To Err is..

Letting go of the shit piled up in my head and my heart. Tons of cliches and memes say to "forgive and forget," and "move forward from your anger," and I'm sorry, but it is fucking tough to forgive some things. You know the tropes; abusive relative, abusive partner(s), authority tossers, and so on. Sure, I can forgive the kid who tried to knock me down, but a. we were ten, and b. I knocked his ass down flat. But can I so easily forgive the beaters? The molesters? The repeat offenders? As far as that last goes, I should forgive myself for being so gullible for so long. But that's the other side of letting go; forgiving oneself must also occur, and that's the really difficult part, for me. Progress is being made, yes ma'am, but in my mind's eye I am climbing a mountain that reaches to Jupiter equipped with only a plastic trowel.

I keep climbing, though, learning what I can and, yes, dropping the shit that has taken up residence in said head and heart for far too long. I suppose that, as most of those monsters-of-my-past are...well now, what are they, exactly? 

Scraps. Remnants. Refuse. Trash. Garbage. Putrescence. 

Trash day's a comin'.

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.