Chronic Illness

 Having a chronic illness is:

1. Have symptoms
2. Ignore them for years/not realise there's a name for what you go through
3. Have most medical professionals ignore/dismiss/gaslight you about your symptoms
4. Discover there IS a name for your Thing and advocate for diagnosis
5. Spend actual years jumping through ALL THE HOOPS and finally get diagnosed
6. Move on with life because, other than diagnosis, those medical professionals offer no help, advice, support, or signposting
7. Experience specific problems relating to your diagnosis
8. Research how to deal with said symptoms
9. Find recommendations online
10. Introduce those new ideas
11. Exacerbate something else entirely and, not only be unable to fix the initial problem, but give yourself another symptom (or three)
12. Realise that the new ideas you found are for typical bodies and you are a Zebra, not a horse
13. Get angry and buy a bunch of books on your condition in the hopes that they help
14. Repeat steps 7-11/12 ad nauseum

 

I have begun a routine of going outside every morning while the machine makes my coffee. 

On mornings like today, I wake up earlier than I would like but I am then rewarded with views like this. 

I greet the sky and the trees, say "hello" to the stars when they're there to meet me. 

I say "I love you" to the moon when I am graced by its presence. 

I thank the Universe, broadly, for too many things to list, open-ended gratitude. 

I stand and stretch and take several deep breaths of the fresh air. 

As I head back inside, I pause to thank my home. She has a name. A name that only I know. 

I then begin my day. 

 Now that my life - again - looks wildly different to what it did just months ago, I find myself - again - wondering where this blog fits into the whole scheme of things. 

I am compelled to write, I am compelled to share, but as my writings are now split between fiction and non-, I wonder if it's time to also split my posts ... to have different blogs dedicated to different things.

And then I struggle with indecision because the non-fiction I want to write about is extremely personal and I am debating writing entirely under a pseudonym for those works because they're about my life, my childhood, my traumas at the hands of others. 

Some of those people are long gone but some of them are still very much alive. 

I imagine the ones who are still alive would take some not insignificant offense to having their actions revealed to the vast number of one (1) persons who read(s) this blog ... and this is something I debate almost-constantly and what holds back a lot of my writing ... I'm kind of waiting for the remaining players in this saga to pass before I write my story ...

But that isn't "fair" to me, to the story inside my brain, inside my very cells that is crying out to be told, to be released, to be known. 

So, the questions I ask myself are: 

• Would I start an entirely new blog and literally not tell anyone that it's there? 
• Do I not blog about that side of my writing at all and just hope that it's published someday? 
• Or do I say "eff you all" and start peppering my non-fiction writings in here, too, offense-causing be damned?! 

It is said that if you wish for nice things to be said about you, you should do nice things in life. The people I am trying to ... protect(?) did some very not-nice things but I don't believe them to be entirely "bad" people. They, too, are borne of trauma and assaults of various kinds but, for myriad reasons, have been unable and/or unwilling to break the cycles in which they have found themselves. (Some don't even understand there are cycles.)

And what if the person I'm most desperately trying to protect is myself? What if the reason I haven't been able to write my truth while my abusers are still alive is because I know they will come for me (Proverbially and largely digitally. Physically, I am very safe.)

But the story still begs to be told. Hence the dilemma. 

I guess the real purpose of this post isn't to find the answer to any of these (and more) questions, but rather to get my teeth back into writing and sharing because I have to start somewhere, right?

Right.

Run.

 Flash fiction self-challenge. Prompt = “Run.”

"Run." 

As soon as he heard the word, his body jerked softly, adrenaline kicking in instantly, held in check only by conscious effort. The more basic, primal part of his brain chafed, desperate to obey the instruction but he stood his ground. 

"I refuse.” He squared his shoulders, lifting his chin and glaring down his nose. 

"Fool." 

He laughed "The fool is one who is afraid of the likes of you." He glanced again, arrogant, defiant, sure. He shrugged. 

"You should run." 

His face straightened, the look of amusement disappearing, replaced by sharp annoyance. "You are nothing of import. I am in charge here. I give commands. I do not obey. I will not run" 

"Then die." 

As the next wave crashed into him, the sand shifting beneath his feet, launching him face down in the craggy rocks of the shore, he finally did obey.

The chasm of the selves

 That lost, detached, adrift feeling you get when the foundation upon which you relied for certain truths reveals itself to be significantly less structurally-sound than had long been presumed.

How does one honour their own truth and yet simultaneously keep the promises made to never destroy another?

R E S P E C T

To whom this very much concerns, 

I will be fine.

That's something you need to not only know but to comprehend: to fully, wholly, and in all other ways ... to know… I. will. be. fine. 

You have chosen me as your pariah, your outcast, the target of your distaste, your rage, your ire, your judgement, your inner-pain, your insecurities. You have made it more and more obvious over the years that we've known each other. 

You're spending less and less energy in attempting to hide your obvious contempt, the disgust you feel toward me. 

Deliberately manipulating events to ensure my exclusion is one thing but when you make it clear, beyond any remote chance of confusion, that your own entertainment is more important than my life, you have decided and made it known to me, to everyone involved, that you are literally willing to risk my actual life instead of making a small, relatively simple change that wouldn't negatively impact anything or anyone.

And you know what? 

I'll be fine. 

I have survived magnitudes worse than you…

and I have thrived. 

My “favourite” part is that, in spite of everything, you have now asked a favour of me. 

Except, we both know it’s not a favour, don't we? 

We both know there will be no reciprocity in this - or anything we share. There never has been and there never will be because you. do. not. respect me. 

I give and you take. You ask and I give and you take. You expect and I give and you take. 

And, as much as I will actually enjoy doing this most-recent “favour”, as I have every time I've performed it in the past, it will be the last “favour” I do for you. 

I accept that you do not respect me but let me make this perfectly clear here:

I. Respect. Me. 

I cannot control how you feel about me. I cannot control what you say about me. 

I control who has use of me and you ... you are not worthy of such a lofty privilege.

I am through letting you use me. I am through enabling you your blatant disrespect of me.

Sincerely, 

Over it and over you. 

A week in the life …

 Monday

An allergic (thankfully, mild!) reaction when “oat milk” unexpectedly contains pea protein. 

Gorgeous local plant life. 

“I’ll draw the monster’s head, Grandma will draw its body, and you draw the monster from the body down!”

Tuesday

Craft time: Celebrating messes. 

Hot chocolate o’clock. Firm family favourite.

With a pampering mani-pedi, it was a good afternoon, indeed!

Wednesday

Headed to the spa to be marinaded and tenderised. 

Tenderising interrupted by a team member needing emergency help. 

Thursday

Back again for a scan and the results (which came 4 hours later). 

Potentially-lethal cross-contamination / why it’s beneficial to get to lunch early. 

More gorgeous local plant life. 

Unwinding with “adult” beverages like the teenagers at heart that we are. (Glass contains Archers and lemonade.)

Any day with glitter is a good day.

Friday

Heading home today, sky matching the overall mood.

Saturday

Unfortunately, it was my turn. 

Being severely allergic to milk, choosing “vegan” menu options isn’t necessarily the best choice when you’re even more allergic to peas. Oops. (See also: Monday, above.)

What if …

What if I said to you that I love you ... 

What if I told you all the things your tired, aching soul yearns to hear... all the things that would warm and relax and soothe your pains, your sorrows... 

What if I welcomed you into my arms, into my embrace... so that you may know comfort, so that you may know ease and adoration... 

What if I made space for you beside me, nestled with me in the very centre of my world... 

What if I created the home you've always wanted... always knew you deserved... 

What if we faced the highs and lows, the confluences and confusions of the Universe together... side by side... strengthened, supported, symbiotic in our ways, in our selves... 

What if I opened myself to you so that you may find shelter, growth, freedom...

What if I said to you that I love you.

Tile 19

Tile 19

While I sat and waited, I counted the tiles in the ceiling. Suspended on the day the system was conceived, judging by how dirty and sagging this one presented, I kept getting distracted from my counting by Tile 19. The layered effect of multiple rust-coloured water stains indicated that, at some time in its history, this space may have been an office. The kind with a typing pool and a too-handsy but-he’s-harmless-really, "Oh, that's just Bob. You get used to him and learn to ignore him," boss who smoked too much and swore too much and winked suggestively every time he called his secretary into his space to take dictation. 

Tile 19 seemed to stare back at me, emboldened by, even belligerent in the self importance of having borne witness to scenes and conversations over the years that likely wouldn't be believed. 

If these tiles could talk. 

One corner of Tile 19 was particularly fascinating. There, the darkest layer of staining, almost as dark as old blood, caused me to look to the floor directly beneath, expecting to find corresponding damage or evidence of what must surely have been dripping from the ceiling at one time. 

A chill ran down my spine as I considered what the building now housed in this modern Western word, a supposedly enlightened or "woke" society and then how much worse it may actually have been. 

Back Then. Before. When it was A Different Time and it was socially encouraged to treat others badly. 

The floor revealed nothing, however. Relatively new linoleum tiles covered the room. Hard- wearing, easy-to-clean, functional, reliable. 

Seeping outward, away from the darkest stain, the next layer, at least as dark as dried tobacco leaves, was shaped almost like a butterfly. The abject absurdity of something as beautiful and delicate and natural as a butterfly being present or even represented in this space caused me to actually chuckle to myself. The sound startled my fellow occupants in the otherwise silent room, just as the wall-mounted speakers announced, "four hundred seven!" 

I glanced at the Turn-O- Matic ticket stub clenched in my balled fist and sighed. 

604. 

I looked up and re-started my tile counting. When I got to Tile 19, someone started screaming. I sighed again, my fist tightening around the ticket. 

You won’t need your notebook today

 

The No Post Tonight post

 Work was heavy today (in all positive ways) so I’ll contend myself with mentioning what I’m reading this evening and get back to it rather than trying to wrack my brain for a post I’ll later lament for lack of thought or preparation.

https://franlebowitz.com/

I’m late to the party when it comes to Fran, something I think she might actually enjoy, having only come to understand what she might be about after watching the documentary M. Scorsese did starring her. 

While I don’t agree with all of her opinions (how boring would it be if I did?) I’m finding her writing style enthralling, her ability to see and report back parts of the world that, to me, go far beyond “observational” and delve deeply into experiential. A view from which I feel lends her work even more power. Power I can currently only dream of possessing.

Someday, perhaps.

The Self in the Esteem

 The Self in the Esteem

For decades, I've struggled with self worth, self-esteem.

My past taught me early on that my value lay only in how I could be of use, be of service, be pleasing to and for others. It was a lesson painfully learned and oft repeated when I dared to consider another way, that I may have a worth that wasn't only attached to those around me and their ever-fluctuating opinion of me. 

Now, I find it's no surprise that a large part of being unable to value myself is due to having been unable to develop a sense of Self in the first place. How could I consider myself to have any value if I didn't develop a Self in the first place. 

Children of narcissists, of abusers ... children born of and into trauma often find themselves preoccupied with learning what their caregivers needs are during the stages of development when they should be learning what their own needs are. 

This missing element in a child's development creates myriad complications as they grow and develop. Interoception, body dysmorphia, damaged (if present) self-esteem and self-worth and, at its worst, it can prevent the development of a true sense of Self. And these are just the ones I can think of in the moment. 

It's only now, in my late 40s that I am realising, accepting, wading through what has brought me to be the person I am today ... the traumas, the determination, the intelligence, the refusal to be the person I could have been ...

Because the person I could have been didn't break the cycle - she followed, dutifully, obediently, unquestioningly, and she was broken. 

I am not she. 

I am me and I am worthy. 

What do you write when you don’t know what to write?

What do you write when you don’t know what to write?

In a surprising but considered and measured turn of events, I’ve made the decision to write a lot more, everyday when feasible.

Today, being a bank holiday, I’ve had ample time to determine a theme, a subject, on which to write … even more than enough time to source and use a/n idea /theme generator.

Here I sit, however, hoping my muse will appear out of the ether and provide much-yearned for inspiration.

The online generators I’ve found haven't been sufficient in prodding loose any sort of ideas ... not even grabbing the physical dictionary and trying to randomly choose a couple of words as catalysts ... subjects ... words to include …

"Gutta-percha" and "roundel" haven’t knocked loose a single whisper of an idea.

And now I believe I’ve answered my own question ... I will write about being unable to write ...

And that's not on irony.

The curious case of the incurious

As an adult, I consider myself to be quite curious, even inquisitive but when I think back to my childhood and adolescence, I'm dismayed that I don’t recall any such feelings from those years. It's as if I experienced that period of my life in some sort of senses-numbing fog. 

It wasn't safe for me to ask questions. It wasn’t safe for me to wonder.

When you experience severe and repeated childhood traumas, you learn to accept everything around you because you fundamentally understand that you cannot trust your own senses. Everything around you becomes unreliable and, by extension, inconsequential.

It becomes vital for survival to understand that anything and everything can change in an instant. Moods shift, the meanings of words change, stationary inanimate objects suddenly become fast-moving dangerous weapons … it’s safer to accept the environment, the surroundings knowing that, expecting that the truth of the given situation only exists in that singular instance. 

I think this is a large part of why survivors of chronic trauma experience such notable self-biographical memory gaps and why it’s often difficult to imagine, to hope for the future. 

If what we know is unreliable, how can we possibly speculate, hypothesise, dream …

A blog is a terrible thing to waste

A blog is a terrible thing to waste

Words - my shield, my weapon of choice, my solace, my refuge. 

Words often come to me at the most inopportune times … when I’m asleep, when I’m sitting with no way of recording their importance, their urgency. 

Words of fiction, of fantasy, of fact. 

Words end up scribbled on random scraps of paper, the back of a used envelope, the inside cover of a nearby notebook, notecards - oh so many notecards. 

Words come, persistent, alarming, emotional, stoic, clinical, and timid - some words slither, some assault, some whisper from the shadows, barely, if at all, perceptible - but even those refuse to be ignored - coming back to the fore and demanding immediate, undivided attention.

Words I will honour here - on this disused, misused blog.

A place, a chance to give voice to the words that haunt me, that tease me from the depths of past trauma, from an inimitable imagination.

The return of a lost old favourite (for some)

This is an adorable LoveBug who has "bitten" many in its time. 

Make it in any colour you like. Make an army of them! 

Gauge isn't really important, the larger the stitches, the larger the finished project will be. 

For whatever yarn you choose, I recommend using the recommended hook size. If you crochet loosely, use a hook size smaller than recommended because you don't want the stuffing to come out from between your stitches! 

Body 

Ch 4. 

Sl st in 4th chain from hook to form ring. 

Round 1 = Sc 6 in ring = 6sts 

Round 2 = Sc2 into each st = 12 sts 

Round 3 = Sc 1, sc2 into next st* around = 18 sts 

Round 4 = Sc 2, sc2 into next st* around = 24 sts 

Round 5 = Sc around = 24 sts 

Round 6 = Sc 3, sc2 into next st* around = 30 sts 

Round 7,8,9 = Sc around for 4(ish) rounds (depending on how "tall" you want your LoveBug to be) 

Bottom 

Ch 4. 

Sl st in 4th chain from hook to form ring. 

Round 1 = Sc 6 in ring = 6sts 

Round 2 = Sc2 into each st = 12 sts 

Round 3 = Sc 1, sc2 into next st* around = 18 sts 

Round 4 = Sc 2, sc2 into next st* around = 24 sts

Round 6 = Sc 3, sc2 into next st* around = 30 sts 

Add eyes (and antennae as you see fit). 

Stuff using "poly-fil" (Stuffed Animal Stuffing). 

Find what will be the "face" of your LoveBug (mine is 10 stitches wide). 

Mark the bottom edge of the body on either side of the face with stitch markers. 

Skip 1 sc, mark, skip 1 sc, mark so that each side has 3 markers. 

Use sc to attach the LoveBug's "bottom". 

I started in the back, making sure to tuck my ends into the body (so I had less weaving-in to do. Yes, I am -that- lazy). 

At each of the stitch markers, make the sc to join both pieces and then ch 4. 

Sc in 2nd ch from hook, sc in each ch back to the body and sc into the next "joining" sc (that joins the bottom to the body). 

Ch4, sc into 2nd from hook, etc. 

This is done once at each of the markers, creating 6 legs in total. 

Once the circle is complete, sl st to join, bind off and weave (or tuck) in the last end. 

Don't forget to name your LoveBug(s)! 

I used a random name generator she found online.

Poem (also free!)

"I've been bitten by the LoveBug."  

LoveBugs bite wherever they can 

They'll bite anyone, woman or man. 

This LoveBug bit me on the finger

The scar, now on my heart, does linger. 

And though he bit me (and it was sore) 

I met you and asked for no more. 

You're my favourite symptom, ailment, disease 

But don't fret, dear, you don't make me sneeze. 

So, when my eyes well up and I look sick 

Grab the LoveBug and blame him quick. 

He gave me you as an infection 

I want no cure in an injection. 

The LoveBug now returns to you 

In the hopes that you'll be smitten, too.

originally published on my old website: morethanblue.com in September 2008
 
(C) TMBJ all rights reserved - also mentioned here: https://www.ravelry.com/patterns/library/lovebug 
All information in this post is free to share/use for profit as the maker sees fit. Please attribute credit where possible.

The puzzle

When you’ve spent the past three decades thinking you’ve had your shit together, only to learn that it was a façade and that denial is, not only real, but also a real mean bitch; how do you pull yourself apart and heal the broken or missing pieces of yourself so that you can have a hope of reassembling everything into something even remotely whole?

This is the puzzle I have been dealing with in every waking moment (and in most while asleep, too) since early October 2019. 

Childhood trauma, abuse, and neglect are powerful forces that, over time, inflict more damage, create deeper wounds, than is often fathomable. 

PTSD triggers seem to come from nowhere at times ... feeling a compulsion to grab house keys every time I take the bins out in case someone locks me out of the house; accepting blame when it is warranted but becoming almost debilitatingly anxious at the faintest whiff that I might be blamed for something that isn’t my fault; the anger that seethes through me when someone innocently asks where I’m going ...

Some of my triggers I have been aware of for a long time (the smell of chicken noodle soup makes me anxious and nauseated; when I feel I’m being ignored I want to just run away, far and fast) and some arrive suddenly, violently, swelling from some unknown abyss, leaving me drained, empty, confused, and wounded all over again. 

It’s bittersweet, opening up these sudden scars, realising past traumas that my subconscious decided to bury. I oscillate between “gods, I didn’t realise it was so bad!” and “that explains *so* much!” and both reactions are valid, if perplexing in their symbiosis. 

As I meet each one, systematically tearing it down to get to its roots, to unearth it’s core, I’m exhausted from the pain of remembering, the effort of disassembling ... and yet, I’m exhilarated by pride in what I’m accomplishing, how hard I am working to help the one person who always took a backseat in my life; myself. 

I work to put these delicate pieces of myself back together, discovering how they all fit, finding forgiveness for the hurt, scared, lost child I once was. 

And each piece finds its place within me anew. Strengthening my foundation. Building my sense of self. 

Me; my favourite and most challenging puzzle. 

Please be patient

Please be patient with me

Please be patient with me as I accept and navigate my new reality

Please be patient with me, this suggested diagnosis is difficult to swallow -- as much as I know it fits, it answers so many questions -- as much as it's almost epiphanic in its simplicity

Please be patient with me, I truly thought I knew what was going on

Please be patient with me, the path through "severe depression" cannot be rushed

Please be patient with me -- I know you're used to my highs, my "everything's fine"s, my ability to know the bright side of everything

Please be patient with me -- I, too, am used to those highs, that vantage point

Please be patient with me, the realisation that it's all been a cover, a facade over something deep, something tumultuous -- is difficult for me to handle

Please be patient with me as I (again) work to rebuild myself

Please be patient with me as I struggle with the amount of work still yet to be done.... especially when I feel I've come so far

Please be patient with me as my own patience, my sense of self, are battered and torn and shredded

Please be patient with me as I search for the right words, the definitions, the explanations, the realisations that I hope will serve me well in communicating what I, myself, don't understand

Please be patient with me as I struggle

Semi-Silent Sunday

Rockin' it!

A stunning walk through the woods 

Our hotel...

Sorry, ladies - no breakfast for you!

Interesting design feature...

 Wroxham Barns

So tempting

The North Sea 

Feet in, whatever the temp!  (3rd February)

Wroxham Miniature Worlds

Spotted!

Not good enough, mate

Second time lucky?