Permaneo

Never give up.  Hold on. No matter the struggle, no matter how many times you get knocked down…you must get up again.

My blog here holds a lot of information about my life. I write about my family, my crafts, my friends, pets, blah, blah, blah.

But, I also write quite a bit about feelings. This blog is my journal, my place to work through the struggles I have, with anxiety, with depression, with relationships & loneliness.  

I use this space, to help me work things out, in my head. I don’t trust therapy, for myself, having been burned by it in the past. And I’ve found that, writing things down, expressing them through my words, brings me clarity.  Having others read my words, and sometimes getting comments, gives me strength…because I know that I’m not alone.

Reading other’s blogs shows me that as well.  People I will probably never meet face to face, tell me about their lives, their troubles and triumphs, and it reinforces that sense of community for me.  After having done this for so many years now, I have even made some good friends, one, at least, that I did get to meet in person.  And it makes me feel good that I can share that feeling of “not alone” with these others.

Some days, I’m on top of the world, able to do anything, achieve every one if my goals, and triumph over any adversity.  

Other days, I’m ahead of the game if I’m showered and dressed.

But.

I come from a long line of women who simply – Don’t. Give. Up.

Call it stubbornness.

Call it persistence.

Call it resilience.

Call it strength.

Whatever.

It doesn’t matter what word you use.  Because, it’s just words.  

What matters….is that I get back up.

Maybe it takes a while.

Maybe I fall down, and stay down, for a while.  I might cry, rage, be anxious, depressed, angry, numb.  Maybe it feels as though life will never be the same. Well, it never is, after.

But I always, always get back up.

Permaneo.

Promise Me Not

I seriously dislike promises.

No, really.

Just ask my kids.

For years, my girls’ paternal gene donor would make and break promises as though they were nothing but twigs. He would make plans, promise the girls they’d get to do this, or be taken there…and then he’d call, often right before he was supposed to pick them up, and cancel.  Sometimes, hours  after he was supposed to pick them up.

As though they were an afterthought. 

Hairy little fucking leprechaun. 

“Here’s the pot of gold, girls, go ahead and….WHOOP! Nope! SYKE!”

bastard.

And it wasn’t just him.  Other family members of his would do it, too.  One of his sisters once ended up destroying YoungerDaughter’s birthday, by begging me to change YD’s plans for a party with her friends, so that she could have her, take her swimming & shopping…

Only to cancel the whole thing after it was too late for  me to fix it & get the party & friends back online.

It all ended in a screaming match between myself & YD’s aunt, on the phone, and YD in inconsolable tears.

I swore, after all the years my daughters had to live with the broken promises from their father’s side of the family, that I would never make a promise I didn’t know damn good and well I couldn’t keep.

And I’ve kept that one promise, that vow, to myself, and to my children.

If I made plans, and decided to tell the kids, instead of simply surprising them, it was always “We’re going to try to do this, or go here, but if that doesn’t work, I have an equally fun alternative.”

Or, I’d simply keep my damned mouth shut, until I had the means in hand to fulfill the thing I wanted to do with\for them.

I’ve had enough promises made to me, as well, over the years. 

And enough of them broken.

I don’t believe in promises anymore.

You want to do something for me, or with me?  Just do it.

You want to spend time with me? Make the time.  

If someone wants to be with you, spend time with you, share space with you… They will find a way and make it happen.

Promise me not.

Because, I won’t believe you.

Tribute

Do you feel cold and lost in desperation?

You build up hope, 

but failure’s all you’ve known

Remember all the sadness and frustration

And let it go.

Let it go.”

~Linkin Park – Iridescent

So that’s what I’m doing.

Letting it all go.

No more drama.

No more tears.

No more reaching and seeking and looking.

Close the doors, turn off the lights, and let the  lapse of emotional noise allow me to get through.

I’ll still be posting the stories, no worries.

Taking a Moment

I learned some very sad news today.

My father’s best friend, a man I’ve known my whole, remembered life, has only a year to live.

And I can’t seem to wrap my head around it.

I want to cry.

I want to rage at the sky.

I want to curl up and sob, uncontrollably.

And I’m not allowed to do any of those things.

I’m supposed to be strong. I’m supposed to be support for my parents, understanding, compassionate, supportive.

With everything that’s been going on in my life right now, this is going to sound extremely selfish, but I just want to go home, lock my doors, curl up on the floor, and Not. Feel. Anything.

I’m tired of being strong for everyone else.

I’m exhausted, standing on my own, with no one to hold me, tell me that they have me, and I can crash for a while.

Fuck this.

Ask for honesty, and get silence.

Tell someone you care about them, and more silence.

Why do I care about anything, anymore?

It only brings pain, silence, and distance.

So, I’m taking a moment to grieve.

To grieve for this family friend.

To grieve for my Mom and Dad.

To grieve for myself, and my own losses.

Friends.

Family.

Affection.

Honesty.

The possibility.

Moving and Sitting Still

So, I’ve shifted 8 stories so far from my other blog to here, and the response, so far, has been totally positive.  I am gratified and grateful for the positive feedback, thank you!

All of these stories are old ones, that I wrote 2 or 3 years ago… Which means I haven’t written much fiction for a while.

It’s just been on the back burner.

The consensus, though, tells me I should probably dust off the chops, and see what I can do, IF I can still do.

And while moving these stories has been interesting (I’ve re-read most of them as I’ve moved them and actually still liked them), I have to admit, I’m more than a little rusty.

It also means, that I haven’t been posting original stuff.

I have to admit, I’ve been having a rough couple of days. Between anxiety, depression & stress…I’ve mostly just been sitting here, in my chair. My evenings consist of reading a little, shifting from one position to another, going outside to smoke, and occasionally talking on the phone to my nephew, or even less often, a friend or family member.

I’ve been turtling up. 

Don’t leave the house.

If you’re in the yard, water the flowerbeds while you’re reading, so the neighbors don’t talk to you as they walk past.

Offer to get off the phone as soon as possible, so as not to bother the person on the other end.

Don’t turn the lights on.

Or the TV.

Or the radio.

When it gets dark, let it just be dark.

Shower early, so you have an excuse not to go anywhere. (No makeup, no bra, no travel)

……

Maybe I should write a how-to book for the anxious, stressed & depressed.

“What To Do When You Can’t Chew Your Fingernails” or “When Being You Is Too Much And Not Enough – The Anxious Person’s Guide To Life And Chaos”.

Well… Tomorrow is Friday, and another day of flash fiction reruns.

Guess I’d better get up for it.

Delete, delete, delete…

How many times will I do this?

How many times will I tell myself “never again”?

How many times?

Obviously, I’ll never learn this life lesson.  I’ll return in my next life, fresh-faced & naive, and face this lesson again. 

And again.

And again.

Because, somewhere, down in the bottom of my heart, even after all the times it’s been fractured & pinned back together…

There lies a shred of hope.

And I can’t seem to kill it.

It’s not done with me, yet.

Whatever is going on, the wrongness I’ve been feeling lately, it’s still there.

My anxiety & depression have been riding me for days, holding me under water, not letting me sleep.  And I’ve been trying to restrain from posting here, since I know I have a tendency to word vomit and regret it later.

I’ve been trying to shake this off, but it’s not working.

And I don’t know what else to do, but retreat.

*delete, delete, delete*