Fearless #FamChallenge

Beloved Nephew and I are doing a writing challenge for a little while, to get the creative forces moving. This is my first installment.

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I’ve found myself wishing lately that I could live my life fearlessly, as I used to be able to…

To not have to worry about things constantly, to feel the constriction of anxiety wrapping itself around my chest and throat.

To be able to simply get up and go when I want to, where I want to, without fretting about how I’m going to get there, is it going to be crowded and dangerous, will I get lost, what if something does happen, then what?

I used to be able to live like that.

I sit here, shaking my head and ruefully laughing under my breath, remembering how crazy it seems now…

On a whim, I would pack up my daughters, toss overnight bags in my car, and we would drive 12 hours to Iowa.

Yes, on a whim.

We would make pit stops at the various “scenic stops” along the way, play, take pictures, get out of the car for a few minutes, chase each other around like hooligans…then back into the car, and down the road we’d go.

We always stayed with family at the other end, even if it was on a couch, or in a sleeping bag on the floor, but it didn’t matter to me, or to the girls, we all loved the away time, & getting to see Gramma, the aunts, uncles & cousins.

Visiting, I called it.

Escaping…is a little more accurate.

Luckily, gas was much cheaper back then, & my girls were happy little travelers, loving our “road trips”.  They ate healthy food from relatives with as much gusto as the junk food from gas stations. And would help clean up any mess they made with our stay before we left again.

Irresponsible, some would call it.

Free-spirited, others would say.

Young…is the terminology I use.

But, I’m not so young, anymore.

Still… I live alone now… And my weekends belong to just me once again. 

Maybe I need to “plan” a Fearless Weekend… And get the Hell out of Dodge.

Get in my pickup, pack an overnight bag, and drive…somewhere…other than here.

Hmm…

*wanders off humming to self and grinning from ear to ear*

Drive Time

I had a lot of drive time today, having had a doctor’s appointment in a city about 2 hrs away. 

It gave me a lot of time to think, since I like to do these drives & appointments on my own, independent little cuss that I am.

(Pain Management Clinic, went for shots in my hands – yeah, both hands)

Anywho…

I know that I write a lot of “dark” posts here on the blog. At least lately, anyway. There hasn’t been a lot of sunshine and unicorns popping up between the lines…not that there ever really were… I mean, really I’m not much of a glitter and frappuccino kind of gal.

I’m much more of a sarcasm and cigarettes kind of sort, you know?

But, honestly…

There are happy, good things in my days.

I laugh at work.

(Usually dark, self-deprecating laughter, but hey, a gal’s gotta start somewhere)

I love my cat.

(The other cat in residence is my son’s, & yeah, OK, I somewhat like her too…but Sally is my baby) ((and they’re both assholes anyway))

I have lilies growing in my flower bed that I planted last fall with my own two hands, and they’re almost ready to bloom. 

There will be many different colors, & I can’t wait to see them! (Cause I can’t remember exactly what I put in!)

I talk to the Beloved Nephew a few nights a week, & love the hell out of him. He’s my best friend, and some days, the only thing that keeps me off the emotional ledge.  We do that for each other often.

(OLLLD picture, from my redhead days, back from before he moved. I miss that kid!)

And, I have my plan in place, and begun, for my transition next fall.  Early stages yet, baby steps. Not quite ready to reveal all yet, as it’s still so new and fragile, but I’m certain it’s what I want. What I need.

But, in the darkness, there are glimmers…

And, while driving, I had a lot of time to reflect on those glimmers of hope, those sparks of light, those small coals of fire I’ll need to hold onto in the days/weeks/months to come.

The 5 day silence was broken today.

I received another email from E, trying to reach out to me, & got a phone call right before I would have normally been off from work, from a strange, unknown, international number. I’m assuming it was from him, letting me know that he’s once again back on this side of the ocean, back on his Caribbean island, and now much closer to reaching me.

I know he’s not finished with me yet…but I can only hope that my continued refusal to interact with him or respond to his overtures will show him how futile his gestures are.

Once trust is broken…

So, I hold the hope, and release the broken.

And the hope glimmers…

Background Programs

I suppose I should feel grateful.

My stats have gone haywire over this last week. My post about Doc Hordinsky must have been shared over Facebook again, because I’ve been receiving mass hits on my blog because of it over the last few days.

Exposure is supposed to be good for writers, right?

Ok.

Instead, tonight, I’m sitting inside my house, in the dark, isolating myself. My anxiety has me in near-panic mode, for some unknown reason, and my evening has disappeared down a dark, seemingly endless well of nothing.

I’m numb to everything but the panic, and I can’t decide between flight or hide. “Fight” isn’t an option, since there’s no opponent, so it’s either “flight” which means medicating myself into oblivion… Or “hide”, which is to try to ride it out curled up in bed, hoping the morning will see it gone.

……..

I haven’t heard anything from E (my stalker) since Saturday… This, to me, means he’s either out of his normal phone service area, or he’s making his way overseas… At least when I was seeing the auto-rejected phone calls, I knew where he was located. Now, he could be anywhere, & I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop.

No wonder my anxiety is so high.

Rather like this post about Doc, which is years old, still garnering so much attention even to this day…

The programs running in the background always seem to carry the biggest surprises… Not always good ones.

Opposable #FlashFiction

“You’ll write what I want you to write, and that’s that, goddammit!”

Moira flinched as a meaty hand slammed the table in front of her, punctuating the sentence with a slap.

“No,” she breathed firmly, “I won’t. I’m not a smut writer, and I won’t start just because you’re threatening me. I write what I want, and kidnapping me won’t matter, you fucktard. You’ll never get what you want from me. Sick bastard.”

Moira could hear him grinding his teeth as he growled under his breath at her refusal, but she refused to cave in to his sicko demands.

She’d been here for just over 3 nights now, or 4 days…she couldn’t really tell. She knew she was underground in some kind of bomb shelter, since she could smell the musty, mildewy smell of old water on concrete, but he’d fixed the place up…almost nice.

Creepily so.

The walls were covered with faux wood panels, that had pictures and paintings hanging from them, to add some semblance of “windows”, even to having curtains hung around a few. It was – homey – and macabre, all at the same time.

The table at which she was now seated was real wood, a deep butcher’s block kitchen- style surface, ready to seat at least 6 people, but currently only holding her and an old manual typewriter, a fresh ream of paper, & a cup full of freshly sharpened Number 2 pencils.

Exactly like she’d told Author’s Gazette last month when she’d done that article about her writing habits, & her quirks about liking to have pencils on hand for the odd note-taking, twirling, putting up her hair in a bun when really getting serious, & chewing on the erasers when she got stuck on plot points.

“Alright. Well, you’ll stay here until you write what I want, then.”

************

“Are you going to write it yet?”

“No, go to hell, asshole.”

“Supper’s on the table.”

“Carrots and cheese sticks again?”

“Bologna tomorrow. You know you get meat once a week.”

“Fuck off”

“Write it.”

“Die.”

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“Maybe…maybe if I just… No, I can’t.  But…then he’d let me leave, right? Yeah, sure, after all this time…he’d just let me go. What, it’s been how long? How many weeks, months…ohh…god…so long…he’s never going to let me go…”

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“Write it”

“Never”

“WRITE IT!! I’LL FUCKING KILL YOU!”

“THEN JUST DO IT ALREADY!”

“no”

“Then die”

“You first”

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“Crunch…crunch….crunch…..”

“carrots all gone…hehe hehe…”

********

“OH GOD! What did you do!!”

The blood dripped from the table, smeared along the walls, spelling out “Never” before slumping into an indecipherable scrawl near the bed where the dead woman lay. All her fingers bitten off, strewn about on the floor and tabletop.

“No, dammit! I never got my story!”

He flipped her over onto her back, furious, noticing as he did so, that she was smiling, with her own thumb, firmly wedged in her own mouth and throat.

Well…it was an opposable thumb, after all.


Backstory…

I’ve been here for a minute or two.

Actually, I’ve been blogging since 2008, but started on a different blogging format, and switched to WordPress when I found out that one of my favorite authors blogged over here.  I researched WP to see what made it different from the format I was on, decided I liked it better, & flipped.

That was in 2009. 

I originally started blogging due to a falling out I had with my brother. I won’t rehash it here and now, but, needless to say, it was the catalyst for the whole shebang.

I fell in love with the whole premise.

That I could write anything…. A.n.y.t.h.I.n.g. 

I could, quite metaphorically, scream into the darkness that comprises the internet, and watch my words get soaked up… People, actual real people would read what I wrote and would sometimes like it… And *whispering* sometimes they would reply…

I could write my stories, even just the snippets – which people referred to as “flash fiction”, a thing I hadn’t realized was even a thing, they’d read my poetry (even the old crappy high school stuff!) And I could tell about my kids, my animals, my penchant for staying up late at night to watch the fog roll down my street, or what the grass feels like between my toes on my front lawn.

My readers were there, following me, as I went through my painful divorce, and bolstered my confidence as I tried to break into the world of dating once again after so many years of being married.

They held me as I wept, while I relived the trauma of being molested by a trusted family friend as a teenager.

They laughed with me as I talked about the foibles & follies of raising teenagers as a once-again single mom.

And they have held my hand as I watched my last child walk to accept his high school diploma, & 2 days later, move out of my home & into his father’s.

I’ve written about so many different things that have happened in my life over the past few years, that to try to encapsulate it is laughable, but it’s as the tag line above says “It’s just Life – Messy and Random”.

(Which also describes the inside of my head)

I’ve made friends in the blogging world, some have stayed, others have faded, but all have taught me lessons. And I’ve read many other truly amazing blogs – again, some which still exist – some which are gone for good, sadly. 

There was even a time, for a couple of years, where I took a hiatus from this blog…split my focus to others, due to outside pressures over what I wrote here, but I eventually came back. Some of the old writing has been permanently deleted, gone into the ether. (Yeah, it can probably be viewed on the “Way Back Machine” website, but, most of it was crap anyway, which was why it was deleted, so why bother?)

But I’ve never swayed from my original purpose for this blog.

This is my journal.

It is my therapist, my workstation, my anvil.  It is where I come to pound out my words. The ones I cannot, or dare not, say out loud. The hard, painful words. The hidden words… Sometimes even hidden from myself, until I see them here…slipped unconsciously through my fingertips.

They get slapped down, heated, tempered, shaped, flipped over, sharpened, filed, heated & shaped again…until they’re perfect for cutting through the – bullshit.

They might not be everyone’s Truth…

But they are MY Truth.

This is why I blog.

This is my story.

I write to express, to shape, to purge & to figure myself out for myself.

If it causes enjoyment, thoughtfulness, sorrow, joy, laughter, or any other emotion for anyone else… That is not my original intent, but if someone else can relate to it – it makes me feel good too.

I’m still not done here.

As Granny Esmeralda Weatherwax from Terry Pratchett’s Discworld books says…

“I ain’t dead yet”.