Lily Lives!

It’s been quite some time since I planted anything new (I don’t farm ganja at home) in the front or back yard at my house; this is because I live with men who would sooner park the shell of a Studebaker over a patch of green than to water it and help keep it alive. The gardening aspect of what used to be two of my favorite places to spend my time has all but vanished in the face of what has gradually become the likes of a junkyard. I can barely stand to look outside in the back anymore.

Last month when we had a few gnarly wind storms, our side-back fence ate shit onto our side between ourselves and our neighbor (an awesome human being who happens to be a federal police officer and an Iraq War veteran, for the record), smashing and demolishing anything green still standing, including the last stem of sentimental gardening remaining to me. It was a huge prize-winning and quite mutant-esque flower: my Burnt Orange Easter Lily that I planted within weeks of moving in here with Dice over five years ago. In time, it had become one of my best kept secrets and thrived in the face of all the destruction, automobile chemicals, and various dogs with the tendencies to dig.

I will admit to being deeply bothered by the sight of the fence collapsed into rubble atop of the strip of yard where my lily had lived. I dared not say a thing though, because I repeatedly fall into the mindset that my boys don’t pay particular attention to my wishes or desires when it comes to most things; why waste the breath? Dice finally put the finishing touches on the reconstructed fence yesterday afternoon. I had jokingly commented that he took long enough to put up the lattice over there on the side yard, as he had been over there noisily doing things for several hours after the last piece had gone up.

This morning, I awoke exceptionally late (for me) from a night full of terror and horrid nightmares; and I went out back with my coffee to begin to shake off the high-speed wobbles that such a night unfailingly bring. I was so happily surprised to see that I was wrong in being certain all this time that Dice has no clue about my sense of loss behind my final patch of garden being wiped off the landscape. Dice is good this way, as this isn’t the first time he has shocked me speechless through an unspoken action that tells of his attention paid to the things I say in passing when I am sure that nobody is listening.

 

For What It’s Worth.

When the Bear Trainer rips open an article in describing the nickname she’s been given by “someone whom [she] loves and trusts”, please understand firstly and fore mostly – that these words do not come easily for her; she likes to keep a well-drawn line in between herself and others…she feels safest that way. The Bear Trainer sees herself as “Grotesque”…a mangled and patched together version of what might have been, had she not been physically tortured, and in turn – changed on a genetic level by a man (thing) whose cruelty and sadism matched The Ripper’s in nature and severity. I see something so much more than what might have been when I look at her, when I connect with her…when I listen to her.
Upon knowing the Bear Trainer, my beliefs have been deepened; my fears validated and soothed by a voice of reason; my hand has been taken for the first time in a long, long time…maybe even forcefully, but it was needed. It was crucial, in fact. I do not typically jive so well with females for what I’m sure must be obvious reasons; and so you can know that any women that I am close to are gonna be THE BEE’S KNEES – no stupid beezies ride in my car, truth. So when strange and unfamiliar women send me questions about my passed experience with my ex-husband or, even the current shit with Boo – I typically don’t pay much mind to it; because I typically don’t give a fuck what some dingbat from Upstate New York or Laguna Beach has to snort about my business, to be honest.
Yet, through the bustle and noise of technology and meaningless lines across a screen – there was a fearsome bear standing up inside of a fire to get my attention – to ensure that I listened to its trainer. I wanted to share with anyone who has recently been exposed to the Bear Trainer and her blog; she is fierce and chain-bearing, outspoken and raw – she can make someone disappear with a simple line written in truth, make them obsolete in the Universe…she is larger than life and full of colors richer than the most eye-bending hues…she is the epitome of strength and endurance and courage. She stabilizes “stable”.
But know this:
She is the Bear and the Bear Trainer, aye – but she is a beautiful, delicate and fragile creature that’s been burning white hot forever – and to touch her the wrong way might one day, affect the cooled ashes of an ember…she does not openly accept everyone and let them near her life as I do – she guards her armor well, and rightfully so.
I do not need to ask m y readers to understand this about my beloved Bear Trainer, if any of you should come to know her also…but I’m asking you to try.
Amalija is a VERY RARE FIND…to be treasured and celebrated with a roar.

TwiLight Zoned.

This weekend has been rather odd, to say the least…
My Twilight Zone Weekender technically began on Thursday – when the Opportunist sent me a super out-of-the-blue succession of “apologetic” (narcissistic and self-serving attempts at control) text messages; and it only got more strange and fucking out there as the weekend rolled on.
Friday, my doctors told me that my heart is technically failing; “but it’s a lot more scary sounding than it actually is…” my thing regarding the failure of my heart is simple: my father, a Nam Vet – a tough, tough guy – a survivor in his own right – was dropped dead by Congestive Heart Failure when I was thirteen years old, he was 42…I’m now 35 ½ years old. Dun dun dun!!! Anyway, despite the fact that I have lived through the most extreme of the extreme in terms of medical procedures and what not, the heart thing terrifies me. And so the journey through mindphuq – bodyfuq began.
Saturday morning, my heart woke me up again; hurting…hammering…stealing my breaths from my lungs and forcing my body temperature to freeze, inappropriately. I was sick several times during the early morning hours; but then the nausea subsided, and my right shoulder/chest began to throb and stab at its own insides, instead. I gave up the uncomfortable tosses and turns around 7:00am, and rolled out of bed to the unwelcome change-in-routine of ‘no coffee’. I was queasy, so ‘no coffee’ wasn’t so bad after all.
I was stupid enough to open a letter I’d received the night before from Boo; a feat in itself, seeing as how I normally create a huge issue over (my own bullshit psychological road-blocks) before pretty much forcing myself to begrudgingly rip open the envelope covered in her teenaged girl bubble letters, hearts, and arrows. I don’t know why I didn’t experience this inner-boxing match with this letter, but either way – I opened yesterday’s letter without a second thought for the most part…it’s been so long since I had any interaction with Boo at all; I guess I was just hungry for her words – no matter venomous or otherwise. Her letter was likely one of the most hollowing I’ve received from her since her return to the facility where she is caged out of state; she is so detached and dissociated – going through the motions – writing the letter she thinks she is supposed to write…she’s so sad and depressed and says several times that she misses me; she talks about how she’s been on lock down for over a week because of the illegal actions of other girls who reside there.
Getting mail from Boo is always a chop to my windpipe; I admit that I have so much anxiety surrounding her upcoming 18th birthday in May that I sometimes feel like I literally might spontaneously combust.
I can say that I have a very deep understanding and respect for the saying: “Being eaten alive by guilt.”
This is why dissociation has become part of my day to day survival, and possibly that of other specific individuals involved in Boo’s tragic experience under the “care” of the Juvenile Courts and the Department of Family & Children’s Services; without “psychological escapism” – I would not be able to survive. That is an unquestionable truth in my Life, as sad and lacking of stability as it may be.
When I think too long about shit regarding Boo, when I get slapped in the face and am reminded so vividly of her pain and suffering – suffering that goes coldly overlooked and disregarded by anyone close enough to reach out and hug her or even just sit with her, even not say fucked up shit to her that makes her questions of herself spin out of control – when I think too long about any of it, my chest feels like it’s caving in, like it’s been sprayed with liquid nitrogen, or my lungs have been sprinkled with solvent – the tissue is dissolving slowly with a chemical burn sting. I was struggling to get my breath; my draws would not allow me to inhale completely without shooting a bolt of lightning through my chest cavity. My shoulder continued to pinch and stab throughout the entirety of the day; I fell asleep with my arm slung up over a body pillow wrapped back over my head, looking and feeling very much like a pretzel. I slept like shit; but woke up with considerably less chest/shoulder pain, and the ability to breathe much easier.

And…today went on to be also oddly out-of-the-ordinary…
I spent the day today with The Opportunist (kind of). The quick run-down behind this circumstance is as follows:

1. It’s Sunday (male chauvinist football day in the U.S.)
2. I live in what would otherwise be a Bachelor Pad, given my absence in the household.
3. The Opportunist and one of my roommates (“The Good Bunkie”) go all the way back to childhood together.

I’m sure you can do the math there.

Apparently, his failed attempts at contacting and connecting with me the other day didn’t fix his monkey; because here he came today, tortilla chips and salsa dips under one arm – and I shit you not – an array of MY very favorite things under the other, ranging from flowering cacti, to flavored rolling papers, to Granddaddy Kush. Wow…I accepted his offerings with a smile and a nod before disappearing into the safety of my hallway that leads me away from the “man cave”, with a stiff “thank you” in passing.
Of course, me being the NON drama queen that I am (and yes, I am bragging…this is one of my favorite things about myself, in comparison to others I know), I never the bombardment of (pretty pathetic) text messages that The Opportunist sent the other day to the Good Bunkie because, well, why would I? He would only feel the need to be defensive for his lifelong friend, and it wouldn’t be a comfortable position for him to be in…so I don’t say shit to him about his lying, opportunistic, shit-talking, two-faced friend. Not my place to do so. Coming from a woman who grew up in a household full of men, boys and – me, you better trust and believe that I know what time it is when it comes to the old “Bros before Hoes” scenario. I don’t stir that pot.
Anyway, my day actually consisted of spending no time with The Opportunist, unless being in the same square footage vicinity counts. He WAS INDEED sitting on my couch all day, watching football…just like old times…but the only way I knew he was here was because once in a while his cry-baby whining voice would drift down the hall into my domain. Otherwise, I spent the day either doing yard work or in my own quarters. But still…a very weird day…a very tiresome weekend.
Tomorrow’s another day, ya’ll.

Ode to a Laughmaker

I was strolling through darkness;
A place high in the woods;
I was feeling lonely,
No bone in my body felt good.

I was thinking of resigning;
Had the towel ready to throw in,
That was when I came across a wolf;
Surrounded by female wolves that adored him.

Each one of them was beautiful;
And worked hard to keep his stare,
But his eyes were burning holes through me;
As he howled and sniffed the air.

I wasn’t sure if I should try to outrun him,
There were no words I thought to say;
That was when the wolf ran up to my feet,
With a face that simply wanted to play.

I let my guard down and got down on the ground,
I let the wolf tickle me and wrestle me around;
And the forest was filled with the happiest sound:
Laughter encompassed, and the sunshine poured down.

THANK YOU MARCUS.

If You’re Going Through Hell…

If You're Gong Through Hell...

Keep Going.
-Winston Churchill

Managing Expectations (my Father’s side of the family)

An Old Family Proverb Goes:

“Forventer verden til at behandle dem retfærdigt fordi du er god som forventet tyren ikke til byrde, fordi du er vegetar.”

TRANSLATION:

“Expecting the world to treat you fairly because you are good is like expecting the bull not to charge because you are a vegetarian.”