The truth. The abyss. The freedom.

It's been suggested, STRONGLY, that I tell all... right here in my blog, which is not to say to tell all including names.  Initials have worked in the past and should also now.  Right?  I've been trying to take that step for a few years, mostly just getting into the blog to find myself walled off, or otherwise shut down too far to announce to the entire world the ugly truth about much of my past, especially the recent one.  Most of you already know what I'm referring to.  I get SO close to spilling it all, upending the proverbial pandora's box, if you will, only to.... well... not.  So how the hell am I supposed to do that now?

By using the tools they gave you to break your give-a-shitter!  That's how!

Oh boy, but that's going to be something, isn't it?  You guys have no idea what's coming.  I may just title it "CringeFest," and even that is truly underestimating the impact it's likely to have on most of you, much less me.

Go ahead... underestimate me.  That'll be fun.

It's going to happen.  Likely not today (or maybe it will) but very, very soon.

Stay tuned....

Haunted

For the most part I'm okay.  Or at least that's what I tell myself.  Water under the bridge is just one more place to drown when your lose your footing and fall.  But the water rushes on, and the echoes from the past continue to enter my thoughts, unwelcome, unbidden.  Be it a song, a moment, a certain light that comes into the room, a familiar detail almost lost amongst the many, the mundane, the unremarkable.  This time... it was a song.

One of my favorite radio shows to listen to comes on in the wee hours of the night/morning.  It's a show that has some cool and weird topics, interesting approaches to just about everything spooky and creepy that you can imagine.  I like it.  And their buffer music  is always interesting, most of it some of my favorites.  And then they played that song, a song that's been around a long time, a song I've liked since the first time I heard it on the radio, a song that was infused with  a sweeping moment filled with romantic sparks of fire, desire, and a realization of falling in love.  Sounds corny, doesn't it?

I hesitate with offering details, and as painful as the memory is, it's uncomfortable recalling how swept-up I was with that moment, with that song, with how everything came together, with that person.  I didn't know THEN just how false the presenting experience was, or just how played I was... until it was too late.  Just the same, that damn song plays... and the recall is right then, right there in that moment.  WHY does it still hurt so much?

The pain comes from the absence of closure, the discovery and continued realization that 'The person I fell in love with NEVER existed.'

It's not that complicated, really, once you know the details, and some of you already do.  I've spoken to a therapist about the why's and wherefores of what happened then, and why the hell it's still got its claws in me.  It always comes back to the same thing, that closure is almost impossible when you don't know WHO it is you're mad at, hurt by.  A stranger that I thought I knew and loved, when the mask falls and revealed a stranger beneath, I realized I had no one to say goodbye to.

I don't hate that song, only the memory attached to it.  And I also know how important it is to NOT shove those feelings down in order to not deal with them.  I tried that once.  More than once, actually, and all it did was harm. Lots of harm.  If you don't face issues and problems, they will always and forever haunt you.

I'm haunted.

But I don't hate him.  How can I hate someone I didn't even know?  The man I fell in love with all those years ago wasn't the man who I broke up with.  How frustrating, right?  Oh, you've no idea.  And I'm guessing all of the unsolved, unresolved and poorly controlled health issues have me heading down the path through nostalgia, enticing me to consider and pioneer and dwell on the past, the good memories along with the bad.  I suppose it was inevitable.

I could easily blame it on the fact that few get me, that even those in my past who THOUGHT they got me... never did, and that no one ever would... but then, what would that help?  Still, I think that often, daily, and wonder where the hell do I go from here?

I'm haunted.  And as angry and incredibly hurt that I was, I don't hate him.  Never did.  Anger is what it is, and as they say... "Hurt people hurt people."  I'm thinking... somewhere in his life he was hurt... terribly.

Haunted.  Healing.  Hopefully.

I feel like an episode of House

Never-ending confusion sucks when it comes to one's health.  Something new shows up, or is revealed, something else is under scrutiny and thought to have been a misdiagnosis, medications with wretched side effects may not be needed, even though it has helped with some horrible symptoms of Sjogren's, and of course... symptoms mimicking something that I just may not have.  Good grief, but this is nuts!

I see too many specialists.  Well, let me rephrase that... I have to see way too many specialists.  And honestly, I'm SO tired of all the appointments and tests and procedures and medications, and only a small portion of symptoms are actually being helped, while others continue to get worse and worse.  WTF?  But I keep pushing forward just the same.  Okay, so I push forward when my body allows such a thing which, to be honest, isn't that often.  Again... WTF?

What I do know is that many of the things I do deal with are real, verified with blood work, biopsy, or some other equally pleasant test, and all there is to do with that is to just take things in stride and deal/live with it all.  But the mystery is that there is still something else they've not figured out, something that has stripped my quality of life down to almost nothing.  My only guess at this point is that it's the Plaquenil.  The good news is... my Immunologist disagrees with my Rheumatologist, and I'm thinking I believe the Immunologist when he says he thinks I DO NOT have SLE but something else, something he can't confirm, but he's not convinced at all that I have SLE.  THAT is GREAT news, and I'm hoping he can prove/confirm that SOON so I can get the hell off that Plaquenil.  Such a risky drug.... very dangerous.

In the meantime I'm miserable.  Absolutely behind miserable.  Sick....

I need to get off this subject and onto the next post.... "Haunted."

Longing for "The old days."

No photo with my entry today.  And though my cameras both have recent pics on them, I just don't have the energy to download or work with them.  Depression and anxiety has me pinned to the ground, the ugly and damaging events from my past have their boney fingers tight around my throat, unyielding, hateful, damaging further what I've tried to protect for so long.

My world is a quiet world, with all the racket and noise being of the inner kind, the type of 'noise' that most hide who deal with the effects of living a life that is no longer theirs.  In my case, a life that isn't recognizable at all, created at the whims of whatever T imposes and what I'm unable to hang onto.  Still, in dark hours before dawn a glimmer of hope shines briefly within before the sun warms the horizon.  As the sun rises, so does my anxiety, and ugly gift from my past that just keeps on giving.  But in the dark hours... it's a lot easier to avoid the glaring proof that I'm in limbo.  What the hell else am I going to call it but 'Limbo'?  If the shoe fits, Cinderella...

Feeling sick 24/7 has taken a huge toll.  Doctors don't really plug themselves in to any effort of improving my quality of life and choose, instead, to write prescriptions that don't seem to do much good.  Well, nothing that I can see or feel or experience in the way 'improvement' should be.  So what IS the point of a Rx if you don't see or experience any benefits?  Why is it that there is this feeling sick and 100 years old without any rhyme or reason or cure?  I'm sure it's not all physical.  And how could it be purely physical when far too many years spent in hell has chipped away at my health and happiness, all of the unresolved shards of bullshit still does its damage?

I try.  I WANT to believe this will end, get better somehow, and I will feel like a happy, healthy. well-adjusted human again.  Believe in one hand and .... well, you know.

The photos remain on a memory card in my camera.  A life in limbo.  A search for meaning.  And every moment trying just to get past one minute, then the next, until the day is over.

What a waste.

The Proverbial Shit-Show, round 678

"Danger Noodle Jr." (Timber Rattlesnake) Nothing like being greeted by nature when you least expect it.  Little Danger Noodle Jr. didn't seem to care I was there, and I had been by the fence a minute prior to he/she coming out.  You can see how small this noodle is in comparison to the Brown Thrasher to the right and up.  After I took a couple of photos he/she decided to exit stage left under the fence and Abelia shrubs.  Never, ever a dull moment here.  Too bad I didn't get a photo of the young copperhead who had placed him/herself between me and the only unlocked door. lol That's what I get for going out to investigate why the birds and squirrels were sounding the alarm  Most times... it's a hawk, but lately.... there's been vipers. ;p Par for the course when living in a house on a bluff.

The weekends are the worst.  Mr. Man wants to behave like a bachelor (and not meaning affairs or anything of the sort), making life stressful to a degree that most human beings would deem, immediately, unacceptable.  Every morning I wake to this shit-show, and every night it precedes my making a valiant but unsuccessful attempt at getting even the most bare minimum of restful sleep.  And there isn't a day this doesn't happen, but on the weekends... it can try even the most patient of people, the most forgiving.  Still, what IS it about men who play "The man game" and expect no repercussions for 'playing' with an unwilling party who wants absolutely nothing to do with a massive time-suck?  Beats the hell out of me.

We've all heard it in conversations, in movies, tv series, and almost every book imaginable, the mantra of most women, the anxious proclamation.... "You never talk to me!"  Real or not, that phrase and those like it have become the punchline for many a joke uttered, sourly, by embittered and egotistical men.  And somehow.... those guys think it makes them cool, manly, and somehow... in-charge.  What those men don't know, apparently, that when they decide to clam up and shut down (something that can happen to women as well), making it their main reaction to spark the fire of avoidance... that there is always another guy out there willing to listen.  And I mean... REALLY listen.

Sorry guys.. not all men are like you.

In my situation I face the gamut of tired actions from a worn out playbook used by too many men for too many years by those who are doomed to repeat what their fathers and grandfathers have done for centuries.  HINT: It never served those guys either.  For every man who becomes mute when their wife or GF etc starts to talk, for every guy who emotionally checks out and hears little, if anything, and for every fool who decided it was a good idea to just not actively listen or engage when their partner needs to talk.... there's a woman who understands one... simple... truth: There is always someone else to call, visit, and connect with.

At what point do guys ever get that they can and will be replaced by a man who is willing to be there, be respectful, be a gentleman, a good listener, a good friend, to show compassion, respect, and make their partner feel like they are somewhere on the upper portion of the totem pole, someone worth their time and attention?  Rhetorical question, of course, but one that bears repeating for obvious reasons.

When men become set in their ways, unbending, rigid to the point of destructive, they are embracing the idea that they don't have to change, that if harm is being done to another due to their actions or inactions.... they've chosen to embrace their ego over what's right, what's humane, what's kind and compassionate.  This is how monsters are born.

Experts say there are two types of infidelity----cheating/affairs, and indifference.  The latter of the two are said to be the most destructive, and... I agree with that.  So what the hell has that to do with me and my situation?  I know, I know... I end up walking the path of noncommittal statements that, while showing the point, lacks relevant detail.  Sorry about that.  I'm still a work in-progress when it comes to the whole trusting-others-with-my-truth thing.

So a glimpse into my truth, as much as I can manage... is to say that I DON'T do well with men who play games, are lead by their ego, who think that somehow the mantra of "Men are just hard-wired like that" are really rather empty individuals who, by their own definition, don't possess anything truly valuable to give to another human being.  Most would call this "Egocentric," a trait in which most of us grow out of by the time we reach 3-4 years of age.  Most men, however, never seem to progress past that.

I'm just glad the weekend is over, that I am here sitting alone in my home with no one to clam up, not participate, not give one word answers or grunts to anything I say... or any questions I ask.  What's the point of putting up with grief and anxiety when I'm basically left to, well, talk to myself?

Seriously.  What's the fucking point?

The Big Empty

"A Sweet, New World." I took this photo in 2018 of a juvenile Ruby-Throated hummingbird enjoying the nectar from Wendy's Wish Salvia.  A portion of the proceeds of the purchase of these plants go to the Make A Wish Foundation.

The photo above is a representation of the momentum, or lack thereof, of my now extremely stagnant life.  A new D850 and telephoto lens sits besides my trusty D500 in a cabinet, waiting for me to find the vibrance that once fueled my passion for photography.  The memory cards have photos of this Spring and Summer, and even with a new laptop with more storage I'm unable to get up (figuratively speaking) and download them so post-processing can bring those memories to life.  Life.  What DOES that weird mean anyway?

The health problems continue to reveal themselves, and the specialists continue to test and provide advice, and also medication that I HATE taking.  It just never seems to stop.  The foundation of feeling like shit (sounds like another blog entry, doesn't it?) seems to be, as they now think, from Disautonomia.  Meaning... my autonomic nervous system doesn't work quite right, which translates into an unpredictable daily routine of taking things one minute or hour at a time to assess what I can or cannot do, what has to be put off, and what must be struggled and pushed through.  No respite from this means my mind and body are worn completely down.  But every day I find a way to get up and do it all over again.

I feel angry and hurt.  I'm angry and hurt STILL by those few people in my past that told me, point blank... "It's psychosomatic," meaning... 'It's all in your head.'  Is there anything worse than being sick and having even one person, let alone more, decide they know more about my body than I do?  The validation did come when I was finally able to get health insurance.  Some of you know the story if you've been reading here a while, but for those who don't.... the validation is STILL coming.  But the hurt and anger at having my feeling sick, KNOWING there was something very wrong, thrown in my face and diminished by those who lack even the most minute amount of humanity or compassion.  It still hurts.

3 heart arrhythmias ablated a few years ago, diagnosis of SLE, SJogren's Syndrome, Autoimmune Hepatitis (NOT to be confused with the virus), Disautonomia, Pulmonary AVM.... A lifetime spent without insurance of funds to cover regular health care or seeing specialists lead me to where I am now.  But the insurance is in place, and I continue to wait for this all to be under control so I can LIVE again, to FEEL ALIVE again.  Still, there is that hurt, the pain I feel, the sadness as I remember the words of those who don't possess the capacity for seeing or feeling anything past 2" beyond their own skin.

One person claims to be a psychic, and while I don't doubt there are those who are gifted with a remarkable insight, this person couldn't have been more off than if she had said I'm a paper kite, and not a human.  The truly sad part is... she was paid.... by my boyfriend at the time... and he bought into her crap hook, line, and sinker.  Well, being a malignant narcissist meant he was overjoyed to believe HE was validated in thinking either I caused my own conditions, some of which I'd had since childhood (heart arrhythmias).  I wonder how people like that even sleep at night?

I was told by a therapist that the damage done to me by my ex wouldn't simply go away.  She made sure I understood it would never, ever go away, but she was also quite clear that I could learn to deal with it in a healthier way, rather than allow the memories of his cruelty to continue causing me harm.

I'm a work in progress.

Being kind to myself has to become a priority again.  I end up pouring so much of myself out for other that I leave little or nothing for myself, falling into exhaustion at the end of the day, even on the days when I can barely get out of bed.  And I still push myself to push ahead no matter what.  I don't have regrets about that, but I do understand that something has to give, and it's either me... or that which drains me.  I already know which has to give.

Men.  Well, MOST men, anyway... have a bad habit of flipping the switch to autopilot and going through the motions like a zombie, checked out and unaware of the destruction around them.  I've met only one man in my life who wasn't like this.  Those are some pretty bad odds, if you ask me, but I understand the dark reality as it is, all of it... just as it is.  MOST men are chronically checked-out.  T included.  T being my husband.

I've mostly experienced two extremes with men in my past relationships---checked out, or abusive.  currently, T is checked out and coasting on autopilot.  Yep.  He's emotionally lazy AF.  It's not any fun, it's not inspiring, it's not loving, and it's not kind.  I was told one that there are two types of infidelity---cheating, and indifference.  The latter is a lot worse than than the former, because the latter is something you just can't reach, cannot make sense of... it's cruelty you can't really address head-on or conquer.

This is going to have to be finished another time.  Exhaustion is setting in, and I can barely think....

Till next time.....

The Long Haul

Sitting in the silence of the hour at hand, and I can almost hear myself think... if not for the crowding thoughts begging me to find answers to 'how the hell did I get here again?'  It's too quiet, to be honest, and the very minute I decided to talk, to finally just unload every damn thought going through my mind.... it's gone.  Well, it's not exactly 'gone,' per se, but more like hunkering down somewhere deep inside, hiding from anything that can harm it.  "It"... is not something I can define right now, so don't hold your breath on that one. I didn't mean that as snarky as it came out.  Besides, snark is overrated.

No photo to post today.  I know a couple of you will ask about that.  Well, I'm waiting on a new laptop to arrive, because this one has reached the point where it can't walk and chew gum at the same time, especially when we're talking photograph post-processing software and video software.  Even when it comes to a computer... it's just time to move on to bigger and better things.  Till then, my photos remain on the memory cards in my cameras, and I cannot wait to download them and get my favorites posted.  So much has happened, and yet... not happened.  No matter.

But here I am still avoiding talking about what I should be talking about.  Same shit, different day, right?  But, seriously.... I vowed, PROMISED myself that I would forge ahead, discomforted be-damned.  So... here goes....

Damn medication.  Damn autoimmune disease.  Damn ALL of it.  It's this miserable back-drop that I live my life now, not ever knowing when my already severely diminished energy level will plummet to the point of almost passing out, and that can happen at any time.  To say it puts a damper on life is a laughable understatement.  Laughable if it weren't so screwed up, anyway.  And what's up with this damn nostalgia?  Geez, Louise.. I know getting older means a lot of looking back and being sometimes overwhelmed with the idea that you somehow missed something, or a LOT of somethings, and feeling like you've figured something out about 20+ years too late.  But it doesn't stop there.  Oh no... now I deal with chronic anxiety that no one can do anything about.  Fucking yay, right?

To be honest, I'm not really as pissed off as I sound.  If I were to lay it all out I would have to admit that I'm sad... with a hint of pissed.  But mostly sad.  And why is that, you may ask?  Well let me tell you..... because I come from a severely dysfunctional family that treated me like an outcast since I was a baby.  God only knows I can't go into the whole thing, because I'd be writing a damn book instead of a blog entry.  So we're not doing that.  But the details are many, and unless you know me personally you'll not really understand just how fucked up the situation was, and still is... even 20+ years since my mother passed away.  So other than my sons and grandkids (yes, we all started young with our families), I don't have anyone.  It would've been nice to have a sister who behaved like my sister, a brother who behaved like my brother instead of an enemy... maybe cousins, aunts and uncles.... you know, FAMILY.  these days I mourn the family that is there yet not, and missing those from my past, my distant past... who is there but not within reach.

It's a shitty way to feel, I'll tell you.  The worse I feel, the sicker I get, the more alone I feel.  And this is where the anxiety comes in.  The knowledge that life is passing without any real memories being made, no experiences being had.... is fucking scary.  Oh sure, I have memories of important matters evolving around my kids etc.,, but those personal life experiences that speak more about the imprinting of time on one's soul.... well, all I can say is that I'm still a book filled with mostly empty pages.  And that just sucks ass.

In the end... it doesn't even matter.

On the most haunted days I know it does.  It's always mattered.

A Whirlwind of Bullshit

Juvenile Ruby-Throated Hummingbird Scratching an itch, Summer 2018

Long lags between blog entries, and most of you know that normally means a flare up.  Living with SLE and Sjogren's is just what it is, and there's really no reason to fight against something that does have the ultimate control.  The only REAL control is how we react to the symptoms and resulting halts to those parts of life we relish.  So why is it that being sick brings back the worst of memories, worse than being sick itself, but of one making me feel like shit for being sick in the first place.  All words and silences leading to "I don't love you when you're sick, and your illness impedes on my happy time."  In what universe is this even normal?

In the universe of the chronically self-centered NOT being the center of the universe isn't tolerated one bit, and how DARE anyone be sick, unhappy, sad, depressed, worried or anxious in their presence.  Like self-declared royalty, malignant narcissists banish and punish those from their lives at a whim for the one, horrid crime of.... simply being human.  Yes, how DARE we be human!  Thing is, long-term abuses such as this have long-lasting effects, and ones that don't go away.  Can the effects be minimized?  Somewhat, yes.  But they will never be gone, and there is no actual "Cure" for PTSD.  Oh wait.  Did I just say PTSD? Yep, and it's the experts who explain it best.  Either way, wether we accept that our reactions to things are based on those traumatic experiences it doesn't change the fact that it's, well fact.  "Face it kiddo... that guy did a real number on you."

The results: feeling bad, guilty, less-than, ashamed, small and diminished, like a piece of shit... because I'm sick.  The is just a fact.  One not-so-simply-explained fact that I will have to live with the rest of my life, because I made a grave mistake of not seeing the warning signs early enough to stop myself from walking right into the flames.  The scars, though on the inside, are permanent now, and the guilt, shame and the rest are always there, forcing me to press on no matter how sick I am or why, pushing myself to the point where I nearly end up in the hospital.  Even though I recognize what's happening, I still can't seem to stop it.

If you're in a relationship with a malignant narcissist... GET OUT NOW!  If you've been in one and are now out but experiencing trauma from the experience... get help now!

I'm out.  Still sick but recovering.

Be well, everyone....

When someone asks for help but refuses help

It's time to be blunt.  After a time even I can recognize sugar-coated shit as, well, shit.  Recently I've been handed a silver platter filled with sugar-coated shit, and I have to say I'm not at all tolerant of it this time around.  I mean, seriously.  Passive/aggressive is STILL fucking aggressive, and those who partake in that bullshit are total ASSHOLES, or BITCHES as the case may be.  How's that for not sugar-coating things?!

Freaking don't ask for my help and then make it impossible for me to help!  FUCK!

Yep.  I'm pissed, and I don't give a damn who knows it, or who likes it or not.  I don't have time in my life for lame-ass games.  You're NOT that important, and you don't own me.  If I VOLUNTEER to help you, don't shit on me in the process and make it sound as if you've done me a favor!  It's the other way around.  Bitch!

By now I'm sure you see why I usually cool off before speaking my mind.  Thing is, I often end up not saying a damn thing if I wait too long, mostly because I've found over the last couple of relationships and all they had to TEACH me... that NO ONE is worth burning out your energy just to make them happy or feel powerful.  SCREW THAT and anyone who tries to do that to me.

This shit is a whole lot like giving someone a key to your house because you asked them to clean it for you while you're away (for FREE), then taking the key back on day 1 because your freaking vacuum wouldn't work.  And no, the isn't the scenario I speak of, but due to the nature of the situation I can't be blunt about the details to that extent.  But honestly, this is a whole lot of control freak crap, and I've had enough of that shit to last me two lifetimes.  NO.  THANK.  YOU!

Where is the appreciation?  Where is the small amount of humility that renders being grateful a genuine feeling?  Since WHEN is it customary to play childish power games with someone YOU asked for help?

I can only say the help that was asked for was online, requiring I give up a good portion of my free time on a daily basis to HELP, and it comes with no compensation.  I don't require or ask for compensation and know it's on a volunteer basis.  Yet still.... can you fucking not treat me with respect while I'm doing what YOU asked and what YOU need?

OMG WTF?  Seriously.

It's not my fault that a web site isn't functioning properly so I can do what you ask.  It's not my business to fix what is outside of my control.  It's YOUR situation, and I'm only ONE person who has no power to change the technical issues YOU are having.

Some days, I swear, I just think I'm sick of doing things for people because of the lame bullshit I get in return.  WHERE in any of this is it worth me wasting my time... just so you can play power trip queen and make it impossible for me to actually do anything.

So you've got the key to the house, know your vacuum is fucked, and you're asking ME to let you know when my 'problem is solved'??  The problem is YOU!

UGH!!!!!

Secrets From A House On A Bluff....

Living in a house on a bluff means seeing and hearing some of nature's most fascinating children.  These are just some of their stories.

2018. Winter, Spring, early Fall.

So many photos, many taken through a window with bird screen.  But the memories are there, which is the most important thing of all.