Who’s Fighting Now?

It amazes me how the physical and mental are constantly working together and against itself, yet as a system we seem to separate them like they are two different entities. Those of us who work with people in pain know for fact that there is no separation. In the last few days I have witnessed the concerted take down my own system has pushed.

I sit here writing this missive, music pounding in my ears to quiet the internal noise. For months now I have been doing my best to keep myself steady in the what feels like never-ending stream of chaos. Some mine, so much from those I love, watching constant hits, so little reprieve and so much dead sadness. I’ve had some lows, I have had so much grace- but it always feels fragile.

The bad habits and masking always within easy reach, fighting to do the ‘good’ thing. Honesty vs hiding (provided there is a safe place). Protein, veg, water vs sugar, alcohol and carbs. Exercise, meditation, responsible medication use vs numbing with meds.

4 days ago a migraine settled in. Not surprising given the weather change, the joys of menopause and the amount of constant stress, that one of these gems would try to bust out of my brain. Raw burning cotton filled my head, the muscles down through my neck becoming cement and the inside pressure clanking so loud. Loads of water, migraine pain meds, ice and sleep. Waking the next morning the knock was still there but seeming manageable. By afternoon the take down had begun in earnest. The eyesight blurry, movement bringing waves of nausea, craving stillness, even from breathing and meds hardly touching it. The only thing making it remotely liveable was a little cannabis. Dulls the pain, gets rid of the nausea. But the opening for the ‘other’ had already happened.

So which monster took the opportunity in my weakened state? The one who hates me most. The one who wants me to believe I am only a commodity and easily replaced for almost everyone.

The ‘great massage therapist’- so many others out there, some I have trained…..

A partner…it might take time but maybe someone less complicated will come along.

A friend….. a mist that will fade quickly, there’s always another that can provide laughs, space and interest.

I leave no mark, no need, no want, no lasting anything, kinda like fast food. But…….

A mother…. That’s the tough one, that’s the one that will leave the biggest empty. That’s my biggest strongest weapon against the vicious monsters. That is the anchor.

So today, the headache has receded to a constant dull throb inside, the rhythmic chant of monsters, I am doing my best to drown out with music. The exhaustion of the last lifetime pouring down my face in rivulets. All while replying pleasantly to texts. Desperately wanting to ask for validation. Wanting to hear that my existence has meaning to others. Frozen from reaching out, not wanting to add this desperation to a growing pile of crap out there. Fear of being rejected. Fear of the fact my masks have always done such a good job that instead of being seen in need I am seen enough to get a pat on the head and reminded that this too shall pass. The absolute fear of having someone bear witness to the puddle mess I am. The fear of it being a never ending cascade of trauma and pain that will drain anyone silly enough offering physical space.

I told a friend a while back that I knew it was an absolute tragedy that I have only allowed myself the vulnerability to cry in front of another a handful of times in the last decade. Yet I have held many through their breaking moments, with out judgment and with the patient compassion I so crave. What I left out is that in those handful of times, less than half felt safe. Intentionally cruel or not, the other times I was told I am too hard to handle when I am upset or that of course I will get through, I always do..’pat on the head’, you are good now right?

There are spaces I have where I can vent but I have mastered the passive talk. The telling of the frustration, fear, complication, but no emotion, always written, never looking at anyone in the eye so they can see that I am about to break. Careful language as to not scare anyone. Being analytical, and a fast apology if I feel like I am being needy. Pull back and isolate until the need passes. Give nothing away. The amazing ability to switch gears if I can be needed instead of needing. Fucking hell I am a walking contradiction. I am in a loop of my own creation. One that offered protection when I was young but has become a prison that I can’t seem to make my own key for. So then, which came first, the headache or the bubbling tension needing attention? In some ways it matters not. This is what it is. And I know I am not he only one who has mastered this art of broken deception, yet it’s funny how lonely it still feels.

So for now, a few more Tylenol, water, wash my face and get to the gym. Let the heavy beats pounding in my head (music and pain) create a rhythm to push my self to. I’ll get through to the other side, I always do………….

Can You Hear Me In Hell?

The Veil is thin. Halloween or Samhain has come to pass.The membrane between our world and the ether has places where we and they can be more easily heard. It is at this time I often take a moment to honour those that came before me and express gratitude for their lessons and where has lead me here. All things considered I live an amazing life. I have a beautiful little family, I have cultivated some amazing friendships in the last while and there are moments in my life that are magically creative and grounded. These moments are often marred by pain and phantoms of the past. Today with the veil being at its thinnest I have something to say.

Fuck you – this is aimed at my father, where ever he may be. FUCK YOU!! I hope you hear me and I hope it stings. Do you have any guilt or remorse for what you did to the children in your family? Do you understand the far reaching damage?

It could be easy with a bird’s eye view to create some forgiveness for you. You grew up in an abusive house. To mask that you used alcohol. In your time of living there wasn’t much help or encouragement to seek it for mental health issues. And for a long time I chose to use this understanding to cultivate some peace for myself about why you were so cruel. But the last few years have taught me that isn’t enough.

I have been digging, floundering and clawing my way through my own scars and disease that was my inheritance to try to become the parent my daughter deserves, the parent I deserved. All of this work has shown me it is possible if you want it. If you treasure another life so much that you see the sacred gift that a child is. If you truly wanted to preserve that hope and innocence that we are born with. You made the choice to make your family pay for the pain you had suffered.

You were an alcoholic, verbally abusive, suicidal, murderous/mad rantings and a pedophile. Did we have moments of calm? Of course, like most families marked by trauma it appears not to be 24/7. When he didn’t drink, it was ok. I never called him dad, until I was 8, he was my ‘buddy’. When the realization hit that we were in danger I called him father or by his name.

I have written about this before. In that piece (The Sins of the Father) I wrote about my father repeatedly threatening us with guns. That essay was more in reference to gun control and and the dangers to just anyone being able to get a gun and what happens with lax gun laws.

I remember my mother telling me that if my father had his friends over I was not to leave my room if I was in my night gown. I was to stay in my room, door blocked (we had no locking bedrooms) no matter what. On the few occasions I did venture out, it was uncomfortable. My father would comment on my weight- once while demanding I sit on his knee, he loosely covered my ears and in front of his friends he professed that if I kept sitting there he would need to re-weld the base of the chair. These comments were a regular thing, and this went on for years with my family. Other times I would be turned into a bar maid for the late night shenanigans. Then subject to inappropriate comments and ‘accidental’ touches. My first memories of this were around the age of 6. To this day, the smell of rye and coke makes me want to vomit.

I was 8 the first time I remember my father telling me that our blood line should end with me. The drunken rage, tears, telling me how we should not carry on because we were poison. He would threaten to kill himself with his guns, he said it was a kindness to take me with him. I would talk calmly through the tears and offer to make him soup, that always seemed to be the key. It could take hours. Sometimes if my mom could sense my dad was going to go on a bender we would get in the car and just drive. I remember times having to duck down in the car because he’d be out driving around looking for us.

I was the only child my parents had. They had other children from previous relationships. My mother had two daughters that are 11 and 9 years older than me respectively. My father had three, two sons and a daughter.

My mothers daughters lived with us when I was really young and we were raised as siblings. However the oldest often went to live with her paternal grandmother for periods of time, due to what I believed was a tumultuous relationship with my mother. I would find out later that much of their fractious relationship had to do with my father and the horrors he brought to her and that she was not protected from.

Only two of my fathers kids came to live with us for a period of time. His oldest is a girl, I have vague memories of her being in our house when I was a toddler. One of the boys came and lived with us periodically.

I loved my brother, even though he would steal from me, and on occasion take his temper out on me. I have a scar on either side of my knee for him running a sharpened stick straight through. I have shoulder disfunction from having my arm reefed behind me and not properly treated then, leading to functional weakness now. That happened when I was really little and I remember just flashes. The second time he came to live with us he was in his late teens and I had not quite hit double digits. He was a seasoned criminal and drug addict by then. During that period I received one of my first concussions that I am aware of, being hit in the head with a billiard ball that was thrown at me.

The last incident I recall of being in his physical presence was when I was about 10, my mom was already ill and my fathers drinking was off the rails. We had an 80’s ‘cool’ finished basement with a fireplace, pooI table and wet bar. I had been up watching TV in my parents room with my puppy Princess. My parents and his son were in our basement playing pool. Suddenly there was a lot of screaming and yelling and crashing. I went running down the stairs and the sight that greeted me at the bottom was my mother standing there covered in blood yelling for me to run up the stairs and hide. It looked like something out of a horror movie. I began screaming, my mother tried hard to explain it was not her blood but his son’s. As I looked over from the landing I watched my father pick his son up and toss him into the pool table and move it against the wall. The boy had crushed a glass in his hand and cut the main artery, when my mother had begun to scream he had tried to calm her down, which is how her upper body had been coated in his blood. To taunt my father he ran around the basement dragging his bloody hand up and down over the white walls. He was eventually thrown out of the house, I remember him being stuffed in the back of a police car, grinning and covered in his own blood and my father screaming that he was never welcome back. After a blow out between them, my mother went to lay down, my father locked himself in the garage to drink more. I filled a bucket with hot soapy water and spent the rest of the night until early hours washing blood off of the basement walls and picking up smashed glass.

One of the times my mother had to go to the hospital overnight, I had only been told that she had back pain and needed an operation. This was one of the last times that I was left alone in the house with my father. He got ragingly drunk. I was about 9 years old and scared that my mom was in pain, but blissfully unaware of the cancer that grew inside of her. My father started screaming at me about leaving my little wallet on the kitchen island. As he took it and threw it against the wall he began to cry and told me that my mother was going to die. He then defaulted to things I had already heard and would hear a few more times when I would be a hostage at the end of his gun. That his bloodline needed to die with me. That we were poison and I would only grow up to be useful as a whore until I was used up. That he should have never had children as we were all poison. That when he was finally going to end it, he would be sure to take me with him.

When my mother knew she was very sick she finally had him removed from the home, there was protection orders, my mother fighting for sole custody and trying to get a divorce. Sadly while the custody did get arranged the divorce was never finalized and he was able to take everything from me and my sisters. This is when he went from just driving by our house and my school to having his friends follow me. They had me assessed so many times to try to figure out if my father molested me, not just the obvious abuse that I had suffered at the hands of him and his son. I honestly don’t know the conclusion that they came to, I don’t recall my father ever raping me or trying to get into bed with me. I had told the therapist that one of my cousins had been molesting me when we were at my Nan’s house, I also admitted that the teen boy my parents would let babysit me had kissed, fondled me and made me touch him. But this was not the information they wanted, they were looking for things to file against my father and I was just making it complicated. Nothing ever came of these things, the drama in our family stopped us from big family gatherings at my Nan’s and the boy moved away.

My parents had always told me that they got married the year before they had me. When I was 11 I found their marriage certificate, they got married in ’74, I was born in ’73.

Not long before my mother died she had decided to confess a few things to me. I was not planned. She had not wanted to have another child, but had gotten pregnant with me after having a fling with my father. She loved me but was sorry that this was what she was leaving me with. I was 12 when I found out I was not wanted.

I got confirmation of this many years later. After my mom died, my sisters did what they could to keep me out of the system, that will be an essay for another time. For now I am focusing on my father and the monster voices that live in my head because of him.

My father sued my sister and I for the house after my mom died. He went so far that lawsuit included any hangers and Tupperware we may have taken out of the house. He moved back in and we left, that began my constant moving that did not end until my 20s.

During my teen years my father continued to have me followed and reported on. I tried to reconnect with him a little in my mid teens. He was the only parent I had left. It was hard for me to go back to that house to see him. It always felt so dark and oppressive.

For my 17th birthday he let me have a party there. He showed up, got drunk or was drunk when he showed up I will never know. But I remember walking into the kitchen and my father was pouring shots for some of my friends- we were all underage. He had taken his teeth out and told a bunch of them that I had punched him. He then asked all the boys there, which were the ones I may have slept with or at the very least blown because I am worse off than a whore as I don’t charge. I was humiliated, and a few of them took it seriously. I do believe that it was those comments that had helped pave the way for a later sexual assault I endured. It was another couple of years before I tried to connect yet again.

You may be asking why, after all of this, I kept trying to connect with someone who was so toxic and ill. When you grow up being told you are worthless, your instinct is to prove them wrong. He was my father, and parents are supposed to love their children.

As a teen I was in an off and on again relationship that was dangerous and abusive. I had found myself to be pregnant at 19. I had no money, no place to live and a crappy little job. We had been broken up for a while and I was unsure what to do. By this point in time my father had sold the house and was only coming back to town for a few months at a time. I had contacted him to let him know I had no place to live, but I did not initially tell him I was pregnant as I had not decided what I was going to do. With much guilt from my father he opted to buy a mobile home. It seemed so fitting that I was unwed, pregnant and living with my alcoholic father in a trailer park.

I had decided to give my child over for adoption, that too is another story that I will tell. Sufficed to say, I had a moment where I knew if I had kept the child, that where I was, would then become a prison we would be stuck in for a very long time and I knew that this was not fair to the child or to me. I had not planned to tell my father, I was not sure how I was going to do the whole birth yet, but I did not want to have him involved. I thought I had a friend I could rely on to drive me when the time came. The joys of being quite large by that point in my life, the pregnancy was pretty easy to hide.

Right near the due date, the person I was counting on, got a job that would not allow for them to be available to take me to the hospital. So I had to tell him.

There was a passing thought that I might have actually died that night. I timed it so he had only had a couple of drinks before I told him. Those of you with alcoholics in your family know that with lifelong ones, there is a certain amount of alcohol that allows for ‘normal’ function. This is what I needed in order to tell him. I assured him I was not keeping the child, and I think that was the only reason me and the baby survived that night. After explaining to him that I was only telling him because I will need a ride to the hospital. He agreed, but wanted me to swear to tell no one what I was doing. As soon as we had this conversation I locked myself in my room and listened as he got drunker and drunker and louder and louder about how I should not be allowing the bloodline to continue, that I was a whore who could not keep my legs closed, that I was like my mother. He had imparted upon me that my mother had a child in between my sister and I that she had given up for a closed adoption. He passed out before he got his guns out of the cold room.

A few months after the adoption, was the last time I had seen him. I had started dating someone that was so different from any of the males I had been raised around or dating prior to having my son. He was nice and he was quiet and gentle. He also did not turn tail and run after a disastrous meeting with my father.

I was 20 by this time, we were still in the trailer park.

After giving my child up I had resorted to partying again. This was the time before cel phones were such a common thing. I was out at a bar and using a pay phone, called my boyfriend to come and join me, he very calmly told me I need to go home. I asked why and he told me that he had stopped by the trailer to see if I was home and was met with my drunk father. He quietly said into the phone that something was terribly wrong, my dad had shaved off half of his moustache. As trauma survivors we cultivate humour so we can survive, to this day, the thought of him with only half a moustache on his bloated face makes me giggle in a very macabre way. This was his tell that big shit is going to hit the fan. Initially fear rocked my belly and I was again that same 8 year old girl that had begged for her life so many times.

I headed home. It was raining, I was drunk and by the time I got home I was full of rage. I knew going in, this was going to be the end. As I entered that trailer, I noticed an empty bottle of rye and many beer cans, and his two shotguns laid across the table. His eyes were red and full of rage. As soon as I came in he was in my face screaming about how ungrateful and gross I was. How I never would bring anything but poison to the world. How I should have never procreated and how he was going to end it all.

The rage that boiled out of me was astounding, so much anger and hurt. With the amount of screaming and yelling happening I am still surprised that the police were not called. As I screamed at him about all the shit he had put me and the rest of my family through he raged back with ’How dare you speak to your father that way!’ I remember pausing in my fury, only to feel it rise up fast like bile ‘How dare I?! How dare you do this to me! I am your fucking daughter, you have tormented me and my mother and sisters for ever! How dare you, I deserved so much better.’ The last thing I had said to him as I was madly trying to pack some clothes and my beloved cat was that ‘I would load the guns for him if he would just finally do it, but to lay plastic down because I’d have to resell the place and blood was hard to clean’.

The last thing he said to me was to take my fucking cat or he’d kill it and me, exactly what he should have done years ago.

That was 30 years ago. We spoke once after that by phone 23 years ago, it was short and ugly. He died, from what I heard not long after that. I don’t know how, where or exactly when.

A few years back I had found an old audio tape in an old box of stuff that had a couple of recordings of my mother. Initially I was excited that I could hear her again and my daughter would be able to hear her grandma. When I listened to it, I opted to listen to it by myself first. I was gutted by what I heard and have decided that for the time being I would be the only one to have listened. On that audio she was telling the story to a friend about my birth, about my father being hunted by the RCMP that night, about how she left me at 6 weeks to take off, regretting that she had gotten involved with him. That she had in fact agreed to have me and marry him because he could provide a home financially for her and her other kids to move out of my Nan’s house. In conversations with my sister it was confirmed that my father not only harmed them, he tried to force himself on my Nan.

What have I been left with? Even though I have done so much work in therapy and on my own over the years, the ugliest of the monster voices that live in my head are his. The voices that tell me I will never be enough. The voices, when they get loud enough, that tell me I should not be here, that I am bad luck and poison. A combined chorus will remind me that my value is commerce based. And sometimes it tells me that I am invisible and only deserve to be acknowledged when I can be used. It is the voice of shame in my head.

I binge drank until my 40s. My weight fluctuates. I have used self harm as a coping mechanism. I get attached and I panic. I have been told I have Generalized Anxiety Disorder and Complex Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. I have tried medications when I was younger and suffered more set backs than it helped. It had made me medication shy. The voices that mimic his, can become so loud and dark I am sure they can be heard if you are standing next to me. The chronic pain, muscle twitches and tightness that comes with this, can feel unbearable. Sleep is not always restful. Some days it feels like my brain is coated in oatmeal, thoughts seem to take forever, being able to complete a task feels impossible. I lose words and it can at times affect my memory.

I can not kill it. Sometimes it is quiet and I feel ‘normal’. Sometimes it is like having a mosquito buzzing in my ear and other times it is deafening and brings intrusive thoughts that create so much pain I am numb. I have learned things to ‘manage’ it, they work sometimes. There is short term medications that give relief, but come with side effects. I use CBD/Cannabis to be calm and relieve physical pain . I know that too much alcohol or sugar will send my brain (not so fondly called my squirrel) into twitches and throw my coping off. Meaningful tattoos have for the most part replaced the self harm. Each symbol chosen as a ward or sigil against the demons that can plague me. Spells of protection and armour permanently placed over old scars and vulnerabilities. Regular movement and workouts, time in nature are all important to maintain balance. Keeping my self in check and being honest about needs and boundaries are all helpful too, but not always possible. Body work like massage has been a life saver for helping to decrease the stress in my physical body and helping my connect the body and mind. One of the hardest is practicing truthfulness in how I am feeling and communicating this. I can’t always say what I need, I am seldom asking for a fix as these are impossible most times. Allowing myself to be vulnerable in front of someone is near impossible, I will default to being the supporter rather than getting the support. That loop reenforces the core belief that I am not worthy unless I am giving, it can become a dangerous, draining slope.

The biggest catalyst for battling this openly is my kids. Both have inherited brains that lean toward disordered thinking and anxiety. This is where I see traces of generational trauma and skewed wiring. They are in a better position to rework some of these things moving forward but I need to be honest with them and my battle to give them hope and understanding that these are not flaws or faults that take away from who they are. That these things are not their fault but that they can participate in the healing of themselves to change, that these ‘glitches’ are from a warning system that spent so much time in high alert it knows no other way of communicating and it helped to lead to the creation of this in the dna passed along to them.

I can also take away from this that I am compassionate for those that feel unseen and unsupported. I have a keen ability to allow people to feel safe. I treasure people who bring kindness and inspiration to me. I strive to make the world a better place.

It is a dichotomy, somedays I am more in the light, somedays I am swallowed by the shadows. I don’t really know where we go when we die. I don’t know if those that came before me can hear what I am saying. But if you can hear this, know that you may have caused damage and scars but you did not crush me that way you twisted and crushed others in our family. I forgive myself when the shadows swallow me. I do not carry the anger I have the forefront of my life. There is a deep root there of disgust, pain and anger. I will not let you win by reenacting your heinous behaviour. I will not let you win by self destructing. If you can hear me FUCK YOU and what you have done. I will make it better for those that come next and draw the strength and healing from this bloodline and not let your curse continue.

What I Can Bring to the Future

These last few years has been a deep dive on who I am, sorting through some muck and deciding what my purpose is to be.

This is a difficult task at the best of times, and it comes at different times in life- it definitely is not something you do once or do flippantly. The deep dive coincided with the onset of Covid. But the dismantling started a couple of years before that.

Part of the trauma/survival response I have is being a people pleaser, a care taker. This is not a bad thing to be, if it is done with appropriate boundaries and not to the point of becoming nothing but a reflecting pool. I learned so much during my dismantling about the toxic nature of my own survival strategies, some I was not even aware of. By the point of realization I was already in my 40s.

Am I healed? No, that continues, and I am sure that it will be a life long commitment on a labyrinth path. I have gotten to the place however, where I really want to refine my purpose and what I can being to my family, friends, community and world at large.

My primary day to day career is massage therapy, a therapist as well as a teacher. I have a couple of things I do occasionally on the side, like custom aromatherapy products and tarot readings too. There is much more to who I am but these are the things I had already been doing out in the world.

Separating my trauma response from my purpose has been tricky, there has been a lot of exploring the ‘why’ I want to do something. Do I really want to be of service or is that a trauma response? Am I wanting to help people or just make myself useful so I don’t get lost.

It has taken a lot of adjustments, lost relationships, changes in friendships and so much reflection.

At first, wellness coaching seemed to be the path that appealed to me most, as it makes great use of my current skill set. So I began to research, it took me to some very scary places. Initially many of the seminars and classes would focus on how to help people and build your message, and soon enough it morphed into how to make a lot of money- why work with one when you can do it in groups? Have a system to sell! Find products to add in. It all very quickly became less about helping any one but the self. It all led to being an ‘influencer’. That is no where near what I want.

The term influencer leaves a horrible taste in my mouth. The engagement most times seems like a sales pitch unto itself, pushing products and easy ‘false positive’ answers. I don’t want to influence you to live like me. I want you to live like the most grounded version of you. Ok with knowing it is not all good, some things are going to suck, but that you have built the resilience to work through those down turns while honouring yourself. To realize that achievements aren’t always in the numbers, wether that is followers, on the scale or in your bank account. To get the idea of how much community is important, not so we can all be the same but learn and grow from the differences we bring to the table. The only thing I want to influence is bringing more creative good into the world.

I also noticed that when it came to the portions of these seminars about finding your target audience that the target all seemed to be generally the same, same colour, age and generally in the upper middle class with the money to afford these expensive programs, the next phase is how to turn those targets into people who do what you do, with the promise of feeling fulfilled while making good cash.

What about those that want the encouragement with out having to break the bank? What about those that want the sense of community where things can be shared, learned and experienced? This is where I want to be.

Not an influencer, not a ‘wellness’ coach, I’m thinking more in line with a wholeness coach. That term seems to resonate more in my soul. So what does it mean?

To me it means taking into account the whole you. You aren’t just fitness, finance or a ‘lifestyle’. You are a person with dreams, interests, a history, trying to find your way to some kind of quality and balance in this life. You want to feel better, more able to handle the demands that life places on you- this isn’t just a matter of taking the right supplement, crushing the right workout or covering with the right cosmetic. This is having the support to create your path, finding the things that will give you the inspiration, stamina and creativity to build your life to suit you. This is about building a community that is there is sit with you on a bad day and clap so loud for you on a good day. About having a coach you hears you, who helps you hear yourself and the wisdom you already have. Having someone who knows there are no easy answers but there will always be away to achieve your best.

I want to work one on one, I want your path to reflect the unique being you are. I want to offer group get togethers for education, sharing of community resources and support, not to have a cookie cutter program thrust upon groups of people.

I have been told I will not get rich doing this. I know I need to have money to live off of, but rich is not my goal. My purpose is to support people on their journey. I want to share my imperfect truth, and accept yours, as we all strive for better. My desire is to build an accessible community that is not one just based on commerce.

Is there an audience? I believe so. Can I find you? Will you find me? Are you ready for an adventure?

Reflections in the Morning

This body

It is mine, it does not always receive the love it needs

The reflection I see in the glass today is different

I pushed my self to work out,

with the promise of a little sauna respite at the end

So I sit, in the heat, sweat running in rivulets

There is an opaque reflection of self

A halo of soft silver is being to encase my head

A look at the body reflected in the glass

I see something familiar, but not myself

It is ancient, often found in old pagan sites

Breasts that rest as pendulums pointing to

Rounded belly and thighs

An ancient statue of the Goddess

Full of magic and wisdom

The sweat running became mixed with

Tears of gratitude, tears of forgiveness

This Body

I have been so cruel to this shell,

Denying food, punishing exercise

Comparison, disgust for not reaching standard that are not mine

Seeing acceptance as failure

Demand it to become something it is not

Believing respect will only come when…..

In this moment the Goddess looked back at me

Reminding me that care, love and compassion are important

That food is care, nourishing is important

Gratitude for the abundance I have access to

Exercise is strength, mobility

Not punishment, not to force a vision that does not suit

The view she shows me is to love the embodiment of who I am

The softness, the gentleness and the strength that is there.

Through the glass she showed me love, she reminded me to show myself

Exercise to move, eat to nourish and connect

I need to remember that view I was shown so early in morning

The clarity, the kindness, the motivation to honour the temple

That houses my love, my wisdom, my beauty, my soul

Vision of Rage, Blind Faith

People talk as though they long for the good old days- What exactly were those? Women and People of Colour being considered property? But hey a loaf of bread was maybe a nickel! Dying from the black plague? Polio? But hey, the government didn’t mandate what went into your body. Back when you could trust politicians? Yup….. Just as much as you could trust ‘The Church’.

Times were better when we all had god in our lives… was it? Being ruled by guilt and shame is what has created the now. Exorcisms rather than mental health help. Repressing sexual feelings, condemning sexual identity. For what? To please a complete fallacy. Jesus was not white, if we are made in the image of god, then god embodies both genders and by default is two-spirit. Lucifer was only in the wrong because they (remember in the bible angels have no gender) dared question the wiseness of a god that gave his puppets free will.

You are longing for a time you don’t really want.

You would give up in-home plumbing and sanitation? Central heating? Being able to get fresh mango in the middle of the winter? Looking up a map complete with directions, no creative folding required? Your car? Being able to fly to a foreign country in a matter of hours rather than months?

Fucking hypocrites.

All people are longing for is to have their conveniences, self entitlement and inflated self importance to go unabated and unchallenged. Too afraid to really see what’s going on, because, please say it isn’t so, we might have to take some accountability.

Don’t get me wrong, I thing faith is really important to have, the belief there there is something bigger that binds us to all living creatures. But using your ‘faith’ to deny that we have fucked up our chances of a long survival on this spinning marble (fuck you flat earthers, I can’t even go to how stupid that is). Using that faith to condone/facilitate another’s death or denial of existence is grotesque. To use it to selectively deny science that ‘infringes’ on your wants, takes us into another dark age of considering scientists heretics that should be burned at the stake.

I am in a relatively safe place right now, but we are surrounded by Provences and States that are literally burning to the ground. The temperature is consistently high for long stretches of time, drying out the forests, evaporating the bodies of water that sustain us. And what the fuck do I wake up to? Idiots claiming that these fires are set by arsonists. People washing their cars, when we have been asked to conserve this resource as best as we can. Here I am doing my best to keep my veg garden going with using as little water as I can, making sure I am not using toxic chemical that seep into the ground water. Silly me- its a conspiracy, evil coral reefs selling out to corporate America. Damn faulty thermometers pretending the Ocean temperatures are getting warmer. That might hit differently when you won’t be able to get your favourite sushi because the fish dies out.

Looking to history, there was a little thing called the fall of the Roman Empire, we are in the midst of a modern redux. Politics has again become full of bloated out of touch rich twats- modern emperors and pretend titans sucking the ‘lesser thans’ dry. The schism between the rich and the poor is a divide that no matter how large your boot straps are you can’t pull your way out of.

We are so soft with modern convinces that the thought of having to go ‘with out’, even if it’s for the good of all, turns us into selfish monsters. The clutching of the pearls and a collective ‘how dare you!’

I don’t own slaves…. Nope but you benefit from a system put in place by the European conquers.

I have nothing against the LGBTQA community but why do I have to see it everywhere?…..because they exist, and for the last couple of hundred years or so they have been ignored and dehumanized and forced to watch the prevalence of heteronormative culture. Many Pagan, non Christian cultures appreciated, recognized and even revered many of the genders through out the ages. It’s not new, it’s not abnormal, it just is.

Everyone seems to have neurodivergence ‘things’, it’s just ways of people making excuses, this wasn’t a thing when I was a kid…. Sorry again ‘Chad and Karen’ that kid you knew growing up that was shunned, beat up and mercilessly picked, had drug and/or behaviour problems simply had a brain were are now beginning to understand and create workable places for.

I’m sick of hearing about peoples feelings, everyone has anxiety and its a little sad sometimes….. and here we are again, finally recognizing things that we can work on, things that are very real and debilitating, perhaps with hope that we reduce addiction and abuse situations.

Life is uncomfortable. Life is challenging. Life is unstable and fragile. I get that all of this anger, hate and abject violence is simply a reflection of fear. The Fear that we need to, have to change and we have no idea what that looks like. It is challenging all the things we have been told, reflection on the things we have done and showing us what we need to do. But fuck, I don’t want to have to, I just want to do what I want, I have been told that it is my right, damnit!

These things are other peoples problems, it is the ‘others’ that caused these things. This is what happens when you take god out of the situation. No, this is what happens when you’ve been gone from the village too long. This is what happens when you forget that at the core we all need water, air, food, love and to belong somewhere. That each human with the skin stripped away look essentially the same. That in order to live we need the water to be clean, the air to be breathable, the diverse animal and plant life to be sustained.

Our survival depends on how we treat our most vulnerable. Our survival depends on the realization that monetizing everything is killing us. Our survival depends on recognizing the failings in our history and committing to do better. Our survival depends on recognizing our line of enough and be willing to share. Our survival depends on understanding that we can have faith, and that science does not need to be the opposite of that. We need to understand that we need to clean up our mess. What ever God(s) you believe in, something created this delicate ecosystem that sustains our little lives in this vast universe. We should be humbly caring for this, for us, for all of us.

If your god tells you different, if your god tells you a fetus is worth more that the woman carrying it, if your god tells you that only a few are worthy of his love, if your god tells you that you hold dominion over all, if your god chooses wealth over humanity, than you are the problem

If your politician tells you they were chosen by your god be wary of bearing false idol worship, If your politician has an us vs them mentality they are a false leader, if your politician is not receptive to you, helpful to you and only fans the hate in your heart, they are the embodiment of evil.

I am not perfect. I don’t do this right all of the time. I am constantly learning. I am as frightened as everyone else. I am angry too. But I am not letting that guide me to any thing other than making change for a world that I want my child to flourish in, that I want to feel peace in, that I want to experience the magic it holds. I am sad, frustrated, but I am also amazed at the good that is out there. We are surrounded by fires and some people here are opening their homes, offering what they can. Some are changing their beards and gardens to more eco friendly, food producing spaces. There are some embracing cultures, genders, neurodiverse understandings wit grace and willingness to learn, to make different where they can.

You don’t have to understand it, you don’t have to be it- you just have to have the faith in the thing that binds us all.

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.

She

I flirt with her

We get so close, I feel her heart beat. So different than my own, it’s sure, steady, strong. She is a warrior. Her stillness is intoxicating, it fills me with want.

I tell myself a story, imagining what it would be like to have that from the inside. To inhabit such a creature, who is all at once wild chaos, yet very much in controlled command.

I flirt with her

I bring her close, we play reveal and I run. Looking at her through the glass, she is brandishing her sword. Ready for battle, ready for play. Her marks show up on my skin to remind me.

Dark swirls, symbols of memory, power and the stamp of ownership. Her voice is power, echoing in my head- my own unsteady as it passes through my lips. Unsure, I bow to that which is around me.

I flirt with her

I want to be consumed. Reborn through her body and soul. Confident, soft flesh, yielding and revealing. Open yet showing nothing to the undeserving. How can we be so different? Yet one

We flirt, each time we get closer to melding, for a moment I see through her eyes, her voice begins to sing through my lips. Fear clenches my teeth, unsure, I bow to that which is around me.

She is moving closer to the surface, her magic is written on me, no longer will she be contained. The most powerful monster to defeat is my own fear. The fear of truly feeling her within me.

Becoming one and losing myself. Unleashing that which has always been, buried under false expectations, wounds and masks of identity. Fear of not knowing her, yet so completely sure that she is what I want.

I flirt with her intensely, she begins to look back at me through the glass. Compassionate wild eyes. A spine of steel. Waiting to embrace me with the strength that has held me through so much. I allow her power to sit low inside me, hot humming passion and rage.

I close my eyes. To feel her. To feel me. The purpose in her breathe moving into mine. The strength of her heart echoing through each beat of my own

We flirt. We dance. We embrace so wholly her ancient power melts into my own passion. Awakening Accepting that this internal affair may burn up life around me The ash affording the new growth

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.