Author: deannemansfield7242

I am many things in my life. I write about all of them, in some form or another. Fact or fiction it is all there.

The Dangers of Writing

I started this blog a few years ago. Putting my thoughts out into the ether. I have always found value in sharing stories. I know that I am not the only one that deals with trauma, drama and everyday absurdities. If I can say something that helps someone to feel connected, heard or inspired then my blog’s purpose is fulfilled. The stories can be funny, compassionate, hard, sad, bright and ugly. 

I have had mental health issues my whole life- for as long and as much of it as I can remember. 

I carried much of it with shame. Shame that my perception is not always accurate, shame that I see so many things through the lens of my trauma changed brain. Shame that I have never been able to banish all my mental monsters. Shame that sometimes they win. After a massive mental disconnect in my mid 40s I dug into the self shadow work. I got help to pick apart the things that had begun to debilitate me. One of the things I appreciate now entering in my 50s is that I have made headway, I understand so much more about myself. There has been healing but there are still things that bring almost an immediate shroud of shame and the chains of the rooted anxiety.

As much as I can feel confident when I commit the words to the page I can also continually over think and over edit. One of my long held fears is being misunderstood. That is hard when I write posts, for the most part not a lot of people I know in real life read this, most of my readers are people I only know (if at all) online. One of the workings of my anxious brain is worrying what people are thinking. Therapy has really helped me to diminish where I place that on my list of important things. Some times it is hard when you get feed back, that you have been hurtful, over dramatic or reported an event or time incorrectly. 

The thing is, I am not writing this for historical accuracy or to tell anyone else’s story but my own. So when, I am told I have done it wrong, it hits a mental monster hard. I do not always have the best memory. It is common for people with CPTSD to have gaps in timelines or time confusion. Another thing is that I am writing from my perspective, sometimes it is the monster’s perspective, but through the lens I have. Therefore my feelings and how I translate them are not wrong. At times I am sure misguided, but they are mine and my story to tell. I have to remind myself of this when it comes to others perceptions. They do not live in my head- (I have enough inhabitants thank you), they do not see through my heart and eyes. 

I do not write to make myself the absolute victim or the absolute hero. I do not claim to really know anyone’s intent. Although more often than not, I do believe that most peoples intent is not nefarious at all.

It is an odd thing to write so much that is so personal yet to not want anyone to take it personally. I never use anybody’s name, they are part of my story but I am not telling their version, only mine. On the occasions that my tales are read by anyone who believes they appear in the narrative I hope they remember that the author of this blog does not claim to have confirmed their reasoning or intent. That the author has damage in her brain that makes some perceptions a little skewed. 

But in truth I am merely talking about what I observed, how I reacted in the moment and trying to distill if there is anything to learn and appreciate. There is danger in writing, but there is salvation here to. I can not claim that my perspective is right or wrong, I just know that it is mine. 

Yesterday was 50- How the rest of the ‘big’ day went

Yesterday I left my story unfinished about crossing the threshold to my 50s. I was feeling conflicted. I had not asked for fireworks or a big band. But I think part of me wanted that.

I had not yet passed noon of the day and conveyed that my feeling about the whole thing was deflated. I should have labeled that part one….

As the day progressed it was filled with sweet messages and unexpected gifts.

After putting the pity party to paper ( or screen if you will) the day began in earnest. A friend knowing I was chilling at home, whisked me away for a decadent cupcake ( for those of you near where I live Crave bakery are the cupcakes you need). A lovely bit of time spent in the cool sun with tea, conversation and cake!!

The best part of it, the part of my brain that was feigning dramatic disappointment in the first part of the day got to eat a little crow later.

My husband let slip there is a date awaiting Saturday night….. but no further details. I would love a clue about how I should dress and how far I need to dig into my closet.

Then we then went to dinner as our little family of three. I did choose the restaurant, a simple one, where we can count on the food being tasty and the three of us ate heartily. It was the laughter of my family filled me most. It seemed like a while since that had happened, but there was much wit and giggles. Back home to more magical treats of another deck of Tarot based on a family favourite movie ( Nightmare Before Christmas for the win), a beautiful dish for treasures duly guarded by a dragon and a cake, while not from my childhood favourite bakery, a wonderfully rich chocolate confection. After the wish candles were all blown out we dug in and filled the sweet tooth craving.

I went to bed loved and content. Relishing the moment where my brain was quiet, the monsters had nothing to chew on. This was the best way to enter 50.

Containment Disaster

I search for stillness

There is fire burning with in

But the noise keeps the heat contained

It’s burning like a fever

To fuck

To create

To run screaming searching for an entry to the Ether

I search for stillness

The fire threatens an explosion but the noise and distractions don’t stop

Embers become white hot

Being dissolved from the inside

So much to get out

Words, feelings, colour

Need to touch, speak, release

This is not living when the spirit is contained ignited and starving for space and oxygen

Contemplation Over Coffee

Four full days left of my 40s. I have made some positive changes, there are plans swirling around my head- but for the most part, that is where things are, my head. I feel like I have been sitting on my hands, so many reasons and excuses why I haven’t yet……… Letting modern life distract me. Phones, media, shiny things, telling myself that I will, and I can, then continuing to scroll.

My last post was contemplating how I am to ring in 50, glib statements on cliched expectations. I blame exhaustion. What has me exhausted? Life, the weight of my own expectations and inaction. Fear of what’s stirring inside me won’t be understood or appreciated. I can not house and honour my spirit if I let the temple crumble. And honestly I have been treating this temple the way a slumlord of the finest order would treat a low income apartment. A little paint here, cut rate fixes there and a poster over the holes on the wall.

I know there is much inside, and I am not sure how to access it, how to cultivate the Crone I am with still being able to manage the life that needs to be. I want to be creating, there are thoughts of magical things that are bursting like fireworks with in me. Spring Equinox/Ostara is upon us. The next few days will be an Altar change, baking and celebrating the emergence of life. I am a spring baby, born just the other side of the equinox. Perhaps that is why my heart and soul thrive at the thought of growth and change. Yet there are things that hold me back. Laundry, vacuuming, job responsibilities… the endless mundane drain that can fill a day and before you know it, the sun is down, it is time to sleep so you can manage it all again tomorrow.

Maybe something has changed? It wasn’t until I had passed the age my mother had lived to, that I started adorning my temple with magical symbols, the first were representing the lines from where I come, wards to hold the mental demons at bay, representations of the weapons I carry in my heart. This last round included a command/ reminder/spell to remind me that ‘I must write to empty my head or I go mad’ and ‘I create therefor I live’. It’s now a sign on the temple that must be observed.

For the first time, in a seriously long time, last night I took a crack at a little fiction story that has been wobbling around my head, the start was slow, 100s of words started, then discarded… A few little outside prompts and I was able to get well over 1700 words before my heavy eyes needed to call it a night. It was a fearful relief. Cracking open that vault is scary, as I don’t know yet how to tame the voices there to let each story flow the way it needs to be told. That goes for the stories that are true as well.

A few years back I had tried to disseminate the words that had piled up, I am proud of the stories that begun then, but there was a kind of madness that took over and it started to feel like I had to choose, staying in that creative space or being in ‘life’ and managing all the responsibilities that entailed. Do I feel better prepared on this precipice of 50, to wrangle the tangle of creatures and words that need to be told? I want to believe I am, I want to believe that there has been something in me that has gotten stronger and wiser (isn’t that what comes with age?).

But what of the temple? It is time to be serious about repairs, honouring the strength I will need to move forward, no longer allowing the things that defeat me to be a reason… hyper discipline and denial? No, not that road again. No punishing exercise, no ‘bad’ foods, no false positives. It is time to follow what I have been telling others for a long time. Meet yourself with love and compassion. What will keep the temple foundations strong? What is the fuel needed to keep the fires of creation and love stoked? What will keep the philosophies and ideas in the inner sanctum safe from the monsters that come to knock? What do I need to be of service but not empty? The big puzzle is how the fuck do I fit this into a day and still be a mother, wife, friend, run my business, teach and be a badass Witch?

It has been written in permanent ink on my body, the words I have long carried in my soul. If I can not live the embodiment of all that I have experienced until now, what is the point? I know that I do not have all the wisdom I need, but I have enough to know that I can not strive for perfection as that will keep me immobile, I must strive to feel and be immersed in every drop I have left to touch, taste, feel, listen, connect, share, create and love.

Catch Up, Before We Begin, Again

It has been so long since I have written here, so much has happened. There are parts of me that feel I am in the same place. Yet I am not. In less than two weeks I will be fifty…50?!

I am told this is a big birthday, I feel this is a big birthday- but I am not entirely sure what this means. Do I start playing bingo? Is this the time to be acquiring sweatshirts with cute cats on them? Do I become louder? More staunch in my opinions? Do I loose my sexuality? Do I get taken less seriously because of my age, too old to matter? Do I begin to wear obnoxiously bright clothing and large chunky jewelry? Do I start fighting the aging process with all the science at my disposal? Do I give in and let gravity melt me into a doughy Shar Pei version of myself?

Was I supposed to prepare more for this landmark moment in my life? I have made some changes in the last couple of years, not consciously because the five-oh was on the horizon, but because it felt natural and right.

I took a deep dive examination of self. Fifteen months of weekly therapy to try to figure out all the WTF in my life. Is everything all better, no more anxiety, no more chains of CPTSD? Do I know all now? No, if anything I have created a few more of those WTF questions, but what I have learned, has changed how I deal with them. I have a deeper understanding of myself. Better control, if you will, of the negative self protective mechanisms that I have built up since childhood. There has been some loss because of this, that will be touched on in other missives, the loss of a ‘best’ friend, other long time friends as well. New boundaries and the exploration (all be it nervously) of my own voice in real life, not just on the page.

I am more dedicated to healthier measures. A switch in physical goals, the primary no longer being weight loss, but maintaining/improving movement and strength. For the most part, eating healthier, but not restrictive or denying of foods. I need more work in this area, damn tasty chocolate and soft doughy carbs! There has been a massive shift in alcohol consumption, given my family history, I am surprised that my drinking never caused huge problems, but it was heavy and binged often. Now, once in a while a glass or two of wine, the occasional gin. Not the same as when I would look so forward to Friday and opening a bottle or two, thinking of an excuse to have wine during the week, ordering the next glass before I was finished the first, eagerly awaiting the dull fuzzy warmth that will follow with glass 2, 3 and 4….

Therapy taught me to sit with the feelings, good or bad. To seek out the origin, to be compassionate with myself and to not allow it to carry me away. This takes time, it is hard and doesn’t always feel successful. However, the after effects are far less troublesome than the headache and sour stomach of too much wine and blank spots where I am not sure what was said or done.

I posed naked last year for an art project- that too will be its own missive, I suppose it was my way of making peace with this body that has been through so much. To allow myself some grace that it is not perfect, it is lumpy, soft and dimpled. But it has produced 2 beautiful children and carried me on all the good adventures I have. It has brought me as much pleasure as it has pain. I have settled into (and truthfully looking forward to) the greying of my hair. I stopped colouring about 3 months ago. On the flip side I have added much more colour to my body, it has become a canvas for tattoos of symbols, spells and markers of who I was, am and aspire to be.

One of my tattoos has two quotes, “I must write to empty my head or I go mad” (Byron) and “I create therefore I live” (a variation of a Misha Collins/GISH statement). Ready or not this is my story. Fifty feels like it is the doorway, leaving something behind and stepping into something new. Shall we…….

Rage ( Pt2, the Kicker)

The kicker

I’ve worked so hard from where this knocked me to the last time I was finding ‘self’.

I built hope

Hope that there was misinformation and miscommunication that could be healed

But I was so far down, buried in shame

Things I held true disintegrated like my hard fought ability to trust

But I resolved to build, trusting the vision I had would come, it feels like it is meant to be. The feelings of love in my heart would build a better foundation

Every baby step I make, a look or breath of a word can knock me down.

I resolve to lead by an example.

I resolve to lead without shame

I resolve to stay open to love and trust

I resolve to stop letting myself down and treasure the very humanness I am told is what shines ( not shame as the whispers say)

Rage -venting the feelings (pt 1)

Rage

Don’t pay me lip service

If you ask me what I need

That is not enough – not without action

If I ask you to come to my playground because I’m always at yours

Don’t decline because it ‘doesn’t suit you’

Raging about my gender will upset me

Raging with out room for learning and compassion will shut me down

Making it know that parts of me, things I care for and hold dear are ‘not your cup of tea’ so

you ignore them completely, shows me you do not accept me for who I am

Your rage breaks me apart. My shame can bury me. This time my rage will help me rise

Here we are again

You only listen when you like what I have to say

you only look when it suits you

you will talk and talk and talk and talk

and it doesn’t seem to matter

the parts of me that make you uncomfortable

the parts of me that frustrate you

the parts of me that are trying to grow and express

Are time and time again

told

too much

too much

too much

there are times I can carry this

use it to fuel me to keep growing

there are times when it guts me

and leaves me bleeding on the floor

unseen unheard unalive

Quiet quitting isn’t just for work

Do you know what the true quiet quitting is?

When you want the time, attention, effort and energy you put out to be appreciated and in some form returned and you come to the realization it is not.

When you yearn so much to be validated, seen, and heard, and when you recognize it doesn’t materialize and you just give up.

Quietly of course, your opinions get quieter and smaller, you begin to ask less, you begin to do less and you feel the shrinking taking place.

It happens in small ways at first, and not in every place in your life at the same time. It’s barely even noticeable because nothing was noticeable to begin with in that space.

Until finally the space that you took up is all but folded it on itself and winked out like a little fairy light.

That my friends is a quiet quitting,

everyone trying so hard to be heard and very few taking the time to listen. We eventually stop putting in the extra time and attention in the places we feel undervalued.

This happens in every place we inhibit, work, school, friend relationships, family relationships- our daily lives.

Nothing is ever truly balanced, that is one of life’s hard truths. Another, is that no one ( not even ourselves) can live up to the expectations we create. Compassion and understanding are needed for moments of unbalance, but should not have to be the space you always operate from.

Perhaps this is the truest form of self love? To often this disconnect is unnoticed, or blame shifted to the person receding. A reaction of fear that the person/place being receded from may need to be accountable.

What are/have you quietly quit? What was the outcome? Who has quietly quit from a work or personal relationship with you? Do you understand, will you admit your role in the dissolution? Have you ever noticed the places you quietly quit on yourself?