Spoon Theory

I’ll be honest. I’ve gotten tired of hearing the word “spoons”. I have issues, but I can normally soldier through. I have several friends that can’t, and it’s hard to understand when having limited options isn’t really something you deal with…at least often. Life isn’t always a breeze for me and never has been (says the sickly attention seeking girl who used to sleep in the nurses office when her parents wouldn’t let her stay home). This is my “not often” time however.

Spoon theory is credited to Christine Miserandino (I will admit my research on that was limited to the first page of Google) and spoons just happened to be the available tangible object of the time. It could also be chocolate bar theory, or money theory (we all fucking know that one), or fork theory…because everyone needs a good fork…am I right? ::rolling eyes at myself because that happens:: Moving on. The point of it is that invisible illnesses limit energy forcing the bearer to pick and choose what they can do throughout the day. You don’t always know what those limits might be so you have to use at least one “spoon/chocolate bar/dollar/fork” less than you think you can use so that there is always something in reserve.

I’m currently at that point where I have to monitor what I “think” I’ve got left. Thankfully I know my chemistry will bounce back in the long run, and I’ll be fine. Though that money theory….no clue when I’ll knoe just how many dollars I need to keep in reserve.

Life goals.

See you next month.

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November 29

I think the truest version of yourself comes out when you are up against a wall. Not the “desperate no where to turn” wall that pops up when you find yourself on the back end of the Titanic about the time it going down. It’s the walls that come when your entire world is about to change. Trying to hang onto your life enacts the “id” which is not necessarily you. Trying to hang onto the life you’ve created is entirely you.

This year I’ve come out of my shell. I can talk about sex and only blush a little with the occasional giggling fit. I was naked in a crowd. I hug. I’m generally happy. I go to parties. I’m doing well. At least I thought I was. Now that all this shit is happening I’m retreating, I’m shy, and I’m angry again. When I noticed this I became more distraught. All this shit happening and it turns out I’m still all the things that I didn’t like about myself? Then I realized I was aware of this. It’s a step in the right direction. And indeed my entire world is about to change completely. Stands to reason I’d slip back into old comforts.

“Now this is not the end. It is not even the beginning of the end. but it is, perhaps, the end of the beginning.” – Winston Churchill

Everything will be OK in the end. If it’s not OK…it’s not the end.

 

Stream of Consciousness

I’m almost 40 years old and I can’t spell ‘consciousness’ without looking it up. I write this word more than a little too. Weird. I’m sitting here hoping for an epiphany. Hey chick…here’s what you are supposed to be doing with your life! Forty is not old. Forty is just getting started…especially for me. Nothing.

I’m supposed to raise my daughter. Well I can’t do that if I can’t pay rent, but that’s not your problem. I halfway to the point where I am no longer going to accept it as my problem. Maybe I’m getting an answer to a question I accidently asked a long time ago: what will she do when she hits the end of her rope. Will she snap and go on a murder spree with “Time Of My Life” from Dirty Dancing playing in the back ground. It sounded plausible. Suicide also sounded completely doable. I mean its not like it hasn’t crossed my mind a few times. I might have even tried once or twice…barely. I failed miserably. Only strengthened the idea that my lack of interest in life was entirely an attention ploy. Except I didn’t like telling people. Nope…when I snap it will be me turning off the alarm clock and waiting for someone to tell me to leave my apartment for non-payment. I go on strik from life. That’s what I’m fighting. If I make it through this shit…and it’s so much more than losing a loved one or helping my daughter through this time or shitty job or any of the other things happening….it’s simply I keep doing what I think is my job and it doesn’t work out. I’m not asking for fame or fortune or any of that shit…I just want a job I can retire from. I’m done hoping for a writing career. I’m not that driven. I’m done hoping for love. The first time…no wait…every time shit goes sideways I don’t go running to anyone that loves me. I retreat so far into myself sometimes I think I may not even find me again.

Come on universe. Bring it. End it. I’ve already got plans in place for all the shit I’m responsible for. I’m tired of being the responsible one.

Bear

I wish I was a bear

Wrapped and warm in fur

Hidden away from winter wear

In sleep I would confer

I find that I am bare

Naked without my faith

Exposed and retreating where

Sleep becomes a wraith

I wish I had a bear

Stuffed full of love and hope

With button eyes so fair

Stable against this tightrope

I have all these wishes

And the warmth of friends that care

Full of love their dishes

My heart beats as the bear

To Write or not to Write

I got the kind of news on thanksgiving day that you keep thinking you’re going to wake up to find it was just a bad dream. Mostly. I knew the possibility of it all. It shouldn’t come as a shock, but when it happens to someone you love very dearly, someone who affects so much of your life, it’s hard to get out of that denial.

Now it colors every aspect of my thoughts and I’m not sure what to write about.

If this was just a diary I would write any drivel that seeps across my addled brain. I’m kind of glad I have an audience…however small. It discourages me from wallowing in my own self pity. It still makes interesting topics difficult however.

So the answer is…write. That’s always the answer. No matter what. Write.

Dark Clouds

I have nothing I want to write about. I hate pity posts. I love my daughter and I don’t want her to hurt. I love my acquired family and I don’t want them to hurt. I hate the news we got, and I don’t want to write about. I have nothing else to say.

Red

Growing up I remember my father telling me that a woman who has gotten naked with a man cannot be raped. If she’s gone that far with him than she’s obligated to go “all the way”. on the surface I’d say he was a madman, but I think there is an undercurrent of adherence to this belief in this world. I don’t think its openly there, but some part of most people kind of thinks this. I could be just twisted though.

Getting into BDSM one of the first things I was taught is if someone says “red” or calls out an obvious safe word the scene stops. There doesn’t have to be a reason, it doesn’t matter whats going on, and it doesn’t matter who says it everything stops and the person who stopped the scene is cared for. It was this precept that was constantly reiterated that made me comfortable enough to start exploring myself. I was finally ok with the idea that if something made me uncomfortable, no matter what I was doing, I could stop and I wouldn’t be a bad person. Some people are even into that. It’s called ‘tease and denial’ and if I’m a top in anything it would be that. Ha ha! I love being a tease. I don’t like hurting people though so I would only do it to someone who enjoyed that.

Having someone I trust unconditionally has also helped me come out of my shell. I’m a lucky girl.

Have a happy Thanksgiving and I hope you have a lot to be thankful for.

 

A New Story

Tonight is…moonshine and Diablo 3.

I have this idea. A girl, about 13, sits down on a park bench to start drawing. She looks to her right and finds a tiny notebook. Being a kid more curious than wary she picks it up. Inside is a strange series of scratches in a multitude of colors of dipped ink. To almost anyone in the world it would only be random doodles, but to this special little girl it’s a map to an extraordinary place.

In another world, closer to this one than you think, a little gray kitty with orange eyes named Elet ransacks her room glimmering in candlelight searching for something she lost. It is something of unbelievable importance. She reassures herself that it’s fine. It’s here and if it’s not then it’s somewhere no one can read it. Little does she know her mistake is about to make two worlds collide.

I’m basing the characters off my daughter and my cats. My daughter will love it. Not sure if it will go anywhere. The ideas are still very much in their infant stage. I can only say this about this new idea:

And now for something completely different!

But hey, maybe that’s what I need…something different. Life keeps feeling like dead ends lately. I changed my dating pool – ten plus years younger to almost 30 years older – and it worked. Maybe getting away from more adult lean in my writing will finally help me find my muse? Who knows? I’ll just have to wait and see.

New Hobbies

I find myself alone which doesn’t happen often so I did what most moms do on their own and painted my boobs. What? Most moms don’t do this? Right, I’m not most moms.

For the annual pirate gathering this year my crew decided to try a take on “glitter tits” for our friends. It went OK…not great. I didn’t have money for the good gems or correct glitter or paint. It was fun though. I found I really like it. Now when I get a chance to practice I get excited. I’d post pics but….boobs.

Just a short note today. With Thanksgiving coming up I’m debating a “things I’m thankful for” post.

I also saw a random notebook lying on a bench and had a ‘what if’ moment. It might start a serial story.

In case you didn’t notice…I don’t plan shit. Makes life interesting….