In a second floor office trying to determine if a bill matched the bid making it payable I got a text. It said “I love you”. Kids say that. Especially if they are 10 and you are still the center of their world.
The rest made no sense. She said she was sorry, but she had to go. She promised she’d be safe and she would see me in a few months. That is not shit a 10 year old should be telling you!
I called. Five times? Ten times? A hundred? I only remember that she wasn’t picking up. Two employees and a contractor now existed in a completely separate world I could only register as incoherent noise.
I retreated behind my office door with no explanation. I was to powerless to even speak. It took her voice to give me that much back. I didn’t scream. I checked my tears.
“I don’t understand, baby. What do you mean? Florida? Please go back to the school.”
I had to catch my breath and reign in the flood.
“Please go to Nana. Nana is going to be sick with worry. Please. I love you. Please go back to the school.”
I honestly couldn’t believe she agreed to go back. I had her put Nana on the phone just to be sure. Then I raced home. Longest drive of my life. Best hug at the end.
My daughter wanted to go with her friends to another state make money so we could get our own place. Immediately after a painful divorce I lost my job. I had a new one but it takes time to recover. It was a rough time. I’m not sure how far a group of run away 10 year old would get. The horrifying possibilities still make my throat raw. They’d planned. She’d stolen supplies from her Nana. She told me she didn’t realize it would scare me so much. Obviously I missed…a lot.
She told me she was sorry. I changed. We left it at that.
It’s probably true. This time I’m going to do writing prompts every day. I honestly don’t know what I want to write. The sexy stuff doesn’t exactly hold my attention.
Today’s Prompt: Go to Wikipedia.org and use the daily featured article to inspire your next plot point.
Anabelle sat cross-legged amid the tall swaying grass of the savanna; an ocean of orange not unlike the often milk chocolate waves of Galveston. The wind swept softly across the tips of the grass like lonely waves without a shore to rest upon. A heavy heart beat and soundless footfalls were the silent tail swishes of this sea’s hunter, but the lioness too stood alone. There were no smaller fish to feast upon in the fading light. Smart prey seek safety in the twilight hours.
She no longer knew if she was predator or prey. Regardless it was to late to retreat. The thing they stalked meant to wipe out the world that Anabelle no longer belonged to. The wind and the lioness did not belong to that world either. They were all alone. Maybe the loss of her soul severed her link to humanity, but at this moment she felt a part of something. The feeling helped lighten the darkness that dogged their steps.
The song of a Cape sparrow sifted through the breeze. Anabelle remembered it was deemed a “species of least concern” by some government organization it had even less concern for. She honestly couldn’t tell a difference between it and a sparrow from Texas. The familiar song summoned a smile from her lips.
The cooler breeze signaled the sun’s exit and the girl stood to retreat to the safety of the native village. There were plans and shamans and stories to hunt down, and the lioness’ definition of sharing this moment was exactly appealing.
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.
See you next month.
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.
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.
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
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.
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.
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.