Birth Day Reflections....

 Today is the day. The day I was born. More than half a century ago! Whoa! This day is a complete cluster for me. There is a whole melancholy thing that happens that no one can fix. Quips of "just celebrate yourself!" sound so cliché. Included in these cliches are things like.... "just forgive yourself already" and "you are worth it" and "but you're a good person!" Blah. There is that part. Now, there is also the whole holiday let down thing that happens when you have really high expectations of something and reality cannot live up to the hype. I have that to deal with also. Because in case you don't know, my dad was the party guy. He LOVED a good party. You know, once upon a time ago, he was a party guy, heavy drinker, etc. But that was lifetimes ago. For most of my life, party meant any large gathering of people. My dad was a "the-more-the-merrier" guy. Ha! Even in the hospital as he languished, he'd say things like, "I'm super! All of you are here just to see me, I am doing great...." I didn't recognize this for a long time, but my dad, he was really incredible at practicing gratitude. He was so content and grateful with whatever life handed him. "It is a beautiful day." "God is so good." "Would you look at that sunset?!" "Oh, my girls are here, life is soooo good!" How are you doing Pop? "oh.... I'm pretty good. Your mom is taking good care of me, and your uncle Rod is going to take me fishing..." Does it (whatever the current injury might be) still hurt? "oh.... yeah. It hurts all the time. But don't you worry about me Doll, I'm doing good. Now that you're here, I'm great." 

It's weird, all the smooshing together of memories and drama and trauma and logic and analysis. Just weird. And it makes perfect sense and makes no sense at all. 

Every year, I battle emotion anywhere from melancholy all the way to the trainwreck-wish-I-was-never-born extreme. I try really hard not to have expectations. In life in general. Toward my birthday in particular. 

Being born on a holiday is not all it's cracked up to be. As a kid, parties were hard. Classmates were busy doing things with family, with church groups, at the lake, at big 4th of July celebrations. 

The anniversary of my birth is a complex cluster fuck. And I do better and I do worse. But I commence to party with caution because I know that lurking in the shadows is a death wish, a spirit, a monster. It might rear its ugly head at any moment. I try not to live holding my breath in fear, but I also try not to forget that there's a dark force at work in regard to my birth and the celebration thereof. I try to remember that it's a thing. But it's just a thing. And this too shall pass. 

Beggars....

 Beggars can't be choosers. Or much of anything else really. 

I'm at the point of my disability journey that I am just a beggar. Not a chooser. I'm flat broke, I'm less than a month away from losing the only form of income I have right now, child support. So while I'm proud of my kid and so happy for her in regard to this milestone, I'm sickened to think that the only money I get every month, roughly $290, will be ending.

Right now I'm begging for.... pet food, gas money, money for the electric bill, and any other immediate need/necessity that comes up. Things I used to regard as needs... my own vehicle, insurance for home and vehicles, regular flea treatments and deworming for pets, vet visits, weather appropriate shoes and clothes.... I have discovered are actually luxuries. 

I have utilized all the resources I know of that are readily available to me. Which translates to more begging. And whether or not those helping agencies take a condescending tone or not, it is still extremely humiliating. But sadly enough, money of the places put in place to help, are condescending in tone and demeanor. Which makes it more difficult the next month when nothing much has changed. 

It is poor shaming at its finest. or whatever. The poor (me) that have to humbly ask for help month after month, we would really rather crawl under a rock. But I want electricity badly enough to beg for it. So I will seek out more places that I haven't begged from lately, and I will beg for lights and running water and flushing toilets one more time.

I pray that my determination comes soon and payment is swift. But mostly I just pray I can survive. 

If you want to help, send a message and I'll send you the energy company information. Today this blog is both, a rant and plea. Because as I've pointed out, beggar is my current status and begging is my current resource. If you want more information, use this link: Detailed List of ways to assist

Pay it Forward....

 I feel so many deep level rants going on. But my mind just scatters in every direction when I try to collect my thoughts. Rants and angry blogs make for an easy, good read. But surely there's more to writing than just collecting my anger in piles and dumping it.  

One problem with angry-ranting all the time is that it takes away from my ability to re-frame my thinking and find the positives. And every day, there is something positive. 

Yesterday, we went to town without money. I mean, yes, we are flat broke. But I had money on the ebt card and we needed lunch, so we went to the grocery store to find some lunch. At the checkout we realize that my ebt card is not with us. So my child looks to see if she has her debit card. But no, she does not. It was also left at home. So the two plastic sources of money we had, were not with us. We always have no money, but yesterday we had NO money. 

Embarrassment. Humiliation. Standing in the line, trying to figure out how we can have some form of food with what we have, nothing. 

Then guy behind us says, "add mine to theirs and I'll pay for it all." "Really?!" "Yes, really." He had one item, a drink. And he generously bought our lunch. Restored my daughter's faith in humanity. Me.... it took a minute. Why? Because I was still so embarrassed and humiliated and felt the worth that I would attribute to garbage. None. But it only took a minute. Because my child was there to remind me that it was a good act, and that someone took care when we were in need. Randomly. We don't know this guy, we are not going to put him on our list to someday repay him in some fashion. 

What I will do is remember. And pay it forward. One day, when things are not quite this grim, I will pay it forward to my neighbor, randomly. And maybe, just maybe, I can help restore someone else's faith in humanity. 

More from the misfit section....

 Being a misfit and a poet is lonely. It's the kind of lonely that leaves you alone in a crowd of people. I carry this with me at all times, and sometimes it is not too heavy of a burden and sometimes, it is truly too much to bear. Remember that kid in school that was just sort of odd and nobody wanted him/her on the team or in their group? Yeah, that is me. And thank God for adulthood where it is okay to find your own brand of misfits and you can all oddly not fit in together. But to think that childhood did not leave scars on a deeply feeling person is a lie. To say surface level crap like... "that is all behind you now, you are no longer being bullied or are a misfit," or "But aren't you glad since it shaped who you are today?" Let me tell you, I am grateful for today, and that it is not like childhood. But I have never once been glad that I was bullied by classmates or teachers. I'm not glad I was targeted as an "at-risk" kid so the infamous "they" could poke and prod my brain for reasons to list in their research. I don't have some secret gratitude for people who laughed at me and made fun of me and then scratched their pretty little heads when I broke bad. Ironically enough, with all my disdain for education today and the hugely broken down corporation that it is, one of my favorite ever quotes comes from education or education gurus. And I can't give the proper credit as I don't remember exactly where it came from. But it didn't originate with me. Here it is: "You cannot punish the trauma out of someone." Which is literally what both education and rules of society in America try to do. 

As one who was formally a moderate to heavy drinker, and a more than just occasional recreational drug user, I am supposed to let all this shit go today. I am not supposed to stir the pot anymore. But it is what I do. I am good at it. And I have a few different views on this. One, it is a release. In the cycle of abuse it is the part where the victim invokes violence because it takes away the unpredictability of it and it give the victim some amount of control. Maybe not to what is going to happen to them, but of when. And waiting for the other shoe to drop is horrible and time consuming and eats up any available brain space. People wonder why you don't get things done, but your body, heart and mind were waiting. And that waiting is paralyzing, and Petty didn't lie, "the waiting is the hardest part...."

Shit-stirring.... it isn't just for breakfast anymore. Someone's got to do it. You know, when the water gets stagnant, it becomes a breeding ground for things like mosquitos. And, as you all surely know by now, "Well behaved women rarely make history" (penned originally by Laurel Thatcher Ulrich, often credited to Marilyn Monroe and Eleanor Roosevelt). So someone has to stir the pot. Someone has to be the supporter of Black Lives Matter and PRIDE, and women's rights when everyone around them is shouting things like "it's not that you are expressing yourself, but the WAY you are going about it!" Which is usually a non-violent, non-criminal way, by the way. Shit stirrers of world unite. 

Stirring the shit pot does a few things though that I don't like. The pot boils over onto non-shit substance and taints everything around it with the smell and taste of shit. It splatters. Onto people and entities and entire lives of those who did not make the shit or stir the shit. And it burns and stings and stinks in the process. It can ruin relationships and it is a major form of self-sabotage. 

Self-sabotage. Something else I'm truly adept at. And let's face it, the more precarious my mental health is, the more likely I am to believe that every thought I have is worth sharing and shouting and splattering in every direction. And when this happens I am most likely to believe that my thoughts and my mind have never been clearer. But the truth is, we generally hurt the ones we love the most. Why? Because it is safe. or safer. Because, in general, they are going to love us anyway. And sometimes those are the people we are trying to reach in a roundabout kind of way. Does this person care about me enough to reach out even though I just shit on them? In spite of, or because of. So why bleed on those who didn't cut me? Why let the shit explode on the just and unjust? Well, for one, it just splatters when it it is stirred often enough and the heat is turned up high enough. But also because it is not safe for that shit to splatter out into the unknown. 

Knowing I'm creating career sabotage and injuring relationships? Not enough to stop me. Because that self-sabotage groove is deep. And stirring up shit that is better left alone, just another strength I possess and service I offer. So there you go. 

Found the pic here

Everyone has them...

 You know the saying, about opinions and assholes. Right? 

My blog is where I dump my opinion: good, bad, ugly, short-sighted or whatnot. Sometimes my blog stinks. But my mind is cleared of gibberish and rubble. 

Prayer vs. Policy-change. Is this really the only option? One or the other? Enough thoughts and prayers I have read over and over and over. But this policy change isn't even about schools! It's about gun control. Let's be honest. And that is a whole other rant. I mean, I am not opposed to some changes in the gun laws. What kind of protection OR hunting, or caring for your family involves a fully or even semi automatic weapon? Let's be honest. If an intruder comes to my house and I meet them with a double barrel shotgun, they will not come back. Well, unless they have a weapon of the automatic or semi-automatic persuasion. And then they will be far quicker to unload that thing than any chance I will have at taking them out. Neither scenario makes me think I need a bigger gun. I'm just a girl who lives in the country trying to raise a few animals and live off the land. I don't need a bigger gun. 

I don't need the government or anyone taking away said gun either. But if we are talking "policy change," let's talk about eliminating or seriously crippling the automatic weapon industry. Aside from military warfare, there is just no reason for it. 

What am I saying?! I guess I'm saying I'm on both sides of the whole "policy change" rhetoric. But shouting policy change in the midst of this tragedy only cheapens the lives of the children who died this week. The same as shouting about my "right to bear arms" does. So what does that leave? Thoughts and prayers. I can believe in policy change and still pray. I can still want healing and a salve of some sort for the pain of those who are suffering. I think that as we take a moment and breathe and calm our weary souls, we need to be aware and not be lulled into nothingness. That is what all the hubbub is about, right? We use our thoughts and prayers and pretty soon nobody cares about what happens all-too-often in this country of ours. And that is what we need to avoid. Agreed. But we also need to pause and look at the hurting and take a moment to pray for their hurt and devastation.

Prayer is the greatest tool we have. It can move mountains. It can move the policy makers that make up those mountains. Prayer is powerful for what it can do to the energy we send out of our heart and soul. Prayer is powerful for the change that it initiates inside of us. 

The day will never come for me that I say "enough thoughts and prayers". What I see is something that needs more. Prayer AND policy change. Not prayer OR policy change. 

If my people, which are called by my name, shall humble themselves, and pray, and seek my face, and turn from their wicked ways; then will I hear from heaven, and will forgive their sin, and will heal their land. 2 Chronicles 7:14

P.S. Some conspiracy theorists that I know and love worry about Big Brother who is always listening and watching and waiting to take away my guns. So here's my disclaimer, I have a shotgun on my wish list. I do. But I own a .380 hand gun. And I guess if we're being about full disclosure, it is a semi-automatic gun. But I'm just putting it out there.... I don't currently have that shotgun I was writing about. (Not to say that one day I won't, because right now I still have that choice and freedom). I am not the marksman my Dad was, but I still wouldn't break in to my house. Just sayin'

Anger. And beneath the Anger

 I'm 11 days post-surgery with a total left-knee replacement.  And one of the many epiphanies I've had today is that I'm bored. I am so tired of feeling like I wish I felt different! I wish I had less pain, I wish I were high as a kite and knocked out on oxy because it hurts less. I wish I could just take enough ibuprofen and tylenol to keep a steady pain relief base, but they make me nauseated and light headed and fuck with my stomach. Oops. I tried to type "mess with my stomach" and look what happened. I think that is because of the underlying rage. Is the rage from the pain or from the pain relief? Or from the cabin fever? Or the frustration that I can't move freely to take care of my little farm the way I want to?! Maybe the rage is a thinly veiled cover for Frustration. On a primal level. I have let out more primal screams today than I have in the entire time I have known what that means or that it has healing qualities. 

As I sit here, thinking about my constant rage against the machine, rage against biology, rage against my genes; I think about how I've always said that I'm not the fuck up. I can admit that I am just a little too honest, and too authentic and too.... well, I don't know, too..... me. But I'm not THE fuck up.

Today I feel my spirit collapse in upon itself and I give in. I am the family fuck up. What do you know? Why fight it? My mom, my sister, and even my beloved father who forever lives on this daddy's girl pedestal, knew I was the fuck up. And what we project onto our kids, they become. So why fight it. I'm tired. I'm 53, almost 54, and I've been pushing back for a lonnnnng fucking time. But today as I weigh the many, many failures in my life, I realize, I AM the fuck up. It's me. Hellooooo! Over here. It's me. I'm the one. 

click for photo credit/article, not my photo.

What's the one thing we want credit for? As women, as humans, as individuals? I mean, I guess I don't actually know what "we" want credit for. But I do know I'm not the only Mom who says, "I am a good Mom" and fight for the "good mom" title and recognition. Today, as a general rule, I care if I am a good human being or not. And I used to think I made a difference. A difference for kids. I taught them and loved them and encouraged them. But a) I don't do that anymore and b) I no longer believe I made a positive impact. So see? I really am just THE fuck up. I want to say my kids are strong, independent human beings because of the great mom I was. But there's a wealth of evidence that in spite of years upon years of crying wolf, I really fucked up motherhood. Maybe that scared little addict who gave her first child up for adoption was right. I come from a long line of fuck ups and am not capable of bucking the system long enough to make a real difference in the lives of the little ones I brought into this world. 

Maybe if the pain (the physical pain) ever recedes far enough and long enough, I'll become a good farmer. Because today, my lack of judgement left me with an unattended terrier, an animal that thrills in the kill, and two less chickens, and one missing duck. One less 'possum in this world, but also fewer of the creatures I was charged with caring for. Sacrificed because of my short-sightedness (and pain). 

For now, I have one more pain-killer in my medications. It will be saved to hopefully help me sleep. I have this day to collapse in upon myself. And to pray that the light of the day tomorrow will bring me hope. And a different perspective. Oh please dear God, let today be the end of giving in to "the fuck up." 

grief un-tangled, is that even a thing?

 I have been lost in nostalgia and reverie. Longingly remembering the past, days from my youth, feelings and thoughts over experiences and defined moments. How I loved to hear my Dad sing and how his joyful spirit was infectious. How he loved being happy and singing along to Hank Williams on the radio, or just singing along to the songs that lived in his soul. When I think of my Dad, often I get mad. I get mad at the family that "black-sheeped" him and made him into their expectations. Mad that they couldn't see beyond his actions to the gentle soul that lived inside his heart. Mad that the things that were expected of him were the very things that got him black-listed. Mad that he bore his burden and believed them. Oh.... this makes me mad. Mad about so many things in regard to his childhood, his adulthood, his rebel years, his misunderstood years, his fucked up views of love, and his later-in-life life. When a child loses their mother at the age of 8, they should be allowed to grieve. They should be loved and nurtured. Not tossed aside and targeted. 

But the older I get, the more I see the parallels. His life. My life. His shame. My shame. Familial. Societal. Individual. Collective. 

Such heavy burdens we were expected to shoulder and bury, at the same time. How can that be? Carry your cross, take responsibility for your actions, but bury it deep, carry that shame and count it as your own, even though it was thrust upon you from outside yourself. From places that you were never even meant to see. So that someone somewhere can feel less shame and blame for their actions and lack of action. 

I want to scream "SHAME ON YOU ALL!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" and I want to walk away and burn bridges and carry torches and burn those fuckers to the ground. 

But we all know it is a matter of time, and not that much time actually, until I will come around to letting go, to gratitude, to live and let live. And thank God for that. Capital G god, not the god of gratitude or any other thing I might pair a descriptive with the word god with. But THE God. Thank God for Gratitude and letting go and crying and raging and screaming and doing it all again so that I don't have to stay angry. Carrying resentments makes me sick. It blackens my soul. It drives me to find sweet bliss, that blessed forgetfulness that I sought in a bottle, in a pill, in a man. And the never-ending shame that slithers in my shadow can only be battled with love. Martin Luther King Jr was right, "hate is too great of a burden to bear. I will choose love." (That might be paraphrased). 

This is how I feel as I write this post.