fits, you gotta wear it. *sigh****** the good news there is that I have been offered one week of work on the old job during this time, so that will help make up for the loss. Nyah. !#$% the m#!%fin’ MAN!

State of the Onion* Address:

I’m actually feeling physically ok today, miraculously enough**. Of course, the last day I felt this good was the day before I ended up in the hospital. I’ve been living in fear of every sick kid (or adult) who comes into the library. I’m supposed to wear a mask all the time, but I can’t breathe with it on, and it makes my face break out. I have a bottle of vanilla walnut antibacterial gel to hand, and a box of those little wipes, for my hands and the phone, but I think about the fact that every book and movie that comes in is germy. Yuck. It has definitely become a kind of hell to me. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to work with the public again.
Even worse than the threat of disease is the emotional torment… I don’t know if it’s because I’ve been out a lot, or if it’s because of puberty, or it’s a new crop of kids, but I have had huge struggles trying to control the general misbehavior and vandalism. I found out that kids were throwing things (nice plastic bookmarks, that they also use as ammo, wooden tags for the upstairs computers, paper, etc) out of the upstairs windows, onto the roof of the neighboring building. These windows have no safety measures, so who knows when one of the children will fall – which will immediately be my fault – and the library’s problem. They have been raiding my little kitchenette (that I can’t use because I can’t leave this floor). Last week they stole a bottle of Hershey’s fat-free chocolate syrup (Sally and I made mochas) and poured it down the elevator shaft. They… “defecate”*** (and “regurgitate”) on the bathroom floor upstairs and then walk in it, or rub it on the walls; I ordered big cork boards for posters and notices, and then Joy and I ordered beautiful posters for them. The kids stuck pins in the faces. I was extremely peeved when they defaced one I’d bought special, but I got downright angry when I found pins stuck in the beautiful face of Lady Ella Fitzgerald. I actually considered asking the police to come and dust for prints, just to scare the little !#$%&*^#!s (grrr….) but then I was overcome by the same wave of hopelessness that I’ve been feeling in the face of all of this for sometime now. I mean, what can I do? (before you come up with a dozen or so suggestions that seem just skippy and should solve all my problems *bink *, consider that I’ve been doing this for 5 years now, and I’ve tried everything that I am allowed to try – and a few things that I’m not – it’s a “defecatey” setup here, and that’s the whole of it.) It sickens me that they have this fantastic facility to enjoy and make use of, and someone running it who genuinely cares about them, and they treat it with such incredible disrespect.
I can only discipline them if I catch them. I can’t catch them because they are a whole floor away. I am not allowed to keep them all on this floor, nor to ask anyone for help, beyond the puny measures I’m already taking. We have had cameras installed, but they haven’t been able to make them work (due to more ‘defecatey’ setup problems) and even if we could, we’d have to close circulation in order to be able to watch the cameras. There’s no intercom system there either.
On top of all that loveliness, they lie to me, insult me, they make fun of my illness, and they abuse my concern and hospitality constantly. It’s like having a !#$% husband.
I saw a notepad in a catalog that said “Women with teenagers understand why some animals eat their young”**** Man, do I understand that. Last Wednesday, I cried five times during the course of the day. My beautiful friend Catherine (whose 3 children are always here and would never dream of behaving this way) came in during the last meltdown that day and reminded me that they aren’t ALL like that – true (and I never forget that. I love and appreciate my good guys dearly). But the rest of them, relatively few though they may be, are enough to destroy my peace of mind, and crush my enthusiasm for the whole. I am so drained of energy that I cannot muster even a fraction of my usual concern and support. As if my health issues weren’t enough of a damper, there is this unending nightmare to contend with.
I know that if I were to consult with my boss, he would just castigate me for not doing a better job and tell me that I am supposed to be managing this, so I continue to just abide by the rules when I know who’s responsible, and clean up the mess when I don’t. And I bide my time.

I’m tired of feeling bad. I’m tired of bitching. I want ME back, body and soul.
Next week I have a meeting with my boss and two ladies from finance to discuss the leave that Jeff (Dr. Viar) prescribed. My boss said that the county would be doing an air quality test (YAY!), and asked if we could postpone the meeting until after that, but I explained that even if they find that there is now good air in the building, it’s not going to undo five months worth of damage. My immune system is so weak, not to mention my body itself. At the worst, they’ll determine that workman’s comp won’t cover my leave, and then I don’t know what I’ll do. (I’ve been offered several art jobs, as well as a little waitress job, and I have people clamoring for jewelry, so it’s not as if there’s nothing…) I’m afraid to ask them about all the medical bills I’ve compiled since September as well, but I think I have to. They’re adding up FAST.
It all feels like emotional tsunami.

So. What ELSE is happening in the world of Sam? Not much. Life has been sick/work/
sleep/housework/sick/work/sleep for some time now. No get-togethers, no comedy show. My body doesn’t take the travel well, I don’t have the energy for rehearsals, nor can I stand second-hand smoke. My appetite’s been pretty puny too. When I have time off, I either try to clean a little (my poor Casa de Luna!), make jewelry (aw, y’all WAIT ‘til you see my new stuff*****!!!), read, or sleep. The jewelry-making is a comfort in more ways than one, but sometimes I don’t even have energy for that.
Chris is a rock in the midst of all this. He may not be real good in the ‘remembering ANYthing department’, or in the ‘closing-the-potty-lid’ department but he’s good at being sweet to me, fetching and carrying, and putting up with my b.s. I feel closer to him every day. It’s nice to have something in the ‘L-O-V-E’ department that feels so REAL, not to mention comfortable, trustworthy and safe. He talks to me, about everything, he fights with me when I feel like a good row******, he makes me oatmeal when that’s all I want, and pets my head with his cool fingers when I feel really bad. He tells me that I’m pretty and that he loves me every day, he makes good gin and tonics, and a mean pot-pie. He has a lot of patience, and he is so beautiful to me. When I look at him my heart goes all squashy and I think “Man, I am a lucky girl.” He tells me that HE is the lucky one, so yay, lucky us!
Luna is well, but she’s having some depression and jealousy issues. She’s jealous because George is the center of attention, and it doesn’t matter to her that we are constantly paying attention to him because he’s so damned BAD! Jeesh, this !#$% CAT!
He knocks pictures and ornaments off the wall, jumps onto my shoulder from, I dunno where, !#$ hyperspace (literally) while I’m trying to do dishes or cook, he keeps burning his whiskers off – anytime he sees an open flame he rushes straight to it to try to smell it… A few days ago he burnt the pad off of one of his back toes, jumping onto a hot burner on the stove. As soon as we can get him snipped and completely immunized, we think we’ll have a very happy indoor/outdoor kitty (I think we’re not gonna’ have any choice…). Otherwise, we fear that we’ll be eaten (or duct-taped to death, or some similar horrible end) in our sleep.

Well, that’s basically the latest update.
For those of you who have written and called, I’m sorry if I owe you a reply. I don’t have easy access to the ‘net right now, and I’m too tired to talk when I come home at the end of each day. It’s catch as catch-can. But I love hearing from you, so don’t be discouraged by my silence. I hear you, and it makes all the difference.

Much love,
-s

*Well, not counting my pet migraine, FoFs.
**S – “Ogres [read: Orcs] are like onions”
D – “What they smell bad?”
S – “NO!”
D – “They make people cry?”
S – “NO!”
D – “Oh I know, when you leave em out in the sun they start turning brown and sprout
little white hairs?”
S – “NO DONKEY! Layers! Ogres have layers! Onions have layers....”
D – “...cake, everybody loves cakes... parfaits may be the most delicious thing on the whole
damn earth...”
***god forbid I OFFEND someone…
****I saw another one that made me think of you Andi, and Buffy –
“I childproofed the house, but somehow they keep getting back in.”
*****I’ve designed pieces called “Moon and Sixpence”, “Van Gogh Spring”, “Chinatown”, “Green River”, “Music of the Night”, “Indian Summer”, “Courage”, etc… ooooo-wee! And I just got a bunch more pretty stuff to use, too. Yay!
******’s never over anything serious or mean. Just things like whether we should play ‘Clue’ or watch ‘Pole to Pole’, or why he finds it easier to lie or clam up than say what he really THINKS. We’re gonna conquer that one, damnit.

Well, just when you think it can’t get any worse...

Thursday was one of the best days I’ve had in a while. I was mostly headache free, and definitely feeling better spirit-wise that I have in a while. I was still a bit “puny” from this recent bout of yuck, but I was up to going over to Stewart’s for a bit. Chris and I stopped in at Wendy’s and I got my fave, a baked potato, a Caesar salad and a frosty. We hung around with Stewart, KoL’d a bit, played a couple of hands of cards - and then I started getting tired first, and then queasy.
I’m queasy a lot these days, so at first I didn’t worry, but as the tired settled in, the queasy got worse, and by the time we got to the car, I knew that it was worse than usual. I had to have Chris pinch my hand all the way home to quell the nausea, and by the time we got home, I knew I’d have to consign Chris to the front room so that I could have the potty to myself.
That was the beginning of definitely one of the worst nights of my life, health-wise. The last time I can remember feeling that bad was when I last had pneumonia. I was in high school, and I almost died. Even then, I wasn’t as sick - “reverse peristalsis-wise” as I was that night. At first I threw up ever hour and half, then every hour, then half-hour, then 15 minutes. Oh yeah, it was lovely.
At 6 am, after the tenth* bout, I woke Chris up (he was starting his new weekend work-all-night schedule and I didn’t want to screw that up) and asked him to take me to the ER. Aside from all the other yuck, my ribs were screaming, my sternum had filed for divorce, and my abdomen muscles were on strike. This illness did not give one happy horse____ - it had called in SCABs.
I thought briefly that I might have food poisoning, bad lettuce, I dunno, but without giving any (more) disgusting details, there were certain “key elements” of typical food poisoning that were not present. Suffice it to say that nothing I’d eaten the day before had digested at all, and my body had processed no food or liquids for at least 24 hours. I felt like I’d been chemically poisoned.
They got me into a room and when the doc finally came, she asked if I’d been exposed to anyone with stomach bugs. That’s when I remembered that at least two of my kids at the libob had been notoriously sick the previous week, and had been borrowing the libob phone repeatedly**.
They hooked me up to an IV and started pumping fluids and fenergen into me - between visits to the potty - yes the fun went on and on and on... They took blood (white blood cell count WAY up), they took pee (sickos), Xrays to check for blockages or other serious intestinal kinks and finally said that it seemed like a stomach bug, but that I was way sicker than I shoulda’ been. Doc finally explored my recent medical history and determined that my seriously undermined immune system was probably the culprit. She STRONGLY recommended that I get a flu shot and a pneumonia shot, and asked if I was certain I’d had my childhood vaccinations and tetnus, because my body would have a hard time handling anything else right now.
Apparently each successive illness and weakness has chipped away at my strength until I’ve gotten to the point where a little stomach flu can put me into the hospital. Lovely.

My family doc told me almost two weeks ago that I really must take some time away from work (both allergy and stress-wise) or I am never going to heal. Spring is right around the corner, SERIOUS allergy season is on it’s way - I’m actually afraid. Of Spring.
But there’s so much to do, and there’s no one to work for me when I need time off as it is (my few remaining volunteers - god bless their dear hearts - are SERIOUSLY overtaxed, Margaret can only work so many hours...) There have been other worries too - a patron anonymously called the STATE LIBRARY to register a LIST of complaints against me, and a caring co-worker did the same thing, but only on a local level, thank goddess. I admitted to my boss that I was definitely guilty of some of the infractions (even the ones I was simply unaware of), and instead of apologizing, I promised to try to be more on my toes, but some of the accusations were lies, and some were ridiculous personal attacks. That is definitely JUST what I need right now.
I’m grateful that my boss was understanding and professional***, and let my past reputation and the library’s success speak for itself. I assured him that I would be more aware of the things that I was letting slip, and try to be more “my old self” as far as the service of the community was concerned. It’s hard though. I am worn so thin.
‘Thing is, I feel like if I leave now, people will think I am running, and you KNOW how that is, especially if you know me. Plus, no captain worth a !#$% leaves his ship, especially if it’s not even sinking. It’s just got a little WIND damage, that’s all...
Short story: More stress.

So, after a day or so of watered down juice and endless Sopranos, I got the strength to get off the couch. I called folks who were expecting me for various reasons to make my apologies, and when I talked to Buffy, she finally spelled it out for me. I have got to take care of myself, or I’m not going to be taking care of ANYthing.

It’s so hard for me to accept that I am this sick. I keep saying “It will pass”, but the fact of the matter is, it has no chance to pass. I realized that the onset of the constant migraines coincided with the installment of the new carpet in the basement. There’s still a mold problem in the building, there will ALWAYS be a dust and dust-mite (my two most serious non-chemical allergens) problem there - not to mention the constant chemical assault of perfume, hairspray, deodorant, cleaning chemicals, and of course, paint and new carpet. As it is right now, both the stairs and elevator of the building where I work are severely toxic to me. The stairs still smell like the incredibly ugly, relatively recent paint job as well as mildew-fest 2005, and the elevator has brand new carpet, which has a similar effect on me as DDT and gasoline to a new baby caterpillar.

There’s something about seeing that IV needle in my arm that makes it all hit home. I experienced the same thing back when I had to have the MRI. That needle and tube were far scarier than being put into that claustrophobia machine.
Things have been the same for so long that I am afraid of making a big change. I am afraid of letting down everyone who was so proud of me for getting this job, and for finally being a “grown-up”****. I’m afraid of being weak, of being seen as weak, of being a quitter, of letting down the people who have depended on me, of walking away from something safe - for once.
But here’s the deal: IT’S JUST NOT SAFE ANYMORE.
The paycheck is nice. Best, consistent one I’ve ever had. But it may well keep me from being able to ever make another consistent paycheck again. My body has been compromised to the point that I really am heading toward the - heretofore humorous - bubble.
When I realized that pneumonia, the flu, the next asthma attack, another 27 - or 2 - kid-borne illnesses could take me out of the picture permanently, I started to realize that I have GOT to find another way.

I am going to try to talk to my boss this week and see if I can go to part-time to finish out this month. We have some programs coming up that are important and I don’t want to leave anyone else (‘cause all of us are overtaxed) holding that ball. The lab needs to be moved, if it’s safe, there’s a lot of grunt-work needing to be done, we’ll have to find and train someone else... There’s a lot to do. But if I can’t get my health back in some sort of decent shape by Spring/allergy season, none of it’s going to matter, at least not to me.

Buffy pointed out that there was a lot going on. Getting off of anti-depressants, X’s new job, house problems (the flooding and plumbing problems continue...), hugely mounting medical bills, money problems, considerations about my life changes... all of this adds stress, which weakens me further. It shouldn’t BE that way - I used to be energized by change. Friends keep pointing out that I’ve changed, I’m not my old self, I’ve lost my sparkle. !#$% that. Is ANYTHING worth that?
I could give up my health, sell my soul for the possibility of 401k security, but what good is a plan for a future if you don’t live to enjoy it, or worse - you live, but your quality of life is !#$%?
I can do other things. I can support myself, I believe that. I’d enjoy that, and I’d be fulfilling my dream and filling my soul - and staying away from people wearing Eau de Death in the bargain. I have GOT to get to that place, I have no choice.
I realized today when I was driving from bank to bank trying to avert a small financial disaster (and getting my truck out of the hospital - my water pump died last Tuesday *sheesh*...), that I really am not my self. It’s a gorgeous day, warm, sunny, and I thought I was going to have to work on my day off and didn’t, and yet I just felt drained, weak and worried. Normally, I’d feel like a million bucks on a day like that. I’d be bubbling over to paint or clean or go for a walk, but all I could manage was the minimum, and I didn’t feel the least enthusiasm for the golden sun and promise of warmth to come. I heard this***** song on my wonderful WEBB and thought “This is how I feel all the time now. This is not me. I am the optimistic one, I am the hopeful one. I get so frustrated with my friends who refuse to see a good side (*ahem* you KNOW who you are...) and they come to ME for hope. I can’t lose that. I can’t afford to. The past would come upon me like a tsunami and I would be lost. I know. I’ve dealt with tidal waves before.

People have called and written and said they’ve read my rant and are worried - thank you. People say that when they’ve heard I was down other folks said to go read my rant. I am so glad that you all care, and that I can come here and keep you posted. Knowing that y’all care means the world to me. And let me say here that Chris has been keeping my head above water in every way. He has been so good to me. I went into his room while he was day-sleeping after his first graveyard shift, and just his eye and the top of his shaggy head were showing. I looked at that one sleeping eye and felt a surge of love so strong it almost hurt. I am lucky and blessed that he loves me and that he can handle what I can’t. It’s not much, but it’s an important little bit. It’s mostly just me (and cleaning the cat-box when I’m nauseous. Vital, believe me.). For those of you who worry and who have prayed or wished me blessings, I have them, and he’s a big part of that. Thank you.

I will keep you all posted. Thank you. I miss you.
-s

*Buffy said “Huh-uhn! I throw up THREE times, my ass in at the Doctors’!” It’s not like I’m hardheaded or anything! Gosh!
** Grrrrr....
***Go fig.
****Well, ok, somewhat...
*****Wishing Wells by Ron Sexsmith

Wishing wells
Are fine in fairy tales
But they've got no business here
Where evil's very real
And children are known
To just disappear

Magic spells
Still hold no currency
Where people are lining up
To sell their dignity
When reality's a show
They'll crawl through mud

I fear sometimes
We ain't got a hope in hell
I've half a mind to hang the next fool
To wish me well
To wish me well

It comes as no surprise
All that rises to the top
Before our very eyes
With each generation expectation drops

I feel sometimes
We ain't got a hope in hell
I've a half a mind to hang the next fool
To wish me well
To wish me well

Tell me when
When will the truth prevail
To clear away all
The smug and smirking juveniles
And save us from all
The blood thirsty thugs

I fear sometimes
We ain't got a hope in hell
I've half a mind to hang the next fool
To wish me well

Hey everybody.
I’m so sorry that I’ve been slack here. I have been feeling so bad. Yesterday was the worst day I’ve had in a long time. I was pretty much paralyzed by a migraine and spent the day either flat on my back in the dark living room (on the couch, under my wonderful electric throw and Charlyn’s quilt and George) or “worshipping at the porcelain altar”. Needless to say, there was no chance of keeping any pain meds down. I was so weak that I could barely walk, and trembling so badly that I couldn’t do anything else. No reading, no drawing, no beading. It was a bad day. Thank goddess for sweet Christopher, who came home and took care of me all day. We watched quiet movies all day. I slept a lot, both yesterday and last night (though I slept almost none the night before), and this morning I woke up feeling better, though I feel the migraine knocking on the inside of my skull again right now. If I put my fingers to my temples I can feel the blood pounding there. It’s pretty bloody miserable. Maybe it’s the new meds… maybe it’s my sinuses again… maybe it’s the allergies, or even all of the above. I just know it’s miserable trying to sit upright at my desk and answer phone calls and questions while the light and every single sound (computer keys clicking) is a nail in my head. It’s going to be a long day.

To quote Granny Weatherwax (after whom my trusty truck is named) – “I ATEN’T DED.” I’m just wishing I was, at least temporarily.
Much love and ginger hugs (shhh!)-s