Everyone thinks like this, Right?

The breeze brushed over her skin, like the memory of a long forgotten lovers touch. Leaning back in the chair she closes her eyes, she can’t seem to stem the swirling mass of thoughts in her mind.

Where she was, where she is, where she wants to be. Often in conversation she will encourage others to take a moment to envision the kind of day they want to wake up to. She knows she should be living true to her own advice, and there are days she almost gets there.

But it never feels like it quite gels, the ideas in her head feel like gossamer threads that when she tries to grasp them, they disintegrate.

Her moments of wanting to be silly and playful are met with wane smiles and slightly puzzled looks that gives her the indication she is not ‘acting her age’.

Her job is to be more serious, adult, make ‘big’ decisions, talk of money, chores, politics, parenting and ‘what the future should be.’ She can hold these conversations, be ‘the adult’ for a while, but then the exhaustion of upholding that seriousness sets in.

She wants to talk philosophy, how to change the world, things of creation, monsters, laugh at all manner of ridiculousness and look for the smallest vapours of magic in the trees, grasses and garden she tends so lovingly.

The sun warms her skin, a smile shimmers across her lips for a moment, recalling a memory of feeling the rush of creation coming from her fingertips. The tingle moving from her spine to her skin, electric tendrils making her feel alive, connected. That same feeling she gets when she is witnessing others allowing themselves expression of the beauty they keep hidden. This deep desire to live in this place of passion and experience has led to feeling isolated and not quite anywhere she can fit.

When she was young her intense weirdness was channeled, drama, art, poetry- for the most part never seen. Never seen by the people who are supposed to see her. It became smaller and smaller, until she could tuck that little ball of self into a corner, and she became a reasonable version of something that fits. Just different enough to keep some of her interests alive in the most basic sense, and enough to seem interesting at dinner parties.

Time to shake out of this. There is cleaning to attend to, preparing for the upcoming work week, a garden to harvest.

It’s become harder, harder to contain the thing inside her. She feels it roiling, pushing against her insides. The hum can be almost unbearable. Constantly feeling like she is mentally tucking everything back in. Little by little she can feel it coming to the surface. She knows some people see it.

Taking a moment to sit in the sun like this and not feel the societal guilt of not doing, feels impossible, it is mixed up in the thoughts of should, could, and better get done. Then the thought of getting lost in a swirl of delicious words.

Except not the constant stream of current texts assaulting her phone, push back in the parenting world, the constant power struggle. We love that which can drive us round the bend. Teaching our children to question is brilliant, unless they use that skill on you, when all you want is a moment of compliance. She feels guilty when this thought sashays through.

The words she longs for are ancient, felt, burned into our marrow from the Gods. The ability to paint with them. The act of creation, a world we build and populate. The richness of colour texture and taste. Words that cut deep, words that cradle, that create heat, cold, sex and death.

It pushes harder, her skin burns from the inside, like she wants to shed it, emerge from this shell. The voice that sticks in her throat, is screaming in her head. She wants to be touched, felt, made to feel solid. Consumed by the fire she feels burning inside. To screech wildly from the trees, roll naked in the cool moss, close her eyes and seek moment of stillness. These are the thoughts that go through her head as she is paying bills online.

Her playlist randomly comes upon ‘The Immigrant Song’ by Led Zeppelin. Her eyes drift from the computer, and look faraway. Feeling the cool pommel in her hand, she raised her arms over her head in high guard, ready to bring the sword down hard. The breeze blows past again, taking with it her momentary reverie of another life. Time to finish researching canning recipes.

Aren’t we supposed to become more sedate as we get older? Be content, conventional. Why does she feel so itchy all the time? If she could rip at her skin she would. Just to let out this wild beast who wants to howl in the dead of night amongst the trees. Momentary satisfaction when the tattoo needle pierces, but that only lasts so long. Even though the ink is an acceptable social norm, more that a few who know her have question the high number in such small amount of time.

The sun has passed, she is sitting in shadow, but the heat of the day is still very much apparent. Book in hand she pauses to look at the sky. Signs in the clouds, the Fae and Drake are on watch, a crow calls from a close by tree- the Goddess confirms. She blinks, refocuses on her mystery novel.

What if this thing trying so hard to get out, is not the foreign entity? What if this thing that has been awoken inside her, is her- she’s finally found the fight to break out of the layers that she has put on throughout the years. Is this what is supposed to happen? Does everyone have these thoughts while they are researching new exercise programs? she wonders aloud.

A little consultation of the cards, that can be grounding. She has always noticed when she does read for others- the little piece she never tucked into the corner, they almost always seem to give practical advice. Put away money, get some education, love yourself……. But when she draws her own, she is more than puzzled. Lean into the magic- that makes no sense and gets her in trouble. There is a sigh that moves through her depths, she tells herself she just needs to be more disciplined, better sleep and stop snacking for the sake of the Gods.

Sleep can be a small respite, her internal clock has deemed most nights that 5 hours is good. This body that is not hers is full of pain, it wakes her sometimes. She wants to roar when it gets to her. But now that she is ‘mature’ she has limited her use of the things that numb her. In truth she only partially misses that cotton fuzzy feeling. It stopped being super helpful to quiet the anxiety monsters. In the moment it takes to pull in a deep breath to steady herself, there is a fleeting thought of what she could conjure to take power away from the monster, but knows she doesn’t have the ingredients or the right incantation

As the slumber finally over takes her, she is vaguely concerned that when she wakes tomorrow that the thing shifting with in will be that much closer to the surface, but for that moment in the dreamland she is finally allowed to become whole.

Ink- What My Tattoos Reveal

Tattoos are not the counter culture art they once were. Almost everyone I know has some kind of ink. I have contemplated tattoos since my early 20s, but could never settle on what I wanted. I had enough foresight for myself to know if I got something ‘trendy’ I would regret it with in a few years.

As I approached the age of 44 I had decided I was ready to commit some permanent art to my body. I was marking the fact that I had reached the age was that mother had when she died. There was a lot of turmoil in my head and life at that point. I had not yet really recognized how significant that year was going to be for me. All I knew at the time was that I wanted to mark it in some way. I was unsure how to go about really seeking out an artist.

It just so happened that my long ago ex’s brother had become a tattoo artist. My birth son had already had some ink done by his birth uncle and it was quite well done. I had decided on a bracelet around my left wrist made up of the first initial of my Nan, Mom, Son and Daughter, met by an infinity sign, with a little ‘charm’ of a Triquetra. This was my bloodline eternal and honouring the Celt history of my family.

I was comfortable with him, we were old friends. I was drawn immediately to how it changed a part of me in such a short time.

At the time he had said to me that he believed that there were 3 types of people, ones who would never get tattoos, ones who would get one and be done and others- this is where I cut in and said ‘who are planning their next before the first is even finished.’ And so began my ink adventure.

It is now 6 years later and yesterday I got my 14th tattoo.

I have spent a long time figuring out the draw for me- it isn’t just one thing, there seems to be many. It is deeply tied up in my mental health, even this does not represent just a single reasoning.

I have intrusive thoughts. I have a history of self harm, for those of you that do not know what the reasoning behind self harm can be, it is a complex and individual thing, but I will try to explain what it is for me as simply as I can.

When my brain becomes so full with spinning plates of danger, I get very stuck there. So many feelings that I become unable to feel anything. The desire for physical pain comes from just wanting to know that I can feel something. Like creating a symbol crash to interrupt white noise. Sometimes it releases steam, a representation of mental pain that can not be expressed in any other way.

I have faded scars on my body from my teenage/early twenties. As I got older, it would be more from pinching, hitting or finding other ways to bruise myself, rarely drawing blood. It is not as often as I age, but the urges still come, the frustration still builds. After I had my daughter I knew I needed a better way to deal, or at least a more acceptable one.

So I went hard core exercise and food control. While there were benefits to those behaviours I believe I was doing some damage to my body’s soft tissues and joints and I was becoming obsessive. Knowing this was not a healthy path I eased up on the harsh discipline. I did not want my daughter to think this disordered relationship with food and exercise was normal.

I was grappling with what it meant to out live my mother. I was so overwhelmed I wanted to push myself to feel alive. Then came the first tattoo.

When the first contact of the needle pierced my skin it was such a lovely sensation. Sharp, stinging, rhythmical, a delight. I could feel the angst I had been having start to dissipate. The spinning in my brain slowing, the tension leaving my body. This was interesting to me.

I recognize that it is also taking ownership in a loving way over my body. I have hid in my body, allowed others to use my body, hated my body, put my body through pain, given my body to my children, found pleasure in my body, but I have never adorned it with something meaningful. The marking of my skin has meaning. I have begun to write my story on my body.

The next two tattoos came not long after. Placed on the inside of my forearms, left and right. One an Ouroboros encasing a Pentacle sits on my right. This is to remind myself that if I live with curiosity and wonder I will be constantly reborn into my spiritual journey. The one on my left is a Sigil created to remind me that my demons will never take me down. A Sigil is a character or symbol created as a representation of an intent. My demons being my mental disfunction.

Two more came fairly quickly, they adorn my right forearm just below the Pentacle. A Triskelion, it is three spirals that form a triangle. The Celtic meaning is for movement, it also represents The Morrighan. She is the Goddess of the battlefield and transitions, this is what the last decade has felt like, constant transitioning, she has been a guide for me. Just below that is a piece of art known as The Ensō, it looks like an incomplete circular brush stroke. This is perfection in being unfinished.

At the same time I had another one done. On the outside of that same forearm is a series of small symbols called moon glyphs, there are so many but the ones I have chosen are the four elements (air, water, fire and earth) as well as life and balance.

The next came on a trip to New Orleans with my husband. I have been to NOLA a number of times, it is the place where I feel most at home and centred. The tattoo is a small Fleur de Lis on my left forearm just below the Sigil. I always have the place I feel most comfortable with me. There was a little gap in getting another tattoo.

My mental health had hit rough patch, I belong to a loose group of people know as AKF, it is Always Keep Fighting. Fighting the monsters, intrusive thoughts, suicide ideation etc.. we are an online support group. I had decided to incorporate the AKF into an arrow, it is on the outside of my left forearm. No matter how far back I feel I am being pulled I will always keep fighting to move forward.

I see myself as a warrior, compassionate, kind but tough. It shows up in my writing, the fictional characters I create are always in battle with something. The next tattoo is a Celt/Norse sword that is down the outside of my left thigh. A weapon of strength always at the ready.

My daughter is my heart. She is beautiful, funny, insightful and kind. Unfortunately her nervous system has some of my wiring and can be prone to anxiety and intrusive thoughts. But unlike me at that age, she has support and we started helping her build her tool belt and armour. I love her so much. She teaches me so much about myself, love and what loving parenting can be. She had picked a purple Starlette Lily that she felt would make a good tattoo for me. I am not a big one for colour in my tattoos, there are some glorious pieces of coloured art out there, but nothing I have felt drawn too. However, this, being chosen by her is an exception (and I am not ruling out some colour in the future). My upper left arm is home to a lovely lily.

Writing is my core. Creating is my soul. Art, food, words…… cultivating gardens, friendships and magic. But it always comes back to the writing, the thing that has saved my life over and over again. Creating tough warrior characters, battling monsters. Poetry to express the pain, passion, frustration, love, curiosity and appreciation for life that sits deeply in me. This led to my next tattoo that takes up a good portion of real estate on my left upper thigh. A stack of books, the top is open, on one page it says, ‘I create, therefore I live’, the other pages says, ‘I must write to empty my head or I go mad’. A long side the stack of books is a quill and ink pot. My deepest thoughts are always saved for pen to paper. Most of my writing is there, to later be transferred to computer. I need the physical connection to my words.

On the second visit to finish up the books and ink pot I had decided it was time to add a few more symbols to awaken my inner magic. On the back of my neck, I have placed two Norse Ruins- one for wisdom and the other for spiritual knowledge. I also had decided that on the empty portion of my right forearm a representation of growth and magic needed to be added. There is a lotus flower with a series of lines drawing its magic to a crescent moon. Thin simple lines but a powerful image I get comments on all the time.

This brings me to the latest addition. I love the sacredness of symbols. I adore anything that draws my creativity out. I do also like to have a bit of symmetry in my body art (eventually balanced amount of art left and right, top and bottom). Geometry is math in its physical form, shapes hold magic ability. They can help to tell the future, explain the past and give us direction. There can be seriousness contained within, and whimsy of chance given how any shape may land. I had decided on another sword of sorts, on the right leg, in the same space as the other sword is on the left. But this time, the blade is not solid, it is comprised of the based sacred geometric shapes. A polyhedron, dodecahedron, pentagonal trapezohedron, octahedron, cube, and finally a tetrahedron. These also just so happen to be a set of D&D dice, fashioned into a blade. A nod to the game that has brought me back to the bravado of putting writing out for consumption. It is also the power of taking things back to their basic shapes and rendering them for different uses.

While I know this is expression, what I did not anticipate was the other effects. There is pain with tattoos, not unbearable, but sharp, and depending on the size and where it is placed the pain sensation can vary. This fits into the release of self harm, flooding the brain with the chemical pain produces. Providing a reset, a calm from the chaos. But this is socially acceptable as it results in art, expression. A strange irony. But I find when I get the ‘itch’ to get one, if I take a step back and view what is going on in my life it twins up with intense times of stress, delicate mental health balances, moments of being overwhelmingly numb. It brings me back around. No scars, no damage, only art.

It also allows me to put an external mark on my body. This is mine, not yours to touch, comment on, demand things from or tell me what to do with. I will decorate it the way I want, wether or not you approve or understand is irrelevant. This is mine.

I don’t believe this is the end of my ink journey by a long shot. I have more pieces of me to express. Memories, accomplishments, wishes, statements and symbols all waiting to be revealed. I am not sure entirely what any of them are yet, but they will come.

The Game That Got Me Back Writing

Write. Why are you not writing? Just make the time. It should be easy. You work from home. You can arrange your schedule……. Words rattle around my head. Yeah- it should be easy. Just sit down and do it… Oh wait, laundry has to get done. Why do the dogs shed so much hair? Better sweep that up. Did I pay bills? Better check. Oh now the dogs need out. My first appointment of the day is in an hour. I should make sure I am ready. “Mom” the elusive teen down the hall is summoning me…. Just write.

Write your blog, free thought, that has to go faster right? It used to, now I worry. All because of a double edge sword. As a child I was devastated that no one in my family seemed interested in any thing I wrote. And write I did. Plays, stories, and reams of poetry. I had mentors that entered me in contests and encouraged me. Teachers, authors and playwrites, all helping me along, reading, critiquing, inspiring. But a giant chasm existed, no parents or family ever read or saw anything I had done. A few friends were encouraging, but even fewer read the pieces.

This has carried through to adulthood.

In a way this made my writing safe, at least if the people who know me aren’t reading anything, then I can be truthful in my writing with out having to defend or explain myself.

In fiction I can disguise aspects of people in characters. Writing here, I don’t name anyone specific, no physical description, at most a vague amalgamation of a few people and experiences. I do that on purpose, as I am only telling my part of the story, I do not claim to understand anyone else’s motivation or perspective. I am sharing my story and experience, knowing that my mental health can skew how I see things and I am very upfront about that. It is with the hope that it can entertain, enlighten or create thought and positive action in others, maybe someone won’t feel so alone.

There are times, rare, but it has happened, that someone closer to me, will read what I have written and believe that the piece may be about them. In reality if I were to directly write about any one person at length, I would let them know. When someone feels I have depicted them, I can not control their perception of my meaning, and at times I have been made to defend and/or delete something I have written because it was interpreted to be a slight or unfavourable description. From my view point what I have written was my reaction/ interpretation of that situation, I do not infer their reasoning or motivation, but no one wants to think they are a villain of sorts. This is the other edge.

The funny part is that both sides equally trigger a very similar type of anxiety. On one hand, the devastating feeling of not mattering, of being invisible, unheard and invalidated- when my closest (from the start of time) do not read or seemingly support what I do in a deep way. On the other is having my words invalidated, misunderstood, twisted and denied, once it has been read by someone who ‘knows’ me. I freeze and the words dry up.

This does not just affect my journal type blog but any form of fictional narrative I may be toying with. So many story starts in multiple files on my desktop. The closest one that has legs was one that was co-written, a short form and a larger unfinished piece, destined to remain one of the great unfinished works, but miracles happen.

It’s been 4 months since I have written, I froze up in March, save for one political piece. It is now July. I have been trying so hard to break through this cement block. Normally I would start in the blog, but it was causing me great anxiety. I was starting to feel overfull, constipated might be the better description. The words wouldn’t come, but the noise in my head was building. I was second guessing any tale I wanted to tell, fact or fiction.

A little crack started in the cement. A comment made in passing months ago. I had started to collect pictures of random things again (old buildings, unusual plants, all manner of weird.) Sometimes these items trigger a narrative or character idea I may use to write, it is a habit I started in high school as a way of inspiring stories for myself. On occasion I will share with the DM (dungeon master) of a D&D campaign I have been a part of for a little over a year. He is an exceptionally rich story teller. As I find these oddities interesting I thought perhaps he too would find narrative inspiration. In one of these exchanges he said he thought I would make a decent DM. I demurred immediately. But that little arrow of a seed lodged itself somewhere deep in my grey matter.

It took hold, my curiosity of the mechanics of the game started growing, all of a sudden I had so many more questions than I usually did as a player, and I had plenty to start. Inquiring about platforms, rules (so many rules) ideas…. My poor, wonderfully patient friend, fielding every question, some repeated often for clarity, with patience, direction and encouragement. I toyed with who to bring together, people I wanted to know better who intrigued me with their stories and conversation. That decided, and met with enthusiasm I set out to try this collaboration fiction adventure. A small trickle of a story began in my head, a potential of a worthy adventure is coming to mind. I am fortunate to be mentored with this, it is daunting but at the same time it widened the crack. So here I am, back to the blog.

So why am I not writing? This is my passion, this is my soul and yet I go for long stretches where no words will flow, not even into my personal journal. I was frozen, fearful from an experience of having my word misinterpreted, of having to try to explain to no avail, ultimately feeling crushed.

Then this small seed planted in passing, perhaps only remembered by me, has made all the difference at this point in my life. The words are beginning to flow, the free thought here, but also the fantasy part of my brain is bubbling over, more questions and so many ideas. My poor DM mentor……

I want this to stick, for me and for what I want to share. I want to grow and get better at this craft. My craft. This is where I must hold steady, be prepared to be misunderstood, be prepared to have to defend and not let it shut me down. This also becomes more of a battle front with the mental demons that plague me. It is those demons that make me back down, create distrust in my talent and focus on the support I want but do not feel like I am getting.

I must continue to learn to trust the worlds I can build will be engaging and whole. I must write for me. Not to please another soul. I must write what I find interesting, what I feel is important, what pulls at my heart and plays in my imagination. I must run with the inspiration that lives in my everyday.

The juggling of time will be hard, but I must make it work. I must demand that I get the space and time to let grow this sacred thing I have carried in me since childhood. It is a part of who I am, it should no longer be shelved for when there is time….Not only have I committed to creating for others a place to adventure and explore, but my own lived stories need to come out. Along with this need to create, I also feel like I’m starving. Reading everything I can for the game, reading fiction that draws me in, listening to podcasts, audiobooks and varied genres of music, pulling it all in and craving more.

Write. I will steal moments, like now. I will carve out where I can. I will do my best to not let this passion consume me, to still be balanced, to take care of the needs of the home and work. There will always be an excuse not to, but it is important to hang on to the reasons why this is important to do.

Thanks for reading oxoxox

Dear AB residents who did not want this. The election in Alberta

We can take today to be confused, angry and disappointed. We can wonder how people worry more about money but not about the most vulnerable in their communities. We can be wounded that it feels like people’s basic needs are not as important as ravaging the earth for commerce. We can, for a moment take this personally.

What we CAN NOT do is give up. We can dream that ‘elsewhere’ will be better. But it’s not. This ideology is seeded everywhere.

What we must do…. Fight, education and appeal. The majority was NOT a landslide, that means, there are many of us who feel the community and working to the greater good is important. We must come together and use our voices ( it still is a democracy) and our actions to keep this government in check. Educate those around us about the cost of doing business with the UCP. Appeal to the basic humanity of those supporters when it comes to marginalized people.

It feels exhausting, it feels easier to pack up and go, but what we are saying then, is that we are only willing to care for each other when the majority makes it easier, not when times are tough and the vulnerable need it more, not to be abandoned.

Take the time to find balance, it’s out there, there are people and programs doing great things. Find them, amplify and support them. Yes we need to point out the ick and gross treatment/ideals and methods of the far R, but make the community minded people heard as well.

For every ‘can you believe this 💩’ angry post you do, I challenge you to amplify 1 or 2 ‘look at the amazing things people are doing’ posts. We can do this.

The Tapestry I Wear

Tattoo 11,12 and 13 have all been done over the last 3 weeks. In honour of my 50th revolution around the sun. 11- to remind me of my creative spirit. 12-to remind me that soul rebirth is always possible. 13- are two binding runes, one for wisdom and one for spiritual growth.

This need for permanent adornment of my body started in my 40s, like an ownership stamp. I was determined to strip away all the facades heaped upon me. I wanted to have my story on my body.

There are magical Sigils to help tame my mental monsters and remind me they will never win.

Other symbols to remind me of where I’ve come from, where I am and where I’m going.

I have lived in this body for 50 years. It’s only been the last 10 that I have really focused on physical and mental healthcare, but it has happened in waves.

It’s really only been in the last three I have started to appreciate this body. It has been broken and healed from trauma and violence. It’s has been large, it has been medium and no matter how much I have tried to shrink inside I have never been small. I have birthed two beautiful babies at two very different times in my life and this body feels that love every day. This body has given and received pleasure. This body lives now with varying degrees of chronic pain.

I have given this body over too many times, too freely, in trying to find an acceptance and love I could not freely give to myself. So now every symbol, every picture, every spot of ink that is beginning to cover parts of me is a reminder that this body, this temple that houses my spirit is and always has been mine.

This body as lived through Maiden, it is slowly leaving Mother and intending to gracefully and boldly enter Crone.

I do not know when I will feel this skin tapestry has sufficiently recorded enough.

But it is a story worth telling. It is a body worth loving ❤️

?Me!

What is the body?

Flesh Muscle Nerves Blood Bone

Is this me?

Does it just house what is me?

Spirit Soul Memory Wisdom Love

Is this me?

What happens to the body touches the spirit, soul, leaves a memory

The sensation of love

The creation of wisdom

Not all that happens to the flesh leaves a mark

On the soul spirit

Sex may just set the flesh on fire but not deep longing/love in the soul

The body can be ‘perfect’ and house a twisted broken spirit soul

The body can be ‘broken’ and house in incredibly wise, beautiful, soul spirit

They are temporarily bound together

Each very separate but needed to create the whole

This is me

What is Real in the Mirror

I had someone tell me once that they thought what people posted on social media showed who they really are.

I completely disagree with this. We may show pieces of beliefs, portraying the perfection we desire, airing a wound or betrayal to gather momentary sympathies from faceless people who for the most part don’t really have any vested interest in the outcome. Even in real life I don’t think any of us at any time show anyone who we really are.

Most of us wear multiple masks in any given setting depending on the role we are in and the people we are with.

The closest we get is to when we can drop a few of these masks, is with a person or in a place where we feel safe. There is still trepidation as we have been taught that the masks created are to hide the ugliness and unacceptable things about ourselves. But in all honesty there is no perfection or ugly behind it, we are a kaleidoscope.

Depending on the moment and who you’re with you may drop a particular mask, but the tumblers of your being will roll and fall into place in a particular way. That is the fractal light they see.

This takes a particular vulnerability, that is hard for some, as a mask is easier to navigate.

Masks are solid, smooth, thought out creations. They can be heavy, and locked in place. Perhaps once created for protection and conforming to expectations, now a preformed prison, some resistant to internal change. It is the expected acceptable face.

The colour and pictures seen in the eye of the kaleidoscope will always be subtly different, cracks will show in different places, pieces will fit differently. The colours don’t always match. While we may spin the wheel ( an illusion of control) we don’t choose where the pieces fall.

Trust, that is the hardest part. To trust that the colourful, cracked pieces of you will be accepted as a beautiful moving puzzle. That you will not be harshly judged for what is behind your mask. In order for that to happen you must look at how you judge that on others, and how much you judge that about yourself.

Not everyone is worthy of seeing the beautiful art behind the masks we wear. But allow yourself to treasure your own and know that each person you encounter is not just the mask they are showing in that moment, but a collection of things that are ever changing underneath.

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.

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)