Whirlwind. All I can say.
A lot of my pagan friends of a particular branch would tell me that Mercury is in retrograde and to just sort of smooth my way through it. I am wondering how much of my life is actually this, and I ain’t certain no more which is “real” life and which is “the retrograde.”
I walked out of a kind of hell at the end of last November and wow, it’s been a ride ever since. A ride. Not good. Not bad. Definitely dramatic in every sense of the word. Panic attacks left and right. From both annoying or very wonderful occurrences.
I was attracted to a piece of property I was considering for purchase. When I viewed it in person, all I could feel was that the house was desperate, lonely, and needed a hug. And I wasn’t the only one that felt that way. I felt bad that my internal answer was “no” because I could just about tell that the life would be sucked right out of me, trying to get the place to what I would need it to be. I have businesses to run, books to write, product to develop. I don’t expect to have a fully packaged gift handed to me. But I can’t go back on my dreams, either, now that some have actually come to fruition.
I saw a position on line that was oh! How fun! After meeting the owners, wow, I was glad enough to be passed over for the position; so much that I nearly wept in relief.
I met someone that I was considering dating. ME. Dating. Possibly. I realized quickly enough that there would be too much push-me, pull-you. It was nice, though, to recognize I am actually considering dating again. Another guy that I had a great time talking with, and we both agreed, that had we been able to be in each other’s proximity, we would have had a blast. He wound up being overly sensitive for my tastes. While I am sad about this, as I feel we could have become amazing, very close friends, I am also surprised that anyone would expect, in less than a week, me to sell my house and move 2 hours from where I am now, because he wouldn’t leave his area for anyone. After a week of just… chatting.
In the middle of all that, a close friend said that it was good to “see that I was getting out of my comfort zone.” I nearly lost it at this point. I had to carefully and fully explain that, after living with the people that I had, my “comfort zone” for the majority of my life was to not have any privacy, to expect to be humiliated and exposed frequently, have my creativity stifled or outright destroyed, and to be forced into a personality that really isn’t my own, because while I do love and care, I am not Happy Susie Housewife. That I had, finally, finally actually HAD a comfort zone. And that I would think that if you live in a place, it SHOULD be your comfort zone.
I’ve hit a milestone with my business. One that I’ve been working for, for 12 years. I was so happy about this, I wound up panicking about it and then it took 5 hours to calm down.
The position I did wind up taking is temporary. I was told it would be “flex,” and that I could set my own hours. Not only was the description of the job not anywhere near accurate, but the two days during the week I had planned to get stuff done went poof. I now work every day in the afternoons, and part of two mornings a week, and have to scramble to get all the other stuff done. I am grateful, mind, for the pay. Always grateful for that. But it is dramatic and politics everywhere.
While this may seem like I am playing “splat” with the mouth at the moment, it does have a point.
Some how, in some way, massive doors are slamming shut on the past. Hard and fast.
That job that I thought was so cool? I would have driven past the cottage I had wanted to buy 12 years ago. The one I am still bitter about not following my own gut and going for, that would have afforded me a completely different life that I have now.
On my way, quite literally, to the interview, I knew it was coming up. How could I not? All I could think was: here we go again. I am right back to where I was in 2013. 7 years ago. And I am. With one notable exception. My ex wasn’t my ex at that point. He is now.
What is even scarier? I met someone, quite recently, that reminded me of my ex so completely, I was shaking hard for three days afterward. So sweet and smooth on the top. So not under that thin veneer. I saw it. So mirrored to my ex and his narcissism. All that neglectful, denial-filled abusiveness, wrapped under a pretty, seemingly innocent and supportive smile. I couldn’t get out of the room fast enough.
Sometimes, I wonder. How I was so oblivious to it. And the answer was: I wasn’t. I loved my ex for all the wonderful things he was. Half of him is truly an amazing person. The other half? No. I will have to live with that the rest of my life, because I feel wasted inside. I wonder how I stepped away. At times, I had to fight tooth and nail, screaming, because I had to. HAD to.
I am saying this, in part, because of the posts I see from a friend online. No. You aren’t crazy. I can tell you that that sort of abuse DOES exist. You and I are not close. We barely know each other. I fully support every step you have taken on your journey, MT, and find I am blessed to see your posts, positive or desperate. You are not alone. And I am terrified for another friend who is about to go right into the hell it took me years to get out of and I am still unraveling the doubts that were seeded inside my heart and mind. It’s not my life. I can say nothing to stop it. If I try, and I did, I am already getting denials about what I’ve already witnessed.
I will state this clearly. I have been raped. Beaten. Stabbed. Lost my children. Broken bones. Set on fire. Nearly drowned. The worst, the absolute worst I had to deal with was the words. Because those don’t leave marks. There is no reminder. No scar. No rough patch, redness, swelling or bruise on the skin so you can’t deny it happened. The passive-aggressive damaging or destruction of my things- my clothes, my writing, my family heirlooms, and replaced with what someone else thought was more appropriate. The loss of the sense of self. It doesn’t come with a slap. It came with an “oops.” “Didn’t mean that.” Or getting snapped at by co-workers when I was upset with getting flowers, because “at least your man thinks to give you some.” He wasn’t doing it for me. It was so he would get praise from my co-workers. It came in small cuts. “Reasonable,” logical, toes-just-up-against-the-line snarks that I knew damned well were wrong but “logically” couldn’t prove because it was “just the once,” and I “was blowing things out of proportion.” It happened so much I stopped objecting. Because most of it was meant “to be helpful” or “was an accident.”
To see that, again, so up close, even though it is not my life we’re talking about here, poof. My mind just went out the window.
I am reminded of what I did then. When I was stepping out of that neglect and careful cut down of my Self. I find myself doing those same things, now. The meditations. Listening to the same audio book that I did then, that helped me let go as much as I have been able to. Watching murder mystery movies. Getting in touch with not being a block of stone. Breathing exercises. Not eating every piece of chocolate I can get my hands on, and instead, munching on yummy broccoli salad. Realizing that I am in my forties. I don’t have a sitting-duck mom to worry about and protect anymore. Realizing that life isn’t a redo at this point. It’s just a “do.” Feeling blessed that, even though I miss the hell out of my dead family- parent, sibling, and children- I haven’t been stupid enough to even attempt to replace them with another family, just to prevent the empty-nest syndrome or from having to face the fear of being alone or be forced to deal with the emptiness. That I am more than just being a mom or caretaker. While that might insult some, I find it just as rude to have to deal with the constant snobbery when I have to say, “nope, don’t have kids” as though that is the sum total of who I am.
I’m spending time with my living sister. The way she said she would, years ago. We are having a blast. Binging on TV shows. Popcorn, like when we were kids. She brings me children’s books that she loves and I don’t know what I think, but I wind up laughing, in a weird kind of way. She gave me one of the best christmas presents. Cut up soda bottles. I had plans, several summers ago, to make the bottoms of soda bottles into flower garlands for the porch and the flat middles into plastic slats for makeshift greenhouses. She cut dozens of these for me. I have already used some of the bottoms as little seed planters for my hydroponics lab. I’m making a sweater for the first time in my life, when I could crochet just about anything, but my knitting was absolute crap. It’s completely free-form. I have no idea what I am doing, but having fun with what is coming off the looms.
I have gone back to writing. Full writing. My white boards. Plotting out story arcs. I’ve been saying it for weeks. I could feel it coming on. I know I promised Willow to come out by now. But as I am going through this whirlwind, doing the final edit, I find that, while I was amused with her last October, Willow has become a pragmatic ass and I want to choke my own heroine. Since editing Beth and Ash for hard copy, I am seeing how poor my writing became, trying to eek out a storyline while I had been in that secondary, all-consuming hell I finally left in November. I should have had the smarts to do after a month, not over 18, considering what I had been through with my ex. Even though it wasn’t a “romantic relationship” being referred to, there. I made every excuse in the book, felt just as helpless, for a variety of reasons, and had become just as angry as I had in a 17 year loveless relationship.
Jana, I love the cover you have done. And it will still fully be the cover graphic. My dear, you were so right to kick my ass when I wanted to give up writing. All of it. Willow desperately needs a kick in the pages and I have decided to give that my all. Not just to knock the willies out of my head. Because that book IS a turning point in the series and I let it slide into blah muckiness.
If I have to deal with the memories of all that crap, all over again, I may as well put all that feeling into prose. You don’t know what’s coming in Hawthorne. You didn’t when you read Willow. I am going to let that anger and sorrow out. So, while I am sickened for what is about to happen to someone I love and watch them deny it and try to “prove to me otherwise,” that whirlwind is also giving me a chance to finally put more of that yuck in its rightful place.
Bless you all. May you find a silver lining in every dark corner of your mind, if that is where you wind up going.