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

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." 

Effing Elephants....

 Self-sabatoge. Something I am quite adept at. After all this time living with me, you'd think I'd either adapt to this, or overcome it. Some days it is more cunning than others. I'll be wandering along in my bubble, my rose-colored bubble, and *BAM!* there it is. Popping my bubble and intruding on my feigned serenity. I'm writing about something I don't want to write about. Because it's big. But then again, that is why I'm writing about it. The damn elephant fills the whole fucking room and I can't figure out how to maneuver around it and keep pretending that the walls won't come crashing down if this bad boy charges. 

Oh hello. I see I am speaking (writing.... whatever) in metaphor and rhetoric again. Well, this flowery crap lives in my head all. the. time. Running dialogue. So.... purging it means sharing with you, my audience, whatever weirdness might present itself. So if you read my flowery ramblings, remember to speed them up to at least twice the normal speed and tell me you're not exhausted afterward. Trying to chase different rabbits down different rabbit holes and ending up at a place where it all makes sense in a realistic amount of time with a veritable amount of sanity. Back to my current dilemma. The one with the self-sabotaging behavior. Yeehaw.... 

The elephant is named Debt. More specifically.... property taxes and mechanics liens. I just call it fucked. With a capital FUCK. And it "should" be a relatively easy fix. Except that I have no income right now. Well, I receive child support every 2 weeks, to the tune of $250ish a month. And unemployment is still placing a hold on my account, so after being unemployed for NINE weeks (9 f*cking weeks!), I still haven't received a payment one. So if I were not unemployed, I could probably find some place willing to take a chance on me because the amount I would borrow against the house would/will be the only lien against the house. So.... there is that. Or for the low, low payment of $1400 I can file for bankruptcy. I (only) need $700 to file the bankruptcy. But again, no income. 

Throw in this.... my knees are crippled with arthritis. So bad. And very limiting in the kinds of jobs I can do.  And as I am working on getting a disability judgment, I am supposed to keep making and going to Doctor appointments, and follow doctor's advise in regard to work and movement and taking care of my knees and other ailing areas of my body. Have I said this yet? I'm only 53. I am too young to need knee replacement. 

Oh boy, I digress. again. *sigh*

Let me tell you the story.... 

When I first received a tax statement, it said it was taxes for 2019. I dismissed it thinking that it certainly had to have been paid already by the previous owner, since I just became the home owner in October of 2020. And then when I realized that no, it wasn't a mistake or a fluke, that I really did owe the county nearly $1000 for taxes for 2019. And I was working at a "new" job, not teaching, and it was a steep pay cut from my previous job. But I still had this false sense of balance and hope. I believed I was going to somehow pay that $1000 plus the  current tax of $460+ that would be coming due in December. When we moved in here, it was fall. Fall of 2020. The happy news, I bought this place outright. The current unhappy news. Take those back taxes and no way to pay them and add on a lien that the roofer put on my house. Roofer? What?! Oh yeah, last fall, I get this notification from my home owners insurance that if I want to keep my homeowners insurance I would need to make the following updates to my house. One of those things was to put on a new roof. Anywho.... I'm in trouble.

I knew the money from the sale of my house in Mac was circling the drain rather quickly. But I also knew I needed homeowners insurance. I needed to have a roof installed by December 14, 2020 in order not to lose my homeowners insurance. So I secured a roofing company to do the roof. They couldn't do it by the cutoff date but I hoped that sending a copy of the contract would stave off the threat and I'd keep my insurance. The roof wasn't completed until mid-January. And so throw in my bad financial habits, and overall lack of savviness in regard to money, on top of holidays and home repairs and so on, and a general "head in the clouds" approach to things that overwhelm me ("oh, it will work out. I don't know HOW it will work out, but it will.") Blind faith. Cluelessness. Alternate reality. Whatever you call it, I live here a lot of the time. So excuse me while I stick my head back in the sand, but I have some avoiding to do.

Here I am with a pending sheriff sale to satisfy the mechanic's lien (between $7000-10,000), and the $1000 for property taxes. Sheriff sale is on December 14.  That is a mere 10 days from now. Unless some sort of miracle happens, I might just lose this little farm, my little slice of paradise, that I love with my whole self. It seems surreal. This is my Hippie Chick Farm. My chickens, ducks and geese live here with us and our dogs, cats, and guinea pigs. 

I *think* I could keep the house by filing for bankruptcy. I can do that for $1400. Of which, "only" $700 is needed to start proceedings and stop the sale of my house. And miracles never cease. It could happen. Right? Except that I have no cash. No holdings that I could make into cash. 

I know. I know, know, know, know, know that God will take care of me. Take care of us. He always has. Over. and over. and over. Sometimes that doesn't mean what I think it should. I love this place. I have believed since day one that God showed this place to me. I asked. I got. So I'm furious with myself that I would put myself in danger of losing this place. Foolishness. Stupid. And on and on. The berating goes on and on and on (...and on). But the long and short of it is that The Hippie Chick Farm is only 10 days away from not being mine unless a miracle happens. 

I have been brainstorming miracles. I know God doesn't need my help, but I also know that I can't find the miracle if I don't look. I have plotted and schemed and here are few ways that the miracle could happen: Kansas Department of Labor, Fraud Department, would actually review my unemployment claim (and read the emails from the call center, and the many, many notes in my file about my desperation) and release the fraud hold on my weekly claims. That would be a BIG miracle. Or maybe I could find a friend to lend my the first $700 to start bankruptcy proceedings. Or maybe I could find 7 friends to put $100 toward the lawyer for the bankruptcy. Maybe I could start a fundraising drive. Like a go-fund-me. There are miracles around the corner. I know there are. But you know, Tom Petty imparted a valuable piece of wisdom when he sang "the waiting is the hardest part." Well, the waiting, and not giving up, and still believing that in my desperation, a miracle will commence. But miracles need the window of hope to close or at the very least, grow dim. So I'm thinking that place is near. Because I am starting to live in panic, on high-alert, all the time. 

I mean, I can't eat an elephant. I know the story.... to eat an elephant, you just have to take one bite at a time. Maybe this is the first bite. Being so desperate that my desperation outweighs my humiliation and shame at thinking about exposing my inadequacies for the whole world to see. 

I am truly tired of eating humble pie, it leaves a putrid after taste. And I am not excited about tackling, or eating an elephant. And for certain, not this particular Effing Elephant. 

"The Hippie Chick Farm"

 

Fake it til you make it?

 I was taught something totally different than what people seem to interpret "fake it til you make it" to mean these days. As a newly sober/clean addict, I was told that sometimes you have to fake it til you make it. This was not intended to be in the spirit of F.E.A.R. (f*#k everything and run), but in the spirit of overcoming in the sense that I didn't have a clue as to how to live differently than I had before. It is a nice sentiment to say, overcome your F.E.A.R.  by facing everything and recovering. But I didn't have a clue as to how to live in recovery mode, facing life as it came to me. So through mimicking the actions of others who were successfully living a life I desperately wanted, I might be able to learn. But it will not be my first instinct or a natural response. Possibly not ever. But for sure as a "newbie" to recovery or in regard to any new challenge. In order to build muscle memory, I have to do the action. I have to fake it, when I don't really have confidence that my life will work out if I take this action, and take the action anyway. Because. Well, because I have done such a fine and upstanding job of making my life work out the way I have wanted it to by doing the same dysfunctional things over and over. In order to build new habits, instincts, and neuropathways in my brain, I have to repeat actions that are not instinctual to me at this time. I have to "fake it." This is often messy, embarrassing and occasionally humiliating. It is full of the Face Everything and Recover kind of fear. The John Wayne kind, being courageous enough to saddle up in the midst of my unknowing, the middle of being scared shitless. And not waiting until I feel brave or empowered of equipped. Just do it. 

This is different, however, than damn-the-torpedos-throw-all-caution-to-the-wind-and-act-with-reckless-abandon. This is doing the thing I know to be right, even though I don't actually know how. This is asking for help, accepting advice, and uncomfortably doing things in a way that I have not done them before. This is step work and taking my own inventory and realizing just how many times and how many ways I have NOT accomplished whatever it is that I have to become willing to face and act upon in the face of my fear. 

All of this "jargon" is stuff I learned in recovery. Some of it spoken with the intellect I hear all over the workplace today. And the talk of trauma and re-wiring our brain and all those education buzz words. Well, I have heard it before it became popular. Some of it spoken through the wisdom of others who told me, "you can act your way into a new way of thinking, but you cannot think your way into a new way of acting." Change requires action. And if I don't have the strength, knowledge or ability to successfully maneuver this path, I will have to borrow this from others who have gone before, who are willing to share their experience, strength and hope with me. I have to trust them and then saddle up and do this action that I don't understand or even believe in (yet), and be willing to do it over and over until I've built a new muscle memory and carved new grooves in my brain, lighting up new dendrites and growing new habits and instincts. But until I have uncomfortably faked it over and over, I cannot face it instinctually and be in a new path. 

Fake it til you make it is not bullshit advice. It is deep, it is real, it requires an action, even though I don't like the action, or feel comfortable with it. Until I know better, I cannot do better. In order to do better, I have to do the thing that is not natural to me. 

Today's rant is brought to you by this photo that facebook "suggested" to me. This photo has some amount of validity. But don't you think that "face it til you make it" requires you to fake it? It requires acting like you know something when you don't and just doing it until you do know it. In my not-so-humble opinion...

Uninvited Rage

What happened? Why are you stuck? These are questions asked by my therapist. We were talking about how, for awhile, I wrote every day. Every. single. day. And now I don't. I just quit.

Well, I am in the anger stage of grief. And I don't want to be. I don't want to be angry. at Dad for leaving me, but I am. I don't want to feel hatred and rage toward the brain surgeon who cut him open and let his brain bleed and not recover. But I am. I don't want to be angry at Dad for getting on that 4-wheeler and wrecking and laying facedown in the dirt, inhaling that damn dirt that grew that fatal bacteria that invaded our lives and took over and ruled over us. BUT I AM. Angry. Rage-filled. Bitter. Hateful. Full of bubbling, brewing, festering, infectious RAGE that at any moment could spill over and cover my entire world with a bitter plethora of colorful expletives and the stench of toxic emotion. I am so fucking angry.

I have been aware of this. But I don't want it. I have viewed it as something to ride out. like a storm. But it's not something I will ride out by ignoring it, by just knowing that it is there, and yet pretending to be capable of living a life of of peace, a life of honesty.

I am going to have to embrace it and let it overcome me. Consume me. I will need to let go of control and become submerged in it. Or at least in sort form of it. I will have to accept it and surrender to it. And let it wash over me.

I guess I am scared of that. First of all, I don't want this. I don't want to be consumed by anger and rage that I logically don't believe. It's not Dad's fault. It's not the surgeon's fault, no, wait, that one I don't fully believe. In this regard, I push down my feelings because my family is of a pacifist background and will never sue this man for malpractice. But I don't know that this wasn't some sort of carelessness by an overly-confident (cocky would even by an appropriate adjective) surgeon. But I have tried not to be angry about this because I see no resolve and that is even more frustrating. But I see where all this pretending has gotten me. Festering. Smelly. Infected. Toxic. Stuck.

But to go on, I don't WANT to be mad at my Dad. But he is the one who got on that 4 wheeler that day. He is the one who left me to face the rest of my family without him. He is the one who... oh hell, he fought so FUCKING hard to stay here, even when he was in so much pain and decay, see... I just can't blame him. I can't let that anger just live. Because he didn't want to go. He fought like a Son-of-a-bitch to stay. He loved life. He loved us. He wanted to be around for a much longer time.

I want to end this with that sweet summary of how I've faced this, walked through it, and now I get to experience that gratitude and know acceptance. But no. I'm not there. I am still angry, bitter, broken, and full of rage.

I don't know much, but I am willing to learn

My least favorite thing in the world. Feeling the feelings. Walking through my pain. But I have spent so much of my life both practicing and condemning avoidance. At the same time. I talk about my family of origin and how it was never okay to talk about.... well, anything really. I stew and fume and just keep it there to be my only source of angst whenever I wish. But I have also fostered it in my own life. I avoid the things I don't want to talk about, the subjects I wish NOT to tackle. But the truth is, the healing comes in the feeling and talking and walking. Walking the pain all the way to the end of the path. In that process is the pathway to peace. The victory of contentment. And I realize that being reasonably content is far more achievable than the ever-fleeting happiness. Happiness is temporary. But true peace, true contentedness, comes from a place of working through things and realizing that life isn't always rainbows and unicorns. And when that fleeting moment of happiness dissipates, content and peace will still remain. As long as I remain willing. Willing to walk through feelings, good or bad. Pain. Willing to learn a new way of thinking. The Bible talks about faith the size of a mustard seed. I think that applies to willingness too. If I have just a sliver of willingness, just a grain, on those dark days, it will be enough. Enough to pull me through and change me. To pull me through and open my heart and my mind to whatever God has for me. I try to remember this. Because I know my mind is a dangerous playground and a ticking timebomb. I know that if am not careful, I can be swallowed up by half-truths, by insane narratives in my head, by insecurities and fears. I know it can happen. I know I have to keep that doorway of willingness unlocked, even though some days the only thing keeping it from latching is a tiny grain of mustard seed.