Exhausted and not at the same time.

 I'm not sure what to write at the moment. I have spent the majority of my day doing line edits on a revision/version of a holy book for Filianism/Déanism. Even as I am working on this, I see the community that I've been writing stuff for getting very quiet. I don't know if it is burn out from the anxiety of Covid-19 plus this election cycle. I don't know if I'm just grinding away on something that is ultimately going to gather dust and be useless. I'm tired of editing and I'm only at the beginning of the process.

Even as I am doing this, one of the largest non-Aristasian aligned sects is being orphaned by their leadership who is taking their site and going LOLWERCHRISTIANNOW!1! They struggled under the influx of new members. Their staff were struggling to balance their lives outside of being clergy. They turned the site back to the founder, who had ghosted them once things started moving in a forward direction. After a month of silence, the founder says "yeah, we're leaving this up for 2 weeks and then we're taking the site down" followed a few days later by a post saying that they're converting the entire site to esoteric Christianity. 

Look, I get that Filianism has a lot of similarities with Christianity with that whole triune godhead thing and angelic orders. But, you built a cultus of worship, an entire tradition that people are still interested in following. And that is getting thrown out the window because Jesus. I'm sorry, but that sticks in my craw. I'm angry. I'm angry at the bait and switch this person pulled. I'm angry on the behalf of the people of this tradition who want to follow it as it was initiated and had been running up until Covid-19 hit. You don't build a religion or a sect of a religion and then throw it away because you decide its too much work or it isn't as shiny as you wanted it to be or because not enough people are kissing your ass.

You don't do that when you've got a following. You have a responsibility to those people. You set yourself up as a leadership figure, then you have to lead. If you can't lead, you have to find someone who can within the tradition do so. You don't fake dying (like one person did), you don't just vanish, and you sure as hell don't pull this bait and switch crap.

I had respect for this person. I watched them build this system and do a fair amount of good work in the community. If they had a spiritual revelation that they were on the wrong path, that's fine. You don't force your change in direction onto the people who were looking to you to continue to lead them on the path you started. You say "I'm sorry, but I can't do this anymore. I appoint so-and-so as my successor. I leave you in their care and with my blessing."

Keep Calm and Carry Weapons.

 

Looking at the news, the meme above about covers it. That's about all I can brain up for today.

Staring down the barrel.

 It seems like everything is going wrong all around us. It's almost enough to make you wonder if its Ragnarok or something. (Loki tells me that Ragnarok happens every night and everything resets again in the morning, he's been telling me that for years.) I am looking at turning fourty-two in this mess and realizing that I have no idea what the hell I'm doing. I'm realizing that I never expected to live past thirty. I was that brainwashed into thinking I was going to have a short lifespan.

Now ... now it seems like the disaster that I was raised to believe was going to destroy the country is happening. It just doesn't happen to involve nuclear weapons yet. I have been running smack into all of the damn conditioning I was raised with all the time of late. I find myself afraid that my parents are going to come kidnap me and force me to work the farm. I find myself afraid that they're going to punish me for walking away from them and the rest of the family (in some especially brutal and ghoulish fashion, because that is the only way they're creative it seems). I haven't been sleeping well because once my anti-nightmare pill wears off, I start reliving my childhood through my nightmares.

I find myself trapped in this apartment because I'm afraid to leave. I'm afraid that some rando neighbor is going to sneeze or cough on me while I'm getting the mail and I'll catch Covid-19, or something somehow worse. I'm afraid that my parents are going to show up. I'm afraid that if I go for a walk, I'll miss the bus dropping the kids off from school and then I'll have CPS called on me. I'm afraid to go to the store even though I need to buy some clothes because there's so many people there that could possibly get me sick. It's all irrational but no one said fear was rational.

At the same time, I feel this conditioned sense of guilt for leaving "the family". Some evil part of my brain, where the conditioning lives, tells me that my family isn't really my family. That my life isn't real. It tells me that this is all fantasy and that I'm still a kid. That's on the really bad days. On the moderately bad days, it tells me that Beloved and I are "playing house" and I actually should be "responsible" and be back at the farm.

In the midst of this dumpster fire of a year, up until I blocked them on FB, I heard nothing from my parents. I have gotten stuff about a wedding for a cousin of mine. It's funny, his sister didn't invite me to her wedding. Must have gotten lost in the mail, right? I don't even know if his brother is married or if that child I was introduced to is his. I have lost touch with all of them. Why? Because I didn't matter enough to them to pick up the phone and call once in a while. Because I wasn't servile enough for my parents to be consider a 'good' daughter, despite the fact that I graduated college from a good college with good marks. Because I married a man my mother despised because he wasn't rich enough for her tastes, so she did everything she could to sabotage my wedding by undermining what I wanted and then showed up wearing a tacky black wannabe evening gown and a horrible dye job. 

Nope, I don't matter to my family of birth. The people that I mattered to were my paternal grandparents. Their dead now. The rest of them don't care much for me because I had the misfortune of being a daughter. My brothers can do no wrong. Despite one of them having no job and living in squalor (in my parents house, which they abandoned for my late grandparents house) and the other being a deadbeat dad and a drunk. Nope, they can do no wrong. But I had to have an "intervention" because they assumed I was an alcoholic because I could hold my own in a conversation with my  alcoholic brother regarding hard liquor. 

I'm bitter. They told me as I was growing up that family was everything. They told me that we had a moral obligation to our ancestors and our descendants to be "more than right" and honorable. It looks like I'm the only one living up to that obligation. I'm bitter because they said that the family would stick together and take care of each other. What they really meant was that I was supposed to drop everything and take care of them. What they really meant was that I was supposed to be their meal ticket.That's why my Dad called me a failed investment. That's why my Mom kept telling me to leave Beloved and go marry some supposedly rich guy she knew off in gods only knows where. Because they wanted money and thought that the only way to get it was by marrying me off to some wealthy person, since I didn't land a "good" job right out of college, I haven't made a ton of money off my writing, and my brothers have proven unreliable.

Oh boy, life's going to get interesting.

 The major leadership figures of the Filianic and Déanic faith traditions are going dark on the internet. It is happening just as there is a new wave of people who seek to learn about Filianism and Déanism. This would not be a big deal except for one thing. I'm one of the few public ordained priestesses still blogging and writing about Filianism (and my specific weird sect of it). I have a feeling that the pressures of dealing with the influx of new devotees caught people off guard and left them reeling. Rather an leaning into the situation, they chose to step back.

All of this comes on the heels of my realizing that my version of Filiansim really does qualify as its own sect. As such, I've been writing and working to bring my writings into alignment with the holy scriptures of this faith (known as the Clear Recital). I don't know what's going to become of this. I wonder if the universe had a reason for making the tarot business I was running tank on the same day that a major Déanic tradition announced that they were closing down their site and completely revamping it. 

There is a part of me that is annoyed. It wonders if these people were cosplaying being worshippers of Déa because they wanted to be unique. It wonders if the leadership figures were in it for power games and if they lacked the moral fortitude to step up and lead. I strive to put aside these cynical thoughts, but they keep creeping up when I recall how one of them faked their own death on social media much to the distress of many of the younger members of the faith.

I was going to try to focus on tarot reading while the kids were doing homework and such after school. I was going to write during the day while they were at school. Now... Now I feel like I need to schedule office hours for devotees of Déa to have consultation when they need it. Now I really feel the pressure to finish writing my version of the Clear Recital. I have no idea what's going to become of this. I didn't walk into this looking to be a leadership figure. 

I oathed myself to Déa a long time ago and figured that I'd spend my time in prayer and writing. Things kept happening that put me in a position where I was offering spiritual guidance after I finished my training in Wicca. Now, I don't know where this goes next. I have an uneasy feeling that I am going to be leading people and I'm not that great at public speaking. Gods help me, I don't know if this is going to go the way I suspect it will be or not.

And I have other writing commitments popping up. I've stumbled into the river of fate and I'm not sure if I'm about to hit the rapids or not. Wyrd goes where she will. I'll do my best to trust in the gods and stay out of my own way. I have this bad habit of getting nervous and then getting in my own way. Not so great if you're trying to do work or much of anything else.

It is done.

 I managed to work up the emotional fortitude to put down the fish last night. Cuddle Bear was disappointed but not distraught because he was confident that the fish's soul would migrate into the next fish we will get. Snuggle Bug was very upset and it took me about 40 minutes to calm him down. He's afraid of death. Once the reality of the fish's death fully hit him, he had a bit of a meltdown. It was a lot of work to convince him that the death was a better thing than the fish continuing to suffer. Once we got past that, he was still upset over the idea that at somepoint everybody dies. 

I feel like a total heel for putting the fish down in the light of how distraught my son was to have his Lego buddy gone. We're going to recycle the fishtank and get a new one for the next fish. I am just tired. I've been depressed since sometime in March. Now we're hitting the "beginning" of my sesonal affective disorder, which I swear started the day after the Summer Solstice. So, I have to dig out my "happy" light and set it up. I don't know how I'm going to make that work. The time I spent last year using it with out distractions pulling me away is now the time the kids are up and we're working on getting them out the door to school.

My fish is sick and I can't bring myself to euthanize it.

 My fancy crowntail betta is very ill. I know that he is suffering. He is bloated and it's clear that he's struggling. At the same time, when ever I am at the tank, he swims right up to the surface to greet me and try to get food. (I haven't been over feeding him, he has some kind of parasite.) I have the clove oil. I was all set to put a few drops in to drop him into permanent sleep. Then he swam up to the surface and around in a circle. He's fighting so hard to live. I just don't have the heart to put him down right now.

There's little hope that he is going to recover. I feel like I'm a bad person for not putting him down right now. But, he's still kicking. He hasn't given up and just lays on the bottom of the tank except for food. I feel like it would be cruel to put him down when he's struggling to get over this illness. I don't know how he got this parasite. The tank was clean. The water was properly treated. He just got sick about a week ago and is now very bloated and struggles to swim. 

I had medicine to treat him but it expired in '09, the last time I had a betta that was sick like this. A part of me says "It's just a fish. Why are you so upset over this?" as another part of me says, "It's wrong to kill him when he's trying so desperately to live." Arose (his name is from old Norse and means 'from the river') has been with us for several years. He's reaching about the end of his life expectancy if he was healthy. Which I think made him more prone to catching this parasite.  But I just can't kill him right now. I know he's suffering, but he's fighting to live. I can't bring myself to crush that spark of light.

Freyr says that euthanization is the most humane way to end his suffering because he's past the point where medication would help. I'm sure he's right given how bloated Arose is and how quickly he reached this state. He says that it wouldn't be cruelty to put him down. Fortunately, he is not telling me it is cruelty to let him try to heal on his own. I don't have the fish medicine and I don't know where to get it. But I have the clove oil that will anesthetize him and then kill him on an over dose.

A part of me says that I'm too attached to this fish. I knew it wasn't going to live as long as a cat or a dog. Another part of me says that this fish is, in a way, part of our family and the kids are going to be very upset if I put him down. Over the last several days, they've noticed how sick Arose is and have questioned if he is going to die. They're more prepared for the fish to die than I am to put him down.

Something not quite right about that.

My spiritual life is weird. And getting weirder.

 I keep a separate blog for my spiritual writings and such. It's not really a full reflection of the weirdness of my spiritual life but there are elements that I don't share there because I am trying to cultivate a professional life through that blog. As I am dealing with perimenopause, my emotions are all over the place. I'm upset because I was promised something like a rite of passage when I hit this stage of my life and there's nothing because that promise was a lie. I was promised rites of passage as I hit the ages where they'd happen and they didn't happen. Or at least, they weren't treated as special days.

When I turned sixteen, my parents humiliated me when my aunts attempted to make the rather pathetic 'celebration' more special by brigning out a cake that looked like a woman in an evening gown. My engagement party was rolled together in with my college graduation party and my parents tried to down play the engagement because they wanted to bask in the prestiege that I graduated college from Notre Dame of Maryland. They tried to sabotage my wedding and repeatedly told me that it wasn't about me but them. They were forced to put on their company manners and act like they wanted to be there because about half the guest list showed up. Mom still managed to humiliate me by wearing black. The only reason why there was a baby shower for my first child was because Beloved's mother arranged it. There was no baby shower for my second child. And I could go on with the list of things promised and either executed deliberately badly or not at all from my parents.

Now, one may wonder what in hell this has to do with my spiritual life. Well, at sixteen, the aunt who was high priestess of the coven I was in gave me a sickle. This indicated that I had completed my spiritual education and I was ready to lead a coven of my own. At college, I began to act as an unofficial Wiccian liason to the campus ministry in the wake of the terrorist attacks September of 2001. I was a spiritual advisor to other students who were not affiliated with Christianity. I continued this manner of work on a sporadic basis after college.

At the same time, from age fourteen on, I began experiencing mystical things. I didn't talk about them because of my parents repeated threats to have me insitutionalized for being a normal teen. There were times, however, that I'd come into the houe after having sat outside on the hill meditating and my mother bitched about how I stank of roses (I wasn't wearing perfume that day). I would spend time with one foot in the 'real' world and one foot in the spirit world on a regular basis. It was a safe place that I could retreat to when the abuse I was livign with got to be too much. I could "zone out" and be where I had allies who comforted me and reassured me that the gaslighting wasn't the truth and I was going to eventually be out of that house.

The mystical experiences were potent and helped to keep me sane. They have continued up until this day. Precognitive dreams happened more before I developed bipolar. I can still read a tarot deck like nobody's business. I have the infamous 'godphone' going on which allows me to communicate more clearly with the deities in my life. It is like stepping sideways of 'reality' and interacting with them. It is pretty much the same skill that I taught myself but focused on deities. About in 2014, I was told that Freyr wanted me to be a godspouse by someone who was in a deep devotional relationship with him. I was intimidated at first and basically did everything I could to avoid him.

He made a point of being present and doing his best to court me. I suddenly went from having plants dying on me (with the exception of the unkillable snake plant my paternal grandmother gave me and the spiderplant she gave me) to having a thriving indoor garden. He came to me in dreams and visions. He was always kind and, at the same time, hesitant. At one point, Freyja spoke to me through one of her priestesses and chastised me for stringing her brother along. I confessed my fear that all of this was madness. Freyja told me that it was my upbringing talking, my experiences were real, and I should just embrace Freyr. I discussed things with Freyr and basically treated it like arraning ground rules for how a poly relationship in meat space was going to work. He agreed. And then Loki ... well, Loki decided that my attraction to him was mutual after years of going "Yer cute" and said that the arrangement I worked out with Freyr sounded fine to him. So, I went to Beloved and dicussed this whole business of being a pagan nun (which is basically what godspousery is).

After some serious discussion, I took up Freyr and Loki on their proposals. That was when life became more interesting. Things that I had been working on in the past began accelerating forward. We avoided sure disasters in odd ways. Storms of trouble just went around us. I made huge strides in my efforts to heal from the trauma of the past. To the point that I can write about it with out being completely terrified (most of the time). It was also at this time that the Goddess who I oathed myself to as a priestess when I was fourteen and had my first vision of her fully revealed herself. 

Now that I've told most of my story, I am going to begin posting things on here that pertain to my spiritual life as well as my 'regular' life. I know it is going to look weird. It is weird. Beloved and I don't talk about it alot because we tend to take the approach that our relationships with metamours is our relationships. We may discuss details on occasion but we tend to keep the relationships separate and when we interact with the metamours of our partner be as friendly as possible, because they're someone that our partner cares about deeply.

The spiritual relationships doesn't make a big impact on the relationship I have with Beloved. That's for two reasons. It's been made clear in the spiritual relationships that Beloved is my primary partner. That makes my relationship with him take precedence over my relationships with them. I told them this was a hard limit. I don't have too many hard limits, but that's one of them. They were shocked by the implication that either Freyr or Loki would demand that I give up my marriage to Beloved for them. Freyr was especially scandalized by this. Loki wanted to know whose knees he needed to take out that dared to say that I would have had to give up such an obviously healthy and beneficial relationship. 

The second reason the spiritual relationships don't make a big impact on the relationship I have with Beloved is because both Freyr and Loki would drop the spiritual relationship if it came close to causing problems in the marriage I have or my relationship with my children. They have made a point of giving me advice on how to improve my communication with Beloved when I'm in a bad headspace. They've made a point of doing their best to support us. At one point, Loki and Freyr both said, "What kind of gods would we be if we didn't help you and your family?" That help shows up in odd ways at times, like disasters being narrowly averted by the quirk of luck. But they make a point of doing their best to help us. Part of that help is respecting the dynamic that Beloved and I have on the polyamoury front. While Loki and Freyr discuss things and such, they focus on me and my relationship with them.

This is a long, rambling post. It wasn't entirely what I intended it to be. At the same time, it covers most of the bases. I had a point and just lost it as I was writing. Sorry if it makes so little sense.

♥

The emotional fall out might be worse.

 The lack of distractions means I am alone with my thoughts. This is not pleasant. I have been feeling terrified that my parents are going to show up and make my life a living hell for daring to 'abandon' them and 'the family'. I have been having a lot of traumatic stuff coming up over the last few days and some weird nightmares (despite my medication to make it where the nightmares don't happen). I should probably be writing more about this in my therapy journal but I'm afraid to write it down in there because the kid part of me insists that my writings are going to be found and used against me. Because that was a thing that Mom did. She'd rifle through my room and go through my journal. When I had a locking journal, she picked the lock to read it. As such, I didn't use it very much. I hid my notebooks among my school stuff, in weird places around the room, and literally between the mattress and box spring of my bed.

I got beaten for writing 'lies' when I initially started keeping a journal in third grade. I was writing down things that happened in my daily life. Including stuff about the beatings and the psychological abuse. Mom took that journal and threw it on the burn pile, telling me that she was going to burn everything I've ever written or was going to write if I wrote 'lies' again. I stopped writing and focused on sketching from third grade to fifth grade. My parents mocked me about my dream of being an author or they would tell me what kind of author I should be. It became apparent that I had some talent for writing in middle school when I made the honor roll. Suddenly, they backed off on mocking me and started talking about what I should publish.

High school came along and I wrote my first novel. My parents told me to pitch it to a predatory press that required a fee for submission and such. It was the first thing they saw and they seized on it as an opportunity to make money. They saw my prodigious writing as a chance to make some easy money. After all, they weren't doing the work. Mom planned on managing my writing career, giving me a line of bullshit about how I needed a buisness degree to make it anywhere in writing. She tried to push me to write children's lit, which is not my strong suit. At one point she threatened to revoke my access to the computer if I didn't write what she wanted me to. In a rare show of boldness against her, I said, "Fine, I'll get a typewriter from Grandma and do it the old fashioned way." And Mom knew that my grandmother would happily loan me a typewriter.

Mom still rifled through my stuff in high school. She successfully found one of my journals in the midst of a pile of poetry notebooks. She screamed at me but didn't burn it. By then, they didn't have a burn pile going and the physical abuse had stopped. All she really had was psychological torture to use on me and in that particular instance, I just spaced out and the screaming was just noise at a distance. Being able to dissociate at will was a survival mechanism. 

I was raised in a household with a weird cult like organization. My place was always at the bottom of the social ladder. At the same time, if my parents were fighting, I had to ferry messages between them and get in trouble for meddling at the same time. I was taught that I was essentially subhuman and a blight upon the family line because I was born female. And yet, I was expected to uphold the 'honor' of the family where as no such expectations were placed on my brothers. I was expected to be silent until spoken to. I was expected to keep my opinions on anything to myself until I was asked them (which rarely happened). I was expected to keep the house clean and do the lion's share of the chores whereas my brothers were assigned chores and could slack off. I was frequently doing my brothers' work. Mom would give the room a white glove test to make sure there wasn't a speck of dust anywhere. If she didn't approve of the job done, I had to clean everything all over again.

I was regularly told that I wasn't going to find a husband because I was a "poor housekeeper and a bad cook." I was regularly told that "they" didn't actually care about me and that the only people who cared and loved me was my family. They didn't love-bomb me as much as they treated me like a person from time to time instead of like a bit of unwanted furniature. For the formative years of my life, this was what I got. When I started dating N- my parents decided that he was a good prospect for me because he was going right from high school into the military. They were indifferent when I broke things off with him, deciding that I was going to be marrying someone else that they could count on having enough surplus funds to take care of them. I was their retirement plan. I didn't realize that until Beloved came into the picture and they hated him. Mom regularly was telling me about wealthy men she had contact with via her job in phone sales who were looking for a wife who could cook. She was shopping around for a husband for me. She kept telling me that Beloved wasn't good enough for me and that he didn't really care for me.

I knew the truth. Beloved and I had loved each other for a long time before we started dating. I knew he wasn't going to cheat on me or abandon me. I knew that if by some happenstance I wound up pregnant, he'd step up and be a father for our children. My mother all but called me a whore when Beloved and I began to have a physically intimate relationship. She threatened to throw me out of the house but my father, in a rare moment of sanity, stopped her. All through out the time I was in contact with my parents, my mother had hyper-critical things about my marriage, how I was raising my children, and that I "settled". The evening before my wedding, she said that I would have been better off marrying N- because she was sure that he had, by then, secured an officer's position and we'd have a fancy military wedding. I had an immediate gibbering panic attack over the mere thought of N-. Mom called Beloved over with the statement, "I've never seen her like this before."

I think the only reason why she didn't smack me across the face to make me 'snap out of it' was because the wedding was the next day and the handprint would still be obvious despite the makeup. That was her approach to mental health issues. My father called them weakness of character and that they were all made up because the person wanted attention. Beloved had seen me have panic attacks, he had talked me out of them plenty of times. He had me calmed down in about 5 minutes. Mom realized then that there was no way for her to talk me out of marrying him.

She denied the prospect that the marriage was the union of two families into one with the comment "This isn't a marrying of clans." She wore black to my wedding and tried to upstage me with her form fitting rhinestone off the rack evening gown. And even after the wedding, she mentioned these wealthy men she knew were looking for wives. Basically telling me to divorce Beloved and marry for the money so that they could be taken care of in their 'golden years'. It was part of the reason why I stopped talking to her.

Now, I have the stuff from my early childhood and the cult like mentality that "family is everything" going through my head. And the implication that the family that I was born into was my real family and the family that I have with my husband is just "playing house" keeps troubling me. I find myself afraid that they're going to show up and physically force me to leave with them and make me stay at the farm. I find myself afraid, again, that my days are full of delusion and that I am actually still living on the farm as a kid. And I have the massive guilt rolling over me for cutting ties that I have broken frith with my ancestors and my descendants by walking away from them. I know logically that they wouldn't want me to go back to someone who hurts me deliberately and would be a danger for my children. Emoitonally, I am petrified that they're going to rip me out of my life and make me their chattle again.

People read stories and are titilated by the details of things like a submissive person getting a funishment of kneeling on rice for a while until it gets uncomfortable. I have an indifferent reaction to it because I lived that. My mother dumped part of a jar of rice on the floor and had me pick it up by hand, whilst kneeling in it. I was seven and it was in the middle of the summer. When I got done, my knees were killing me and I had imprints of rice on them. I wasn't allowed to use a broom and a dust pan and for some reason, my mother decided that it was my fault that she spilled the rice because I 'surprised her' by walking into the room. They read stories and get titilated by the details of a switching but I've experienced that and am indifferent. Almost all of the 'torture' scenes from Kushiel's Dart, I experienced. There was no titilation for me. Just, a mental commentary on how well written it was and how close to reality it came. The joke about drill sergeants making recruits scrub things with their own toothbrush wasn't a joke in my case. My mother decided that I hadn't adequately cleaned the bathroom and made me scrub the toilet with my toothbrush and a paste of baking soda. My father found me sobbing and had me stop, got me a new toothbrush to use for myself and threw the old one away. It had only been about two hours.

Sorry for the rambling here. I'm just typing things out as they go through my head. I should really be writing this in my therapy journal. Gods help me, I'm terrified right now. I've projects to work on that I'm afraid to because of the lies that my parents told me about what the results of said projects would be for me. They said that if I wrote anything about the occult that people would come and assault my family and lynch me. They said that if I wrote about anything religious, the same thing would happen. I've the beginnings of a career writing about religious and occult topics. Nothing horrible has happened to me. At the same time, however, the stories they told me to scare me off of those topics are ringing in my head. And I'm somewhat paralysed from my emotions to be working on my housework because I'm afraid that it's not going to be good enough and Beloved is going to leave me for it.

I'm a bit of a mess right now.

Please tell me it's not Monday.

 I started my day off literally running face first into a wall. No concussion or anything major, but I feel quite uncomfortable. I have really bad night vision and I am now waking up before the sun in a room with no windows (due to bad planning when they converted this building into apartments). I suppose it was just a matter of time that I had it happen, but I am frustrated.

 I didn't sleep well last night. I had dreams of watching the police brutalize a peaceful protestor who was sitting on the grassy median on some highway holding a sign that read, "No justice, no peace. Know justice, know peace." I was screaming at them to stop as they beat this man who wasn't hurting anyone. I woke up with the screaming in my throat waiting to come out. That was around 2am this morning.

I did not know the extent of the wild fires out west until this morning. It's terrifying, especially considering that I have some folks who are dear to me out there. As of the moment, they are safe, but I worry about them. I am afraid that between the pandemic and the wild fires, there's going to be a great deal of injury and loss of life out west. Like the instances of police violence and systemic oppression, I am helpless to do anything about it but pray.

The good news for today is that packages that Beloved and I were waiting on arrived safely. Cuddle Bear decided to take it upon himself to make lunch for him and his brother because I wasn't feeling well. He did a pretty good job. Snuggle Bug has managed to not make the kitchen a lego firewalk when he was building earlier. And when a box of legos fell over, he picked it up like it was no big deal.

I feel rotten right now and I'm trying not to let on to that fact around the kids. They, however, have noticed that I don't feel well. Hence my eldest deciding to make lunch and the kids attempting to independently manage the digital learning stuff they were doing this morning on their own. The digital learning was a mixed bag situation. One of the boys (Snuggle Bug) had problems with the Zoom meeting where it just wasn't going to let him into his class. It kept saying it was trying to connect and then nothing happened. Fortunately, Cuddle Bear was in the same meeting with the teacher and communicated what the problem was. So, Snuggle Bug wasn't counted as absent, but the problem with getting into class meetings persisted. We're guessing it was something internet related and hoping that tomorrow goes better.

I am feeling somewhat distraught about some bodily issues I have going on related to perimenopause. The doctor has ordered some blood work and next week I get to go have an ultrasound to make sure there are no abnormalities with my uterus. I'm experiencing more aggressive perimenopause symptoms than most women my age. The distressing part is how it is impacting my ability to have sex. I have a high pain tolerance and I do have some kinks involving masochism but the pain after we've accidentally gone too far or pushed things a little too hard, that sucks and reminds me of horrible things at random moments. Yay ptsd. (It can die in a fire.)

Monday Menu week of Sept. 7, 2020

 So, I got my ducks in a row and I actually got a menu made. Then I discovered that I had forgotten key items on the shopping list. Quick trip to the small grocery store just up the road and Monday's dinner has changed. The rest of the menu remained the same. Again, I haven't the spoons for making a table, so this is going to be a list.

Monday 
Breakfast: French toast sticks / oatmeal w/ an egg
Lunch: Sandwiches
Dinner Burgers Pulled pork w/ fries

Tuesday
Breakfast: French toast sticks / oatmeal w/ an egg
Lunch: Sandwiches
Dinner: Tacos

Wednesday
Breakfast: Donuts / oatmeal w/ an egg
Lunch: Sandwiches
Dinner: Pad thai w/ chicken

Thursday
Breakfast: Donuts / oatmeal w/ an egg
Lunch: Sandwiches
Dinner: Chicken korma w/ "rice"

Friday
Breakfast: Cereal
Lunch: Sandwiches
Dinner: Fish, chucken nuggets, fries & salad

Saturday
Breakfast: Scrambled eggs w/ toast & bacon
Lunch: Sandwiches
Dinner: Chili & biscuits

Another Black Man Murdered

 In a city north of us, a black man was murdered by police. It was covered up by the city officials. The details about the murder was brought to public light by the family of the deceased. Now there are protests happening. There was one last night. The people were peaceable but approaching the barrier that was set up around the public safety building where they were protesting. What did the police do? They shot pepper balls into the crowd.

There's another protest today. Tension is high as the mayor's made a statement that was patent bullshit and the seven officers who were involved were put on leave. I'm furious. The mayor said that when she was made aware of the murder that she was using her 'legal mind' instead of thinking about it 'as a mother or a sister.' I'm sorry, but if your 'legal mind' says that covering up a man's death at the hands of law enforcement officers, you're complicit in that death. If you don't immediately get suspicious when you're told that a person who died under police watch died of an "overdose" then you are not doing your job. Too many police brutality deaths have been attributed to "overdose" that it's laughable (as in laugh so that you're not screaming).

If I could go join the protest, I would. But there's a problem. The government is responding to peaceable protestors with violence. If they decided to drop tear-gas on the crowd and I was in it, I'd quite likely have an asthma attack, a potentially fatal one. If you can't exercise your right to peaceably assemble and demand redress of grievances, you don't have that right anymore. They've taken it away. Just like they took away that black man's right to due process by suffocating him.

When you strap on a badge and a gun, your duty is to protect and serve the community. That includes the safety of the people you arrest. That includes the safety of the people who are yelling rude things at you. If you can't handle people yelling at you, you shouldn't be in this line of work. You sure as hell can't be trusted with lethal force if you lack the self control to restrain yourself from applying it egregiously. Police officers are charged with keeping the peace. That doesn't include murdering black and brown people. That doesn't include harassing black and brown people. And that sure as hell doesn't include assaulting the people who protest your abuse of power.

"Blue lives matter" is bullshit. It's racist. You can choose to be a cop. You can't choose your skin color. No one deserves to die because they're not white enough for your tastes.

It is done.

 I bit the bullet and dropped all but one aunt and my nieces from my FB list. I'm still in passing phone contact with another aunt but I expect nothing to come of it. She's more interested in her son's wedding. I'm not going to blame here, it's a big event. But to only contact me to say that there's a wedding and then later that the wedding has been postponed in the course of 16 years, that's pretty clear that there isn't any real desire to talk to me.

My anxiety has been high over the last three days as I struggled with the decision. Now that I've made it, I thought that I'd have some kind of feeling of peace or catharsis. My anxiety remains high. I find myself expecting my Mom to show up on my door step to scream at me about how I've abandoned the family. But, honestly, the phone works both ways. I've been eyeballs deep in home schooling / distance learning with the kids since March. Before the pandemic set in, they could have called me to let me know that they were doing things. The burden of contact, however, has always remained on me.

I've got better things to do than chase around toxic people and try to court their good favor. I'm sure that I made the right decision. At the same time, I feel tremendous guilt and anxiety. I know that it is the programming from how I was raised. I was taught that family was everything, and the only family that mattered were my blood relations. I was taught that I was nothing if I wasn't placed in context of my parents' household dynamic. I was treated like chattle and when it became clear that I had some skill and talent for writing they tried to take that over and make me do what they thought was the most profitable. They all but disowned me at the wedding. My parents are not good people. And they've only gotten worse since my paternal grandparents died.

On my mother's side, the guilt trips from my grandmother are frequent and she loves to paint her daughter as the martyr. I got sick of that, so I stopped writing her letters or calling. The social pressure from my maternal relatives to "forgive and make up" with my parents is strong. And I just can't do it. They keep hurting me. Given a chance, they'd hurt my children. So, I cut off ties with them. I have literally nothing in common with my maternal side of the family but genetics. So, now, I suppose I am officially an adult orphan by choice.

I am not going to allow the cycle of abuse to continue. I have stepped away from them to prevent it. I'm struggling with having made that choice because I was basically raised with a cult mindset that the family was everything and that I had to prove myself worthy to be family and please my parents. But they changed the rules on me (and my brothers) everytime we accomplished something. Once, I thought my father was an honest man. But, looking at his pattern of behavior, he's a poor man who aspires to be a grifter like Donald Trump with out the work of the hustle to do it. My mother's a narcissist and either a sociopath or psychopath. I'm not sure which term fits best for someone who would hold their three year old kid out over a three story drop and scream at them to behave with the impled threat that they were going to kill them if they didn't. Shit like that didn't happen once or twice. It was on a daily basis.

The trauma is such that I struggle to remember things from my early childhood up to the beginning of junior high. Most people have some kind of memories of elementary school. Mine are a patchwork of bullying that happened on the bus and abuse that happened in the home. And I'm the one who remembers those years. My father asked me at one point in time if they beat us. I lied and said I didn't remember. He doesn't remember those years, but as I work through therapy and do my writing exercises, more comes clear and it's just all ugly. I have a quarter of my life that I don't remember clearly and that disturbs me on a fundamental level. 

The psychologist who evaluated me at one point said that I had trauma equivalent to combat veterans. He expressed amazement that I was semi-functional. I replied that I had no choice. A therapist expressed astonishment at the abbreviated description of the horrors I have lived through. She asked me how I got through it. My answer was simple: I don't die. That grim, battlefield mentality has carried me through a lot of shit. It will get me through whatever fall out comes from cutting off everyone. Keep your shield up and push forward, eventually you'll grind your foes under your heels.