Thoughts and thanks

Ninety minutes.

I’m not a big phone talker. Maybe when I was 14, but not since then. Use the phone to make a date or a plan to talk in person. So much better! But last night, I was on the phone for an hour and a half with S, the casting director from the film. Unexpected? Absolutely. But not unwanted, even tho the call came in around 10 at night (she’s a night owl).

I think I might have found a real friend.

Heard about the last day of filming, which went great. Heard how much everyone missed me, which felt great. And then, it was just talk. Talk about life, relationships, self confidence, our past…Well, we had a long conversation, so we covered a lot.

She said I was a role model. That she thought I was brave. I’m a bit stunned. Me? Brave? Maybe in front of the camera, but other than that I know how deeply chicken shit I tend to be. Yet, there it was: I was tagged as brave. I think that might be the first time in my life I’ve earned that particular label. I don’t feel like a role model. But then, I’m older. I’ve let a lot of stuff drop. I used to worry about people finding me attractive. Now I think about being a good person. I used to worry about saying too much, being too blunt. Now I state my opinions simply, without an argumentative tone in my voice. I understand how, as a younger woman, that might look brave and like someone you want to emulate. And good if that’s what it is! If I can take one day off of another woman’s internal suffering because they admire how I deal with life or men or politics or whatever, then I’ve lived a life worth living. I know how long I’ve sat in the shit. I don’t think anyone deserves to feel as bad about themselves as I have.

And I am so tired of seeing women tear themselves down. That shit that surfaces from competitiveness and petty jealousies. The nasty comments behind the back and to the face. The use of male branded put downs, male dominated ideals, male led lives. We have allowed ourselves to be led around the ring by our noses, just like the pieces of meat so many misogynists see us as. And those of us caught in that web deny it: I’m not jealous; she’s just a whore.

Can we be honest? Can we say that a lot of that surfaces because we’re all dick hounds after a good fuck? Because we all want this fairy-tale ideal we were fed from birth, that a perfect life includes a husband who has a good job? Okay, I know I’m ignoring the lesbians (sorry) and the non-sexual people out there. I’m making a point. This shaming of women BY women comes out of competition. It’s insidious, and it’s been instilled in us for forever.

Every time we do it, we play their game. Every time we do it, we support their foul opinions of us. Every time we do it, we kill ourselves and hamper our futures and the futures of all our daughters.

It’s got to stop.

If the only way you feel you can get ahead in life is to tear someone else down, you’re not making any progress.

I guess considering the world these days, that attitude alone should make me a role model. Embrace it, Beeps. You’re a knight in shining armour. Hm. And thus, comes understanding of how roles are thrust upon us. You just…live long enough that you become an oddity. An oddity that people admire, but an oddity nonetheless. And then they tell you, and you begin to monitor your own behavior. You start to become what they see you as, because a part of you doesn’t want to let them down. So you try. You reach for the bigger part of yourself. You keep doing that, keep trying.

And so you become.

That’s not to say you buy your own marketing. Therein lies the problem. I guarantee you that at the base of any star’s suicide is a deep seated belief that they didn’t really live up to their image. Maybe it’s not the ultimate tipping point, but it’ll be in the mix. It’s a big and ugly problem. Because people need those heroes. People need role models, the personalities larger than life to inspire and lead them thru dark times. But it can feel like a lie. I’m not really that good, I’m not really that smart, or that talented, or that beautiful… You need to balance what is and what is perceived.

Tread lightly, oh walkers of life! You never know when you will become. And you never quite realize, from where you are, just how difficult that balancing act is.

So. I have a friend. Admiration. Dizzying amounts of respect. It is as tough to take as the opposite. Especially after years of having no friends, no admiration, and no (or little) respect. And I don’t want to fuck it up. I want friends. I want people in my life. People who are happy to see me, people who are sad if I’m ill. People to share things with, because fun is amplified a thousand fold when you share it.

I am…at a loss. I don’t know why I’m getting this outpouring. I don’t know what I did so right to deserve it; if I did know, I’d keep doing it. All I can do is be the brightest me I can be. Listen, care. Slow down enough to really interact. Share my sense of humor. Hug people when I know they need it.

Waking every day with a sense of thankfulness. It’s totally new. I’ve had it for short bursts, over little accomplishments. This feels big, and solid. Like a river of lava flowing thru my life: huge, encompassing, and burning away all those truly inconsequential things that have been hampering me for so very long.

Thank you.


May I have another?

Behold, the knees. I’m on the left, with the grey socks. My 21 year old co-star is on the right. After cut was called yesterday, we went up to change clothes and compare bruises. Don’t know how many times we ended up doing the death scene, but as you can see, we put everything we had into it.

This has to rank as the number one experience of my life. Been trying to think what might even come close to topping it, and I’m drawing a blank. The dedication of these young film makers – barely any sleep, push, push, and keep a great attitude. The sheer professionalism of them, from the camera work to the thought behind the shots. And damn! They were all so nice. I think I’m in love with each and every one of them.

That love translated into good work. When it came time for the big scene I drew it up – the tears, the despair over watching as your own child turns and kills you. Time after time. It was right there, behind my belly-button, and all it took was a bit of breathing. M, my costar, locked eyes as I went into it. And the further I went, the further she went. We began to feed off each other – the kind of thing you hear about on celebrity talk shows. The room faded, the crew were a background noise. It was the two of us, staring into each other’s eyes, falling into a world of pain and torment. And it. was. glorious. The best work I’ve ever been able to do, because everyone around me was that good.

…To be able to do that… To have an opportunity like that… I can’t even BEGIN to tell you how much it means to me.

Oh, Goddess! And to work with an actor who could match me!! That was another world. Gone were any inhibitions, any doubts. Had the director asked us to strip naked to do the shot, I think we could have without blinking an eye. That’s how intense and personal it was.

My hands never stopped leaking an oily sweat the entire shoot. That was the mania: uncontrolled, and oozing out of me even when I didn’t want it. But I didn’t shake. I didn’t falter. I didn’t back down or compromise. And it all got funneled into the role.

And there’s a story within a story here. Because not only was the shoot itself fabulous, the time around the shoot was fabulous, too. We did the filming at the home of the casting director, and her parents were around for most of the time. Her father honored me several times – he tried my homemade cordial for my voice, loved it, and promptly shoved some money in my hands to buy two bottles. He shared a family photo album of a trip to India. He spoke to me of his daughter, and his life. And his daughter! Oh, she’s a bright one! Found myself, as usual, spilling my guts in that no-nonsense way I seem to have these days. She said, ‘It’s kind of like therapy for you, isn’t it? I can tell by the way you say these things’. And yes, she’s right. I knew that a while ago. She’s just the first person to bring it up. She also told me how difficult it was for her to think of me as 52. ‘You’re very young. Like part of you hasn’t aged at all.’

Oh, I’d love to spend more time with her, and with her family! Good people. Straight talk, unafraid to say those things that need saying. Unafraid to hear what I have to say.

…I’ve had a taste of being a film star. Not just in name, but truly being a film star. Because it’s not what you do, it’s how people treat you that makes all the difference. I can only assume this translates into whatever field you study; that finally getting the accolades and notice you’ve worked so hard for always feels this good. I have been passed over so much – wait! I’ve allowed myself to be passed over so much! better! – , and these past two days are a big wake-up call on that front. Gratitude. Real gratitude for who I am and what I do. I feel accepted. In full, and without having to apologize for my weird sense of humor or the funny voices that sometimes burst out of me or anything else I do.

This is amazing. Absolutely amazing.

And all I want to do is fall down on my very bruised knees and scream THANK YOU! at the top of my lungs because prayer is far too quiet for what I feel.

This is me, actualized. In total. Giving it my all. Burning the way I know I was made to burn. Not turned away. Not ignored because other people were uncomfortable or didn’t know what to do or say. I was watched. I was admired – and TOLD. I was – dare I say it? – loved as much as I loved. I saw it and felt it. I was hugged not because that’s what you do at the end of filming, but because our emotions were overbrimming, because we knew we’d all shared something special and unique.

…I’ve no real plans, other than showering and babying my injuries. Thinking of maybe making a surprise visit on Monday to the set. I still owe the casting director’s dad a bottle of my cordial, and, well… As I was saying good-bye, and telling everyone how sad I was that it was over, someone said ‘you could always come visit on Monday’ and that’s just been turning in my brain overnight. I could see everyone again. Take care of the cordial, and pick up the lights. Drop off my expenses.

The more I consider it, the more reasons I find for going one more time.

Thank you. May I have another?

Give a Little Bit

I slept. Well. Didn’t wake up half a dozen times to check the clock; that’s always a good night’s sleep. Never understand how after a heavy, full sleep like last night I often feel more tired in the morning. It seems to take twice a long for me to fully wake up. Seems opposite to what it should be.

Still no call from Heike. I didn’t even have to turn off my phone. Oh, so glad to have therapists who care (yeah, that’s sarcasm). Not that I expected that much out of her. After everything she’s blown off, from our scheduled appointments to getting me some info via email, I’m hardly surprised. She’s a piss poor therapist. Since it’s Friday, I don’t expect a call today. And there won’t be one on Monday, either – that’s just the way things work here. So I have my window of opportunity to close this episode in my life via letter, and I’m gonna take it. If she calls after that, that’s her business. I’ll have said what I need to say.

I did NOT smoke more marijuana yesterday. Wanted to. Of course I wanted to. I like the flavor. But I didn’t. I kept to regular ciggies. Awful stuff. Hate the taste, hate that I’m smoking straight tobacco. Gives my hands and mouth something to do when I need it, tho. I’d like to shove it all in the doctor’s faces – the anger, the depression, the suicidal thoughts, the return after thirty years to smoking cigarettes. I won’t. I’ll own it. And then if they judge me, I know they’re the wrong people for me to talk to.

That sounds like a balanced approach.

Talked more with my brother. He’s happy I’m no longer forcing smiles and laughter; it’s easy to tell the difference between a genuine laugh and a forced one with me. We talked about money again. That’s always an anxious point for me. After living in Ireland for 14 years, I’m used to life costing more each month than what we have (if you didn’t know, Ireland is the most expensive EU country to live in). That’s not what’s happening here. We’ve got more money than our monthly bills, and the debts we mounted up are being eroded away. Soon we’ll be ahead. We talked about starting up a savings account (gasp! a real savings account!), short holidays, and new equipment for the studio. It will be weird to feel flush with cash. It’s weird to have money given to me each month and NOT feel guilty when I buy a deep conditioner for my hair or something else I feel is a bit extravagant or just for me. I guess 14 years of barely surviving means I’m just less likely to toss money around willy-nilly when I feel good.

Still in my Downton Abbey run. Still living there, with my friends the Crawleys. Silly, right? Don’t care. It’s working. I may begin the series again when I’m thru it just to stay in this head space. It’s great to watch characters who DON’T have inappropriate responses. Everyone in that show has problems; that’s what makes it what it is. But they don’t scream at each other. They don’t do the things you see so often these days in shows; they don’t exhibit overt mental illness. They talk to each other. Get thru it. Support each other, in that turn of the century upper crust British manner. It helps to have role models that do that rather than go ballistic, however funny the ballistic responses may be.

Today I’d like to get out of the house. Do something fun with my brother. Maybe go out for a meal, or head to the music shop to drool over equipment. Something we’d both enjoy. He suggested some of that a few days ago, but I wasn’t ready to leave my cocoon yet. Today I think I can.

With my better feelings towards myself returning, my mind goes out to my friends. Have a few messages in my email right now that I’m answering. Have a few people who haven’t responded yet, so I’m sending out mini messages telling them I know silence isn’t a good thing and talk to me, talk to me, talk to me. When I’m depressed I don’t want to spread my depression around. When I feel good, however, I want to siphon it off and ship it to everyone who’s down. Fix all their problems. Make people smile again. Lift some of the burden off their shoulders. ‘Cause I know what that down side feels like. It may not be my baseline, but I’ve felt the sting of it. I know how dangerous it is, and how lonely it feels. If a few words from me everyday can help in any manner – even if all my notes to them just make them feel guilty enough to start to reply, I’ll do it. Nothing is worse than retreating from the world when you’re down. You get no support. No opportunity of support. I know why we don’t reach out: it’s too scary to think about talking about that stuff and then getting blown off. And you think ‘what difference will it make if I talk about it?’. It’s not going to change the facts of your life – whether you’re struggling with your mind or money issues, talk doesn’t seem to make a hill of beans of difference. I’m not becoming an advocate of talk therapy. Not at all. I’m saying talk to your friends. Put it in your blog. Give us a chance to support you, because a lot of us want to help. Give us a chance to be kind to you, because we don’t judge you or think you’re wrong for feeling the way you do. I’m sure not going to tell anyone to snap out of it, or that they’re wallowing in self pity. Not at all. I may not always have the right words to say. Sometimes I might just write *hugs* in the comments. That means I’m thinking of you, that my heart is breaking a bit because I know you’re hurting, and I want so very much to help you.

Let me give a little back.



I have a jewel, a nugget of warmth and goodness I’m holding close to my chest this morning. This particular goodie came in the form of a few well placed words from my brother. He’s one of those people who rarely say anything that could be written up on a Hallmark card, so when he does it means all the more.

He’s The Tick to my Arthur. He’s the superhero that drags me along with him, covering my ass when needed, sometimes driving me crazy, always believing in me. Even our physiques fit the bill; I’m the pudgy one while he’s bulking up via kick boxing. He’s out there, always on, never afraid, while I hang back yelling ‘Not in the face! Not in the face!’. We’re quite a team. Throughout our many adventures and years of travel together, I’ve often thought he’s been putting up with me because Dad asked him to – while on his death bed. There’s no promise like a promise made to someone while they’re dying, and my brother made that promise to my Dad. Yesterday our conversation turned heavy, as it sometimes does. I cried, and confessed, and got a hug. And then he said the magic words I’m wearing proudly today like a Queen’s cloak:

Without you, this place would just be a bunch of rooms where I put my stuff. You make it a home.

Yep. I make a home for someone else. It’s the little things I do: the sounds I make when I’m here, the jokes I crack, the comradery, the companionship, that helps to make a home for someone I care about.

It’s not just his promise to Dad. It’s ME.

Go on and blow, ill wind in my head. Someone cares about me. Not because of a promise they made, but because of ME. Thank you, I just got the golden ring.

The tears that fall from my eyes this morning are tears of gratitude, not sorrow. My heart is full, and all I have in me is thank you. The fierce lion of loyalty is roaring in my head. No one and nothing will ever EVER make me turn my back on my brother. He is the only person on this planet that has said anything like that to me. And while I have in the past tried to make a home with other people, I’ve never had the strength and support that I do now.

There’s no other word for it. I’m damned lucky.

Somehow, by accepting what’s been given to me I’ve been building a small web of support. Doctors, other bloggers, my teachers..There’s this growing circle of people I can talk to, people I can trust and go to with a problem. It’s still damned small, and still very loose. But. It’s there – and it wasn’t there a year ago. This situation is still so new I tend to forget it exists. Just like learning anything, tho, my mind is remembering to remember it more and more often.

Talking is getting easier. Saying the words out loud is getting easier. Every time I do and DON’T get the response(s) I’m conditioned to, I feel a bit braver. Oh, and the memories of the conditioned responses! I hear very few words; words were always shaped to cut the deepest for any given situation. What I’m remembering are facial contortions and sneering tones of voice. They come like flash photography in my brain; fast stills taken at one time or another and plastered up forever in the book of my memory. They bring shame and guilt. Sometimes I flinch, expecting a physical blow.

Spent a good deal of time reflecting over my feelings about doing voice overs. At the core of the matter I discovered guilt – again. I grew up being told that pursuing anything I enjoyed – music, acting – was a waste of my potential. I was wrong to want to do those things when I had the brains to go and do a ‘real’ job. I should ‘work’. Didn’t matter that I didn’t want to pursue any of the kinds of ‘work’ my parents wanted me to; anytime I pursued what I wanted I got shit. Put downs. Guilt. It wasn’t okay for me to do what I loved doing. That was ‘coasting thru life’. Being an adult was hard. You don’t get to do what you WANT to do. You do what you HAVE to do.

Anyone still surprised I’m so fucking amazed to hear stories about people who grew up with supportive parents?

Speaking of, I’m toying with the idea of writing a letter to the creator of Family Guy, Seth MacFarlane. Telling him how great I think his dramatic portrayal of living through an abusive, narcissistic upbringing is. How poignant I find Meg’s life. How right on he shows the abuse, the continued oblivion to obvious mental health issues. How thoroughly correct he portrays the hypocrisy of the American family in his cartoon film noire. I’d really like to piss that fucker off. Just once, in retaliation for all the shit he spews and gets away with because it’s in cartoon form. Fuck you, Seth. [Disclaimer: Comedy Central has been playing a lot of Family Guy lately, and I’m having a hard time getting away from it.]

Today my goals are simple: support my brother any way I can. There’s stuff to do, like grocery shopping and cooking. Stuff he’d usually take care of. I’m gonna try to step up today and do it for him so he can continue to work on his new music. It’s small in the grand scheme of things, but it’s what I can do. I have no idea what I’m gonna try to make for dinner. It’s been years since I’ve HAD to cook. But I’ve all day to figure it out and do it. Oh, I could go all simple with soup and sandwiches and he’d be happy. I want to make an effort. Just to say thanks…

All the difference


There are very few people who want to get up early on Christmas Eve. Fewer still who want to be in the water at 7 in the morning. I was one, of course. After the first 20 minutes, when all the sprinters lose their oomph and spend more time at the end of the lane dilly-dallying than they do swimming, I hit my stride. By 30 minutes I was picking up speed. An hour in and my only question was whether I was going to get into the whirlpool for a bit. The four heads sticking out of tub told me no, go straight to the showers. Once again, that’s good timing. I get the best shower, with full hot water blasting on my shoulder for as long as I want it. Then I have my pick of changing rooms, and zero competition for the hair dryers.

Still no satisfying rush from endorphins.

But I’d taken the time to read the comments on my post ‘help’ before heading to the pool. I determined that today I was taking my last big pain pill. Didn’t think I needed to put my shoulder thru a day of pain and stiffness after swimming. And I’m ready with Ativan. For later, for tomorrow, for any and every day I need it. ‘Cause Lola’s right (thanks Lola – you have no idea how much your words helped); it’s not like I have enough pills to make a habit of it, and right now I NEED a bit of calming down. No need to go off on a killing streak. I wanted to write a STORY about serial killers, not become one.

Yesterday’s … what do I call it? Emergency? Crisis? C-PTSD reaction? Left me pretty shook up. Had that tightness that comes after an adrenaline dump in your body. Took two chocolate muffins, a shitload of emails to and from Blah, and an Aardman animation to get me back to a better state of mind. Then there’s the slew of guilt over just blowing my top like that. Never so happy as to hear from the tribe that I’m doing okay. I always feel like such a shit after an emotional outburst like that.

I’m able to smile and laugh if something funny enough happens. Probably still depressed. I’m not manic, and if I’m not manic, depression is never really that far away. There’s too much crap in the world to be HAPPY. And having said that, all the crap out there makes me cherish what’s good all the more. What a fucking conundrum we exist in. All it takes is one shitty person to ruin so much for so many. And then what do we do with said shitty person? Isn’t that a fucking difficult question to answer. Sometimes I think we just need to cordon off somewhere and declare it Shitsville. All the shitty people can go and live there and be shitty to each other. Leave the rest of us alone.

Ah, well. Rotterdam is not a shit free zone, but it’s as close as I’ve seen in this existence.

Joy. My computer alert just reminded me I’ve got to take my injection today. Nothing like starting a day by piercing your own flesh. Ick. I hate doing it. Of course, I hate NOT doing it more.

So it’s gonna start to get lighter and brighter from here on out. That’s really what these celebrations are supposed to be about. We’ve reached the peak of darkness in the Northern Hemisphere. We lived through it. The sun is coming back. Query: why do we insist the Southern Hemisphere celebrate our time of darkness? Simply because there’s MORE of us? How infantile.

I miss stargazing. There’s one thing I can’t do well in the city. It wasn’t all that great out in Ireland, either: too much rain and cloud cover. But when that wasn’t there, you could see everything. I learned many constellations while living there. Someday I must travel to the Southern Hemisphere. I need to see the Southern Cross with my own eyes.

Why all this focus on the Southern Hemisphere? My thoughts are with Blah. She tells me my ghost would be bored, sitting on her couch day after day with her. Maybe. But my ghost finds its way there, bored or not. I imagine heat, and sweat, and that smell that comes when the earth has been baked for days by the sun. The musky smell of big animals floating on the wind. And the sounds. Calls different than what I know. Sounds I don’t understand spoken and heard through windows and walls. A sun that is familiar, yet different, for the sun is as dependent upon the land it casts its light on as that land is for the warmth the sun’s rays provide. Perhaps I’m romanticizing it. But it is what I think of.

Dare I set that goal for myself? To travel there to South Africa? To see it with my own eyes, my real eyes – not the eyes of my imagination? What a thing to ponder. The many obstacles to overcome. It would be a very long term goal. Very.

Today rain is falling on the window. How different what my eyes see to what my heart feels. I am laying down with the lions. I have a dragon on my side; I call her friend. And that’s making all the difference.

With a Little Help from my Friends


I am…free? Really? No more nagging or wheedling?

I sent my “no” out to Ben and have heard nadda back. I keep expecting another message; that’s the pattern with users in my life. They never really give up, not until I get the police after them or move to a new city or country. The silence is eerie; I do not trust it. I do not trust him.  I did manage to make myself clear without justifications or explanations. I feel good about that. I feel good about saying no, about stopping something before it begins. Now I feel hyper-vigilant, like I must keep looking behind my back to make sure no one is trying to sneak up on me and pinch my ass or grope me. Still got that flinch reaction when a man comes too close. Don’t know that I’ll lose it; don’t know that I want to lose it. Let’s just keep it there for a bit – it’ll help to keep me safe. The memories that caused me so much anxiety and fear are asleep again, for now. I don’t feel like I addressed them or dealt with them at all, just wallowed through them for a week. Whatever. I’m glad enough to be able to go outside without crying, to feel like I’d LIKE to get out of the house again. I’ll take that.

Two days swimming in row bought me a solid 8 hour sleep. That’s eight hours without waking up, without tossing and turning, without churning my covers into a twist. Pretty much a fucking miracle in my life. But fuuuuuck! My body is tired. I’m not up to swimming every day, even if I want to (which I do). I’ll take today off. Tomorrow is a 7 to 8:30 a.m. swim. I’ll catch it and see how I feel. If I can barely make it through an hour and then die during my language class, I’ll know it’s too much. I’ll probably become that machine again: cool water, early hours, few people, and away I go. That’s ok. It’s okay if I use exercise to physically get emotions out of me right now. I’m not kickboxing anymore, so I won’t break too many bones. Everyone always said swimming would be the best for me because of my RA, because of how easy I can hurt myself. Well, here I go. Are you supposed to keep swimming when you feel like your lungs are gonna burst if you don’t breathe more? I do. Are you supposed to keep swimming even if you feel a cramp coming on? ‘Cause I do. I’m pushing swimming as much as I ever pushed anything else.

With my emotional turmoil last week, plenty of small tasks have gone undone. For most of them I need to go out among the human beings (translation: beings pretending to be human). So I’ll write them down and tackle them one at a time. I’m not ready for a full day out there, faking a smile and dealing with Dutch thrown at me like a native because the two words I say – good morning – are clear. One at a time. No rush. No deadlines, no big disasters ready to blow if I don’t do something right now. No pressure, other than my own head – which is more than enough to deal with, thank you very little. But I do feel ready to begin doing things again, to go out and try again.

My bro was busy during my spiritual malaise. The front hall now has two hangers for coats and shelves that hold a bunch of crap that was sitting by my computer desk. At this rate, we’ll actually be able to buy a dining table (a very SMALL dining table) and eat at it like real people within the next six months. Yeah. For the last year we’ve been eating meals at our computer desks ’cause there just wasn’t anywhere else. That’s ok; I don’t stand on ceremony. But having a real table and sitting down at it will be cool again. Right now I just get that when we eat out.

I feel great that my bro cleaned some stuff up. I feel shitty that I didn’t help at all or get to any of the crap I need to clean up.

I feel shitty for not working thru this last week, if you want honesty. Felt it was all self-indulgent, felt weak for doing it. I know; I know. I needed to rest and recoup. I really was back to crying at the drop of a hat; very shook up. I don’t want to be nice to myself right now. At all. I want to beat myself up because LOOK at all the stuff I’ve let slide that now I have to gather up and start again. Just look at that mess. A great big pile of goop. I’ve had two rejections come at me (oh, great!), so I need to dust myself off and re-send to new places. Gotta keep going. I MUST keep going. I’ve gotta be able to tell myself I’m still throwing punches, still putting myself out there no matter what. I don’t know…maybe it’s my mortality knocking at the door. Or poverty, ruin, despair. All of it is lighting a fire under my ass and making me move. Do it NOW, woman!

Somehow the week is at mid-point already. Wednesday? Really? Well, I guess so. Tempis fugit. I just don’t want to say that on my death bed. My dying words do NOT need to be tempis fugit and then I kick it. Fuck no. I want my dying words to be ‘thank you’. Thank you for some compliment, for some bit of honor to hang onto. Thank you for being there for me. Just thank you. What else is there to say when you check out? If you haven’t got your fuck you’s out by then, well, you ARE in the shit. Closing time is a time to say goodbye and thanks… So long and thanks for all the fish. 😏 That’s a good final statement.

Morbid line of thought, anyone? Fuck!

Okay. Life, not death. People, not isolation. Honesty, not subterfuge. Making the choice here. The obstacles I face are pimples on a flea’s ass that’s sitting on a fly that’s sitting on a dog that’s sitting three thousand miles away from me. Small shit. I am bigger and stronger than what I have to face. Didn’t I just prove that to myself? Didn’t I just stick to my guns and say ‘no’, then ‘no’ again?

Yes. Yes, I did.

Unity. If I could manage to do that and drag my ass through a week of bad memories, I can do anything. Fucking anything. I can count on myself. I can rely on myself. I can follow through and stick to my guns. More than that: I can take care of myself. With a little help from my friends.

❤ To all of you.