Four!

Amidst the shittastic few weeks thus wrought, a bright and glorious light shines today; the twenty first day of the first month. A magical day in my world, and one I dreamt of as a shitty teen, and kept dreaming of as a shitty adult. 

Today is the fourth anniversary of the day my thunderbolt and I were married. It is magnificent, more so by dint of the recent past. 

I love my s.b. and our fairy tale life together. Even the pea beneath the mattresses. 

<3

Trigger warning: Cutting

Until my body gets back to a pseudo-regular clock, my defenses are weakened. I know it'll pass, I know depression is a liar, and I know cutting does nothing to help. Well, from outward appearances. Shh, I didn't say that. 

I'm so muthafucken depressed I can't elucidate. Winter is always shitty in my head, January is always extra shitty, leading to a downright fugugly February. As this is my yearly schedule, I know the SADs will cease at some point. So that'll be nice. But on Day 19 of cabin fever, it'd sure be pleasant to see some butterflies. Or sun. Or a relative. 

It's the late night mind fuck here, though, with a near constant stream of berating as the finale warms up backstage: the Cutting Cacophony. They're the ones whispering sweetly of how, if I just get the blade, I'll be able to feel something. It'll all be okay. Just get it. 

But no, assclowns: I will not cut. Not tonight. Tonight is for one eyed cat cuddles. For Tom Robbins and Alobar. For Kudra, Wren, and Frol. Tonight is for safe escape in literature and purring. Le sigh; I do run on, don't I? Having just grenaded several toxic relationships, you'll hopefully forgive my ramblings, but if not? Incoming...

I kid, I kid. ❤️

Naturally

I'm awake at four oh seven a.m. Of course I am, what better way to spend the wee hours than wide the fuck awake in bed. One of those rare nights when the insomnia gerbils left the depression hamsters behind which is, truthfully, a nice change, considering they've been here mucking about since Jan. 1 and being general nuisance emotional rodents. Those imaginary little shits.

If sleep does not dig in its heels soon, a puzzling I may go. 

Why don't I sleep? Because I blog. I think too much. The internal orchestra is out of tune. Or playing the 1812. Maybe I'm afraid of sleep. Of nightmares. Of missing something. Of seeing those dreamscapes so quickly turned to the Hell of Constantine.

Or maybe I've had too many beans this week, and I'm afraid I'll fart the cat out of bed.

Stay warm. Avoid Dutch ovening your loved ones. Remember: tomorrow is all new- every tomorrow forever. 

A Few

Here I am. 

Medicated, domesticated, appreciated. Creating, embracing, accepting. Forgiving myself for the mistakes of my last life. Learning to live my life with joy and love. 

There I was. But not anymore. 

Released.

We make choices based on what we want or what we need. We choose to pepper our lives with friends, hoping all along that they'll be Good People. We choose, sometimes, to ignore the Bad Signs from said friends' and disregard the heart and head's klaxon bells. 

I chose to end those relationships today. 

I never wanted to, but in retrospect I NEEDED to cut said people out of my life about, oh gee, six years ago?

Friendship should not be based on fear of hurting, either oneself or others. 

I will never be your dress up dolly.

I will never be your intervention. 

I will never be your friend again.

None of you.

No more.

This post brought to you by the letters F U and the colour Drunk Red.

Don your Armour

Really?

Well. 

Fuck this dick sandwich of a week. 

First, a penis in my inbox.

Second, a dickhead on my line.

Third, no one told me my cat died. 

NO ONE.

So. 

Fuck this shit. Fuck it ALL. Fuck him, fuck him, fuck her, fuck them, FUCK 'EM ALL.

Yes, I've already taken my meds. 

No, I will not be okay today. 

Perhaps in a fortnight. 

Goddammitallsofuckingbad. 

Need vs Want

After mistakenly answering a call from someone I'd prefer out of my life, it seemed time to choose between my aching want for a father and my absolute need to cut the father I've had out of my life. 

It is not my fault he loves money above all. 

It is bad for my mental and physical health to continue with him in my life. 

My life is wonderful without the overhanging guilt, anger, heartbreak and disappointment that he causes. 

It was not with joy or relief that I closed the door to him. 

It was with fear, regret, tears, sadness, panic...all the emotions he best inspired in me from my first memories forward. 

Mourning the father that never was, the one that could have been. 

Grateful for the other fathers who stepped up and loved me. 

Stronger than I ever imagined.

New year, new name to follow.

 (Privately, not bloggily. That is fun to pronounce: bloggggily.) 

Peace. Finally. 

But Why

Why, after a twenty-plus year friendship, would one think it acceptable to send a photo of one's penis to one's married friend? I mean, I get that it's New Years and hangovers tend to be cured today by hair of the dog, but...why? 

Men: keep your dongs to yourselves. In every way. Unless specifically requested, of course. BY SOMEONE ELSE, not your dong.

WTF, indeed.