Rollercoaster of Love

(Say what?)

Sorry for the absence, my droogies. For the last week(ish), I have had an out-of-town guest staying with me. It has been lovely. And time-consuming1!

Of course, just as soon as she left, LifeTM vigorously reasserted itself. So much to do. So little time to get it setup. Sleep might well be a thing of the past. Further?  I suspect that I may never get caught up on either my email or the other bloggers I follow.
On the plus side, it does look like I get to go to both Summer I and Summer II. There really is no down side other than the knowledge that this summer is going to be crazy busy.
I have thirteen hours scheduled2, woohoo!  I am not insane; I promise. They are split two classes per section.

And HOLY MOTHER OF … well.  University (as opposed to community college) is expensive. Let’s just say that I’ve paid that much for a lousy car.
Between classes, my get-in-shape-for-a-cruise plan, The Girl’s schedule (camp and going to various grandparents), bi-weekly gaming sessions, writing my blog3 , writing my fiction, and hopefully(!) going to a convention or two – whoa. Yeah. Crazy.

I feel like I am standing at the very tippy-top of a rollercoaster, looking down the hill and wondering what I have gotten myself into. It’s exciting. It feels a bit dangerous. I love it.

Oh, baby! You know what I am talking about.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

1 – In a good way. For instance, on at least two occasions, it was near dawn when we looked up and thought, “Hmm. Perhaps we should shut up long enough to go get some sleep.”
2 – For the curious: American Lit Before 1865, Ethics and Society, Psychology of Persuasion, and Spanish II.
3 – I also hoping to to do a couple of blog challenges – where I try to write every day.  I don’t know if I can pull it off. But, I seriously want to try.

I guess it makes me a Bohemian?

(Title by the inestimable Willy Shakespeare)

 

My 42nd birthday is less than a month away. On the one hand – ew, 42.
On the other – hey! I’ll be The Answer for the entirety of 20121.

I’m actually not fazed by the upcoming calamity natal event. Truth to tell, I am a little more disconcerted by the odor coming from the kitty room. Holy vile fetor, Batman!

In just over a decade, I will be able to clear out a house with just one wee fart.

Thank goodness its trash day.  That’s the one thing that you never hear about when you first adopt that wiggly little black kitten.  At the time, all you can think is “ohlookitthefuzzywittlekitty!”  But the catbox smell once she hits her geriatric years could knock as buzzard off a honeywagon2.
I should probably cut her some slack. After all, she’s approaching eleventy-billion in human years. I bet my bowels won’t be so sweet when I am her age.

What was I talking about again?

Oh, yeah. The end of the world.
How the heck did I manage to get this far without blowing something u… Hmm.  What I mean to say is, I can’t believe I made it to 42. I sincerely thought that I would be dead by now. There’s probably some psychological reason that teens/young adults cannot fathom being any older than 30. Especially gothy teen/young adults who write bad poetry. However, right as I made the turn into my thirties, the Girl was born. I’ve been too busy since then to contemplate writing any exceptionally dismal poetry about caves.

I am DEEPLY amused by the fact that Googling "dank & dismal cave" returns this image as one of the hits.

Probably for the best. My poetry – all of it – was never terribly good. Lots of gloomy references and more adjectives than the traffic could bear. Emily Dickenson would’ve wept3.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

1 – In very fact, my birthday – the day I turn 43 – is the end of the world, according to certain prophets and other lunatics. Consider this your warning: The chocolate had better be phenomenal, or POOF! No more world for you.
2 – You will never guess where I heard that particular phrase.
3 – Not in a good way, either.

Trigger – Not Just a Horse, Today

Warning. Trigger.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Do you know what rituals are? The linked Miriam-Webster definition is accurate but I prefer Wikipedia’s version: A ritual is a set of actions, performed mainly for their symbolic value.
Rituals have set meanings and observances. When you are frightened or desperate, patterns that you can cling to are important. Sometimes, you create them out of the blue. As a way to cope, maybe. Or a smokescreen. Or simply as handful of grass on the slippery slope of sanity.

These are the things that you do… these are rituals of safety. You do them to keep yourself physically or mentally safe. You keep them sacred and you survive.

If your ritual is touching all the ice cubes with a finger that just cleaned the toilet – and learning to love hot or room temperature beverages – because knowing they’re drinking toilet flavored tea helps keep you sane? You do it.

Or making sure that you are the first one up, to make breakfast – oatmeal, two lightly fried eggs, one patty sausage, two strips crispy bacon, two charred pieces of toast – so that your day doesn’t start out with violence? You do it.

If you keep a photo hidden away of the people who actually love you so that you can look at it when the house is empty so that you can remind yourself that you aren’t alone in this stupid world? You do it.

Dinner is always within fifteen minutes of being done when they walk in the door after work. You can hand them their perfectly rolled joint and a glass of chocolate milk as they settle in to wait. Any punitive “lessons” averted are worth it. You do it.

You do these rituals and you keep them sacred. But…

But.
For chrissakes, you be plotting and planning and calling for help (furtively, if you have to) and scheming on how to get the fuck up out of there.

You find a safe place to be. You surround yourself with love and acceptance and friends and healing and therapy.

It can be done.

I promise.

We don’t need a Day of Remembrance or a half month of activism against it.

We need this shit to stop.

—–

There is help. Yes. There is. Don’t say “even for me” — this help is especially for you. Because you deserve help. Because you are loved. Because no matter what anyone says – you are a terrific human being and you.are.loved.

Call or email the National Domestic Violence Hotline.

The National Feminist Majority Foundation will also be able to help.

Or if you think that someone you love is being abused – there are resources for you, too.

 

As a final thought: You matter. You matter. You matter. You matter.  You look in the mirror, into your eyes and you repeat that until you believe it.  And call or email or do whatever it takes to get yourself out of there and to a place of safety.